Russia: Day Two, Part Two

The Volga at Kostroma

After the Sloboda Museum, it’s on to my first encounter with “over-skirts”.

One of the Good Fathers inside the Monastery grounds

       Now I’ve been around Roman Catholic churches long enough in my 30+ years in France and elsewhere in Europe to know I needed to bring a scarf for my head.  Granted, it’s made of chiffon, and orange chiffon at that, but it covers my head and neck and I’ve had it ever since I saw Grace Kelly wear one as she zipped along in that convertible with Cary Grant in Hitchcock’s “To Catch a Thief”.  But scarves are not enough for some Russian priests such as those here at Ipatiev Monastery.  Even if you’re not in a mini-skirt, even if you’re wearing jeans - and I’m told especially if you’re wearing pants! - the good Fathers have decreed that you need to cover up your lower half with something feminine.  I’ll never know why, but that hits me out of the blue and just rankles me.  I guess it’s the feminist in me coming out.  (Right, blame Eve, not Adam, for everything.)  All right.  If the Good Fathers don’t want to see my jeans (which are far from tight), then they don’t need to see me at all. I let the other ladies “suit up” and I jump at the chance to wander around on my own, taking photos.

Ipatiev Monastery

   
The sky has turned resolutely blue, and all around the monastery are izbas of every color - red, brown, blue, green...  All with their gingerbread trim.  One of these homes has an ice cream freezer out in front of the house, but business is sparse and the vendor is sitting on a log, engrossed in her smart phone.  Quite a contrast there between her, the phone, the izba and the monastery across the street.  It won’t be the last contrast I see in Russia.
       Down by the Volga, there’s a parking lot where the bus sits waiting for us.  In addition to several fishermen and a little girl dancing to her own inner music, it’s a-buzz with a market.  Row upon row of stands hawking local linens - clothing, table linen, bed linen, linen dolls... anything that could possibly be made of linen.  Our group shows up at the bus with souvenirs from the monastery perhaps, but more loaded down with things they’ve picked up from the merchants outside the temple.

It’s fairly late, but the desire is to show us a real municipal food market.  Most of the vendors’ stands are closed already, but the fruit dealers are still there, although some of them are starting to pack up for the day.  One with a corner stand hears French being spoken and calls out to us.  He seems to know the French word fraises - strawberries, or to him “klubnika” - of which he has plenty.  Turns out he’s from Azerbaidjan and the strawberries are from... Crimea, one year after its “reunion” with Mother Russia.  He’s quite a hoot, and Aude and Michel end up buying some klubnika to share.  They’re delicious.
       But we need to get to our base camp for the next few days:  Plyos, about an hour farther downstream on the Volga.

Our motel, called The Motel

When we arrive, our group is broken up.  Half of us will be bunking at Anna’s, a local home booked by Larissa, our guide and host during our stay here.  The rest of us are staying at a motel (yes, that’s what it’s called) a few minutes' walk away on the road into town.  We have dinner at the motel.  A simple meal but tasty.  And of course including... potatoes.
       Not yet tired, Ursula, who is also bunking up at the motel, and I decide to take a little walk.  We walk toward town, past izbas and a church at the bus stop which is being renovated, all the way to the park overlooking Plyos and the Volga.  Nestled among the trees is a small church, demurely lit and standing calm against the fiery pink clouds of nightfall.
       It’s been a long day and we decide to head back. We’ve seen a lot today, so much to sort through in our dreams.

Church of the Assumption - Plyosh