Collecting myself after a weekend of excesses, Part 2 (Staraya Russa), July 14, 2006

The ride to Staraya Russa consisted of little more to see than what was already inside our 13-person-filled van. I took the opportunity to share some music selections with Brad, who sat next to me—two songs, two bands—Mindless Self Indulgence and The Mountain Goats. Our journey took us past a lot of what looked like dachas, with their distinctive diagonal wooden siding. But I suspected they were most likely people’s homes, located well outside of the spheres of “modern” influence, except for those tall, skinny robot-looking power line towers in the distance bringing electricity to this usually permafrost region of northeast Russia.

When we finally arrived in Staraya Russa, it took only a few unexpected stops to ask directions in order for us to find our first and most important—maybe second most important, after lunch—destination in this ancient city: Dostoevsky’s summer house. Our final set of tips sent us down a road adjacent to a river, which eventually turned to cobblestone and led to the green with white accents, two-story home once owned by one of the masters of Russian literature.

After we began our tour, I immediately wished I had excused myself to the first floor to pay the 30 rubles needed take photographs of the house, because I quickly grew restless. (Interestingly enough, most museums here allow you to take pictures of even the most rare of items in their collection, all that is required is a nominal fee equal to about one US dollar).

Despite the lack of anything capable of satiating my terribly American need for glitzy presentation, two specific things struck me about the summer house and Dostoevsky’s life. First was the pleasant cordiality of our tour guide. It seemed anathema to the rest of the service industry I have thus far engaged with in Russia. Their “service with a smile” could at certain times be replaced with “service with a sense that you are inconveniencing the server in some way.” I remember Liza’s exclamation during our first stab at eating out in Novgorod:

“This is why no one gives tips in Russia!”

So besides the wonderfully friendly guide, there was one detail from all the historical tidbits about Dostoevsky’s life that rather stole my breath and made my heart thump, the same way it thumps right before you tear up out of sheer joy and love. Apparently, as the great writer lay on his deathbed, he confessed the depth of his love in earnest confidence to his wife…

“I have never cheated on you—not even in my mind.”

Perhaps it was out of pure amazement that I was so taken aback by his words, especially having been witness now to female fashion trends currently climbing up the ladies’ legs here in Russia. But I it mostly made me just reflect on how in love I am with my girlfriend and how much I yearn to profess my love with similar strength and ardor.

Since Saturday, I have been repeating Dostoevsky’s alleged words over and over again in my head and missing Blair with each repetition. And when Saturday night came, I wished her to be with me even more as I joined our head-turning covey of Americans—something I have come to think of as a pack of Russian gringos—hit the dance floor at Novgorod’s “Night Ocean” discotheque.


To be continued…