St. Petersburg, Russia: Day Two, Part One

I’m gradually taking possession of my four-day realm.  I find the heat controls, which are cranked up to maximum, and lower it a bit.  That gradually eliminates the “heavy breathing” sound coming from the ceiling, which turns out to be the A/C that is set to go on at 22°C (72°F).  By lowering the heat, the A/C won’t be working - noisily - to undo what the radiator is doing!  I guess electricity bills aren’t a problem here.  And like the Americans, the Russians seem to like their heating... hot.

When I get to the dining room, I learn that my reservation doesn’t include breakfast.  It could have, but Antonina messed up.  Oh well.  I pay the 300 rubles (not even 5€ or $5) and go see what’s on the menu.  I take some fruit, a glass of juice - plus a pastry (for later) - and order an omelet... which turns out to be more like a flan... and very dry!  I don’t think I’ll do that again.  I share this despondent breakfast at a table with a French couple (the hotel’s full of them!),
       Ready for the great adventure, I ask the young man behind the front desk about the weather for the day.
       “One or two degrees [centigrade],” he says, “and snow” “
       ”It can’t be snow if it’s above freezing,” I counter.
       He hesitates a moment... then says “Well, something like snow.”
       “No blue sky?” I inquire.
       “Not in this city.  Not until...” - he hesitates - “... July.”
       Cute.

I head off towards the Neva River, walking over white Playboy bunnies painted onto the pavement, past a shop called “I Can Fix” that repairs iPhones, iPads and Macs, past shops selling Prada and Dior, around the corner and past the Jamie Oliver in St. Petersburg restaurant...  I’m seeing that there have been great changes since the days of Communism!

       My first stop is the Summer Garden, of which I’ve heard great things.  But as it’s not summer, there isn’t much in the garden to see, except for two old ladies bundled up walking arm and arm.  And a mother feeding the pigeons in the park, to the great joy of her toddler balanced on the fence.  There’s a beautiful view of St. Michael’s Castle, once the royal residence of Tsar Paul I, who distrusted the Winter Palace and didn’t feel safe there. Obviously lacking in luck, the tsar was assassinated in his brand new castle a mere 40 nights after he moved in.  Now it’s part of the Russian Museum, which is free as of 1 pm.
       I’ve heard of the fountains, but with temperatures hovering around freezing, they’ve all been turned off.  And there are apparently beautiful statues to be seen in this garden, but I’ve seen none of them.  Just some strange little wooden lean-tos... which turn out to be the winter protection for said statues.  By the time I figure that out, I’m at the Neva, where several men are fishing briskly - so I go back via the “Field of Mars”, ex-marching grounds for the royal guard - as was the one in Paris - but now just greenery.

Next stop is the very Russian-looking, amply onion-domed Cathedral of the Savior on Spilled Blood.  A strange name by any definition.  I wonder, as I buy my ticket (a little under $4), what I will find inside, given all those Communist decades when religion was the opiate of the people.  And yet it’s a proper church, with marble floors and mosaics and gilt...  There are tourists, but also people praying to icons and to statues.  I look around me, not understanding all the history behind what I see, and curious to know more.
       Then I see two ladies - without coats - talking and presume they work here.  I go up to the older of the two and say, “Excuse me, do you speak English?”  She does.
       I ask her what this place was during the Communist years.  Her younger friend says “Communist?”, as if she’s never heard of it.  The older one says something to her in Russian and the young one says “Ohhh”, or something similar.
       She explains that churches became museums, so things were not carted off, smelted down, any of the things I had expected from my Cold War childhood.  The possessions of the church, all the chalices and icons, became property of the state and people could come and see them, perhaps so they would laugh at the simple minds who could have believed in a Beneficient Being somewhere up in the clouds who watched out over them.
       However things weren’t always that clear-cut.  She explains to me that “under the Soviets (her term), the church was used to store fruit and vegetables.  As the stained glass windows were all broken and temperatures were cold, it was just one vast cold storage chamber.  Still, the idea of potatoes and other vegetables slowly rotting on the marble floor...  I guess the icons looked out over all this.
       Then the “curator” goes one better and explains to me the siege of Leningrad (as St. Petersburg was then known).  Once the Nazis encircled the city in early September of 1941, the siege lasted two and a half years.  People were starving from lack of food, having only what they could grow in their short summer season.  They were freezing, in a frigid climate without any fuel to burn.  And there was no place to bury the dead.  So the church became a mortuary, corpse being tossed on top of corpse.  By the time the siege was lifted in late January of 1944, an estimated  million people had died - no one’s sure of the exact count.  That’s a lot of corpses rotting inside this magnificent cathedral.
       Yet now it is magnificent in its beauty, restored as of 1960 to its former state.  The marble floors are immaculate.  The gold and silver of the icons glitter in the weak sunlight that filters through the now-repaired stained glass windows.  And mass is held every morning, before it turns back into a money-making museum, with a gift shop I pass on my way out, after thanking the woman who has explained to me that which my eyes couldn’t see.  Spaseeba.