Russia: Day Seven, Part Two - Palekh / Gavrilov-Yam / Velikoye / Yaroslavl

The main square - religious enclave vs village life (photo above)

The last cultural stop of the day is in the hamlet of Velikoye, only 7 km from Gavrilov-Yam.  Why we’ve stopped at this crossroads right out of a Chekhov play is not clear at first.  There seem to be as many dogs and cats as there are people.
       It’s here that I puzzle out something I’ve noticed about Russia.  At least this part of it. Every place we’ve been (and setting aside the officials and guides), I’ve been struck by how closed strangers are to us in public.  By their apparent total lack of curiosity about who we are and what we’re doing there. It stands out in comparison to the warm welcome from people we’re actually introduced to by someone.  The Prince, for instance, his wife and Nikolaï.  The only exception to this during the entire week will be Lilia, the flower lady at the market.  Aside from her, anyone to whom we have not been introduced by a key person will steer well clear of us, avoiding even eye contact.  And that extends all the way down to children older than about age 4.  I started to notice it in the parks of Shuya.  But here, in the narrow country road of Velikoye, in the middle of nowhere, that becomes clear to me when a family passes, with the young child looking at us, the older child pretending not to see us and the adults looking right through us.  I talk to Vladimir about it months later, after mulling it over.  My conclusion is that all those years of Communist rule, when you could be put in prison for talking to the wrong person, has taught people to steer clear of anyone they don’t know.  Especially if they’re speaking foreign languages or even look foreign.  Vladimir says he hadn’t thought about it that way, but that I may be right.  He may just be being polite.  But I do try to be aware of my surroundings, of what’s going on around me, always asking myself (and others) why things are the way they are.

In spite of Velikoye being a mere crossroads, there are two different churches side by side:   the church of Our Lady's Christmas and the church of the Protection of the Virgin, both of which date back to the early 18th century.  Between them, a well-worn and slightly tilting belfry.  Here again is the emphasis on Mary.  The mother.  And it’s true that Russians call their country Mother Russia.  Not the Fatherland, as in Germany.

The orphanage

       But the churches are closed, and they’re not why we’ve come to Velikoye.  We’ve stopped here to visit an orphanage housed in a big old bourgeois home.  A home, it turns out, that was used in a Russian film on Anna Karenina, which should give you an idea of the outdated luxury of the interior.  At least the part that visitors are usually shown, because our muddy shoes have forced us to come in the backdoor.  That affords us a sneak peek “behind the curtain”, as we walk past tired refrigerators and worn-out children’s shoes. Here again, it’s a world of opposites.  This mansion stands out in comparison with the unpaved muddy lanes of the village or with the old wooden houses much in need of repair that are visible from the window.
       The mansion has been an orphanage for generations.  During the long siege of Stalingrad in 1942-43, it took in 500 children, just to get them out of harm’s way.  That’s 500 who didn’t starve to death like tens of thousands of others.  Now there are 40 children living here, all from underprivileged homes.  In a different way, they are out of harm’s way in this sleepy village.  At least I hope so.  We don’t meet them, except the few that ran into us accidentally in the back hallway.

After that, and some petting of a wet dog who seems to want to go with us, it’s back on the bus and back to the Big City:  Yaroslavl.  And for some reason - perhaps civic pride? - we’re taken to a skating arena for dinner.  For my tastes, it’s way too abrupt a leap in settings. Like skipping two entire centuries.  From the muddy lanes and orphans of Velikoye to the steel-and-glass of this state-of-the-art skating complex in the middle of a huge parking lot. Not to mention the cold professionalism of its staff, a far cry from the humble pride of the orphanage directress.
     We’re shown up to one of the bigger spectator boxes overlooking the rink, where we’ll be served some horrible cafeteria-style taste-free food that none of us enjoy.  Plus this meal also isn’t included, much to Vladimir’s surprise.  The view is much more interesting than the food.  I go down to the first row of the seating, just behind the glass, to watch the skaters below, many of whom are practicing jumps again and again, some under the watchful eye of trainers.  Jumps I never learned to do in all my childhood winters in America’s north.

       Soon we’re back on the bus, headed for our hotel in Yaroslavl.  I have to laugh as we pass by a MakDohanDc, Cyrillic for Mickey D.  McDonald’s has come to Russia, its golden arches flaunted over the door.   We all breathe a sigh of relief as we pull up in front of the hotel because it’s not the one we stayed in our first night.  The front desk asks for all our passports; this is the first time on the entire trip.  We’re back to the red tape of bureaucracy. I breathe a second sigh of relief when mine reappears after only half an hour.  Vladimir nudged them into high gear because I wasn’t the only one who was nervous.
       This hotel has a modern entrance and foyer, but the rooms are a bit downtrodden.   At least some of them, the ones toward the rear, like mine.  The beds are short and narrow (but so am I); the mattress uncomfortable.  The TV has 49 stations, all in Russian.   Even though this is a big city, I guess they don’t cater to foreigners much.  And the walls are paper thin.  My bathroom has one faucet that pivots between the sink and the deep stand-up shower tub, whose glazing has been worn away by past bathers.  At first I think that’s chintzy, but upon consideration - and given the small size of the bathroom - it makes total sense.  There’s a hair dryer, but it’s hanging precipitously right by the sink, ready to electrocute someone if given half a chance.  There are electrical wires running under the carpeting, which just has to be against code; it certainly would be in America or France.  But most of all, the windows are painted shut and the A/C in most rooms unfortunately doesn’t work.  Remember, this is the end of June in a continental climate.  I solve the problem by plugging the refrigerator in and leaving the door open.  Good old Yankee know-how.
       Those of us who want to, who aren’t too tired, accept the warm invitation of the Russian contingent, which we’ll be leaving behind tomorrow.   It’s a chance to be together one last time with our new friends, some of whom we may well never see again after tomorrow.  Galina has been assigned a suite of two rooms, so she and Kamilla, Tatiana and Marina organize a send-off dinner for us made up of goodies that we greedily eat, having spurned the food at the skating rink.  Somehow, somewhere, the ladies have scrounged up dill pickles, fresh tomatoes, brown bread, mortadella and Swiss cheese.  Galina breaks open two of her bottles of vodka, and the tea-totalers can choose between apple juice, orange juice, Coca-Cola or 7-Up.  Everyone gives a toast in their respective language.  I don’t understand the ones in Russian, but I’m sure they spoke of new friendships and shared memories.  I know mine did.

Russia: Day Seven, Part One - Palekh / Gavrilov-Yam / Velikoye / Yaroslavl

This is our last full day in Russia.  I feel like a corner of the veil has been lifted.  And that’s quite a veil for someone who grew up in America during the Cold War, learning to “duck and cover” in case of nuclear attack by the U.S.S.R.  But I imagine they might well have been doing the same here along the Volga.

Our bus driver honks his horn, anxious to gather us all together and get on the road.  And we really are a bit undisciplined.  Must be the country air and remembrances of summer camps past.
       We start the day in Palekh, with a population of only about 5,000.  True to my unplanned credo of gladly visiting churches that do not require over-skirts - i.e. the ones that are less anti-women - I let my fellow travelers take a look inside this one - the Church of the Elevation of the Cross - without me.  I’d prefer to discover how people live than see more icons.   Besides, my head is still filled with the icons from Father Igor’s little church in the fields.

       So after admiring the wrought ironwork gates, I  traipse around the village, with its birch trees and brooks, taking pictures with both my camera and my mind’s eye.  My reward:  I happen upon a relay race.  Several, actually, divided up by age group.  But all boys.  Some of the teams are good-hearted, just out for fun; others are intent upon winning, or at least trying to.

Afterwards we drive quite a way cross-country, through towns where Saturday is market day.  Our destination is the Folklore Museum at Gavrilov-Yam.  We’re introduced to an obese priest who makes me very ill at ease. The broad girth of both the Father here and Reverend Mother Anatolia at the convent the other day just impresses on me the fact that, whether here or in the West, those in high or protected positions live a better, easier life, even if they are supposed to be serving God.  This museum also focuses on linen, which seems to be the region’s Number One product, because we’re told the town exports linen around the world.

       In addition to its displays of old linen-working equipment - flax-spinning wheels and such - the Folklore Museum has a gift shop where we all stock up on lovely articles at unbeatable prices (again, Christmas presents for my family). There’s a black linen shirt that would be just perfect for my son, and I ask for his size but there’s only one and Ghislaine snatches it up.  Seeing my dismay, and being my friend, Vladimir - ever the gentleman and master guide - makes some inquiries and orders the bus to stop by another store nearby, which has been told exactly what to set aside for me.  I leave with my black linen shirt, which does indeed prove a favorite with my son when Christmas rolls around.

After that, it’s a tour of a ceramics plant.  They should be closed today - it’s Saturday - but some of the staff have been called in to show the foreigners how it’s done.  Young men stripped down to the waist carry inordinate weights of clay product around the plant from post to post.  A talented worker with deft fingers takes a chunk of clay and turns it into a graceful pot before our very eyes.  I’ve always been fascinated by how clay is transformed as fingers glide over it, and this man is very gifted.  My heart is also captured by the factory’s mascot (or perhaps mouse-catcher?):  a young grey kitten who takes an interest in everything he can see from his perch atop the work surface.
       Then we’re all taken up to a crafts room so we can make fools of ourselves trying to make a simple cast piece.  We’re allowed to take our masterpiece with us.  Some of us are far better at this than others, but everyone ends up giggling.

(to be continued)

Russia: Day Six, Part Two - Shuya / Ponkino

Ponkino, as rural as it gets

We arrive in the middle of nowhere, a clustering of a few wooden houses, some in poorer shape than others.  “Our” izba is spruced up and we’re ushered inside for lunch at a “peasant’s table”.  Something about it feels like family meals at my grandmother’s house at The Shore, right down to the gingerbread trim and the sloping floors.  It’s a strange feeling, a bit like Proust’s madeleines.

       The table is loaded down with food.  I’m pretty sure the peasants didn’t eat this well! There are the typical farm dishes:  cabbage, boiled potatoes (of course), dill pickles, brown bread - even some tomatoes, maybe from their garden - all to go with the homemade borscht.  There are also slices of lard.  Yes, you read that right.  Now I’m sure that in days of old, lard was eaten for the nourishment it could provide, but I just can’t get past the fattiness and consistency so I pass on that.  The ever-intrepid Ursula tries it.  When I ask her how it was, she makes that little French lip-puckering face and says diplomatically, “It wasn’t bad, but I’m not asking for seconds.”  All this is washed down with vodka, or kissel (the berry juice).  And for dessert, wild strawberries - a whole pail of them!
       The Grandfather already welcomed us on his accordion upon arrival, but he gets it out now as we nosh away and his young granddaughter sings to his accompaniment.  I don’t understand a word of it, but she is lovely and so is her voice.  Our hosts and their helpers are all in traditional dress of bright colors with much embroidery and rickrack trim.  In the old days, these would have been their Sunday Clothes; now they’re put on to greet visitors.  Such clothes would definitely be an optimistic touch during what is surely a long, rude, colorless winter.

Vlad, Gallina, Grandfather, Paul, Vladimir, Jacques

After lunch the family takes us into the garden area behind the house and doles out traditional costumes to each of us, complete with headdresses.  I get two layers:  a dress plus an apron garment to go over top.  It’s too hot to be covered up like this, but on the other hand it does discourage the mosquitoes, of which there are clouds!  All our Russian contingent joins in on the songs Grandfather and Granddaughter are singing; the rest of us clap along.  Jacques finds what I’ll call a mouth-piano and blows a tune the accordionist picks up on, with Paul on tambourine.  Lines are formed, arms are hooked, dancing ensues.   Paul, who chose the vodka over the kissel, suddenly grabs Ursula, swings her wildly, and she stumbles.  Her arm is hurt, and Granddaughter disappears into the garden, to reappear with large leaves of Swiss chard to place on the sprained elbow.  I arrange her scarf into a sling.

     All this has made us very hot, and we shed our Russian costumes.  Many of us decide to walk through the countryside.  We get to see the village school - grade school only - which has a volleyball net outside and a playground where spare tires have been painted and partially buried so that the children can crawl through them and get their clothes dirty, as schoolchildren do around the globe, much to their parents’ chagrin.  This playground may look primitive compared to France or the U.S., but I’ll bet the kids love it.  We foray even farther in search of some of those wild strawberries, and we do find some.  Wildflowers are also picked and woven into a crown for Paul, the satyr, who later bequeathes it to Gallina.
       When we get back, there’s more food because it’s dinner time:  kasha, cooked cranberries, cheesecake (yes!) and chaï instead of vodka...  Ursula’s fall sobered us up.  The lady of the house gives out the recipe for her homemade dandelion jam, which was delicious.  Of course that, too, is in Russian so I miss out on it.

     As we climb back on the bus, I notice the neighbors.  Their clothes are the same as any farm clothes in Europe or America:  simple, no frills, easily washable.  Nothing traditional about them.  And the houses on either side are a far cry from the spiffiness of “our” izba.  All in need of some love and a fresh coat of paint.  I believe I heard that this whole afternoon was put together as a display of The Way Things Used to Be.  But it doesn’t matter; the income will help someone with something.  It’s been wonderful, everyone has enjoyed themselves immensely - even the wounded Ursula - and I’m sure it is all typical of what did happen in the old days when there was something to celebrate.  Kisses are given and off we go.


Back to the summer camp “early “ - 8 p.m.  You’d never know it because of the Midnight Sun.  After the heat and the mosquitoes, a shower is a most excellent idea.  And the bathrooms at our summer camp are modern.  The water, however, smells of sulfur, which puts some of the others off.  Having spent my childhood next to a sulfur spring, it merely reminds me of my past and I jump into the steamy, smelly hotness undeterred.
       Just as we settle down in our beds to read or sleep or write or whatever, there’s an unholy racket from the hallway.  First Vladimir locks himself in his room somehow and has to whistle through the door to Olga for help.  They end up taking the screen out of his window so he can climb out. Then Jacques manages to get himself locked out of his room when he comes back from a walk along the forest road.  Or maybe there’s just something about these Russian door locks.
       Eventually it all is sorted out by the staff and we turn off our lights, one by one.  The sky is dark and high; the crickets lull us to sleep.

Russia: Day Six, Part One - Shuya / Ponkino

Shuya

After a hearty breakfast at our summer camp base camp, washed down with lots of good strong tea, we head into Shuya, once a major commercial city for its linen industry.
  The bus drops us off and we’re loosed on the unsuspecting town, to wander wherever we want, with orders to meet at a certain time at a certain place.  I’d better stick with someone who speaks Russian or I’m toast!
  We set off in little groups that splinter gradually as shops attract some of us while others find some architectural detail interesting.  The wide pedestrian mall in the town center is a haven for parents with children. There’s even a little pony they can ride on.   We watch teen-age boys trying to pick up teen-age girls.  A scene that happens everywhere on this planet.
  Eventually Ursula and I end up at the bazaar, which seems to be organized by object sold.  There’s a farm woman selling just cucumbers, onions and herbs.  Another woman a few stalls down has only five pairs of shoes to sell, but also some lovely handmade brooms - a strange combination.

  Then we spot a woman of weathered beauty selling cut flowers, probably from her own garden.  We both eye her lovely pale pink peonies, just like the ones on my bushes at my Michigan home.  As I lean forward to smell their delicate fragrance, Ursula strikes up a conversation in Russian and learns her name is Lilia - Lily, a fitting name for a flower seller.  I have no idea what they’re saying to each other, but Lilia has a warm smile.  Eventually we say good-bye - one of the few Russian words I know - and Lilia hands Ursula the bouquet of peonies, as a gift to us visitors from so far away.  In spite of Lilia’s protests, Ursula manages to leave her some money and we head back to find the bus, having no idea how we’re going to keep these beautiful peonies from dying.   Lilia is someone else I will remember fondly, for her smile, her joy and her warmth to total strangers... as well as for her peonies.
  Which Ursula gives to Tatiana, who admired them.  Tatiana in turn offers them to the directress of the next stop:  the house of Pavlov, a wealthy merchant from times when the city grew rich from its linen trade.  The mansion is a preserved remnant of the city’s past splendor.  The staircase is majestic, the ceilings ornate, the chandeliers pure works of art. We’re treated to a show in the upstairs concert room.  First a waltz by an overly pale girl and a gangly boy; they’re not Fred and Ginger, but this is not Dancing With the Stars either, and they do a decent enough job.  Then it’s a concert of Russian ballads by an operatic soprano with too many flourishes but a good voice, accompanied by an excellent pianist of spinster appearance who looks brow-beaten for some unexplained reason.  The pianist was my favorite in this local talent show.
  Next comes a quick stop at a very modern local fabric store  - mostly linen - so that those of us who want to can do some shopping.  Paul buys two yards each of three different colors, to make himself shirts back in Paris.  Aude finds the ones she likes “too expensive”.  I find some patterns that are lovely and reasonable in price, but I just don’t want to carry all that back to France, and it wouldn’t fit in my suitcase anyway.

We’re expected at the tiny village of Ponkino for lunch and an afternoon of folklore and rural rambling, but en route we stop at a junkyard which has been turned into an outdoor art showroom.  Oil drums are given pipe legs to become steeds for knights, not in white satin but rather in scrap iron, their shields the tops of those oil drums.  Next to these horsemen is a hunter, and farther along a statesman with a scrap-metal quill pen for the document he’s written.  On shelves all around are bevies of old clocks, old crockery, old everything you could ever imagine.  There’s even an old motorcycle with sidecar that I photograph for my sidecar-maniac friend back home.  The ingenuity showcased here makes this one of the highlights of the trip for me.

Russia: Day Five - Ivanovo

 Have you ever had a moment when you see something being done wrong and you just want to say, “Hey, excuse me, but why don’t you just....?”  That’s what happens this morning.
  We’re leaving our cozy little nest at the Plyos Motel and are all packing up and gathering in the parking lot of what is a marketplace on some days.  The garbage men are cleaning up the flotsam-and-jetsam from yesterday's market - which we missed.  There’s a huge truck and just two men for the job. They’re trying to empty the dumpster and one of them has to climb up into it and shovel things around and tamp it all down. There’s got to be an easier way.  But maybe it’s always been done this way, and means are limited.  Still...

We bid a fond farewell to Plyos and the Volga, but take part of it along with us.  In the person, or rather persons, of Prince Andreï and our loyal photographer NikolaÏ.  We’re headed to Ivanovo and the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.  The Prince will officiate, with the requisite laying of flowers and a short speech.  It’s raining and those of us who don’t have umbrellas get soaked, which includes Vladimir as well as all the soldiers standing at attention, expressionless, around the monument.  The presiding official assigned to greet us, Lieutenant-Colonel Pavel Phikine, head of Ivanovo’s regional center for patriotic education (hmmmm), has made such an effort for this meeting with foreigners that he’s shaved himself raw.  We are humbled.
  Lording over the grave and its eternal flame is a modernistic statue of women mourning their husbands and fathers.  And red flags all around, lots of red military flags from the Soviet era, snapping in the wind.  Again we are reminded that it has been 70 years since the killings of World War II ended, and that Russia - or rather the USSR - lost so many people, both military and civilian.
  After the ceremony, we say good-bye to Andreï and Nikolaï, who have given me a real connection to at least one part of the Russian people.  I will not forget them.
  In their stead, as guide, we have the blonde Elena of the smiling blue eyes.

Another part of World War II - one that links the USSR and France - is the Normandie-Niemen Regiment, a fighter squadron of the French Air Force that fought on the Eastern Front in Europe as of mid-1943.  (It still exists.)  De Gaulle sent a group of Free French Forces fighter pilots to help the Soviets and they trained on Soviet planes here in Ivanovo.  Led by Jean Tulasne (initially), they fought in three campaigns and destroyed 273 enemy aircraft.  For which they received many citations, including France’s Légion d’Honneur and The Soviet Order of the Red Banner.  Four of the French pilots were named Heroes of the Soviet Union, which is understandable when you learn that the Germans were under orders to shoot any French pilots captured.  On the spot.  French pilots flying Soviet planes backed by French and Soviet mechanics.  The kind of cooperation the world could use more of sometimes.

  We learn all this, and more, at a working-class high school which also has a museum facette to it.  We’re shown through many rooms of memorabilia and students present part of the displays.  Although they’re all dressed the same - off-white shirts, a blue bandana and a matching blue cap - how they wear that uniform differs greatly from one to the next.  Most of the girls toe the vestimentary line, but one of them spotlighted for a speaking role is very shapely... and knows how to put it to her advantage.  Others, especially the boys, are the gangly teenagers you find in any country around the world.  But all are proud to show the Frenchies all they know about the friendship linking their country to ours.
  Jacques and Kamilla say a few words of thanks and appreciation before we head off to lunch at a modern hotel where we are given American-sized portions of beets, borscht, pirogi and then liver with rice, all washed down with vodka or kissel, a berry juice.  Not a potato on the horizon.  I tease Vladimir that Russia is much like Michigan:  too much food and too bad roads.

On the way to Shuya, there’s a joke fest in the bus.  (Remember the vodka?)  Chiefly Paul and Gallina, who is proving to be quite a corker.  More and more fun each day.

  In Shuya we start at a Vodka Museum, which also obviously has a showroom.  Of all the buildings we have seen so far, the vodka factory is the ritziest:  clean, well-tended red brick, wrought-iron decoration.  Next to it?  A junkyard.  Opposites that we’re getting used to.  All countries have them; the only difference is that here they’re geographically closer to one another so they stand out more.  There was this same glaring dichotomy across from St Nikolaï Convent as well.
  I’m not vodka at all, but there are three things I do love here:  the display of cut glass bottles to buy, the life-sized grinning peasant doll standing by a cut-out of a vodka bottle on the landing where you can’t miss him, and the poster in the entry courtyard of a plump, happy, babushka-ed grandma and the words: “Granny’s life is more fun” (with their brand of vodka).
  There’s another museum on our dance card also, one that deals in lacquerwork, and another goodie bag, but my mind is spinning by all we’ve seen.

It’s getting late.  We have to get to our hotel.  And it’s a nice surprise.  We’ll be spending two nights at a summer camp in the countryside.  There are individual houses and Ursula and I get rooms opposite one another.
  Dinner is in a separate building which houses the kitchens and dining room.  It also serves as a banquet room room when needed.  (As we leave Saturday morning, they’ll be setting up for a wedding luncheon.)  The food served up is varied and the best thing is something they call pelmeni, which are dumplings but my French friends translate them as “pillows”.   Delicious!  The side dishes are sliced tomatoes, cucumbers, and yellow bell pepper, all fresh.  For dessert, chaï and poppyseed buns.  A true Russian meal, evidently.
  Then it’s off briskly through clouds of mosquitoes to our separate rooms for a good night’s sleep.