St. Petersburg, Russia: Day Two, Part Two

Kazan Cathedral

I walk along one of the city’s many canals and peek into St. Catherine’s Church, simple but echoing with the singing of Mass.  The chanting priest’s voice, especially the high notes, reverberates against the other lower voice that sounds a bit like a bagpipe drone note.  But there are only a half dozen people, so it’s hard to go unnoticed and I try to slip out without disturbing the service..
       It’s on to Kazan Cathedral.  Totally different from the other two, designed a bit like St. Peter’s in Rome - two curved wings with columns and a central church.  Inside, a long line of faithful wait to get nose-to-nose with the main altar’s icon and tell it their secret, whisper their prayer.  In the back of the church I see others filling out prayer forms, which a priest then disappears with.  Mine would be the lyrics “let there be peace on Earth and let it begin with me”... this as Russia and NATO seem on a collision course.
       Curious about the icon, I ask a nun at the souvenir counter if she speaks English.  She goes and gets me a book in English.  That’s the only word she understood, so I buy it... to give to Kate in Paris as payback for her lending me her 1990 Guide Bleu of Leningrad.  But I still want to know about the icon, so I look in the book, point to a photo of the icon and then point to the line of Faithful.  She nods... and then says what may be the few words of English she knows:  "The Virgin of Kazan".  I thank her and move off.
       Moments later, having snuck a photo of The Line of Faithful, I feel a tug at my sleeve.  It’s the sister.  She says “Come” and walks me to a painting she wants me to see.  “All painting,” she says, pointing to the gold trim on the priest’s robe.  She looks very proud of it.  I tell her it’s beautiful, thank her.  Now she points to the line, nudges me toward it with her head, smiles and walks off.
       Again, I think of those lyrics, and post them in my mind next to a split screen of the morning news - Russia in Syria, the U.S. and NATO beefing up Poland and the Baltic states.  Here am I, a child of the duck-and-cover Cold War, being befriended by a Russian.  I tear up... and step out into the cold air.
       Outside in the park, a young woman - an art student - sits on a bench, sketching Kazan.  I sit and watch her for a few minutes but my stomach tells me it’s lunchtime and I head for the huge bookstore across the way - with Café Singer upstairs.

The House of Books, with Café Singer

The House of Books is just that, with books in every nook and cranny. Even in the stairway leading up to Café Singer.  Nestled around a corner, the café has floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on where I just was.  I find a small table with a view of Kazan Cathedral and the bustling Nevskiprospekt below, the Champs-Elysées of St. Petersburg.  A professor-type is seated at the next table, behind a pile of books, oblivious to the world.  I stake out my table with my coat and take a swing by the pastries counter.  When I get back, there’s a menu waiting for me, mercifully with an English translation.
       A charming blonde waitress appears to take my order, in English.  (It’s the tennis shoes; dead give-away).  I order the “pillows” - the dumplings - and an Earl Grey chai, followed by that enticing currant and foxberry tart I just saw.  (“Pillows” and foxberries are both things I learned about last year along the Volga.)
       As I finish, the sun makes a hit-and-miss stab at the cloud cover.  It’s off to the Russian Museum.

Russian Museuim

The line that was just starting at 11:30 has grown to a terrible length.  Luckily the sun is almost out and there’s nothing “like snow” (to quote the desk guy).  Plus I have a book.  The line ends up taking one chapter.
       You enter through the basement, which is one vast coat-check.  Concerned I won’t find my coat ever again, I fold it over my arm and head upstairs.
       On the first floor, there’s Room 18, on the left, so I go to the right and find Room 30-something.  Strange.  But that gives me the advantage of missing the earlier art and I plunge right into the Impressionist period.  All the artists here are Russian, but some spent time in France and it shows.  There are beautiful works by Kuindzhi and Repin, and some by Golovin.  One painting by Sokolov that I like is called “Dairy Woman with Broken Jar”. There the young woman is, forlorn about her mishap, and it seems like the perfect illustration of “crying over spilt milk”.
       Beyond that are folk arts:  wood-carving, lace, patchwork and more.  Everything is written in Russian and English, although the English is sometimes puzzling, sometimes... quaint - for instance “casket” for the small box for needles and other sewing things - but I’m glad to have it so I know what I’m looking at.
       I finish off the extensive first floor, head up a monumental stairway... and discover the first rooms (at least in numbering) are up here.  First icons, whole rooms full of them, some in massive gold frames, others just with gilding.  All shapes and sizes.
       Lastly come hundreds of portraits, which are not my favorites at the best of times, and my feet are starting to tire.  But the rooms!  The décor!  All as befits a noble’s palace.  I settle for gawking at it all, then glide down that majestic staircase and exit into...
       ... Rain.  Luckily I brought my umbrella - be prepared.  What’s falling is indeed “something like snow”, but at least it came after I stood in that long line.
       I head back to my hotel, across the canal, with a look at the Cathedral in the twilight (which comes at 5:30 here this time of the year).  A cup of chai and a cake at the hotel’s café are welcome.
       That same hotel clerk who gave me the weather report directs me to the top floor where, in a hidden corner stands an old computer guests are free to use.  Following his instructions, I make a reservation for tomorrow’s visit to the Hermitage and have it sent to the desk to be printed out.  By the time I sign off and get back downstairs, it’s already arrived.  So it’s off to my room for a hot shower and bed.  As Scarlett O’Hara said, “Tomorrow is another day”.  And a full one at that.

P.S.  In the French book I brought with me to read in bed - “Bérézina” - the author retraces Napoleon’s retreat from Russia, hounded by Russian General Kutuzov.  Today at Kazan Cathedral I saw Kutuzov’s grave.  Didn’t even know he existed before today!  Le hasard fait bien les choses, as the French say - Fate lends a hand.