Seeing the Moscow Sights

Victory Park

Our Moscow guide, Svetlana, initially seemed uptight and perilously soft-spoken but she quickly warmed to us and was in fact bright, well informed and even just an eency-teency bit funny.  Safely ensconced in yet another minibus we drove all over the vast city marveling at the massive monuments, gawking at the gorgeous renovated churches and getting to know our remarkable Russian cousins.  We were quite lucky to see Moscow with the combination of a well-trained Russian guide and our own Russian relatives at our side.  They were all quick to give us their perspective on everything from art, to politics, to traffic.  We stopped at the main State University that sat perched on a hill with an incredible lookout over the city.  Through the haze we could see innumerable tall buildings, parks and monuments.  We posed first one combination of relatives and then another up on the ledge overlooking mighty Moscow.

The Fountains in Victory Park

We went next to Victory Park with its massive statues and long, long, long rows of fountains.  It was a blistering hot day and unfortunately there wasn’t a lick of shade in the park.  Instead there were acres and acres of heat absorbing stone.  I felt like a steak on the barbie without a handsome Aussie to offer me a Foster’s lager.  We found a drink stand with a sole slightly pathetic umbrella.  We sucked down some coolish but not actually cold Russian drinks while fighting over who got to stand in the two inches of shade.  I would have liked to explore the park at a more leisurely pace but the sweltering sun and full exposure on the hot stones was completely untenable.  I would never have made a good desert explorer.  I’d have died of heat stroke immediately, if not sooner.  None of my pre-arrival Russian fantasies included heat stroke.  My mind was cluttered with one too many images of babushkas wearing big coats and funny fur hats, but truth be told, it gets mighty hot in the urban Russian jungle in the summertime.  I highly recommend a trip to Victory Park on a cool spring day or early fall.  If you get there send me a postcard.

Up next on the tourist agenda was a trip on the Moscow Metro.  Visiting the Moscow Metro makes the short list of any Russian guidebook.  Buried deep below ground because of the large number of rivers that crisscross under the city, the escalators in the stations were steep and VERY, VERY long.  I spent a number of years living in Washington D.C. and therefore foolishly thought I had some sense of what it meant to ride on a deeply buried metro system.  It turns out that there are deeply buried subway systems, and then there is Moscow.  One of my hardy Russian cousins took a pass on the Metro adventure and admitted to loathing the long plunging escalators.  I’m pretty sure that the Moscow people movers go all the way to Danté’s Inferno.  My stepmother and I had to do some earnest breathing exercises while looking any which way but DOWN in order to make the trip without fainting.

Impressive architecture in Moscow, much like in St. Petersburg, often appeared to take precedent over human comfort.  The train stations were built from marble, with chandeliers dangling at every turn, and statues galore.  The trains carrying humans were far less impressive, rattling and banging like the worst NYC subway cars.  My children never lost their look of initial anxiety and rode with both hands covering their ears to keep out the din.  When offered the option of a longer ride to the “most impressive” of the rail stations, or a shorter and more direct route straight to our intended lunch spot, there was an overwhelming show of hands for getting out of the subway system right quick.  We bumped along for another stop or two with our two ashen-faced whimpering children giving us completely indignant looks and finally got off and out – but not without another ride UP a nosebleed-inducing escalator.  I had a new found respect and awe for my cousins given that they had braved and survived the train from St. Petersburg to Moscow, a nearly ten-hour ride.  We called it quits after just 30 minutes on a Russian train, and we didn’t even see any bandits.

Red Square

Red Square

Getting into the city of Moscow took far less time than in St. Petersburg because there was no need to stand in the endless passport line (and I use the word “line” loosely) and our bags (and this time we were quite sure to double check that they were in fact OUR bags) appeared quite quickly. A modern minibus complete with ventilation and functioning seat belts was waiting just where it should have been – no mid-road luggage dragging required, and we were deposited in front of our hotel in just under an hour.

Our hotel looked directly onto Red Square. After a few minutes unloading and a quick phone call to our Russian cousins who had taken the overnight bandit-filled train from St. Petersburg to Moscow in order to spend three days with us in their nation’s Capitol, we were soon all together, the nine of us, off to see Red Square and the Kremlin. The mighty square certainly lived up to its reputation. We were all speechless when we arrived, highly unusual for our garrulous bunch. Red Square was simply incredible. One could FEEL history all around. You could not help but hear the sound of a thousand soldier’s footsteps, the echoes of political rallies and the rumble of tanks. The Church on one end, and the long façade of GUM (the department store built in the 1800s) combined with the spectacular wall of the Kremlin and Lenin’s Tomb make the place otherworldly. Frantically buzzing with tourist activity, we and our tourist brethren spent an hour taking photos, gawking at the majesty of it all. My family and I never felt at ease in the big Russian squares. There was always a sense that there were sinister folks lurking around the edges. Most of the larger streets, including the one between Red Square and our hotel, could not be crossed above ground. Massive underground passageways connected one road to another. None of these passageways felt safe. They weren’t dark, but they were menacing, crowded and chaotic. We had one moment where my stepmother saw a man with a large knife, who seemed to be after someone, it wasn’t clear whom, and we moved quickly away. Relaxing it wasn’t.

The GUM Department Store

Once we’d had our fill of Red Square, we made the short walk back past our hotel to Academia, a charming, hip Italian Restaurant (just say NO to more Beef Stroganoff) that had absolutely great food, superb pasta, pizza and exceptional salmon. There wasn’t a dill sprig in sight – even on the salmon. Who knew it would be such a relief to have a dill-free meal? I’ve never seen myself as anti-dill. In general I’m really quite pro-herbs, but there is a point when enough is enough. After three weeks in Russia I needed treatment for dill-overexposure. It’s not nearly as dangerous as radiation poisoning, but it does take many months to get over.

Can You Get There from Here?

One week into our three weeks in Russia the seven of us sat in the lobby of our hotel filled with trepidation about the plane transfer from St. Petersburg to Moscow. I had gone back and forth multiple times with my U.S. travel agent about our options for this part of the voyage. I was dead set against flying on a Russian-owned airline. Western press coverage leads one to believe that Russian planes fall out of the sky with the same frequency as pelicans but with far less grace. Unfortunately train travel between St. Petersburg and Moscow is reportedly not much better. According to the articles I’d read, Russian trains were crowded, hot, and full of bandits happy to relieve non-Russian tourists of their luggage if not their vital organs (at least those with any amount of resale value). What was a plane crash and train bandit avoiding American girl to do? Answer in this circumstance: suck it up, or stay home.

Given our experience that hot July morning, a modest amount of worry was actually warranted. A driver pulled up in front of our hotel and loaded us into a tired looking minibus that not only did not have air conditioning, it was low on functioning windows, seatbelts, tires, brakes, door locks, you name it. It was a hot hour to the airport breathing the heavy fumes on the car-choked roads. We were deposited with no explanation or assistance at the end of a l-o-n-g driveway that reached up to the departure portion of the airport. It was not clear to us why we were left there, but left we were. We were clearly NOT in the passenger loading and unloading zone (where is Howard Jarvis when you need him?). There were no sidewalks and our only option was to walk in the middle of the street, dragging our luggage behind us. Had I had an ounce of spare energy or any remaining sense of humor I would have paused to photograph the seven of us struggling to pull our three weeks worth of luggage uphill, in the center of the road. Unfortunately my sense of humor had wandered off earlier in the morning with the increase in my blood pressure and the explosion of my anxiety.

It was a stifling wait to check in for the flight followed by a toasty, smoky half hour in the certifiably antique departure lounge followed by an even hotter ride on the dilapidated airport bus to the side of the plane. However, none of this mild discomfort prepared us for what lay ahead. We boarded the plane to find ourselves inside a 100-degree flying TOMB. There was absolutely no ventilation and the surly (yes, we were back to surly) flight staff cared not a wit that we were in serious discomfort. A Soviet-era Tupolov, there was barely enough room between rows for the children to get inside, let alone the adults. The seatbelts were oddly too big for everyone (particularly the universally skinny Russians) and had no adjustment mechanism what so ever. No safety concerns were expressed about the fact that our luggage was too big for the bins above, and too big for the space below the seats and consequently was completely blocking the floor and the aisles. My sister theorized that functioning seatbelts were unnecessary when passengers are wedged in like sausages. In the case of turbulence she felt that the odds that she might break free of her moorings were in fact, quite low. My older son, then seven, declared in a loud voice a number of times that Russian airlines “suck,” and he was right. I sat, allowing ice cubes to melt on my hot thighs in a vain attempt to reduce my surging body temperature. I poured water on my children’s steaming heads and I wrestled with my anxiety-ridden stomach. As well traveled as we were, this was by far our worst flight experience, EVER. It was horrendous, hateful, and heinous (have you ever noticed how many vile words start with “H”?). Whose horrible “vacation” idea was this anyway? Oh wait. It was mine.

Really, the only positive thing one could say about our flight from St. Petersburg to Moscow is that we survived. Given how many Soviet-era Tupolovs take off and fly straight into the hot or cold, hard ground – we should count ourselves lucky and put a positive spin on the experience. Truthfully, if it had turned out otherwise we’d have no story to tell at all.

East Meets West

I’m going to take a break from my travel diaries today and talk for a moment about why we went to Russia. We made the long trip between Los Angeles and Russia for three primary reasons. First, it was a trip home to the land from whence my father’s parents had fled. My grandparents died before it was possible to return to Russia from the States. They never again saw their Russian relatives after they made their way to America in the 1920s. Second, we had discovered in 2004 that my father’s 105 year-old Russian Aunt (his father’s sister) was alive. We made a miraculous journey to Rostock, Germany to meet her just days after learning of her existence (essays on that trip will appear on this blog in future months). We met one of her children and some of her grandchildren on that fateful trip to Germany. Her other child, a son, lived with his wife and daughters in St. Petersburg. These were the cousins, firsts and seconds, who joined us on many of our Russian adventures (more on them in a moment). So our trip to the former Soviet Union was more than a trip to Mother Russia, it was a trip to meet our immediate family – my father’s first cousin, his wife and children. Third, we, like many thousands of visitors, went to Russia to be tourists – to see the sights, to learn some history, and to better understand what it meant to be Russian. We’d spent a lifetime telling people that our ancestors were Russian, that our name was Russian, and yet – we had no first-hand experience of what that meant, until 2006.

On Shabbat of the week we spent in St. Petersburg our Russian family treated us to a remarkable Jewish meal at a restaurant near their home. Joining us that evening were my father’s first cousin, his wife, his two daughters (one married, one not), his son-in-law and the son-in-law’s parents as well. Including our hardy travelling group we were 14 in all. The table was set when we arrived with an astonishing array of salads. Gefilte fish, generally not a family favorite, had been pressed into a mold and sliced. It was excellent, so good in fact that my youngest managed to consume four servings. Other dishes included finely chopped herring that was served on small triangles of delicious dark bread, a chopped fresh vegetable plate, and a cooked carrot and raisin dish that looked a bit like chilled soup.

It was an extraordinary evening. We had theorized and hypothesized about our Russian family for decades. Like many descendents of immigrant Jews we knew little of the relatives who remained behind in the Soviet Union. My grandfather had not spoken of them much, except to tell occasional stories of a sister, a doctor, who lived in St. Petersburg. Because of the politics of the time through much of his life contact between East and West was impossible and even after it was possible it still posed dangers for those in the USSR. My father’s cousin, son to the doctor who had lived in St. Petersburg, was an Engineer, married to a doctor with two well-educated grown children. He was a soft-spoken man, kind and wise with a charming, witty wife whose eyes always sparkled. He made a point, that evening, of toasting us repeatedly. He noted that in Soviet times one could not speak of having relatives abroad but by 2006 it was a sign of prestige to have them. He graciously thanked us for making the long voyage to Russia. My father’s toast in return spoke of the power of a lasting relationship between a brother and sister that held on over a 70-year period, though neither had the possibility of visiting the other before their deaths. It was a delightful, emotional and fulfilling night.

The post-script to the story of our meeting in 2006 is that we have continued our friendship/relationship with these remarkable people. The children of my father’s cousins have become first cousins to me, to my sister and to my children and we have visited together in America, in London, and in Europe. It is evident that we are kin. The connection is so clearly one of blood, and blood does have a strange power. We are grateful that the times had changed and that we had the good fortune to reconnect. I believe my grandfather and great-aunt would have been quite pleased.

Peterhof, Monplaisir and The Great Cascade

Grand Palace, Peterhof

Our last day in St. Petersburg found us in the hotel lobby meeting “Anton,” the least capable of our ever-changing Russian guides. We were off to a hydrofoil that would carry us from St. Petersburg to Peterhof, a 35-minute ride across a portion of the Gulf of Finland. The views were grand but the boat reminded me of those far too frequent news stories about ferries capsizing in some foreign land – “all aboard drowned.” It could easily happen here. The boat looked like it had been built during the first week of the Russian Revolution and was being held together with chewing gum and tin foil. One of the notable advantages of the otherwise miserable US litigation system is the complete absence of tourist vessels of this sort.

At Peterhof we found a number of palaces surrounded by acres and acres of outrageously gorgeous gardens and dazzling fountains. Though we gazed from afar at the Grand Palace (its photo is above) Katya, our guide of the prior day and apparently the big boss, had instructed Anton to skip it and its crowds, lines and poor ventilation (I know not whether we also missed out on more bodily harm-inducing booties). We instead made our way through the trees to the smaller Marly Palace. My younger son (the one with the WC emergency of the day prior), was not so impressed by Tsarist excess and gave not a hoot about yet another set of gilded rooms and interminable chatter about this exquisite credenza and that attractive armoire. My wonderful cousin and I decided to be the ones on the five year-old entertainment committee. She knew of a fountain sure to delight any Tsarist excess-weary five year-old. Known to the locals as “The Tricky Fountain,” it sprayed water at unpredictable moments. In the US or the UK such a fountain would be electronic, but in 2006 Russia it was controlled by a gentleman in competition for the Olympic medal for bad attitude whose daily job it was to control the popping water by pressing a lever with his foot. He would wait, and as soon as a curious child got close enough he’d press the lever and POP, the kid would get soaked. Although there was a nearly constant stream of delighted children jumping in and out of the water, the fountain man made sure to take absolutely no pleasure in their delight. We decided therefore to do double delight duty and enjoyed the children in the fountain for ourselves and for him as well.

We had lunch in one of the palace restaurants. The tour-arranged lunches were all of the same form; some sort of small salad, followed by soup, a small entrée of meat served with a side, and then dessert. All of the lunches in St. Petersburg were at worst quite good, and at best exemplary. The Peterhof restaurant served us a lovely creamy vegetable soup dusted with a generous sprinkle of, SURPRISE, dill. The main dish was a less stellar Beef Stroganoff dusted with, um, dill. It was our fourth day of Beef Stroganoff for lunch and despite the fact that my maiden name and the name of many of my then traveling companions, sounds remarkably like STROGANOFF, it had begun to lose its charm. Would it be too much to ask for some chicken or lamb, or beef in a form other than Stroganoff? The dessert was a plate full of super scrumptious crêpes that thankfully had not been dusted in dill or I would surely have run screaming from the palace. Once lunch was finished we wandered back through the gardens to the mini-van and I said a prayer of thanks to the ferry G-d that I was spared a second ride on the shipwreck bound tub.

Catherine Palace

Catherine Palace, Pushkin

Day 4 in St. Petersburg found us back in the mini-van with Guide Katya headed out of town to Catherine Palace in Pushkin. The drive can take as long as an hour, but thankfully our trip took just 35 minutes. The hitch on our arrival was that our youngest son, then five, needed the WC urgently. He and I dashed to the WC ahead of the pack and sadly, without any handy rubles or relevant language skills. I know I’ve said this before, I find it challenging that so many non-US countries charge people to pee. Can’t these costs be built into ticket prices at places like Catherine Palace where the entrance fee is already a King’s ransom? Am I the ONLY person who often finds themselves without correct change at the exact moment that someone, generally a small someone, cannot wait even a moment longer to use the facilities? I see myself as a quite organized, prepared and generally calm person, but this was not the first time, nor was it the last, that I found myself shouting hysterically in the wrong tongue at a surly and yes, OLD, Russian woman to let me and my small child into the bathroom. This particular old lady moved her massive frame into the doorway so as to completely block my path as I shouted, in English, that someone was just behind me with the requisite change. The sturdy and surly Russian lady was unmoved by my incomprehensible pleas. Not nearly as fit and fast as my sister, and weighed down by the 45 pound sobbing child that I was carrying, it was harder to sprint past her than I had hoped – but I did manage, eventually, to shove her aside, toss my whimpering son into a toilet stall, and stand panting beside him as he did his little business. I love travelling. Really.

Catherine Palace had many of the same problems as the Hermitage. It had crowds, poorly thought out lines, dismal ventilation, and struggles with severe and surly guards over how one must proceed from room to room. It had an additional bizarre requirement not seen ever before by my well-travelled family. In an effort to protect the fabulous floors of the palace (and they were of course utterly mah-vel-ous) all guests were required to don disposable purple booties before they went inside. The booties had no tread of any sort (no rubber dots like any right thinking pair of Gap socks) and the combination of the booties and the highly polished floors was positively deadly. We saw a tall 70 year-old go down right behind us and we all struggled throughout the tour to stay upright. It is an absolutely insane system that must result in broken arms and legs on a daily basis – but the floors are spared. Remember this – impressive things are far more important than people. It was a reoccurring theme of the trip.

Front Gate, Catherine Palace

We arrived early enough that we were among the first 100 or so folks allowed in. After a lengthy wait we ice-skated our way through the amazing series of rooms clad in lovely purple booties that would have made Donny Osmond proud. The Palace was destroyed during World War II and the structures that one can visit today are the product of reconstruction based on photographs (not mine, since no personal cameras were allowed inside) and drawings. The big tourist draw is the “Amber Room.” Its walls are made of amber pieced together in large mosaic panels. It is truly breathtaking. It knocks your purple booties right off your feet – or you wish it would so that you could walk without fear through the rest of the place. The amount of effort, time, money, resources, etc… that it took to rebuild Catherine Palace is simply staggering, and all this work was done while the average apartment building was falling into total and complete disrepair. It struck me as odd that there is so much ill will towards the Tsars and their excesses and yet spending in Russia so strongly favors rebuilding Tsarist monuments and palace reconstruction while the average road desperately needs to be repaved.

Just adjacent to Pushkin and Catherine Palace is the Solvang of St. Petersburg, Podvorie. A wood fortress filled with long tables and accordion playing wandering minstrels (are there any who don’t wander?) it was no better or worse than any other tourist experience of its ilk. We and three hundred other happy tourists sat down to a multi-course traditional Russian meal while people in costume sang and danced. It was all quite lovely in a Russian Disneyland sort of way. The only thing that was missing was a horribly lit group photo that always seems to go along with such an experience – think Hawaiian Luau or Puerto Vallarta Fiesta. Perhaps the Russians could teach us a lesson after all.