After a night in jet-lag hell, swatting at mosquitoes, I rose at eight to enjoy my first shower and shave in 38 hours. It made a difference. My home-stay hosts, mother Tamara, who speaks no English but made me a nice breakfast of tea, bread, eggs and yogurt, and daughter Inna, who speaks a little English but had taken off earlier for her job at the bank, were apparently not too put out by my late arrival. At least I wasn’t treated as anything but a welcome guest.
Cruiser Aurora
At nine-thirty, my guide Sveta, and my driver Tanya showed up for the whirlwind tour of St. Petersburg. It had begun raining during the night—you should have been here last week, they said, it was beeeoootifoool! So we spent most of the tour driving around the city, peering at architectural marvels through the steamed windows of Tanya’s Lada. At a few spots we did get out; to explore the cruiser Aurora, from where the first shot of the rebellion against the provisional government was fired during the October revolution, and St. Nicholas cathedral, where I witnessed part of the morning Orthodox service, complete with bearded priests in ornate garb, and a full choir. It was an impressive show. But mostly we just cruised the streets, while Sveta kept up an informative running commentary of all that whizzed by.
St. Nicholas Cathedral
I wasn’t really up for a full walking tour on my first day here anyway, so I wasn’t disappointed. In fact, by noon I was starting to fade, and so after we had completed the nickel tour of Old Saint Petersburg, we headed back toward the apartment, where I planned on doing a little reading in preparation for the tour of the Hermitage. But I asked the two women if they’d care to join me for lunch, and they graciously accepted. They suggested a new little pub near the apartment called Liverpool, which is a sub-street level shrine to the Beatles. They play non-stop Beatles music, which is still very popular in the former Soviet Union—I guess because they missed the Fab Four when they were in their prime. Something about avoiding bourgeois capitalistic tendencies, I gather, so they have to settle for them now that they’re in syndication.
A little blackboard near the entrance said that all ladies get a free cocktail with every meal, and Tanya and Sveta were eager for this rare freebie. “Nothing is free here in Russia,” Tanya exclaimed enthusiastically. But after we sat down and got our menus, the waitress informed them that, the sign by the door notwithstanding, no one was getting any free cocktails today. Well those two were having nothing of that, and a heated exchange ensued, culminating with the arrival of the “administrator,” who after another heated exchange finally relented, and brought out two martini glasses, one filled with a green liquid, the other with red. A Yoko and an Ono, we were informed. “Tastes like sugar water,” Sveta complained.
I ordered a Pepsi and we scanned the menu. Many delicious entrees were listed, but one by one the waitress announced that they were unavailable. We all settled for the sturgeon on a stick—dried chunks of fish flesh skewered on a thin wooden spit. Still, it was fairly cheap, and the music was very good.
Tanya and Sveta told me a little of their lives. Tanya is an expert of Tibetan and Mongolian history, who drives tourists around town on the side, and is married to an Asian art curator currently working for Sotheby’s in London. They take turns commuting back and forth from London to St. Petersburg. Sveta is a former architectural engineer who switched to tour guide when the prospects there seemed brighter. She’s married to an Olympic curler on the Russian national curling team. “No medals yet,” she lamented. She’s been to California three times, “It is so beeeoootifoool!”
After we finished lunch, I paid the waitress for our crispy sturgeon chunks, and they dropped me off at the apartment, promising to be back at ten fifteen tomorrow for the tour of the Hermitage. I’m pretty sure I’ll enjoy the tour; they don’t take it all too seriously, but still manage to pass along far more information that I think I can retain. Considering some of the other tour guides we encountered today, stout former Intourist matrons with lungs of leather, I think I lucked out
I retired to my room after being dropped off and updated my journal, read for a while, and then took a stroll around the neighborhood to see if I could orient myself. Though I had a map with me, I promptly got lost. It seems the city government renamed a lot of the streets after the collapse of the Soviet Union, and those new names appear on my map, but they haven’t quite got around to replacing the street signs yet. So after a few blocks I was unable to find a single landmark. Fortunately, I could retrace my steps, and found the apartment again. And after reconsulting the map back in the room, I think I got a fairly good idea of where I’d been, so tomorrow after the tour I think I’ll try to walk back from the Hermitage. But I’ll take the phone number along just in case I get lost again.
This evening I met Inna the daughter for the first time. Her English is not much better than her mother’s is, but I was able to explain that I needed some help in getting the phone to dial out on a calling card call to the States. And though the technical aspects of the call were way out her ken, between the two of us we managed to figure it out.
Which was a great relief for Vilma, who had been wondering if I had been dropped off in Murmansk or something. I assured her that I was fine, if still a little jet-lagged, and explained why it had been so hard for me to get through to her. Nothing here is free, nor easy, it seems. But it was very good to hear her voice, because I’m feeling pretty isolated out here on this side of the planet. I’m sure things will settle down (knock wood), but jabbering at Vilma has a soothing effect on my nerves. It sure helps to know she loves me.