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)