Russia: Day Eight - Yaroslavl / Paris

Looks like northern Michigan

The fatal day has arrived.  Our trip is over.

Old-style restrooms, Volga-style

       We bring our bags down and climb aboard the bus, all together again for the last time. It’s off to Moscow.  Only one stop:  for gas and to use the frugal bathrooms, which are in a building out back.  Vlad decides he’ll head for the trees; I don’t know if he doesn’t like the look of the facilities or doesn’t want to pay the few cents it costs to use them.
     Our snacks en route are left-overs from the wonderful send-off party thrown by the Russian contingent last night.  Bouncing with the potholes, Galina makes open-faced sandwiches for everyone, including the driver.  He chomps away, driving with his other hand and tapping his left foot in time to the music from the radio.
       The road from Yaroslavl to Moscow reminds me a lot of northern Michigan again, with its dips and hills, and right down to the extra-long freight trains you have to wait for at railroad crossings.  What isn’t like northern Michigan is the passing on the right on the shoulder, or the passing on the left over the solid line, both on a two-lane road.  But I do enjoy the “moose crossing” signs, complete with moose silhouette.  I want one.

       This region of flax fields doesn’t appear to be one of great riches. The roofs of the izbas are made of corrugated iron, often rusted.  Along the road there are vans parked, their back doors open to reveal what treasures are for sale.  Or sometimes there’s a simple stand in front of someone’s yard, a few benches stacked with produce and canned goods, maybe preserves, and cut flowers from the garden. Trying to round out the monthly budget any way possible.  That, too,                                                                                        is like some places back home.

Moscow's subway

When we hit the big city, the landscape changes and it seems the whole country is just one big work in progress.  Construction cranes are everywhere, right and left.
       Finally we reach the Ring Road circling Moscow.  On this section, it’s three lanes, with a red X on the pavement of the middle lane to show you when it’s illegal to pass.  Given what I’ve seen of Russian driving, that seems a bit optimistic to me.  The driver exits so he can drop us off, almost one by one.  First Tatiana, near wherever it is she’s headed.  Hugs all around  Then a stop at the Russian subway terminus for the other Russians plus Jacques, so they can get to the railway station.  The rest of us say good-bye to our bus driver at Domodedovo Airport, a good distance southeast of the capital.  Everything after that is The Usual for anyone who travels internationally.  Customs.  Luggage.  Security.  Waiting.
       Except that I try to find a postcard to send to my family back in the States.  I have seen none on the entire trip, but I thought that surely here in an international airport of a European capital...  But no.  Not a one.  And I scour every single shop in the airport.  When I discuss this with Vladimir during our return flight to Paris via Zurich, asking whether postcards aren’t a Russian Thing, he says that’s true.  He and his wife never think of it when on vacation.  I ask if that’s because sending open messages on postcards wasn’t a wise thing to do during the Soviet years and he says "perhaps", with a smile.

This has been a thought-provoking trip.
       The U.S. and U.S.S.R. were the two superpowers from the close of World War II until almost the turn of the century, and they stood at opposite ends of the political spectrum.  But comparisons of things other than politics aren’t so clear-cut.
       Landscape-wise, there are striking similarities between the Volga region - at least the part we’ve seen - and northern Michigan or Upstate New York.  The food is also familiar, America being a nation of immigrants, many of them Jews from Russia or Poland:  dill pickles, beet salad, borscht, poppyseed cake...
       But as far as people being open to strangers, there’s a huge difference between rural Russia and, say, the American Midwest.  There’s less difference compared with the mountain regions of France, where people probably fall halfway between the two.  Hotel accommodations are also vastly different, even in comparison with the American motels of the 1950's.
       And yet Russian teen-age boys still try not to appear too dorky as they pursue Russian teen-age girls, who are already oh so much more mature than the male of the species. That seems to be universal.  And children, at least until kindergarten, are curious about strangers... but from a safe distance.
       What will stay with me are the rolling countryside, the mighty Volga and especially my memories of those Russians who opened their doors and hearts to us, simply because they were told we were good people.

If you want a different version of this travel diary, try reading the New York Times article below.  It’s almost our trip, the same region - the Golden Ring, which seems to be becoming a classic:
http://www.nytimes.com/2012/09/02/travel/driving-russias-revived-golden-ring.html