Finishing

Okay, so I admit I've been putting this entry off...probably because it may be my last one. Everything here has gotten pretty routine and I don't want to bore you by mentioning how it's gotten so cold here that I would almost be willing to wear one of those ridiculous all-head encompassing hats, with tiny holes for ones mouth and eyes. I could also tell you about how I tried aerobics at the other dorm where the instructor moves like rubber and has a voice like the cat from Babe. But then again, so humdrum...Anyway, here's a brief description of my last day in Russia.

Day 8

After checking out from the hostel we went back to the Church of Our Savior on Spilled blood built on where Alexander the II was mortally wounded. Apparently people had been trying to kill him for awhile, putting a bomb in the Winter Palace (which is now part of the Hermitage)...derailing his train, etc. Eventually a bunch of revolutionaries got him by throwing a bomb at his carriage. Lame. In any case, when we walked inside, the interior was even more magnificent than the exterior (see picture taken by Jeremy.) And all the images you see are mosaics! The chips of ceramic that make up the pictures are about the size of a quarter which is completely insane.

Next, Bethany and I set off on our own in search of Dostoevsky. Now, I didn't love Crime and Punishment, I didn't even like Crime and Punishment, but this seemed like a rare opportunity and it was that or the museum with three headed babies. We looked at the map and went up and down the streets, then up and down the same streets. It didn't really matter though, because even though it was slap-you-in-the-face-repeatedly cold, it wasn't raining and we didn't have to run. We felt so incredibly free. Midway through our semi-productive wandering, I needed a Big Mac break. One of the employees took my order while I was standing at the end of the line and seemed thrilled that I was American and asked me if George Bush was my president. I said yes and she started girlishly giggling uncontrollably. Two minutes later I had my food even though it was so busy that Bethany and I ate standing up. (Sidenote: I ate a Big Mac in the time it took her to eat half a muffin. I told her not to feel bad though, it just takes practice.)

We kept meandering and felt hopeful when we eventually saw the Dostoevsky Cafe, the Dostoevsky Hotel, and a statue of him. It was like Disney world, but creepier. Finally, we arrived at his apartment, fulfilling our quest twenty minutes ahead of schedule! We strolled though the rooms and read about his life. He loved shopping and hated math just like me! Then we looked at his writing desk and other assorted junk. The coolest thing was the clock Dostoevsky's brother stopped at the moment he died. Lauren, upon hearing of this commented, "how clever, though he had probably been waiting for his brother to die for years just so he could do that."

We then had to get to the Kazan Cathedral in order to observe an Orthodox service. On the way we stopped to admire babushkas selling bright flowers, the twilight dazzling off the buildings, and lots of ugly old Soviet cars. While getting to the cathedral wasn't a problem, standing forty minutes for the service was. Granted, it was in another beautiful tribute to God's majesty and yes, there was an incredible choir chanting in the back while the priests moved with well practiced grace and wafted the smoky scent of the Holy Spirit over everyone. But I think everyone was ready to go back to familiar bleakness of Lithuania by then. And so we got our stuff to the station and through the ridiculously heavy, incredibly swingy doors. We got yelled at by the police-again and boarded the train. It didn't take long for everyone to fill out their paperwork and pass out on their beds. We awoke in darkness to pounding on our door and fumbled for our passports to hand tp Russian security. One by one, we drifted back into dreamland and soon heard another pounding on our door. Now what? It took us awhile to realize that this was not a Russian woman, but a Latvian man. We had reached the next border without even realizing it. Under normal conditions, this guy would have made our pupils dilate, but we were lucky to keep our eyes open at all. Eventually we awoke in good old Lithuania, which almost felt home-ish.

I feel like at this point I should make some sort of lofty statement about how visiting Russia forever changed me, how I was captivated by it's cold beauty, and how what I saw and experienced there will forever remain burned into my mind. But I think my account speaks for itself.

Yusupov Palace

Day 7

"I am to be killed," Rasputin said to the Czar and his court. "If I am killed by my own people, by the peasants, then you will continue to rule in peace and harmony. However, if I am killed by the noble class, then within two years, you and your children and all the royal family will be no more."

And so a group of us, armed with our Power shots, money belts, and traveler tenacity stormed the Yusupov palace to admire the lavish interiors where Rasputin was poisoned, shot, beaten, and wrapped in a sheet to be thrown into the icy river.

The palace was wonder to behold, even apart from its macabre history. First we had to slip black booties over our wet shoes and then put down a deposit to obtain audio guides. I was thrilled when the voice I heard was a jovial British chap who seemed like he would hand out small gifts to orphans at Christmas and who described every room with superfluous adjectives such as plush, opulent, and sumptuous. The three sitting rooms on the second floor were magnificently monochromatic. The blue one had a wonderful calming affect. The green one was nice, though a little nauseated looking. But the red room...someday...

Then, after stopping by the local market, we ran to the hostel to collect our things for the sauna. Unfortunately, unlike the girl with the hearing aids and impaired vision, I didn't have a valid excuse for not going. Plus, Hannah had been espousing the wonders of authentic saunas for ages and probably would have dragged me there by my pigtails if I had showed any real signs of resistance.

We arrived and an overly wise looking woman led us to where we would be "relaxing" for the next two hours. I was handed a white sheet which I looked at dismally. Oh geez. Eventually peer pressure kicked in and I joined the rest of my companions in the sultry steam room. After a week of being beaten by wind and icy rain, of moments rimmed with confusion and panic, it was absolutely perfect. Once we were all sequined with sweat we went into the adjoining room where we jumped into a huge stone tub filled with refreshingly cool water. It was like being in a Roman bathhouse where the restfulness and camaraderie were amazing.

When I left with a small group of girls, we were all so relaxed that nothing short of one of us getting hit by a bus could dampen the mood. And even then...We swayed into an English bookstore and spent a good hour perusing. I was so happy (in mellow kind of way) to find Twilight for which I had been scouring several countries. After that we waltzed into an Italian restaurant (not my decision, I promise) and enjoyed plentiful, almost non-European portions of pasta. Then we went to McDonald's for ice cream where Natalie and I worked together to accurately assess the number of mullets. By the time we left the count was at fifteen. Scandalous.

Masterpiece

Day 6

It started with a huge pile of eggs, seasoned, salted, slippery eggs. My other options were sticky barley mash or porridge that smelled suspiciously...natural, like what Heidi would drink on the mountain top with her grandfather. Given my options, I decided that stuffing myself with smelly eggs would be the wisest, if not the easiest way to start the day. And what a day it would turn out to be.

Jessy and I spent the morning at the Peter and Paul fortress which served as a political prison and cemetery. We visited the museum within the compound and I quickly located my favorite three museum artifacts: ornate clothing, a enormous doll house, and a first aid kit (complete with saw.)

Next we went to the Hermitage, one of the largest museums in the world. It's said that it would take a person four days view all the illustrious art housed with its resplendent walls. We had two hours. Jessy, Hannah and I made a beeline for Degas, Monet, and Renoir in the French art section. Next we powered our way through Rembrandt and the Dutch Golden age and then we flew threw the modern art, pausing to admire Picasso at his best: depressed. My absolute favorite painting was A Christian Martyr Drowned During the Reign of Diocletian.

Then it was time to go back and get ready for the ballet. Honestly, I didn't know what to expect. I had only ever seen the Nutcracker on PBS and I had high hopes for the real deal. This is what I wrote that night after the show had ended.

Tonight we experienced Swan Lake. The only way to describe it is incomparably beautiful and devastatingly romantic. The dancers moved so fluidly that I could almost see rippling water beneath them. And at one point, when the prince and princess were expressing their love via lifts and pirouettes to the lyrical strains of the a harp and violin, I could barely breath.

I am so spoiled.

Feel Yourself Russian

Day 5

Being dirty is usually not very fun. Being dipped in the mud of St. Petersburg at least sounds better. And actually it is better because St. Petersburg is a gorgeous city. It's often referred to as the "Venice of Russia" because of its shimmering canals and grandiose architecture. I was so taken in by the scenery that I kept completely missing what the tour guide was saying. After every stop Hannah would do a wonderful recap for me and whoever else had been distracted. Mostly it was just more stories of sordid love affairs and people being bludgeoned to death in the night.

After about three hours of this we stopped at a cafe where I enjoyed superior hot chocolate and inferior cheesecake (in comparison to what's served in the U.S.) I spoke briefly with Emas who planned the trip and whom I mentioned in the prior post. Here's an example of what a typical exchange with him is like.

Emas: What's up dawg? [appropriate gesture]
Me: Nothing dawg. [appropriate gesture]
[Hannah laughing uncontrollably.]
Emas: Are your glasses prescription or do you wear them as a statement of fashion?
Me: They're prescription.
Emas: So you're blind...
Me: Yep.
Emas: Me too! That's why I called you dog. I really thought you were a dog!

And because one day I wore braids intertwined with red ribbon, he has since called me Pocohantas. He frequently asks me where my canoe is and when I stopped by the study abroad office he started playing "Colors of the Wind." It's kind of funny because my dad also called me Pocohantas when I was younger because of my proclivity for tardiness...

Anyway, after the tour we went to a show called, "Feel Yourself Russian" which was held at the Nikolaevsky Palace. We took the location as a good sign, but had no idea what to expect otherwise. The show started when four average looking guys in shiny Russian garb walked onto the stage. One of them blew into a tuner and I thought, "Oh, they're just the Russian equivalent of a barbershop quartet." Ha! When they opened their mouths to sing, out came a divine cross between folk music and Gregorian chant. The Picasso quote, "Art washes from the soul the dust of everyday life," is so perfectly apt to describe how I felt as I listened. After they finished belting out perfectly pitched chords, some female singers came out. The youngest one in a blue dress had a mischievous expression and kept making shrill, Xena warrior princess type noises. Next came the Russian equivalent of break dancers who were flying and leaping and performing unbelievably complicated and athletic dance steps as they squatted two feet off the ground. And then there were strange dancing Eskimo-looking things and we couldn't tell if it was one person in the costume or two. In any case, the Eskimos kept getting closer and closer to those of us who were in the front row and then, he/she/they actually jumped into my lap! I had the eyes of the entire audience on me and ended up with a mouthful of fur. After the show ended Hannah looked at me and burst out laughing.

When it was time to leave, we looked outside and discovered a torrential downpour. Hannah I couldn't have cared less because we had enjoyed the show so much. My cheeks actually hurt from smiling. So we splashed along through the rain, Hannah in her big white poncho looking like the abominable snowman and me with my shoes so full of dirt, gravel, and water they could have just as easily been called terrariums. I ended the night with Hannah and others at a Georgian restaurant where I savored a large bowl of Italian soup.

The Great Train Escapade

Day 4

Rivulets of sweat are streaming down my face, I'm wheezing and gasping like an asthmatic-with a stoma, and my eyes are soaked -sweat and tears intermingling.

We had left the hostel about an hour earlier, laden like lumbering beasts of burden. By the time we were de-escalating into the metro, we were already feeling rather toasty, our winter coats like an unwelcome embrace. We were then thrust into the crush of people. Meanwhile, my mind was flooded with safety tips syncopated with trying to stay with the group, "Camera-check-blond hair-Bethany-purse secure-check-white coat-Dave-don't stare-check-tall person-Mark-don't panic-um, um...." We scurried/power walked/penguin waddled from train to train, the threat of getting smashed in the doors (again) ever present. Finally we reached the station, set our bags down, and breathed a huge sigh of relief. Well, it was the WRONG station!!! We slung our burdens back over our shoulders and set off at a dead run. We sprinted for about thirty seconds, paused to bob and weave, and sprinted again. I fought as hard as I could, but the rest of the group was disappearing into the distance. Suddenly, I was twelve again. My blue Adidas shorts were hiked up half way to my neck and the rest of the cross country team was nowhere to be seen. I snapped back into real time, my bag and back breaking and my heart aching with the sickening feeling that I was running through an impossible nightmare. Finally, when I was convinced I was about to collapse into a sobbing, gasping heap, I saw Natalia up ahead, an angel of mercy practically wreathed in celestial light. Emas called out, "You made it!" in his typically easy-going, boyish way, though I could tell that even he was visibly relieved. And that is why I boarded the train to St. Petersburg approximately three minutes before it departed.

Besides the Great Train Escapade, there were a couple other notable events which transpired. The day started out with a snack at the McDonald's, our cheeseburgers steaming in the early morning chill. Next we got in line to get into the Red Square. We passed through a metal detector manned by guards with contempt for tourists burning in their eyes. When we finally entered our ultimate destination, one guard angrily gestured for me to take my hands out of my pockets and other guards spaced every fifteen feet gave us their undivided attention. Then we descended a dimly lit staircase into the ominous and all encompassing darkness, into the inner sanctum. And there he was in his glass display case, as though he were someone's butterfly collection and not a man who had changed the course of history. Just as in the pictures he had his trademark goatee. I noticed that one of his hands was open and the other was clenched. His skin looked a bit waxy, though overall he looked great for having been dead since 1924. Mostly, he just seemed small and frail. I almost expected a nurse to bustle in with a tray and ask, "Mr. Lenin, would you like some chicken soup now?"

We also went to the New Tretyakov Gallery which we were told was modern and Soviet art. Upon arriving I was relieved to see that they had kept the cubism to a minimum. The pieces consisted mostly of pencil sketches, vibrantly hued surrealist paintings, and images of infectiously happy and healthy men, women, and children. There was one of a female shot putter I particularly liked. She stood there contentedly as the metal sphere sat in her palm and the sunlight danced in her golden hair and reflected off her strong arms. If only things could have worked out that way...

The Symphony

Day 3

Today we had lunch at one of the many "pancake" places which serve crepes filled with meat, or in my case, chocolate and bananas. After an interminable walk (someone referenced the Exodus from Egypt and waiting to die while we were walking) we arrived at Christ our Savior Church. After covering our heads and passing though a metal detector, we entered the vaulted coziness of the candle lite church. One facet I couldn't stop staring at was a fifteen foot chandelier in front of the arching windows. Sunlight streamed in, richly glinting off the filigree and gold. We then went downstairs to a smaller chapel filled with pictures of the saints. I noticed one woman in particular who was delicately lighting a candle. She paused for a few moments, waiting for the person in front of her to finish. When it was her turn she walked quietly up to the picture. Then she drew her face near to the saint's and tilted her forehead to his as she gently whispered, reminding me of two lovers I had seen on the train the night before.

Once our time in the the church was up, we went to the Vernishazh Market. And just for the record, I actually negotiated (which was about as much fun as having a root canal during a Novocaine shortage.) Then we went to Arbat street where I savored a Starbuck's chai latte. By the time we got back to the hostel, we had very little time to get ready for the symphony. Five girls in a small, enclosed space trying to go from sweaty and frizzy to radiant and styled in fifteen minutes looks a little like the end of the world. We somehow managed to get to the concert on time and decently attired.

The concert was a tribute to Paganini and as the orchestra played the first couple pieces, I was under the impression that the audience was thinking, "Isn't it nice that we're so cultured, what enchanting music, what shall I make for dinner tomorrow?" But then the soloist/conductor said "Vivaldi" in his next introduction and there was a murmur, possibly even a twitter from the crowd. Finally, they would get to pay homage to a classical rock star. Shorty thereafter, as a mama's boy was wailing on the harpsichord, the crowd finally stopped wondering "Chicken or fish?" The soloist/conductor Sergey Stadler was a rather corpulent man. The intensity of the music was actually reflected in his jowls which quivered like a seismograph. It seemed that he should look more like the silver fox of a first violin with his metallic hair and trim figure. When the solo ended and soloist/conductor was taking his third bow, the applause of the Silver Fox was transparently dutiful.

After the concert ended, we got ice cream at McDonalds, even as the cold seeped through our coats. But we couldn't have cared less, we were so warm inside, so utterly intoxicated by Russia. We went back to the Red Square to see the already beautiful structures awash in magical lights. I stood there gawking, vaguely aware of other students taking goofy pictures and performing the Electric Slide. It just seemed like such an incredibly profound moment and I wanted to be in it so badly. As we left the Red Square, the thought that I will never see this sight again kept rolling and reverberating inside my head.

The Kremlin

Night 1 & Day 2

About ten minutes after I first penned my previous entry, I was practically unconscious, so deep was my rest. The sweet lullaby of the clacking tracks and the gentle sway of the train engine had rocked me to sleep. When I awoke a couple hours later, the air was rife with excitement. Carly was dutifully studying the itinerary and Hannah was pouring over the Russian alphabet. Soon after, the Latvian and later Russian border police poured onto the train, sifted through luggage, checked passports, and communicated via grunt. Honestly, I was a little disappointed that they weren't scarier. Oh, and every now and then someone would randomly break into song (and sometimes dance) from the animated movie Anastasia.

Fast forward to about noon the next day. We had already checked into Godzilla, our predictably green painted hostel, and were now going to the Red Square. St. Basils, aka the Candy Land palace, was so whimsical, colorful, and bulbous that it made me think the architect had had a lot of fun. Although if I remember correctly, he was the Italian who had his eyes put out so that he could never make anything as magnificent again.

Next we went on a tour of the Kremlin and the Armory within it. The Armory is basically Russia's treasure house. Diamond encrusted prayer books as big as pillows, ornate carriages with wheels twice my height, and serving dishes big enough to bathe in made quite the impression. Even the guns, swords, and shields were inlaid with tortoise shell and spangled with precious stones.

The tour paused at the coronation dress of Catherine the Great with its silvery luster, delicate details, and Disney princess proportioned waist. Next to that gown was a dress that had belonged to a significantly portlier woman. Ana Something-Something was one of the fattest, ugliest, and most reviled rulers in Russian history. From what I could gather of the tour guide's version of English the story goes something like this...Ana was a princess residing in the Baltic region when her relatives invited her to come and marry into the Russian dynasty. Once she arrived, she shredded the contract and declared herself Empress of Imperial Russia. For ten years she let her German boyfriend rule as she was far too busy with her favorite sport: hunting. Eventually she becomes so incapacitated (whether from obesity or disease I'm not sure) that she actually has servants lead game outside her window so she can shoot them without moving. She also decided to make a palace entirely of ice, inside and outside. To complete her nifty little project, she poured water on some of her handmaidens and let them freeze overnight.

After that we visited the gilded chapel where many czars had been crowned. By the time we were done with our three hour tour (and yes, that reference was made a couple dozen times), we were footsore and freezing. Luckily it was time for the circus! Nothing like cotton candy and contortionists after a long day of looking at beautiful things. My favorite acts were the acrobats. One act had them floating through planets and stars, glowing neon under a black light, another act was a Latvian couple who were able to fly through the air together in perfect synchronization, and there was also a young girl who sprinted across the spray of a shooting fountain and then shot into the atmosphere. Meanwhile, Hannah alternated clutching my armor in terror and maliciously biting off gummy bear heads. Again.

Hill of Crosses

Hi Everyone! For those of you who didn't know, I spent last week in Russia for fall break. Some of my next posts are going to be exactly as I wrote them and some will be looking back from now. Hopefully, I'll have them all up by the end of the week:)

Day 1

I am currently on a yellow train hurtling though the frosty autumn air. Our destination is a foreboding specter in our mind's eye, a land of czars and palaces, a land of crime and punishment, a land of mayhem and mystery...but I'm getting ahead of the story.

So this morning I awoke to the sound of Hannah fiercely whispering, "Cole, COLE!"
"What?" I painfully moaned.
"It's time to leave NOW!"
"Dang it!"This is what I got for staying up late packing and talking to friends. Luckily, I know my tendencies so well that I had laid out all my clothes the night before. After jumping into them like a firefighter and making my bed in a manner that would induce Martha Stewart to tears, I flew down the stairs.

The next few hours on the bus were a haze of Celtic music, someone violently puking, and throbbing neck cramps. As I finally awoke and glanced out the window, I was shocked at the sight of our first destination, the Hill of Crosses. The bus unloaded us, and as I walked toward the hill, my feet were heavy with apprehension and my eyes were hypnotized by the eerie sight.

Hundreds of crosses, thousands of crosses, millions of crosses shot up from the flat landscape and formed a gray mountain in the midst of green farmland. Within basic boundaries, crosses streamed, poured, and gushed forth from one another. Some were behemoth medieval marvels and others were smaller than a quarter. Jesus wore several variations on mind-blowing agony, sometimes he looked angry, other times-heartbroken, and occasionally there was faint glimmer of hope.

My reaction was mixed, as one moment I would be contemplating the faith of so many and the next I would be estimating how many vampires the place could withstand. Eventually, our time was up and I savored the image of the Hill as it faded into the horizon. Then Emas got on the loudspeaker to share some of the local lore. He started by saying that if you leave a cross and make a wish, that wish will come true. The exception is making a wish for someone's death which will allegedly result in the death of one of your siblings.

During the times of the Nazis and the Soviets, Lithuanians used the Hill of Crosses as a sign of peaceful resistance. They wanted to leave a part of themselves in their beloved homeland, even as they were being shipped to a desolate tundra. Even more chilling was the story of the man hired to demolish the hill many years ago. He brought his infant son to the Hill that day and began to bulldoze. At one point, he had to get out in order to toss aside some crosses by hand. Suddenly, the bulldozer starting rolling of its own accord. His child tumbled out of the cab and was crushed beneath the wheels. From that day forward, no one dared harm the Hill of Crosses.

That story, as well as others involving strange sounds, powerful miracles, and weeping Marys, have cemented the Hill of Crosses in the mind of pilgrims as a powerful symbol of hope, an unsettling visage of faith.