Russia: Day Four - Plyos / Privolzhsk

Breakfast - today two hard-boiled eggs and oatmeal - is again in the Common Room, which has the TV on.  And it’s tuned to an English-speaking news channel - possibly the BBC - for some inexplicable reason.  (Remember, this is just a year and a bit after Russia’s re-annexation of Crimea.)
       For some reason Olga, sitting across the table from me, says “America has landed in Europe.”, that it’s put tanks in Poland and the Baltic States.  I explain as diplomatically as I can that if that’s so, it may be in reaction to Crimea.  She is displeased and leaves.  Ghislaine, who - although French - knows Russia well, warns me, “You won’t find a Russian who doesn’t defend Russia.”  All this because talks on Crimea start in Paris today.  I hope there’s not a storm on the horizon among us.
       This reminds me of what Nikolaï said yesterday about taboo topics for conversation in Russia:  politics and religion, to which I had replied that it’s the same in the States.  But this is an argument I didn’t start.

After a day of staying put, today is a day full of destinations.
       First off is Krasna Privolzhsk, to a silverware and jewelry outlet for the city's factory.  The minute we step in the door I see an amazing peacock made of gilded silver with blue and green stones.  What a lot of work went into making that!  I settle for something more transportable:  silver jewelry for my family for Christmas, even though it’s still only June.
       Then it’s back in the bus and off to the Privolzhska Cultural Center.  Outside are a group to greet us, girls in long braids, men and women in traditional dress, an accordion and a tambourine... quite the welcome.  I wonder how long they’ve been waiting.  We’re offered a fancy brioche-type bread that you dip in a little dish of salt, the traditional way to greet guests in rural Russia.  And then the directress, Elena, invites us in.
       We’re treated to rooms full of drawings by children - again of World War II for the anniversary - and a display of old Soviet posters.  Then we’re taken into a room with a forest scene painted on the end wall and a wax figure of a Soviet soldier seated in front of it.  Elena explains about the war years at considerable length and suddenly the wax figure jumps up and starts to talk, telling the story of a soldier’s life - in Russian, of course.  He had sat for so long without moving or blinking that some of us nearly jump out of our skin!
       We go into another room furnished like a typical peasant interior.  We disguise ourselves in traditional Russian clothes and Elena chooses Olga to play the mistress of the house and Jacques to be her husband.  A handsome couple.  Olga washes the dishes while Jacques irons, both the old-fashioned way.  Then the musical instruments come out and I grab some wooden spoons and show my skill at musical spoons.  (David Rosen would be so proud.)
     After that, it’s outside - still in traditional dress.  There’s dancing and singing.  And a pillow game that’s a bit like Duck Duck Goose where you sit in a circle and someone with a pillow puts it behind you and you have to kiss them.  Of course Paul decides to slip me the pillow, “one American to another”.  Vladimir and Jacques are challenged to show their masculinity by hammering a nail into a log; Real Men can evidently do it in one hit.  Then the Russians form an honor guard for us to walk under and it’s back inside, where we take off the disguises.
       As a final activity, we are taken to the  arts-and-crafts room where we’re all given a square of fabric, some cotton stuffing and a few pieces of yarn and shown how to tie it all up into a little Russian dolly.  (Mine isn’t a hearty success and comes undone gradually in my suitcase.)
       As we leave, each and every one of us is given a goodie bag:  a T-shirt, a notepad, a pen and a magnet.  That’s a big investment for such a modest place and we’re all sincerely touched.

It’s off to the thermal baths under a bright blue sky and billowing clouds.  Can you call them thermal baths if the water is ice cold?  No wimpy hot springs here, just pure water from the depths of the Earth.  The icy depths.  It all comes out of a holy fountain, and is then piped to two Lincoln Log bath-houses - one for men and one for women.  Some of us decide to try it, skinny-dipping into the cold water.  I decide to walk around and watch the children - all boys - swimming in the lily-padded stream it all probably flows into.

Duly braced by the plunge or warmed by the sun, we’re off again to lunch at St. Nikolski convent in Privolzhsk.  It’s going to be a late lunch, given all we’ve done so far, but they’ve dutifully waited for us, as everyone seems to do all day every day, each place wanting to show us everything they can, making us gradually later and later.
       We’re treated to a hearty lunch - actually the best meal we have anywhere - as the girls’ choir serenades us in their little crocheted caps.  (One of them turns pale and looks as if she’s about to faint, but is told to soldier through.) Reverend Mother Anatolia, the abbess, has sad pale-blue eyes and wears a head-to-toe habit not so very different from a chador, but the yards of black cloth can’t hide the fact that she perhaps enjoys these earthly culinary delights a bit too much, unlike the thin choir girls, some of whom we catch licking the jelly dishes later as we pass the kitchen.

       After lunch we’re shown around the classrooms and meet some of the teachers, including the English teacher.  (Have I been ratted out?  Is my cover blown?)  The alphabet poster is the replica - in Cyrillic - of the ones of my childhood in America, or of my children’s in France.  In the arts room, there’s an “aquarium” with colorful origami fish and frogs.  And suddenly I see a portrait which is recognizably the last Tsar of All the Russias, Nikolaï II.  I know this is the Convent of St. Nikolski but I was assuming that was a saint and not a late tsar.  Perhaps the name does double duty.
       Once again my thoughts go back to Father Igor’s simple country church and its many icons that outlived the Communist years unscathed.... and the Communist regime itself.   Here at St. NikolskI Convent, there is religion and the tsar, somewhat as if those middle years never happened.  But this convent is very unlike Father Igor’s heart-felt little church, which I prefer by far.
       As our bus drives off, I wonder what these pale, thin girls will become.  We see them now outdoors, not in their strict white choir uniform but in colorful street clothes.  Who are they?  Are they orphans?  Are they here just for an education?  Are they being trained to become nuns?  I wish them well, especially the very pale one in her mismatched top and kilt, whom my heart has adopted.


Enough of the visits.  Back to Plyos.  A musical show awaits us on a terrace overlooking the Volga.  A very blonde vocalist in a bright red embroidered traditional dress sings Russian ballads, accompanied by two men on different zither-y instruments.  Her voice is almost operatic.  The trio came all the way from Ivanovo, an hour away, just for us.

       Dinner is served on the terrace after the performance.  It’s very frugal, which is just what we need after the late banquet at the convent.  The only down-side is the mosquitoes, and there are plenty, yet another similarity with northern Michigan.
       Then it’s off to bed at our comfortable motel, which is starting to feel like home by this third and final night.
       Once again, so much for the brain to sift through as we sleep.