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

Russia: Day Two, Part One - Yaroslavl to Kostroma to Plyos

The next morning we all agree that this wasn’t the Ritz.  And the breakfast is as no-frills as the rooms.  Still it’s enough fuel to keep us going:  a slice of mortadella on bread, two crêpes with jam (the best part), and a lukewarm, watery flan that I’m told is called an omelet here.  But everyone takes it in stride, secretly hoping tonight’s quarters won’t be similar.  This is a good group, with everyone upbeat and happy to be in each other’s company.

The Duma (Parliament)

Andreï is our bus driver and he explains why the bus bears the German word Reise - travel - on it.  It’s not the only one we will see or ride in.  It appears that when the German tour companies feel their buses are too old to suit demanding Deutsche standards, they sell them.  And Russia is a prime client. So far both buses have been very comfortable, and this smaller one has more than enough room for our little tribe.  If we wanted to, we could all have a row to ourselves, but groups have already begun to coalesce.
       We’re off to discover Yaroslavl on the Volga, and the sun plays hide and seek behind storm clouds for a striking backdrop either way.  The central part of town is majestic, with far fewer cars than you’d see in a Western city of its size.  But waaaay more pedestrians than America could ever scrape together, even on a good day (except maybe NYC).
       This is one of the oldest cities in Russia (founded 1010 Vladimir tells us), with a population of well over half a million.  The old part of town is on UNESCO’s World Heritage list.  It’s long been a trading center, with the Volga boatmen by river plus the famous Transsiberian railroad overland. So definitely not a backwater.  Still it is genteel and doesn’t make us feel rushed.

     We walk along the blue waters of the Volga, past churches and other important-looking buildings to the park at its confluent with the Kotorosi.   The park’s gardeners are highly skilled.  One garden of flowers depicts a bear with an axe on its shoulder, the emblem of the city, and the year 1005 spelled out in flowers.  Vladimir was off by five years.  But it’s not his fault; that’s what’s carved on that huge rock in front of the Cathedral of the Assumption (see below).

       In another park, off to the side, young girls, their hair held up in white ribbons, lay wreaths on the War Monument while soldiers strut their stuff for a changing of the guards and a military band plays brass-ly.  This year is the 70th anniversary of the end of World War II, and such festivities will be a continuing experience throughout our trip.  The USSR suffered many deaths during the war - 20 million civilians and military combined, or more - and for survivors, injuries changed forever the lives of men like the one in his wheelchair in front of the next stop:  our first church.

Cathedral of the Assumption

       The Cathedral of the Assumption is a name we will see time and time again, proving I guess that Mary is as important to Russian Orthodoxy as she is to Roman Catholicism.  The cathedral was entirely rebuilt, one of many victims of the attempt to stamp out religion, The Opiate of the People. Its outer walls are covered with colorful ceramic tiles depicting animals, both real and mythical, some of which remind me of Pennsylvania Dutch designs, especially the distelfink.  But its greatest asset is its onion domes, in the standard layout:  a big one in the middle and four smaller ones at the corners.  All are gilded and glinting even if the sun isn’t always overhead.  And this church also has a small onion dome over its front door, just for good measure.  Inside there’s even more gold, with a gilt iconostasis - a patchwork of icons over the altar - and more gilt all over the tomb of someone I didn’t get the name of (for lack of Russian), not to mention chandeliers and candelabras galore.  With a chorale singing, it’s all very beautiful and grandiose.

     Then it’s off to a tiny house which has become The Museum of Music and Time.  Someone’s hobby took a serious turn here and ultimately filled this house with clocks and also instruments of music.  Every single clock keeps time and also chimes, a concert we’re treated to as we’re there on the hour.
       Our guide Tatiana is young and very pretty, as well as able to answer any question we raise... and we raise a lot!  The musical instruments are in the basement, so many of them that I’m overwhelmed and decide to go outside to enjoy the birdsong, the fragrance of the lime trees  and the sound of laughter from a day care center next door.
       After that it’s back to the bus.  Our thoughtful Andreï has turned on the piped music.  First one hour of a somber a capella men’s choir, followed by Eurovision.  Nothing if not eclectic.

Kostroma

We discover a new city:  Kostroma.  Also on the Volga, but here the river is over half a mile wide.  The city is as old as Moscow and named after the pagan goddess of death - a strange choice of name but I’m sure they had their reasons.  It’s also the home of the Romanovs, which will explain some things to come.  The Romanov dynasty ruled Russia for 300 years, and the execution of Nicolaï II and his family after the takeover by the Communists could be seen as the Russian version of what the French Revolution did to King Louis XVI and his entire family.
       Lunch is nice:  a salad, then borscht, some chicken with... you guessed it:  potatoes.  And for dessert what I would call a palmier puff pastry with a lovely cup of tea.

Sloboda Museum of Wooden Architecture

 And it’s off to the Sloboda Museum of Wooden Architecture.  It’s a bit like a smaller version of Henry Ford’s Greenfield Village, for those of you who have been there.  Its purpose is to show how things once were, right down to a few of the staff dressed in simili-period costumes (except for the shoes).  One woman sits knitting on the porch of an izba.

       We are shown around by another Andreï, who speaks excellent French and really doesn’t look his age:  83!  I’m sure some hair dye helps, but his energy level is amazing. He says it’s a great honor for him to escort us around, and perhaps he doesn’t get much of a chance to welcome visitors from France.  He explains that there’s a fee to take photos of the village-museum, but it’s so little that it really doesn’t matter.  And it goes to a good cause.
       Andreï explains that the traditional izba is made from what the child in me would call Lincoln Logs.  A mark of rural wealth, a home with these round logs is warmer than a flat-board house, offers better insulation, lasts longer... but is much more expensive to build. When we see the interior of one of the izbas, these “peasants” must have been plenty wealthy.  All their trunks are painted with bright colors and traditional designs, and the vintage clothes hanging from the rafters are quite good quality.  Andreï strikes up quite a conversation with The Other Vladimir (whom I shall call Vlad from now on, for clarity’s sake); after all, they’re both about the same age.
      There’s also a lovely wooden church, its roof sharply pointed heavenward.  This is the Church of the Virgin Mary and dates - amazingly for a wooden structure - from 1552.

Zmei Gorynytch

       Streams meander through the village and art students on day trips with their school are drawing various landscapes.  I hope one of them immortalized my favorite feature:  a wooden sculpture of a three-headed dragon - Zmei Gorynytch, who, according to the Russian fairy tales, breathes fire... which would be quite a dangerous feat for a wooden dragon.  I find him quite likeable in this version.  Must be the pot belly.
       And of course there’s a shop selling souvenirs.  I could call them tchotchkes, because it sounds Russian to me, but I know that’s Yiddish, so I don’t.

Church of the Virgin Mary

(to be continued)

Russia, Volga: Day One - Paris to Yaroslavl

We gather at what I still call Roissy Airport but the rest of the world knows as Charles-de-Gaulle.  Roissy is the original name of the location, and I’m not a huge fan of Le Grand Charles, although he had his moments.
       In addition to our Fearless Leader Vladimir, who worked very hard to stay in France after his retirement but travels often to his homeland (including this trip to share it with the rest of us), there’s Olga, another Russian living near Paris.  Ursula was originally German, but you’d never know it.  Paul - who will prove a handful and has already had at least one melt-down pre-flight - is originally from Texas (which explains a lot).  And of course the other ex-pat:  me.  That leaves three pure Frenchies:  Ghislaine, who has been very helpful filling out the forms, and finally Michel and Aude, a wonderful couple deeply in love.
       Inga and Jacques have already left, and will stay in Russia after we leave.
       After a change of planes in Frankfurt, we arrive in Moscow Vnukovo Airport six hours - and two time zones - later.  We meet the Russian addition to our merry bunch:  Marina, Tatiana, Kamilla, Galina and a second Vladimir.  All very different.  All of whom will prove a joy to discover as the days go by.
       Everyone speaks Russian, except me, which will have its merits and drawbacks.
       We all hop on the bus waiting out front.

Moscow and its river

Vladimir himself said our trip would be to “la Russie profonde”, the Russian hinterlands, and we’ll find out just how true that is.  The first leg of our trip is to get to that Russie profonde.  170+ miles (280 km) by bus from Moscow to Yaroslavl.   About four hours.
       That’s not a very fast trip, but that’s explainable.  First there’s the six-lane ring road around Moscow to navigate, and we need to cover about half of it because Yaroslavl is at the opposite end.  The majority of cars are Japanese - especially Toyotas - or Korean.  A few are American.  Most are black.  Out the window we see lots of cranes constructing lots more high rises.  One other sight strikes me as very funny:  a Burger King across from a Porsche dealership.
       There’s road construction on a lot of other four-lane highways, with workers busy rebuilding overpasses even at 7 p.m.  Few of them are wearing protective gear.  We inch along those sections.  Some drivers lose patience and pass on the emergency lane on the right.  That surely must be illegal here, too.
        Finally we’re out of the urban area surrounding the capital and into rural Russia, cruising along two lanes stretched like a ribbon laid upon rolling countryside.   It looks a lot like northern Michigan, right down to the birch trees.
    Occasionally we pass a truck or a van pulled over on the side, selling watermelons or other produce out of the back.  Also occasionally there’s a grave along the road, marked with a cross and flowers.  I can’t help but think of vodka, and maybe of falling asleep on these long stretches of highway.
       The countryside is dotted with izbas, wooden homes with gingerbread trim that reminds me of my Grandmother’s house at The Shore in New Jersey.  Some are kept up, freshly painted, others not so much, but all have a wooden fence around their yards.  A sign of fierce ownership in a country that not too long ago was communist.  Or was it really, in people’s hearts?  That’s a question that will be answered somewhat over the coming week.

     We finally stop to get something to eat.  It’s already late for a meal in this part of the world it seems, in spite of the sun still being out.  Russia could give Scandinavia a run for its money in a Land of the Midnight Sun contest.  We’re so late that the restaurant’s already sparse menu is sparser still, given the number of things they’re out of.  Soup (cabbage probably, or borscht) comes in lovely painted ceramic bowls; for the rest of us there’s the first of what will become daily portions of potatoes.  (The ones that were not used to make vodka.)  Plus we are served with a bill; this meal isn’t included, much to the surprise of Vladimir.  I guess no one informed the Russian Tourist Agency.  As we leave, we all pat the huge taxidermied boar that stands guard in the entrance.

A typical izba

 After a short jaunt in the bus, we arrive at our hotel.  Not much to look at, and the rooms are not much either.  A door off the central hallway leads to two bedrooms which share a bathroom.  In Russia, evidently, it really doesn’t much matter if you’re a man or a woman, or even if you know each other; you just share what there is.  And I’ve randomly been put in with Paul and Vladimir the Second.  But as I don’t much fancy sharing a bathroom with them, Fearless Leader Vladimir switches with me so Ursula and I can share a bathroom instead.  The start of a great friendship.
       The bed is narrow, the mattress just some foam about two or three inches thick and there’s noise from outside.  But it’s been a long day and I’m soon asleep.

I have a long-time friend whom I met at UNESCO in Paris during my translator/interpreter days.  He was a journalist there, and he was from... the U.S.S.R.
       At least that’s what it was called back in those days.  Now it’s Russia.  And now both of us Cold War survivors are retired.
       Vladimir (that’s his name) finds retirement a bit boring, I think.  He’s far too bubbly and active a person to just sit around (except when he plays chess).  So he decided to create a cultural group called Glagol.  When I asked him what that meant in Russian, he explained it came from a Pushkin poem and meant “the Word”, or “the Message”.  Carrying a message.
       And the message he’s chosen to carry of his Russian homeland this time is that the Volga region northeast of Moscow is a region of rural beauty.  So I just had to go see for myself.
       What’s more, as the trip isn’t run by a tourist agency but rather organized by the Glagol group itself, the budget for the week is only 500 euros (+ visa + plane ticket), which is about as cheap a trip as I’ve ever taken. That budget includes bus, hotels (single or double occupancy), meals, excursions, museum fees, guide and interpreter plus insurance, with activities to include folklore festivals and meeting local artisans.  A real bargain!

Americans can visit many countries around the globe without a visa, or at least without getting one first.  We’re lucky that way.  When I went to Jordan to see the “lost” city of Petra, for example, my visa was stamped in my passport at the airport upon arrival.  But this is Russia and I am a Yankee.  So a visa will be required.
       To be fair, the French people traveling with me had to get one too.  So Vladimir escorted us all to the Russian embassy to cut through the red tape, because they know him.
       We all had to have a letter of invitation, which Glagol’s Russian counterpart willingly extended.  And the visa applications can, indeed must, be filled out on-line.  It was basically three pages (I think) for the French, but there was an extra added section for me, the Yank, making mine at least double that.  In addition to much other stuff, the form wanted to know everywhere I’d been on previous trips for I-don’t-remember-how-long, and I chose not to fill all that in because... well, because I travel too much.  And because the information demanded was very detailed, with addresses, dates and all.  And because what difference should it make?  (That’s my leftist Vietnam-era rebellious side coming out.)
     Anyway, I filled in the form, printed it out and set off to meet Vladimir and two or three of the French party at the embassy, which is a heavily protected bunker with no windows built right up against the Bois de Boulogne, the forest at the western edge of Paris, in the ritzy part of town (which I always found ironic back when Russia was the Communist USSR).
       It was all going slowly but swimmingly, although I was a bit nervous about Vladimir stating several times that I’m a journalist. I do have an international press card delivered by the French Ministry of Foreign Affairs, but I pretty much only write blogs nowadays.  And besides, perhaps an American journalist wandering the hills and dales of rural Russia wasn’t something they particularly wanted to happen.
       Nonetheless, the visa was finally approved - probably greatly aided by Vladimir’s dealings with them over all the years of his journalistic career - and I went up to one last window to pay.  I’d heard the others, the French people, and had prepared the fee they were asked to pay:  35 euros.  But mine - the visa for The American - cost 150 euros!  Which I didn’t have in cash.  So out came the American credit card... and they took it!  Welcome to the New Russia!
       One thing that worried me:  they keep your passport so that the very official visa - complete with photo - can be stamped in it.  Leave my passport behind?  That’s something I’ve been told never to do, and by the American government itself.  But it can’t be helped if I want to make this trip.  All I could do was go back with Vladimir to pick it up... and hope I didn’t need it any time during the week it would take.
       All went well and finally, visa in passport in hand, it’s off to the airport a few days later to meet the other willing victims.
       So to quote James Bond, or rather Ian Fleming, here’s “From Russia, With Love”.

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