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.