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.