Malta - Day Two - Part One

St. Paul's Shipwreck Church (far left)

I get up early, hungry for the rest of those date pastries from last night.  The tea is delicious and strong.  You can tell the Brits were here.  Electric tea kettles and good tea.

       It’s off to see St. Paul’s hand at St. Paul’s Shipwreck Church.  The story, told by St. Luke, is that St. Paul was being taken in chains to Rome to be tried when his ship went up on the reefs off Malta.  He spent three months there that somehow marked the people so much that now what is purported to be his wristbone is enshrined in this church (thus the name).  My curiosity is aroused . But Mass is already being said when I arrive.  Although I’m not Roman Catholic, I remember hearing Mass said in Latin when I was young, before the Second Vatican Council decreed in 1964 it should be celebrated in the language of the country.  Which here means Maltese, that strange hodge-podge of Phoenician, Arab, Italian, English and who knows what else.  So I sit a bit, off to the side, and listen to the strangeness of it.

Queen Victoria, in front of National Library

After that, it’s an easy swing past the statue of Queen Victoria and on to the 16th century Palace of the Grand Masters, to see if it’s open on a holiday (which today is)... and so early.  I’m the first visitor, but no prize for that. Visitors start by touring some of the Royal Apartments, but not all because these are also the offices of the President of the Republic of Malta.  

       Sumptuous doesn’t even begin to do it justice.  It’s on a par with the Co-Cathedral, which is logical.  After all, the Grand Masters commissioned the construction and decoration of both. And both are stoic from the outside, but opulent inside.  Gilt, brocade, crystal chandeliers, marble floors with mosaic escutcheons, armor-lined hallways, timbered coffer ceilings, massive painted beams, tapestries from the Gobelin factory in Paris, a plethora of friezes of the Knights’ famous battles... a real history lesson, if you know what you’re looking at.  The State Dining Hall is open to the public, along with the Grand Council Chamber, Supreme Council Chamber and finally the State Room, where envoys sent to Malta used to present their credentials to the Grand Masters... as ambassadors still do today, only now to the President of the Republic.

       Then on to the Armory, Malta’s first public museum, which is natural for their warrior tradition, I guess.  It’s now located in what was once the Palace stables because the actual Armory has become the House of Representatives.  Governing wins out over fighting?  The museum has thousands of weapons and armor dating from the 15th century until the Order left Malta in the late 18th century:  swords, firearms, crossbows, pole axes... I’m quite a pacifist at heart so only the armor interests me, from a craftsman standpoint.  But one detail amazes me: two weights with a rope through them so you can lift them.  One weighs 2½ kg (5½ lb), the weight of a warrior’s helmet.  It’s hard to lift. Then I try the other:  10 kg (22 lb) and I can’t even lift it with one hand.  That was the weight of an iron hat, smaller than the helmet but four times the weight.  I can’t even imagine having to put that on your head, much less fight while wearing it!  No wonder the men were so short!!

Enough of war.  Across from the Palace is what used to be a parking lot but has been transformed into the large St. George’s Square with benches to sit in the sun, a luxury in February.  Back in Paris, I’d be in a winter coat but here all you need is a light jacket, at least during the day.  As I sit and enjoy the warmth, the guards snap into action in front of the Palace.  They  run through their paces, marching back and forth between the two guardposts, then back into faction, their bayonetted guns snapped sharply from shoulder to side as they take up their silent, frozen stance at their posts.

President's Palace

As I start to walk away from the President’s Palace, I notice a plaque on the wall.  It’s a quote from President Franklin Roosevelt, praising Malta for its strength and resistance during World War II, citing the island’s “valorous service far above and beyond the call of duty”.  One line sums up the plight of this tiny place as the Reich spread over the rest of Europe and into North Africa: “Under repeated fire from the skies, Malta stood alone but unafraid in the center of the sea, one tiny bright flame in the darkness - a beacon of hope for the clearer days which have come.”  The quote is dated Dec. 5th, 1943.  I find Roosevelt very optimistic about clearer days having come by then, but although it wasn’t true yet for the rest of Europe, the dangers for Malta were already over by then, with the capitulation of the Afrika Korps and the retaking of Sicily.  Safe now on either side.  But rebuilding from the almost total destruction would have to wait.
       What can’t wait though is Josephine.  She’ll be picking me up at the hotel at 11:30 to take me out to discover something besides Valetta.

(to be continued)

Malta - Day One - Part Two

After that I just have time to walk through the golden glory of Saint John’s Co-Cathedral (16th c).  This is prime Knights terrain.  Designed by a military architect chosen by the Grand Master of the Order, it’s plain on the outside, like a fortress.

     But inside, it is awe-inspiringly dripping in golden details   The vaulted ceilings are covered in paintings, the floors are completely tiled with marble funeral slabs of often macabre scenes, and rich carvings decorate everything in between the two.  Gilded flowers, scrolls, shells, escutcheons, winged angels... it’s all there, not to mention all the Maltese crosses everywhere. Each of the eight orders had its own chapel on either side of the nave, and they seem to have rivaled with each other in ornateness.  The Grand Masters of the various orders also have their tombs in these chapels and it’s hard to say which one is the most grand.
I ask a question about any link between the Maltese Cross and the Croix de Languedoc, also known as the Cathar Cross.  Given that adjective “Cathar”, there probably isn’t, but they both have arms of equal length.  The information desk send me to ask the curator, and he’s stumped too. But I guess the length of the arms is all they have in common.  Still, that question won me some extra added information on the church from the curator, who was only too happy to see someone seeking him out.  He’s as welcoming and talkative as all his fellow countrymen will prove to be throughout my stay.

As I exit the church, there are still throngs of children in costumes.  Batman, Spiderman and Walt Disney seem to be the favorites among the boys; the girls are all little princesses.  And the adults are in on the fun as well, many of them having a day off, I presume.  They’re just waiting for the big party outside the City Gates tonight.
  Not quite time for dinner - in spite of the missed lunch - so I decide to walk the streets a bit and get a feel for the city.  Stores in the side-streets are closed, but the signs tell many stories.  One is called the Useful Bazaar but the two items it touts over the door are Toys and Games.  Now there’s a definition of “useful” that I can really get behind!  Carmelo Delia & Sons (1890) is selling everything at ½ price... although it looks like they went out of business long ago, judging by the derelict paint on the shop and the sign.  Another even more faded sign announces “Office of the Consul for Goldsmiths and Silversmiths”, which I find intriguing; I didn’t know they had consuls for that.
  The only food shop I see open is a butcher whose lack of wrapping and refrigeration would make a true American shudder.  There’s also a cookie stall on one of the two main north-south streets and his wares look very tasty, but I leave it for tomorrow... only to find he’s not there any more.   Perhaps it’s because of Lent.  No more cookies for forty days?
  Wrought iron decors of Maltese crosses are everywhere, and many upper stories of the old buildings have overhanging wooden terrace-windows of different sizes and configurations.  They seem to be the architectural detail of the island.  On many street corners there are stucco or stone statues of the Madonna or else some saint or the other doing saintly things.  The one I like best is Saint Somebody, sword held heavenward, ready to slay a muscular devil he’s holding on a chain leash; the devil is cowering at the holy feet, the chain securely around his scaly neck.  The message couldn’t be clearer:  Repent!
  I walk all the way to the north end of the peninsula, at least as far as you can go without entering Fort St. Elmo.  And as only part of the fort can be visited - and that part the War Museum to boot - I decide to just walk back toward the hotel along the top of the Curtain - the fortifications - on the east side of Valetta. There’s a touch of greenery, a fountain and a Greek-style temple halfway back, at the Lower Barrakka Gardens.  Here all is quiet and the view of the entrance to the Grand Harbour is unimpeded.  The sun is sinking lower and it glitters off the water as boats and ships zip in all directions.


Back at the hotel, I change out of my travel and ratting-around clothes, a concession of sorts to “dressing for dinner”.  It’s been a long day and although it’s only 6, I’ve had Mario make a reservation for me at one of his five suggested restaurants:  Nenu Bakery.  Well, it used to be a bakery, and the waiter shows me into the kitchen and waves his arms proudly at the old oven.  The only other people there when I arrive are two women and a child, all speaking Maltese, which is a strange soup of a language.

  I’ve come for the fenek, the rabbit.  But first I’m served some of the great Maltese bread, which Nenu no longer bakes, with a tomato spread and another with chick peas and herbs.  I try both, but sparingly, which is a good thing because after that comes a Maltese specialty:  minestra, a chunky vegetable soup similar to Italian minestrone, as its name suggests, but minus any pasta.  And when the fenek comes, another island specialty, it’s half a rabbit!  And accompanied by roasted herbed potatoes plus a mix of roasted carrots, zucchini and eggplant with some fennel seed in there somewhere.  I order a dry red wine and the waiter asks if I want to try something local.  It’s full-bodied merlot from Malta, and is perfect for my meal.  Although he’s showed me the desserts tray, I have no more room - even had to leave that fourth piece of fenek.  But he makes me a Bowser Bag of the traditional date pastries flavored with aniseed - mqaret - and even throws in two more for good measure, probably because I’ve shown such interest in the history, oven and refurbishing of the restaurant.
  On my way back to the hotel, I hear the music booming from blocks away, on the square below the City Gates.  Asking myself if I’m too old to go take a look, I decide I’m too young to go straight to bed.  So I walk uphill to the overlook - working off some of the fenek in doing so - and give it a chance.  But it’s a bit farther than I want to walk, the lights are too flash-y, and the music isn’t really my style.  Besides, who would hold my mqaret for me while I dance?  So after feasting my eyes on the beauty of the buildings-by-night, I give my ears a rest and head down the many-stepped street to the aptly-named Grand Harbour Hotel.
  When I finally reach my room, I give in to the warmth and aroma of the dates and try one.  Delicious, even if they are deep-fried and not the baked variety.  The four others will be breakfast tomorrow.
  One more look out my window, at the illuminated buildings of the Three Cities across the harbor, and I congratulate my instinct for having made this my choice of abode.  It’s all so strikingly, goldenly beautiful against the dark sky and water.  A wonderful sight to dream of through the night.

Malta - Day One - Part One

Dingli Cliffs, west coast of Malta

As we start our final descent into Luca Airport, we fly along the west coast of Malta.  Out the window I see what could easily pass for the White Cliffs of Dover.  I later learn those are the Dingli Cliffs (yes, that’s the actual name).  At 253 meters (830 ft), the highest point on the island.  Then we bank left over the unpronounceable Marsaxlokk Bay at the south end of the island, fly low over scrubland that looks surprisingly like the garrigue of Languedoc or the maquis of Corsica, and land in a small airport like the ones of my childhood.  (By the way, it's pronounced MAR-zeks-lock.)
       We’re allowed to walk across the tarmac and into the terminal.  I get no stamp in my passport - in fact no one even wants to see it.  The flight was from within the Schengen Area, so we’re all considered to be good to go, even though I was told to have my passport and my French resident’s card.  And there was I, expecting to have an exotic stamp to add to Machu Picchu and Easter Island, or the mammoth Russian visa.
       As I come out of the customs area, there’s a woman holding a card with my name.  My ride to town:  Josephine.  She drives me to the Grand Harbour Hotel, where a room with a sea view - well, a harbor view - awaits me.  I’m greeted by Mario, who will prove as helpful as he is cheerful throughout my stay.  This hotel is a friendly place, perhaps not chic in the Beverly Hills sense of the word but comfy and clean.  It’s a family enterprise, a dying breed in the hotel business.

View out over Fort San Angelo

Time to get out and see Valetta, given my limited time here.  Living in Montmartre proves good training, as each and every street goes either up or down, and sometimes both.  After all, the Knights chose the heights as protection from both invaders and pirates.  They even tried to level the top of this hill off, but soon struck hard rock - sunny-colored limestone - and gave up, making do with what little level space they had.
       So I head uphill and stumble upon a children’s show.  Today is the last day before Lent.  It’s Mardi Gras and all the children - and some adults - are already togged out in disguises. This show is in an area near the City Gate with what looks like a permanent stage of considerable size, not to mention some serious sound equipment.  (It turns out to be Royal Theater Square, an open-air theater on the site of the Royal Opera House, bombed by the Luftwaffe in World War II.  Those columns are all that’s left.)  Aside from me, the spectators seem all to be proud parents and other relatives who applaud and smile as the children run through dance numbers in their Disney costumes.  The number I see seems to be Beauty and the Beast, with Mickey and Minnie thrown in for good measure, and the two choreographers do the dance steps from below the stage, just in case someone forgets the routine.  What fun!

But this isn’t where I was headed.  As Josephine has highly suggested going to see the Hypogeum, my first order ot business is to buy a ticket. That can be done “across town” at the Museum of Fine Arts.  (I would have bet on the Archaeology Museum, but what do I know?)  As Valetta is a rocky promontory, that means going uphill.  And as everything in town was once something else, the Museum of Fine Arts was built as a private home, then used under the British as their Admiralty House and its inhabitants once included Lord Mountbatten when he was Admiral of the Fleet here.  Which all explains the majestic staircase.
       For 2€ more, above and beyond the Hypogeum entrance fee, I can visit the fine arts collection, and I’m already here - probably for the only time in my life - so why not?  It’s not a large collection, and the man behind the counter called it “Caravaggio-esque”, but there are also a few works by Ribera and one by Turner.  Two works caught my eye.  One is an Impressionist oil painting of an iceberg (can that be called a landscape?) by Albert Bierstadt, whom I’d never heard of.  When I looked him up, I found he was American and most of his works were grandiose depictions of the Far West, and all very unlike this sparse canvas. The other work is a contemporary piece simply called Landscape, by Mick Piro aka Mary de Piro, a Valetta-born artist.  And after only a few hours on the island, I can recognize it as being the sunny-colored limestone of Valetta itself.  Its sparse lines nonetheless depict the city as it rises into a blue sky.  These are both paintings that I could live with and enjoy at leisure, again and again.

The Museum of Archaeology is only three streets over and one street down, so that’s my next stop.  It, too, was something else before.  It was one of the eight original auberges of the Knights:  the Auberge de Provence.  Each auberge (a French word that means a house where you can sleep and eat) was named after one of the languages spoken, and this one evidently spoke provençal, the dialect from southern France.  By turning it into a museum, little is left of the original configuration, but the façade is grandiose, a 16th-century work of architectural art.

     Inside it’s a work in progress.  Probably this is the temporary exhibits area. But the permanent collection is an archaeologist’s dream!  There are relics going back to prehistoric times and a display that puts it all into chronological perspective.  For instance, Stonehenge was built in 2000 B.C., the Great Pyramid in 2530 B.C. but Malta’s Ggantua Temples a full thousand years earlier still, in 3600 B.C.!  There’s a sarcophagus with carved spirals in it of great beauty, and a stone with carved sheep, cattle and a boar as magnificent as anything I’ve seen anywhere.  There are small animal figurines and a statue of a full-bodied woman called the Venus of Malta.

      Other such statues have a hole where the head should be, indicating that perhaps there were different heads for different occasions; they also all have the same pose which no one can explain - the left arm folded across her stomach and the right arm against her side. There’s also a Sleeping Lady found in the Hypogeum, a very early artwork indeed.  A bowl lid alternates lions with grazing deer, all in graceful poses.  There were obviously artists of enormous talent and skill way back thousands of years ago on this small island.

(to be continued)

The island of Malta - Day Zero

My trip started half a day early.
       France has a motto:  Liberté - Egalité - Fraternité.  Right now the cabs and hotels are not feeling the Fraternité part.  Or the other two either.  Uber has cut deeply into the cab drivers’ profits and Air B&B into the hotels’.  The problem?  Neither of these interlopers has to pay all the fees, licenses, workers’ benefits, insurance, taxes, etc. that their establishment colleagues pay.  Which tips the playing field at least 50% out of level, and in favor of those interlopers.
       My obstacle - an apt choice of words - wasn’t going be to get to Malta, but merely to get to the airport!

   

        So I decided to take the RER B commuter train to Roissy-
Charles-de-Gaulle Airport the night before my flight.  Smack dab at its end is the Ibis Hotel, which has been there since Roissy opened its then-sole Terminal 1.  Now there’s also a Terminal 3 for charters and a Terminal 2, with its buildings A through G strung out like beads on a necklace.  And a free shuttle that runs between all three of the terminals every couple of minutes.

It’s a good thing I made that decision because the morning news, which I view from the spartan but clean comfort of the Ibis, shows footage of cabs totally blocking access to the airport.
       And yet here I am, sitting at a table overlooking the tarmac, sipping my tea and eating my pain au chocolat.  No foul, no harm, no stress.
       (A tip if you travel in Europe and you need an inexpensive light meal:  look for EXKI.  This chain shuns GMO, uses only organic foods, their pain au chocolat was deliciously crumb-ful and their tea (in those fabric bags) full-bodied.  Even their trays are “made of organic waste and paper, to reduce our ecological footprint”.  So... the food is good and you help save the planet.)

But why Malta, you wonder?  Yes, lots of people have asked me that.  Most people don’t know where it even is.  So let’s clear that up first.
       Malta is a tiny island south of Italy and east of Tunisia, only 112 miles from Sicily, which is a bit more than the distance between Cuba and Key West.  It covers 122 square miles and has a population of well under half a million.  For comparison’s sake, that’s a little less surface area than Detroit and about two-thirds of Detroit’s population.  Once upon a time, geologically speaking, it was part of a land bridge between Africa and Europe across what’s now the Mediterranean Sea.  I’ve always wondered how Lucy and her descendants got from the Olduvai Gorge in Tanzania to Europe because it’s a long detour if you go via the Middle East.  The existence of this land bridge would explain a lot.  And the island does have remnants of a Neanderthal civilization, as well as Stonehenge-worthy ruins.
       If you look into the history of Malta, there’s something for everyone.  You would find the Phoenicians, who traded throughout the entire Mediterranean Basin long before the Romans became a “world” power.  And when they did, Malta was there too, a pawn in the back-and-forth fighting of the Punic Wars, a name known to any Latin student.  For those interested in Christianity, there was St. Paul in chains, on his way to prison in Rome, washed up on Malta’s shores during a shipwreck.
       Skip a few generations and you’ll find Spain’s Ferdinand and Isabella, who sent Columbus to “find” America.  They took over Malta and bequeathed it to their grandson, Carlos V, king of Spain and ruler of the Holy Roman Empire.
       Then there were the pirates.  Lots and lots of pirates.  From the Barbary Coast.  Including the famous Barbarossa.  And other scalawags, such as the charlatan Cagliostro, who fled France over his part in the Affair of the Diamond Necklace involving Marie-Antoinette.  And finally, one of the greatest scalawags of them all:  Napoleon Bonaparte, who looted the island of anything worth looting... then lost it all when his ships were sunk by Britain’s Lord Nelson off the coast of Egypt.  Lord Nelson who was Vice-Admiral in Malta.
      The island became “the Nurse of the Mediterranean” during World War I, offering 25,000 beds to the wounded of “the Great War”.  And it held out during World War II, only a few miles  off Mussolini’s Italy yet never defeated, in spite of a total German blockade and more bombing than the London Blitz at its height.

       If you’re interested in literature, Malta can offer works written by Coleridge and Lord Byron and Thackeray and Sir Walter Scott during their visits to the island.
       If you’re interested in movies, there’s John Huston’s “The Maltese Falcon’.  You know, Humphrey Bogart as detective Sam Spade, searching for a vanished jewel-encrusted statue that the Knights Templar sent to Carlos V but was intercepted by the Barbary Pirates.  (See how it all fits together?)  The Maltese falcon actually did exist.  In 1530, when that same Emperor Carlos V handed over Malta to the Knights of St. John (not the Knights Templar), there was one condition.  Each year they were to send him one falcon in tribute.  The Maltese falcon.

     Yet most of all, for me, Malta is those knights:  the Knights of the Order of St. John of Jerusalem.  Their original name - the Knights Hospitallers - says it all:  a community of monks founded to nurse Christians who fell ill while on pilgrimage in the Holy Land. Centuries ahead of their time, they boiled instruments before surgery.  But the Crusades meant they had to protect themselves as well, so they were also fierce warriors who fought Suleiman the Magnificent, the greatest warrior the Ottoman Empire ever had.  Knights, armor, banners flying... all those books I read in my childhood.
       So you see.  Something for everyone.  And down through the ages.

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

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.