We met at the Novgorod Train station (vokzal) at 7:30 AM for our departure at 8:00 AM. My host father generously gave me a ride in his cushy work car—a gold Toyota Land Cruiser with leather interior and an options list requiring several pages. I met up with some of the group out front of the cement and metal structure. We found the others waiting inside.
When Liza and Ken showed up, they gauged our excitement about the trip—as parents/guardians are wont to do. Then Liza began prepping us for boarding. We needed our passports and tickets ready to show the conductors at the train door. On the platform, we all waited semi-pensive in line, documents in hand. The lady checking tickets and IDs had the same cold disposition of the woman who checked my visa when I first stepped on Russian concrete in Saint Petersburg airport.
Everyone came through just fine and so we boarded and departed Novgorod. Omar and I sat in a reversed seat oppos
ite a brother a sister from Finland, a fold down table separating us. And this is the story of how I fell for the Finnish language. Although most of the trip I simply listened to music and/or wrote in my journal; as we neared Saint Petersburg, the headphones came off and I eavesdropped on the brother and sister talking to their mother across the aisle. When Finnish is spoken softly and smoothly it sounds not quite unlike the beautiful cooing gibberish of baby talk. Little ‘la’s and ‘oo’s floated through the air and I couldn’t help but smile at the idea that they were actually carrying on a conversation at a sophisticated level. I can only hope that someday Finnish might grace my tongue, too.
After we exited the train and I bid a mental “adieu” to the Finns, Liza gave us some last minute instructions regarding safety in St. Petersburg:
“See how I carry my bag in front of me. I never have to that in Novgorod.
“Be careful. It’s a big city and people will try to steal from you.
“Sometimes they will ask you really stupid questions and after you stop to answer they leave with your wallet.
“For instance, if someone asks you where Palace Square is, and you are standing on Nevsky Prospekt, just say ‘no’ and keeping moving because Nevsky Prospekt leads directly to the Palace Square!”
I thought about where my valuables were. My wallet and passport were in the front pockets of my shorts. Perhaps I should move my passport into the Velcro cargo pockets. But as I was making the switch, Liza spotted me:
“Those pockets aren’t safe. Ken had something in a pocket like that when we were boarding the Metro one time. The Velcro was intact but the contents were gone. They are professionals. They know what they are doing.”
I moved my passport back into a front pocket, where I could keep my hand on it at all times. I decided the best defense in these hostile conditions was the proverbial good offense. So I went into hypervigilance mode, which served me well and fit seamlessly into my habit of distrusting most people off the bat—though I must admit that more and more of Blair’s contagious optimism has been affecting my instincts in this department.
*** There was only one casualty during out group’s four-day stay in the northern capital—a host family’s travel alarm clock. The artifact was lost when Michael was attempting to board the Metro and a man, who Michael, John, and Jared had seen eyeing them while they waited, pushed through the masses as the train’s doors opened up and snatched it. Fortunately, Michael had a sneaking suspicion something might happen and deftly switched his digital camera with the alarm clock moments before. ***
Leaving the train station put us right onto Nevsky Prospekt, the commercial heart of the city, which, as was mentioned earlier, leads directly to the cultural heart. It was several blocks to our hotel, so we jumped on a bus, easily filling the entire rear are of it with our bodies and baggage. I took up post in the back corner, cleverly putting two solid bus walls/windows against me and giving myself a commanding view over the other group members in front of me—no one was going to have anything stolen on this little bus trip, or at least I wasn’t going to. At Liza’s signal we exited and traveled the remaining bit by foot up to the exterior entrance to our hotel’s building—notice not to our hotel. Space was a precious commodity in this Times Square like part of Saint Petersburg. Our hotel was in fact a recently refurbished (continuing to be refurbished) set of Soviet-era collective apartments converted into economical lodging. We walked into the fourth floor main office/business suites/breakfast nook after a young woman answered our doorbell ring. We could see into the various rooms and they looked quite nice—good furniture and décor—everything close the common room, where food would be served every morning. Liza checked us in and soon jostled our train of expectations with a grin and something short about “upstairs.”
And so we all marched up another two flights of wide, stone stairs to our dwelling place. This second “refurbished” apartment was a little duller—not the swanky business class digs downstairs. In the common room, near the kitchen boasting only counters, a small beverage refrigerator, and scattered construction debris, sat two plastic Adirondack chairs with holes in the seats for draining rainwater—hopefully an unnecessary feature inside the hotel. We were not yet at our destination however, another staircase stood in our way. This slender, steep ascent featured half stairs for each foot that overlapped horizontally; there was only one way to climb them. The bathroom in this… attic was brand new and at the very least fully functioning, and the rooms we were shown featured new Ikea beds, shelves, and chairs. The accommodations were far from plush—basically a hostel—but it was perfect for us and incredibly close to Palace Square. Brad, Omar, and I formed an assumed team of roommates and quickly chose the mid-sized, carpeted room. The girls and remaining guys then fought over the big room—eventually won by the girls in a game of chance.
Depositing our luggage, we started out on our first excursion together—The Cathedral of the Resurrection, commonly known as “Our Savior of the Spilt Blood” in honor of Czar Alexander II who was mortally wounded at the site. In fact, the magnificent structure was built by popular donations, Alexander II being known as the czar who freed Russia of serfdom—though I bet Karl Marx would disagree with that claim. The cathedral was beautiful, brilliant colors and patterns—nothing in the U.S. compares to a piece of architectural art like this. Apparently, the interior is equally as majestic, but unfortunately Wednesdays happen to be the day the museum inside is closed. (A few of our group did take the tour inside on a subsequent free day and attested to its beauty.)
So, slightly disappointed but far from downtrodden, we checked out the small bazaar of souvenir stands across the street. Liza warned us that the vendors will try to speak English and that if they know you are foreign, the price of items can jump roughly 40%.
“So, if you want to buy something, don’t show your interest in it right away and come and get me.”
We wandered around the many-shelved booths for about 30 minutes—which was 30 minutes of short, awkward conversations with pushy, English-brandishing salespeople. The second you stop to look at something a little closer—or just stop moving at all—the owner of the stand you are at provides a warm greeting/solicitation:
“Hello! What are you looking for? These [insert Russian collectables here] are very nice.”
I tried to deflect their friendly insistence by refusing to speak anything but Russian with them. However, this usually backfired in one of two ways: 1) the immediately start showing me every item they have and describing them in Russian, or 2) they humor my knowledge of Russian and ask where I learned it, while simultaneously forcing their various wares upon me. The undesired attention and unrelenting presentation of goods struck me at the core of discomfort and triggered a carnal fight or flight mechanism inside me, which—as with most people preferring passivism—sent me retreating after I spit out a quick thank you (spasiba). I did end up buying two Soviet-era propaganda posters, though, after Liza secured us a deal at 200 rubles (8 bucks) a pop—a price we later found undercut at a bookstore on Nevsky Prospekt. Oh well.
Our next and last stop together on Wednesday was dinner. We walked along one of the many canals—Saint Petersburg is definitely the “Venice of the north”—and then down Nevsky a bit, pricing out places and trying to figure out what made sense for all of us. We ended up at a Zhili-Bhili (Russian equivalent of ‘once upon a time’) Bistro. The soups and salads were overpriced—and I accidentally ordered a cold salad that was a little too Russian, right down to the cubes of red meat. Starved, I ate it anyway—a trend I have continued in Russia to avoid rudeness and/or hunger. After that, we had free time until Thursday morning. Our group split up, leaving me with Brad and Omar in our room… napping. Perhaps not the best use of daylight, but a necessary activity. We went out afterwards, looking for film for Brad’s archaic camera—a quick jaunt around the block, which gave us our first glimpse of Palace Square.
Upon returning to the “hotel”—I must mention here that Brad convinced himself we were going to a “hotel” offering free shampoo and soap and thus neglected to bring any—we found Lori and Caitlin. All six of us then ate a cheap American meal at the Subway just a block away. I tried the special only-in-Russia topping, which was mushrooms scooped over the entire length of the 12” sub. It was pretty tasty and filling. Mainly, though, we needed cheap energy. Then we explored the closer canals and buildings. An interesting note here is that St. Petersburg is so careful about its image that it takes the time and money to create enormous vinyl façades depicting the refurbished exteriors of buildings currently under construction, mounting the fake edifices on the street-side scaffolding. Our group finished its evening walking tour at Palace Square. It’s an immense area, enclosed by the Winter Palace (a.k.a. The Hermitage) on one side and the General Staff Building on the other—apparently boasting the largest single façade in Europe. I must admit it is quite impressive to behold, extending panoramically before you. We sat down in front of Alexander Column in the center of the square. Lori produced a bag of sunflower seeds and we just sat there on the ground, spitting out shells and absorbing our surroundings—a Russian communal tradition. It rained lightly while we were there and the short storm produced two parallel rainbows arching into one another over the General Staff Building, which was possibly the pinnacle of picturesque in this lovely location.
Before bed I sampled some pumpkin juice I purchased on a whim, an interesting bittersweet concoction that I would recommend you try a glass of, but never a whole liter, consumed over multiple days. Tired from all the traveling by train and by foot, I fell asleep easily with the help of Ben Folds singing through my headphones.
