Bribe, Pay-up or be Russian

The evening of our second day in St. Petersburg found those of us not in the hospital (my father and his wife) at the symphony with my local cousin and her parents (actually my father’s first cousin, his wife and their daughter, which I think makes their daughter my second cousin, or something like that – does it really matter?). There, at the symphony, we learned one of the essential rules of Russian travel – Russian rules are meant to be broken. My second cousin (whom I will refer to from now on as my cousin because it is easier to say and because it feels correct as we are firsts to each other, not seconds) had purchased tickets for the symphony on our behalf. Russians, however, pay much less for tickets to things such as museums, public attractions and cultural events than do foreign tourists. As a consequence we were faced with three possible alternatives that evening – Bribe, Pay-up or Be Russian. Option 1 involved bribing the surly Russian ladies taking tickets at the theater door so that they would let us non-Russians in with our decidedly Russian tickets. My cousin believed that we had good odds of success with Option 1, especially with a significant bribe. Option 2 meant finding someone in charge, standing in what was sure to be a LONG, chaotic line (we’d already done that earlier in the day and the end result had been hospitalization for one member of my family, NOT a good outcome in my book), explaining how many of us were tourists, calculating the up-charge, and paying it to the stern, old Russian lady charged with such matters (whom my cousin felt certain would then pocket the funds). This meant from my perspective that Options 1 and 2 were equal, except for the fact that in Option 2 we had to wait in a long line before someone pocketed our money. That left Option 3.

Option 3 involved hustling through the entrance area with the tickets in my cousin’s hands while the rest of us (ME, my sister, my husband and my two young children) pretended to be Russian. This was my cousin’s favored option. She felt it would be faster, cheaper, and given the boys’ willingness to follow her simple “how to be Russian” rules, it seemed to her, a sure bet. So, after much internal family debate and discussion, including references to the desperate, dark prison in which we might be thrown if caught, or the hospital bed we would surely end up in if we had to stand in another horrendously hot line, we followed our sage cousin’s counsel and went for Option 3. Before we reached the doorway we received our last-minute instructions. No smiling, particularly the boys – little Russian boys do not EVER smile, it is the G-D’s honest truth. No talking. Walk quickly and in the case of a crisis stand mutely by our cousin’s side while she negotiated a settlement. Off we went. It was all well and good until my sister, the last of the group, somehow got separated from the rest of us and had to face the miserable ticket ladies alone. Much gesturing and pantomime ensued while my sister tried to communicate that my cousin, who had gone ahead, was the one holding the tickets, all the while uttering not a single word of Russian (and certainly no words in English). When it was clear that this strategy was failing, my brave and fit sister made a run for it – scrambling past the not-so-fit ticket ladies as they shouted at her fast disappearing, quite svelte, behind. I bet you’re wishing you were there for this, aren’t you?

Despite the elevated blood pressure of all of the American adults, we loved the symphony. The theater, like the Mariinsky of the night before, was unlike anything we have at home. The performance space was a splendid all-white concert hall with magnificent chandeliers, and huge skylights, which meant that in the summer months when the evenings are light until 1:00 a.m. the musicians and the audience are bathed in a glorious twilight all through the performance. The hall, like the Hermitage, was not air-conditioned and was quite balmy, though not nearly as unbearable as the museum had been hours before. My younger son, who like the rest of us found our Hermitage misadventure a tad taxing, promptly fell asleep. My older son, ever the trooper traveler, stayed awake until the final crescendo. The music began with Rimsky Korsakov, which we all loved, and concluded with Stravinsky – which was quite a bit more difficult.

We made our way on foot into the twilight, and back to the hotel to take our cousins (firsts and seconds) to tea at the Davidov, the luscious Russian restaurant at the Astoria Hotel (connected on the ground floor to our hotel). We had already become huge fans of the Davidov pelmenis, small, ravioli-like pasta that serves as Russian comfort food in much the same way as American Mac-and-Cheese. We found the Davidov pelmenis so delicious and so gastronomically reassuring that we ate them again, and again and again. They were, of course, generously sprinkled with dill, which it turns out is the herb of choice for just about any food item in Russia and Ukraine. If you can sprinkle dill on top of whatever you are serving then of course, you must. Minus that last little dill dusting most foods are practically naked and should be kept behind closed doors until dill can be located.

Live music is often performed at nicer Russian establishments, including the Davidov Restaurant. On this night there was a string quartet playing, of all things, Fiddler on the Roof, as well as any number of other traditional Jewish songs. My Jewish cousins found this quite odd given how few Jews are left in St. Petersburg (or anywhere else in Russia).