Falling asleep on a long drive helps get you to your destination faster. This we all know. Sleeping through the potential treachery of the Russian highways isn't just a faster route somewhere but a necessary habit to adopt if you're going to keep your shorts from being soiled. Our driver today thought he was Mario Andretti in an old Mercedes van with absolutely no breaks, I could hear the rotors grinding hard every single time he laid into the breaks, which wasn't often enough. Michael and Ann, a couple from San Juan Puerto Rico said "This guy would do great in San Juan."
So now onto Novgorod. The city was founded in the mid 9th century and has recently been given back its original name of Viliky Novgorod (Great New City.)
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Trying to write this post isn't easy... I'm exhausted, only slept two hours last night as I was dropping night watch and a large group went from the Golden Brick when it closed to For Ross... I left my notebook at home where I had scribbled down dates and so forth... but let me see what I can recount from my foggy memory.
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The city sits on a lake that meets a river. We started the day by going to the monastery of St. Gregory built in the 11th century. Although the walls have been repainted, as was the habit of new patriarchs or princes who took it over, the windows still bear bits of the frescos that originally adorned the entire church. The iconostasis was stolen during the second world war by the occupying German forces. The monastery was damaged but has been rebuilt quite nicely along with the central church that in its time was the largest in Russia. The domes on this church are not gilded. Originally they were all covered in lead. Gilding came around in the 15th century if I remember correctly. The shape is not quite the Onion dome of Spilt Blood or St. Basil's in Moscow, its more of a helmet shape which was the original shape of Russian domes. The onion was a later inspiration.
I haven't had a moment or afternoon as peaceful as that morning walking by the lake and taking pictures. The weather was perfect (I'm going to start rambling, more than usual here.)
I've been enjoying St. Pete's quite a bit but its a big city and the pace is fast. Well my pace isn't that fast as its usually burdened by several liters of beer, but the point is that things move here, they move at a rapid pace and the sea of people is a never ending torrent of bodies in motion with big city concerns and manners.
I slept through most of the trip out to Novgorod, but when I woke, about 30 minutes from the outskirts of the city, I saw vast expanses of land which I saw again on my back to St. Pete's. The countryside is vast. The outer rim of St. Pete's and Novgorod feature these shoebox apartments that are ghastly and dreary to look at. According to my sister in law the street names are the same even and they are built exactly alike from city to city. But the actual highway road to the city was dotted with log cabins, small one family houses, gardens, cows eating grass and men clearing tall green grass with scythes. Great green expanses of land with the raised horizon of forest comprise this area. Since it rains during the summer months, there is always a reservoir of water for the flora to feed on and it stays lush all year round, except for the snows I guess, whereas we get about a month or so of lush green rolling hills that turn brown when deprived of water for a long enough period of time.
The monastery is amazing. Its simplicity and peace seem at once the product of its location on the banks of this gorgeous lake that is about 35km wide by 45km long, and the mouth of this river that feeds into the lake. I'm not sure with atmosphere I was enjoying, the air is sweet and fresh and you can feel the solemnity of the few monks that remain. It has been an effort ever since the demise of communism to revive the monastic orders that flourished prior to the revolution. Novgorod was and is the city of churches. Every street in olden times was ordered to build its own church and one had 5 churches on it, all of which still remain. Driving to the monastery we passed a wall left over from the 14th century, its an earthen wall that was flanked by towers, long stretch of earth that acted as a fortification against invaders. The Vikings were in Novgorod and were probably the original settlers of the city and one is attributed to have been the original founder of the Russian state. They were looking for trading routes through the Slavic countries when they stumbled across the river on which Novgorod sits. Of the 14 towers only 1 remains completely intact and has walls 1 meter thick with rock insides and brick exterior.
Novgorod fought many wars with Sweden, they were mortal enemies. The monument, which I'll get to, features a defeated Swedish soldier. The only ones, in ancient times, to capture Novgorod, were the Swedes. At one time, during the 10 or 11 century, Novgorod had a greater population than that of London, 40,000. It was a center for arts and crafts and was known all over the ancient world.
St. gregory's has 3 domes, which was the original configuration, the father, the son and the holy ghost, one for each. The five dome configuration was adopted later, and there's a second church in the monastery with a very stylized five dome design that was developed I believe in the 16th century.
From St. Gregory's we went to the Russian museum of wood working. Now this sounds kinda kitschy, wood working, but let me explain. Novgorod was known for its artisans. They built log houses without using any nails. None of the buildings were built using nails and they made shingles that looked like brick. The buildings that remain of this ancient city have been uprooted and moved to a preserve that is more natural in its wilderness setting than the city where they are being quickly eroded. Traffic is minimal here and they can be attended to by craftsmen that practice a lost art. The people of Novgorod made everything from birch and leather (beroza e kozha and called it brekhoza (I might be wrong on this... very tired)).
The buildings are used as museums and the people dress in traditional garb. I find this to be incredibly boring and cheezy, I mean the traditional dress. There's something so put on and they seem so unhappy in it, why bother? I'm good with them not even being there... I'm there to see the woodwork, not the people in ham dresses. The houses were incredibly function. The stove was not only a stove, made of ceramic, but also the bed that kept you warm in the winter. Often times 11 people would live in the family home and the grandparents were given the stove to sleep on. The parents would have a bed, the children slept in a loft and the teens would sleep on benches, that sometimes parents would occupy as well if they didn't have a bed. The lower levels of the house were home to the livestock which helped heat the entire domicile. There were haystacks that filled a barn space in the back and above the livestock pens. We spent a good hour or two there and then moved from there to the Kremlin of Novgorod.
Kremlin or Krepayst is nothing more than a fortress. The Kremlin in Moscow is the old fortress of the old city that happens to be the government buildings. Well Novgorod had a very impressive one that housed a number of old churches, the most impressive of which is St. Sofia. We were dropped off in the park on the other side of the river where we walked by and through small churches of varied ages and sizes. Their domes glistened in the bright blue sky, cloudless and perfect. A cold wind greeted us when we crossed the river over a footbridge. The Kremlin rolled out with its huge red brick walls on the other side. The domes of St. Sofia were visible above the walls. To the far left of the Kremlin stands the WWII monument commemorating the defeat of the Germans in Novgorod. Every city has some kind of monument like this. As I've said before, this war, here, may be over, but I doubt it'll be forgotten quickly. I may be wrong though, the new generation has no care of this war or its memory. They are more interested with meeting the west in terms of salary, material wealth and possession as quickly as possible. This may be the undoing of that memorial conscience surrounding the second world war.
Inside the Kremlin were a number of smaller churches but we went into St. Sofia to see the tomb of Theodore Nevsky, younger brother of Aleksander that founded St. Petersburg 300 years ago. He died on his wedding day from an epileptic seizure and was originally buried in St. Gregory's but was moved to St. Sofia due to restoration and excavation of the church. He will eventually be put back to rest in St. Gregory's which had a number of tombs, but not as many as St. Sofia that had them well below the floor, which is a 19th century floor, they lay around the stone floor of the 12th century. The church used to be taller, but soil settled outside and they keep things level. To keep from having to step down into the church they added new floors thus burying the previous one.
A huge brass chandelier of intricate design, a gift in the 16th century from Boris Gudanov, hangs in the center, over a cross with the iron dove. The dove was a sign of the holy spirit and there's a legend about the dove that if it fell 3 times the city would fall. It fell once by the Swedes when they occupied it, then it fell under the Nazis reign and eventually found its way to Spain. It only recently returned. There's a 12th century Icon which is the priz. Its a Madonna, and she supposedly cries visible tears at time. Take this with a grain of salt, or at your own discretion, it is a gorgeous and time worn piece however. The iconostasis of this church is intact and one wall, near the place where they are excavating the tombs and restoring the floor, there is a section of wall preserved from the 11th century with a painting of Constantine, the father of the Orthodox church and former Holy Roman Emperor done by an unknown Greek artist.
The whole place is kept in a low light and is absolutely gorgeous... I'm floored by it. I tried to shoot pictures, long exposure stuff, no tripod... left it at home trying to keep down the weight... DUMBASS is what I say now... but anyway, we'll see how steady my hands are... sleep deprivation does amazing things to them. As I walked along the paths with Sasha, we both agreed, we would have to get parker to do like a staff camping trip to the lake and spend a night v prirodi (nature) because the lake and surrounding hills are so bloody relaxing. I think if I could go to a real datcha and banya i would be in bliss. The two most intoxicating and relaxing things in place...
We wandered around and visited a monument by an artist whose name escapes me, but his work is here in Peter as well. It features figures and faces from 17 of the most important Russian epochs. From the Viking who found the Russian state, to that of the general who defeated the Swedes, Pushkin, gogol, the wife of Ivan the terrible, clergy and political figures. Since this was done well before communism it lacks any of that soviet drab elitism thankfully. During WWII it was dismantled by the Germans to be carted off to the Reich when the Russians launched a sneak attack on the fortress. It took over 1 year to reassemble it and return it to most of its former glory. You can see a big crack on one side.
The main souvenir of Novgorod is the bell. There was a legend about a certain bell that was to be carted off from the city. It didn't ant to go at all and fell shattering into tiny pieces. From each of these pieces a smaller bell was made and that is why the bell still remains the symbol of the city. We saw the largest of the bells of Novgorod that weighs in at 26 tons sitting inside the Kremlin next to small 16the century cousins of 17tons. A pile of excavated 15th century stone canon balls used in catapults lays at the base of St. Sofia.
I was sad to leave this place. Between fatigue, a happiness to be out of the city, and the quiet of that lake, the name still eludes me, felt an over arching sense of calm. I could've spent the night in Novgorod. Beyond its historical importance its a preaty dreary and dead place. There's really nothing going on, but the history of that city seems alive in all of its Deadness... You're right Mom, I do like touching history, always have loved being in the middle of it, that's probably the main reason why this day trip appealed to me, I'm happy I went.
Ok, time to say adieu... I'm off to get a bite to eat and then sleep.... sleep and more sleep... I'm opening the office tomorrow. I think I'm going to go to "Zov Iliyich" (Lenin's Mating Call), they done got bear on the menu!!! Who knows, I might just decide the four blocks is too far and the Brick is on the way home and open and the food is damn good there... Gruzinskaya Kuxhnay will be the death of me... I love it so...
Shislivo vsem... xo
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Monday, June 20, 2005
Russia - Another walkabout...
Last night was a blissfully early night... only 2 am or so... I'm on night watch tonight so I'm happy to have have gone to bed early. The banya made that happen.
Have I told you what the banya is? I mean I remember blazing through it yesterday... but in essence you're talking about a super heated sweedish sauna, its dry, but there's a large tub of water near the oven that you can throw onto the coals to create steam and get that place super heated. I think its around 140 degrees F. in there. But let me back up...
The banya is on Dostoyevskaya st. number 11. Its four stories of banyas with a mens on the 2nd floor, women's on the 4th and private rooms with billiard tables etc. on the 3rd. Two hours is 300 rubles, going for less than that doesn't make any sense. There's a store on the bottom floor that sells all your spa needs, e.g. birch branches tied and bundled, machalkas (loofahs) natural and synthetic, soap, sandals etc. I wore my leather sandlas so I rented a pair from the desk. The man behind the desk looks like an ex-con, the consus amongst Parker, Burke and myself was that he was an excon and most of the guys in there had spent time in the pen. But man, these boys take their banya seriously and for that I respect them to no end. You pay your money, 900 rubles for the three of us. Then its another 98 rubles for 3 sheets and one pair of slippers for me. The birch ran about 8 - 12 rubles per bunch, we bought two. Another 60 rubles at the "opteka" for eucalyptus oil and were set. We were taken to a private changing room that had soft cushy benches, a couple tables, ash trays and places to hang our clothing. It was a large room and we stripped down there, tying the sheets around us like roman togas. No one brought more than 600 rubles or so and we left our wallets and watches at the hotel so we had blessedly little to steal.
From there one proceeds to the showers for a quick wet and to pour hot water into the large tubs that are all around and soak the birch and dump the eucalyptus oil into the water. After a good quick soak we went and sat in the sauna, none of us could take it for more than five minutes. It was that hot!!! I've sat in normal saunas for long periods of time, but I've never been in one that is this damn hot! Out the door of the "parilka" and into a pool of very very very cold water, just dump yourself in there. It stops the wooziness and refreshes you. After a minute or two in the pool, we went and got the birch and brought it into the sauna for another round.
What do you do with the birch yuo ask? Well yuo bloody flog yourself and you enjoy it! its a midl form of exfoliation and aromatherapy combined. Its quite nice. You stand there flogging yourself from sole to crown and smelling the rich thick eucalyptus scent which goes everywhere. Your sweat pours out in buckets. After about ten minutes in there we went for another dunk in the pool and back to our changing room where we ordered Kvas. This is by far the best kvas I have ever had. It was the perfect smoothness, the perfect viscosity, it was cold as all hell, it was in a word wonderful!!!
This continues until you get tired and feel fully relaxed munching on drie salted squid and drinknig kvas by the half liter and water in our case. Then a hot shower and you feel like a million bucks. There was a fine eatery around the corner, "stalovaya" that had all kinds of meats and kotletas (small meat patties that range in substance from pork to chicken to mixtures of lamb and pork). From there it was the long walk back to the hotel, we had no money for a cab at this point, not even a glass of kompot which looked damn good but at 20 rubles each it was a bit out of our league.
Today I woke and did laundry, dawning my only pair of shorts and set out for a walkabout. I headed down Kazanaskaya and then over past the Marinsky to a russian orthodox church. I must say that I'm getting tired of these orthodox. I don't mean to sound harsh, but they take their church going very seriously, even when its more museum than working church! They didn't let me in, so I took pictures outside and stood in the doorway to piss them off. I like the catholics, come on in, its about buts in the seats... shorts, no problem, pictures, no problem... you are all welcome! Same thing with the synagogue which I went to next. The synagogue is 100+ years old. Its made from a rose colored stone and strped like an old mosque almost. It openned in 1903 but construction had begun in the 19th century. The interior is gorgeous with complicated patterns of intertwinning stars of david. I was given free righn and I went around taking pictures from the floor and the balcony. It was woefully dark in there so I had to find interseting places to rest my camera and let the timer take the pic because at those slow exposures my hands would've fudged it. Its a lovely nikon, but doesn't have the leic shutter that is so smooth and seamless that yuo can shoot at 1/15 of a second hand held.
I wanted to stay in the synagogue for a while. I just kind felt at ease there, not sure why, well I do, but I don't want to go into it. The chandeliers were simple and elegant vines of silver dropping from the ceiling as delicate as spiderweb. I eventually tore myself away from the bench where I sat and stared and headed won a small canal for St. Isaac's. What I thought was a relatively direct route turned out to be quite the indirect one and took me to a rather run down part of town. More residuential and the housing was new (well consider post WWII and Stalin era new.) I walked quickly as there were some sketchy corners and I knew between the backpack, jacket, boots and earings I would raise eybrows. I eventually found my way to St. Isaacs and continued to play National Geographic photographer. From St. Isaacs I decided I would head to the Nevya and shoot the Kunst Kamera from across the river but then it snagged me... glory glory glory... an Indian restaraunt!!!! I immediately proceeded inside to one of the best gastronomical experiences I had yet. The man spoke both English and Russian. I had kima samosas with a heavily spiced lamb inide for an apetizer. For the entree it was paneer cheeze marinated in yoghurt and spices, grilled on a skewer with green bell pepers and coated in honey. A generous helping of garlic nan rounded out the meal with a mango lasi to wash it all down. Let me tell you friends, I'm no stranger to Indian eateries at home, but this would give them all a run for their money. DAMN GOOD! The restaraunt was a pleasure to sit in. The walls and celings were painted with oriental patterns and the carpet was a thick rich color matching the dark and deep toned wood of the chairs and bar. The service was friendly beyond expectation. All of this came at a price. I spent $20 there, that's pricey for this town, but I didn't mind... not one bit. I asked them to make it spicey for me complaining who russians don't know what spicey is. I mean I've eaten the spiciest thing they have at the Georgian restaraunts and it hardly tickled my throat. I suppose I need to eat some spice to make myself repellant to the mosquitos that are coming out in force.
Leaving the restaraunt I turned into the park and headed past the admiralty to the Meydnii Sadik (The Bronze Horseman.) He's very regal on his stead atop a rock sitting right on the banks of the Nevya river. I took his protrait and then asked a kindly german man "Kanst du mir photographieren?" "Ja, kein problem" "Vielen danke." "Du sprichst Deutsch?" "Ein bissien, ich habe vier jahr gelernen, aber es war ein langes zeit in die zuruck." Up the Nevya I headed taking pictures until the roll was done. Then it was back down Nevsky for the cafe, but not before I ran into trouble: the small fast handed kind that go by way of Gypsies! A pack of small girls were working the street along Nevsky. They spotted me right away. I had a lens bag styrapped to my belt and my Nikon around my neck and shoulder. I shoved one of my hands in the pocket with my wallet and the other wrapped around my lens case and went into my other pocket to protect my mobile phone. They swarmed around me saying "kusat kusat kusat" with outstretched palms. I continued to move on and rudely bumped a couple. What I can only assume was there mother was in the middle getting closer and finall I felt a hand coming into my left pocket which I smacked quit hard away, it belonged to a small girl with the saddest puppy dog eyes you ever saw. I had enough. I stopped turned around and yelled in my sternest voice "Edity ot zudivah pa haroshimu!!!!" (Get out of here right now if you know what's good for you.) At this point they backed off. I don't think anyone on the street was phased by this, it happens, maybe by the fact that I could bellow in their language, but taht was about it. I crossed the Moyka canal and stopped to check my back and see if it had been cut open or any zippers tampered with. Everything was in order and my wallet and all belongings still belonged to me. Its sad and if they weren't such bloody thieves I would feel obliged to give them something, but as they practice pick pocketing for a living well the only obligation I feel is tossing them into a canal. Last year they took Brenda for her wallet I believe.
When I came upon the internet cafe I saw her, my saddest begger woman. I sat down on the curbe behind a kiosk and changed out lenses. I had the big dog with me and I loaded some b/w. I snapped two pictures of her, crouching and hiding, keeping an eye for passerbys who might be caught in the frame and most importantly cops. One walked by and I packed up and left myself, but not before dropping some change in her box.
Tonight is the Kenyan reading that will feature fiction and poetry from Kenya. After that I'm on night watch with Anna. Happily, the entire gang should be the golden brick so I won't have to shelp to that unsavory of bars, Datcha. I think most people learned their lesson after Billy's run in and he's been spreading the word. He was very apologetic yesterday and thanked me profusely for saving his ass.
I'm going to head to the university and take a picture of a wonderfully dilapdated wall. I think its gorgeous. I think that's what I want to take pictures of this time, the way this city is run down and how it couldn't even be restored in time for its 300th anniversary in 2003. As gorgeous as it is, as wonderfully grand, its frayed at every edge. Michael Epstein wrote about the heavy iron doors taht are the porticulus to every russian domicile and stairwell as being the only way the soviet could define his space and keep out that world, at the same time, keeping in his world. These doors fascinate me when contrasted to the more ellegant but disintegrating wood and glass doors of the university buildings, There are iron doors there too, don't get me wrong, iron and concrete, marble and granite seem to be the load stones upon which this city is built, but the forgotten places, those taht are still functional, are left to the erosion of the elements, and that to me seems like an irreproduceable beauty....
udatchey vsem!
Have I told you what the banya is? I mean I remember blazing through it yesterday... but in essence you're talking about a super heated sweedish sauna, its dry, but there's a large tub of water near the oven that you can throw onto the coals to create steam and get that place super heated. I think its around 140 degrees F. in there. But let me back up...
The banya is on Dostoyevskaya st. number 11. Its four stories of banyas with a mens on the 2nd floor, women's on the 4th and private rooms with billiard tables etc. on the 3rd. Two hours is 300 rubles, going for less than that doesn't make any sense. There's a store on the bottom floor that sells all your spa needs, e.g. birch branches tied and bundled, machalkas (loofahs) natural and synthetic, soap, sandals etc. I wore my leather sandlas so I rented a pair from the desk. The man behind the desk looks like an ex-con, the consus amongst Parker, Burke and myself was that he was an excon and most of the guys in there had spent time in the pen. But man, these boys take their banya seriously and for that I respect them to no end. You pay your money, 900 rubles for the three of us. Then its another 98 rubles for 3 sheets and one pair of slippers for me. The birch ran about 8 - 12 rubles per bunch, we bought two. Another 60 rubles at the "opteka" for eucalyptus oil and were set. We were taken to a private changing room that had soft cushy benches, a couple tables, ash trays and places to hang our clothing. It was a large room and we stripped down there, tying the sheets around us like roman togas. No one brought more than 600 rubles or so and we left our wallets and watches at the hotel so we had blessedly little to steal.
From there one proceeds to the showers for a quick wet and to pour hot water into the large tubs that are all around and soak the birch and dump the eucalyptus oil into the water. After a good quick soak we went and sat in the sauna, none of us could take it for more than five minutes. It was that hot!!! I've sat in normal saunas for long periods of time, but I've never been in one that is this damn hot! Out the door of the "parilka" and into a pool of very very very cold water, just dump yourself in there. It stops the wooziness and refreshes you. After a minute or two in the pool, we went and got the birch and brought it into the sauna for another round.
What do you do with the birch yuo ask? Well yuo bloody flog yourself and you enjoy it! its a midl form of exfoliation and aromatherapy combined. Its quite nice. You stand there flogging yourself from sole to crown and smelling the rich thick eucalyptus scent which goes everywhere. Your sweat pours out in buckets. After about ten minutes in there we went for another dunk in the pool and back to our changing room where we ordered Kvas. This is by far the best kvas I have ever had. It was the perfect smoothness, the perfect viscosity, it was cold as all hell, it was in a word wonderful!!!
This continues until you get tired and feel fully relaxed munching on drie salted squid and drinknig kvas by the half liter and water in our case. Then a hot shower and you feel like a million bucks. There was a fine eatery around the corner, "stalovaya" that had all kinds of meats and kotletas (small meat patties that range in substance from pork to chicken to mixtures of lamb and pork). From there it was the long walk back to the hotel, we had no money for a cab at this point, not even a glass of kompot which looked damn good but at 20 rubles each it was a bit out of our league.
Today I woke and did laundry, dawning my only pair of shorts and set out for a walkabout. I headed down Kazanaskaya and then over past the Marinsky to a russian orthodox church. I must say that I'm getting tired of these orthodox. I don't mean to sound harsh, but they take their church going very seriously, even when its more museum than working church! They didn't let me in, so I took pictures outside and stood in the doorway to piss them off. I like the catholics, come on in, its about buts in the seats... shorts, no problem, pictures, no problem... you are all welcome! Same thing with the synagogue which I went to next. The synagogue is 100+ years old. Its made from a rose colored stone and strped like an old mosque almost. It openned in 1903 but construction had begun in the 19th century. The interior is gorgeous with complicated patterns of intertwinning stars of david. I was given free righn and I went around taking pictures from the floor and the balcony. It was woefully dark in there so I had to find interseting places to rest my camera and let the timer take the pic because at those slow exposures my hands would've fudged it. Its a lovely nikon, but doesn't have the leic shutter that is so smooth and seamless that yuo can shoot at 1/15 of a second hand held.
I wanted to stay in the synagogue for a while. I just kind felt at ease there, not sure why, well I do, but I don't want to go into it. The chandeliers were simple and elegant vines of silver dropping from the ceiling as delicate as spiderweb. I eventually tore myself away from the bench where I sat and stared and headed won a small canal for St. Isaac's. What I thought was a relatively direct route turned out to be quite the indirect one and took me to a rather run down part of town. More residuential and the housing was new (well consider post WWII and Stalin era new.) I walked quickly as there were some sketchy corners and I knew between the backpack, jacket, boots and earings I would raise eybrows. I eventually found my way to St. Isaacs and continued to play National Geographic photographer. From St. Isaacs I decided I would head to the Nevya and shoot the Kunst Kamera from across the river but then it snagged me... glory glory glory... an Indian restaraunt!!!! I immediately proceeded inside to one of the best gastronomical experiences I had yet. The man spoke both English and Russian. I had kima samosas with a heavily spiced lamb inide for an apetizer. For the entree it was paneer cheeze marinated in yoghurt and spices, grilled on a skewer with green bell pepers and coated in honey. A generous helping of garlic nan rounded out the meal with a mango lasi to wash it all down. Let me tell you friends, I'm no stranger to Indian eateries at home, but this would give them all a run for their money. DAMN GOOD! The restaraunt was a pleasure to sit in. The walls and celings were painted with oriental patterns and the carpet was a thick rich color matching the dark and deep toned wood of the chairs and bar. The service was friendly beyond expectation. All of this came at a price. I spent $20 there, that's pricey for this town, but I didn't mind... not one bit. I asked them to make it spicey for me complaining who russians don't know what spicey is. I mean I've eaten the spiciest thing they have at the Georgian restaraunts and it hardly tickled my throat. I suppose I need to eat some spice to make myself repellant to the mosquitos that are coming out in force.
Leaving the restaraunt I turned into the park and headed past the admiralty to the Meydnii Sadik (The Bronze Horseman.) He's very regal on his stead atop a rock sitting right on the banks of the Nevya river. I took his protrait and then asked a kindly german man "Kanst du mir photographieren?" "Ja, kein problem" "Vielen danke." "Du sprichst Deutsch?" "Ein bissien, ich habe vier jahr gelernen, aber es war ein langes zeit in die zuruck." Up the Nevya I headed taking pictures until the roll was done. Then it was back down Nevsky for the cafe, but not before I ran into trouble: the small fast handed kind that go by way of Gypsies! A pack of small girls were working the street along Nevsky. They spotted me right away. I had a lens bag styrapped to my belt and my Nikon around my neck and shoulder. I shoved one of my hands in the pocket with my wallet and the other wrapped around my lens case and went into my other pocket to protect my mobile phone. They swarmed around me saying "kusat kusat kusat" with outstretched palms. I continued to move on and rudely bumped a couple. What I can only assume was there mother was in the middle getting closer and finall I felt a hand coming into my left pocket which I smacked quit hard away, it belonged to a small girl with the saddest puppy dog eyes you ever saw. I had enough. I stopped turned around and yelled in my sternest voice "Edity ot zudivah pa haroshimu!!!!" (Get out of here right now if you know what's good for you.) At this point they backed off. I don't think anyone on the street was phased by this, it happens, maybe by the fact that I could bellow in their language, but taht was about it. I crossed the Moyka canal and stopped to check my back and see if it had been cut open or any zippers tampered with. Everything was in order and my wallet and all belongings still belonged to me. Its sad and if they weren't such bloody thieves I would feel obliged to give them something, but as they practice pick pocketing for a living well the only obligation I feel is tossing them into a canal. Last year they took Brenda for her wallet I believe.
When I came upon the internet cafe I saw her, my saddest begger woman. I sat down on the curbe behind a kiosk and changed out lenses. I had the big dog with me and I loaded some b/w. I snapped two pictures of her, crouching and hiding, keeping an eye for passerbys who might be caught in the frame and most importantly cops. One walked by and I packed up and left myself, but not before dropping some change in her box.
Tonight is the Kenyan reading that will feature fiction and poetry from Kenya. After that I'm on night watch with Anna. Happily, the entire gang should be the golden brick so I won't have to shelp to that unsavory of bars, Datcha. I think most people learned their lesson after Billy's run in and he's been spreading the word. He was very apologetic yesterday and thanked me profusely for saving his ass.
I'm going to head to the university and take a picture of a wonderfully dilapdated wall. I think its gorgeous. I think that's what I want to take pictures of this time, the way this city is run down and how it couldn't even be restored in time for its 300th anniversary in 2003. As gorgeous as it is, as wonderfully grand, its frayed at every edge. Michael Epstein wrote about the heavy iron doors taht are the porticulus to every russian domicile and stairwell as being the only way the soviet could define his space and keep out that world, at the same time, keeping in his world. These doors fascinate me when contrasted to the more ellegant but disintegrating wood and glass doors of the university buildings, There are iron doors there too, don't get me wrong, iron and concrete, marble and granite seem to be the load stones upon which this city is built, but the forgotten places, those taht are still functional, are left to the erosion of the elements, and that to me seems like an irreproduceable beauty....
udatchey vsem!
Sunday, June 19, 2005
Russia - "You speak very good Russian..."
I've heard that phrase before, its not unusual and I guess for a foreigner I do speak decent russian. Its a site better than Parker's thick accent but he actually knows and understands Russian grammar rules, well some of them. I just have more practice conversationaly. But we'll get to that in a moment.
I'm not sure where the days begin and end anymore. I don't remember what I did when I woke yesterday or when I actually woke. I'm thinking it was late, I don't remember. That's the problem, everything is just one long period of light into faux dark and back to light... that's the problem here, but you already knew this.
Right ok, so now its all coming back to me. I went to the theatre after waking up late and having a snack in the cafe, then coming here. Well I'm back here, but its been a long 24 hours with little sleep and high adventure on the Russian seas.
So the opera... the Marinsky theatre is gorgeous. The celing has cherubs and muses dancing in a ring around a three tiered crystal chandelier that glows and defracts light emanating from its center. There are three kingly boxes, stage right and left, and one in the center of the first tier which I can only imagine was occupied by the czars and czarinas that sat there. The theatre itself houses artifacts and pictures going back many years and feautres displays of the Kirov ballet. We sat on the highest tier, on benches that were brutally uncomfortable. The only perk was that we were closer to the air con. I can only imagine how stuffy that place would have been a hundred years ago with canldes for illumination.
I didn't know the story of M. Butterfly going into it. I had heard the music and loved the arias but never read the libretto. Somethings you don't have to know in any kind of wrote form to understand. The stage was set minimally and the floor had a high laquer finished that made it look like water. There were Japanese styled gondolas floating across the stage and the back scrim was always the solid color of pure emotion. It went from the red of passion to the blue of night and the purple of betrayal. The drape that went across this lighted scrim would go at angles, dramatically cutting out the light so that it seemed the stage had a bend to it other than the rake from rear to foot. The costumes were gorgeous with masked individuals and a whole parade of geisha. Yet, as far as stage set, it was minial, at times larger pieces where whelled out, but the majority of the action took place on a minimally set stage with two walkways that enhanced the feeling of both courtyard and seashore. The finale of the third act was breathtaking and received a standing ovation from the audience. The orchestra, directed by Alexander Pechkin, soared in a flurry of strings and reeds as our heroine was accosted by three figures. One of them took the sleeves of her kimono and held them out while the other two tied a red sash around her abdoment tying it in back. Her head was kinked back in a pen-ultimate ecstacy. The figure on his knees released her kimono sleaves and the two that tied the sash held her by the wrists as he unsheathed a tanto blade, stood and placed it in her palm. The rear curtain went up to reveal a blood red scrim with a sun hanging in the middle: a yellow corona and a black center. And slowly she walked toward this not quite setting not quite rising sun under the blood red sky and as her lover came running out to stop her in vain, she plunged the kinfe into her sashed abdomen and fell to her knees, an arm stretched out toward the sky in a lingering and hanging crecendo of agony that finally stopped to a thunderous aplause as the house went insane. She was magnificent. We were on our feet. This was the premier and it was perfect.
I almost feel like stopping here but I'll press on... There was a general consensus that food was necessary. I went to the hotel with the rest of the kids after procuring some rubels from the ATM at the tinkoff brewpub near my hostile. This is the only restaraunt in St. Pete's that requires you to pass through a metal detector. The entrance is guarded by rather large brootish looking gorillas that have sizeable bulges under their arms, but its the nearest ATM, and the sing that reads "No guns, bombs or fiery explosives" always makes me chuckle.
Funds in hand I met the rest of the crew to a flurry of phone calls. Did I mention I was on "Notchnoy Dazour?" Yeah, I was the night shift. We had a large group of participants hanging out at club Gribojedav (like the canal but different). Jennifer Davis, an expat that lives in ST. Pete's, does these avante garde rock and roll and jazz tours for the program. She plays in several bands, had a show that night at this club which is sometimes called "The Bunker" as its in an underground bunker with a patio on its roof, which is at street level or just above. The club is near the Moscow Metro stop on the other side of town. Its a good 40 minute walk, or maybe 30, and the city was still realing from the graduations of both military and civilian schools. We took two taxis with the group from the opera that wanted to go (no food for me *sigh*). I didn't mind as I wasn't planning on drinking, and I didn't, a liter of beer and a shot at this point has the effect of curing my thirst, nothing more. We arrived to find our group downstairs. The cover was 200 rubels, almost 7 bucks, pricey for this town.
The music was wonderful and the joint reminded me of the basement of DV8 where Spundaes, when it was first being thrown, was held on 2nd & Harrison in SF (now a furniture store.) I moved form the upstairs, meeting an expat expat, russian girl who lived in chicago and moved back to moscow named Jhenya, down to where the real debauchery was happening near the bar on the lower levels. Evntually I found myself on a tiny, sweaty dance floor twisting to deep and funky house music reminiscent of felix the house cat, or jay-j. I danced for nearly two full hours taking short beer breaks to cool myself down. I must say, they're particularly bad dancers here, or maybe it was the lack of oxygen and room. That's beside the point, everyone was having a genuinely good time and that made me ecstatic.
The night wore on with discussions about Kenyan writing, poetry, poetics, the world's obsession with Uranium (Fiona is working on her thesis which is a book about Uranium.) The fuzball table is incredibly popular in this country and people congregate around them like there's no tomorrow. Its hot action on the fuzz.
Around 2 in the morning people began to go home and Tanya arrange taxis for them as they piled out 4 to a car. At first she was ferrying them home in groups of three and riding herself, but that was proving inefectual, so we just shooed them out of the club. Our kenyan friends decided they were heading to Datcha, that fucked up little club that is nothing more than guranteed trouble! By this point there weren't many people left at the bunker, and the rest could be hanlded by Tanya. I looked at Parker and said, "they're going to datcha" he replied "well man, do you want to stay here and let Tanya go there or do you want me to go with you over there?", hesitantly "i think we need to go there man, they're a big drunk group right now."
Parker and I headed back to the hotel in a gypsy cab. When I got in and asked the price he said "give me a sensible sum" I gave him 150 rubles to take me back to the other side of town with three others in the car. We took the griffin bridge to Datch and found our mates inside, drunk and drinking more. I stepped out cause it was too too packed and I didn't feel like dancing to the beastie boys, although sung with a russian accent by a bar full of drunk Russians, it really does take on a new life. As I step outside, I see Billy, one of the Kenyans being led away by the "oxrana", my first thought, SHIT!!! Martin is staning next to me and I tell him to go get Parker now!
I run across the street and begin to speak to the security guard who is leading one of my participants away. I ask him what the problem is he says: "Ohn rashuronya". I'm not entirely sure what this means, but he asks me who I am and what I'm doing. I tell him I'm responsible for him and a large group here at Datcha and that I would like to be of service as he speaks no Russian and is a little drunk. I still don't know what's happened. The security guard tells me he's broken the law and he's called the cops, they are on their way. He keeps saying something about doing something but he's not being specific. The guy asks billy for his documents, like an incredible genius he has his Spravka from the university (Student ID), a copy of the visa page of his passport, but guess what, no front page with his picture and name!!! Great, problems just keep compounding.
The police arrive and asecond black fatigue clad security guard comes out. "Ohn rashurony, ti zdes nechev nemoshish delat... "
"But listen he's one of my students, I'm resposbile for him. We have classes tomorrow"
"Well there's nothing you can do says the guard"
Parker runs up to me. I tell him, they're taking him to the drunk tank for the night and I don't know what for. Parker says, dude, I don'tw ant you to, but someone has to go with him, I hand parker my jacket and ask him how much money he has, he hands me 1500 rubels and I walk over to speak to the captain while parker rings Misha who knows some high ranking people.
"This isn't your crime, why are you concerned."
"I'm responsible" I tell him.
"Well he's borken the law, maybe he can do this in Kenya, but not here. Its not serious but we're going to take him."
"I'm still not clear what he's done."
"On rashuronyi"
"listen, how can we settle this?"
"you can get him from precinct 27 tomorrow"
"I understand, but I rather just take care of it now, there's a fine right?"
"Yes, he will stand before the judge and have to pay a fine. By the way, you know your russian is quite good, where are you from?"
"I was born in Tashkent, but grew up in the USA. My mother says I speak like a child in a kitchne"
we all laugh at this point, and parker is saying that he has Misha, our director, on the phone and he would like to speak to the cop. The cop doesn't want to talk to him and begrudgingly takes the phone bu thte connection is bad and he looses him.
"So this isn't your problem, go back"
"I understand and I'm very sorry but I can't go back without him. His passport is in the hotel, its 500 meters away from here we can run and get it."
"Thats not the problem. Ask him how much he ahd to drink"
"Billy how much did yuo have to drink?"
"3 or 4 beers"
"he had 5 or 6."
"I can't smell alcohol from him, ask him why he pissed on the wall"
BIG FRIGGIN LIGHT BULB GOES OFF AND I'M TEMPTED TO LET THEM TAKE HIM...DUMB BASTARD COULDN"T WAIT FOR THE SINGLE JOHN AND SQUIRTED ON THE WALL!!!
"Well then I apologize for his being and idiot, but I still think we can settle this here and now"
"Well you see everything is on video tape and the security guard will have problems tomorrow"
"I respect that and that you have a job to do but I will make it worth your while."
"Everything is being recorded above." pointing over my shoulder.
"Then I suggest we all walk around the corner, it looks like you're doing your job and I will settle the fine there." The bit about the security camera was bullshit... and here's why.
"Come with me, lets talk about how we can settle this..."
"Sure thing"
Five minutes later I'm having a $55 dollar handshake with the captain thanks to the money parker handed me and taking billy away, advsiing him if his penis ever comes out again, I will hack it off myself... period... piss your pants is what I told him...
I paid my first bribe to a russian cop... what a night.
I fell asleep around 7am... today, as payment for a job well done. Parker, Burke and I went to a Banya, whipped ourselves... with birch and sat in a sweedish saune, drank sweet kvas and ate dried salted squid... it was just what the doctor ordered... I'm heading to the garden and have three minutes left...
Dad happy father's day again...
e vsem... udatchey!!!!
I'm not sure where the days begin and end anymore. I don't remember what I did when I woke yesterday or when I actually woke. I'm thinking it was late, I don't remember. That's the problem, everything is just one long period of light into faux dark and back to light... that's the problem here, but you already knew this.
Right ok, so now its all coming back to me. I went to the theatre after waking up late and having a snack in the cafe, then coming here. Well I'm back here, but its been a long 24 hours with little sleep and high adventure on the Russian seas.
So the opera... the Marinsky theatre is gorgeous. The celing has cherubs and muses dancing in a ring around a three tiered crystal chandelier that glows and defracts light emanating from its center. There are three kingly boxes, stage right and left, and one in the center of the first tier which I can only imagine was occupied by the czars and czarinas that sat there. The theatre itself houses artifacts and pictures going back many years and feautres displays of the Kirov ballet. We sat on the highest tier, on benches that were brutally uncomfortable. The only perk was that we were closer to the air con. I can only imagine how stuffy that place would have been a hundred years ago with canldes for illumination.
I didn't know the story of M. Butterfly going into it. I had heard the music and loved the arias but never read the libretto. Somethings you don't have to know in any kind of wrote form to understand. The stage was set minimally and the floor had a high laquer finished that made it look like water. There were Japanese styled gondolas floating across the stage and the back scrim was always the solid color of pure emotion. It went from the red of passion to the blue of night and the purple of betrayal. The drape that went across this lighted scrim would go at angles, dramatically cutting out the light so that it seemed the stage had a bend to it other than the rake from rear to foot. The costumes were gorgeous with masked individuals and a whole parade of geisha. Yet, as far as stage set, it was minial, at times larger pieces where whelled out, but the majority of the action took place on a minimally set stage with two walkways that enhanced the feeling of both courtyard and seashore. The finale of the third act was breathtaking and received a standing ovation from the audience. The orchestra, directed by Alexander Pechkin, soared in a flurry of strings and reeds as our heroine was accosted by three figures. One of them took the sleeves of her kimono and held them out while the other two tied a red sash around her abdoment tying it in back. Her head was kinked back in a pen-ultimate ecstacy. The figure on his knees released her kimono sleaves and the two that tied the sash held her by the wrists as he unsheathed a tanto blade, stood and placed it in her palm. The rear curtain went up to reveal a blood red scrim with a sun hanging in the middle: a yellow corona and a black center. And slowly she walked toward this not quite setting not quite rising sun under the blood red sky and as her lover came running out to stop her in vain, she plunged the kinfe into her sashed abdomen and fell to her knees, an arm stretched out toward the sky in a lingering and hanging crecendo of agony that finally stopped to a thunderous aplause as the house went insane. She was magnificent. We were on our feet. This was the premier and it was perfect.
I almost feel like stopping here but I'll press on... There was a general consensus that food was necessary. I went to the hotel with the rest of the kids after procuring some rubels from the ATM at the tinkoff brewpub near my hostile. This is the only restaraunt in St. Pete's that requires you to pass through a metal detector. The entrance is guarded by rather large brootish looking gorillas that have sizeable bulges under their arms, but its the nearest ATM, and the sing that reads "No guns, bombs or fiery explosives" always makes me chuckle.
Funds in hand I met the rest of the crew to a flurry of phone calls. Did I mention I was on "Notchnoy Dazour?" Yeah, I was the night shift. We had a large group of participants hanging out at club Gribojedav (like the canal but different). Jennifer Davis, an expat that lives in ST. Pete's, does these avante garde rock and roll and jazz tours for the program. She plays in several bands, had a show that night at this club which is sometimes called "The Bunker" as its in an underground bunker with a patio on its roof, which is at street level or just above. The club is near the Moscow Metro stop on the other side of town. Its a good 40 minute walk, or maybe 30, and the city was still realing from the graduations of both military and civilian schools. We took two taxis with the group from the opera that wanted to go (no food for me *sigh*). I didn't mind as I wasn't planning on drinking, and I didn't, a liter of beer and a shot at this point has the effect of curing my thirst, nothing more. We arrived to find our group downstairs. The cover was 200 rubels, almost 7 bucks, pricey for this town.
The music was wonderful and the joint reminded me of the basement of DV8 where Spundaes, when it was first being thrown, was held on 2nd & Harrison in SF (now a furniture store.) I moved form the upstairs, meeting an expat expat, russian girl who lived in chicago and moved back to moscow named Jhenya, down to where the real debauchery was happening near the bar on the lower levels. Evntually I found myself on a tiny, sweaty dance floor twisting to deep and funky house music reminiscent of felix the house cat, or jay-j. I danced for nearly two full hours taking short beer breaks to cool myself down. I must say, they're particularly bad dancers here, or maybe it was the lack of oxygen and room. That's beside the point, everyone was having a genuinely good time and that made me ecstatic.
The night wore on with discussions about Kenyan writing, poetry, poetics, the world's obsession with Uranium (Fiona is working on her thesis which is a book about Uranium.) The fuzball table is incredibly popular in this country and people congregate around them like there's no tomorrow. Its hot action on the fuzz.
Around 2 in the morning people began to go home and Tanya arrange taxis for them as they piled out 4 to a car. At first she was ferrying them home in groups of three and riding herself, but that was proving inefectual, so we just shooed them out of the club. Our kenyan friends decided they were heading to Datcha, that fucked up little club that is nothing more than guranteed trouble! By this point there weren't many people left at the bunker, and the rest could be hanlded by Tanya. I looked at Parker and said, "they're going to datcha" he replied "well man, do you want to stay here and let Tanya go there or do you want me to go with you over there?", hesitantly "i think we need to go there man, they're a big drunk group right now."
Parker and I headed back to the hotel in a gypsy cab. When I got in and asked the price he said "give me a sensible sum" I gave him 150 rubles to take me back to the other side of town with three others in the car. We took the griffin bridge to Datch and found our mates inside, drunk and drinking more. I stepped out cause it was too too packed and I didn't feel like dancing to the beastie boys, although sung with a russian accent by a bar full of drunk Russians, it really does take on a new life. As I step outside, I see Billy, one of the Kenyans being led away by the "oxrana", my first thought, SHIT!!! Martin is staning next to me and I tell him to go get Parker now!
I run across the street and begin to speak to the security guard who is leading one of my participants away. I ask him what the problem is he says: "Ohn rashuronya". I'm not entirely sure what this means, but he asks me who I am and what I'm doing. I tell him I'm responsible for him and a large group here at Datcha and that I would like to be of service as he speaks no Russian and is a little drunk. I still don't know what's happened. The security guard tells me he's broken the law and he's called the cops, they are on their way. He keeps saying something about doing something but he's not being specific. The guy asks billy for his documents, like an incredible genius he has his Spravka from the university (Student ID), a copy of the visa page of his passport, but guess what, no front page with his picture and name!!! Great, problems just keep compounding.
The police arrive and asecond black fatigue clad security guard comes out. "Ohn rashurony, ti zdes nechev nemoshish delat... "
"But listen he's one of my students, I'm resposbile for him. We have classes tomorrow"
"Well there's nothing you can do says the guard"
Parker runs up to me. I tell him, they're taking him to the drunk tank for the night and I don't know what for. Parker says, dude, I don'tw ant you to, but someone has to go with him, I hand parker my jacket and ask him how much money he has, he hands me 1500 rubels and I walk over to speak to the captain while parker rings Misha who knows some high ranking people.
"This isn't your crime, why are you concerned."
"I'm responsible" I tell him.
"Well he's borken the law, maybe he can do this in Kenya, but not here. Its not serious but we're going to take him."
"I'm still not clear what he's done."
"On rashuronyi"
"listen, how can we settle this?"
"you can get him from precinct 27 tomorrow"
"I understand, but I rather just take care of it now, there's a fine right?"
"Yes, he will stand before the judge and have to pay a fine. By the way, you know your russian is quite good, where are you from?"
"I was born in Tashkent, but grew up in the USA. My mother says I speak like a child in a kitchne"
we all laugh at this point, and parker is saying that he has Misha, our director, on the phone and he would like to speak to the cop. The cop doesn't want to talk to him and begrudgingly takes the phone bu thte connection is bad and he looses him.
"So this isn't your problem, go back"
"I understand and I'm very sorry but I can't go back without him. His passport is in the hotel, its 500 meters away from here we can run and get it."
"Thats not the problem. Ask him how much he ahd to drink"
"Billy how much did yuo have to drink?"
"3 or 4 beers"
"he had 5 or 6."
"I can't smell alcohol from him, ask him why he pissed on the wall"
BIG FRIGGIN LIGHT BULB GOES OFF AND I'M TEMPTED TO LET THEM TAKE HIM...DUMB BASTARD COULDN"T WAIT FOR THE SINGLE JOHN AND SQUIRTED ON THE WALL!!!
"Well then I apologize for his being and idiot, but I still think we can settle this here and now"
"Well you see everything is on video tape and the security guard will have problems tomorrow"
"I respect that and that you have a job to do but I will make it worth your while."
"Everything is being recorded above." pointing over my shoulder.
"Then I suggest we all walk around the corner, it looks like you're doing your job and I will settle the fine there." The bit about the security camera was bullshit... and here's why.
"Come with me, lets talk about how we can settle this..."
"Sure thing"
Five minutes later I'm having a $55 dollar handshake with the captain thanks to the money parker handed me and taking billy away, advsiing him if his penis ever comes out again, I will hack it off myself... period... piss your pants is what I told him...
I paid my first bribe to a russian cop... what a night.
I fell asleep around 7am... today, as payment for a job well done. Parker, Burke and I went to a Banya, whipped ourselves... with birch and sat in a sweedish saune, drank sweet kvas and ate dried salted squid... it was just what the doctor ordered... I'm heading to the garden and have three minutes left...
Dad happy father's day again...
e vsem... udatchey!!!!
Saturday, June 18, 2005
Russia - Warm days are here...
Its warm, actually its bordering on hot. The weather turned around in less than forty eight hours. I missed it. Actually, I'm hoping that this gorgeous day will hold through until tomrrow when I go to Peterhoff. I slept most of today. I was exhausted, well wasted would be a more accurate description but not completely from alcohol. Everyone here in this program reaches a point, veteran or not, that they just need to catch up on sleep. I hit that point last night.
A brief synopsis as time is scarce, I need to eat and then head to the Marinsky Theatre for M. Butterfly, stopping first at the Synagogue as I think the one on the other side of the street from the Marinsky is the oldest in St. Petersburg.
I couldn't sleep a wink on Thursday night. It was terrible. I woke, came here and posted and then set out on a walkabout about... I went to the Michalevsky castle where an exquisite collection of russian sculpture from the 20th century was on display. The throne room of Paul the 1st was beautiful as was the 18th century painting of his coronation.
From the palace I strolled through the Summer Gardens, (today would've been the day, alas) and took pictures of the long tree lined paths and the gorgeous statues that dove tail bushes and trees. There's a large monument to Krylov who translated Aesop into Russian and wrote many of his won fairy tales. The base of the statue is wreathed in the animals he created, his imagination, molded into bronze. There's one figure that I couldn't tear my eyes away from: a monkey clutching a cello, coming out of the base, screaming. I was enamored of him... not sure why... maybe because he had such a life like look in his eyes, or maybe that simian/human link, not sure, but he fascinated me.
From the gardens I crossed the Troitsky bridge and walked down to where the Aurora is moored, it was closed, so I took some picks of the old battle cruiser that Lenin sailed down the Nevya firing on the witner palace to kick off the 20th century's communist revolutions. I made a U turn and walked to the Mosque, which too was closed... DAMN!!! Denied, twice, between the gorgeous weather that went overcast and these two closures I was definately verkakt!
I headed back down the Troitsky and into Mars Field to see the eternal flame to the fallen heroes of the soviet union in defense of Leningrad. Mars field is gorgeous and a little desolate, you feel a little like your on Mars. It reminded me of Brenda's poem Mars Field Speaks to V. Vvedensky. From the field it was a hop skip and a jump across a canal to spilled blood, and finally, after a year of waiting, I made inside the massive doors of "Spas Na Krovi" WOW! Can I say that again? Do I need to whip out the HTML tags to emphasive the WOW?! The inside is covered with mosiacs depiciting the bible, the birth and ascencion of Christ. Its massive, its gorgeous, its breathtaking and I shot an entire roll in there... Its unbelievable. To think that this church was in complete disrepair and never fixed following the war which featured a massive shell piercing a 6 square meter hole in the largest kupula. Reconstruction started in the 1970s, it was used as a storehouse for a ballet at one time as well. Finally, in 1997, restored to its original glory, the mosaic frescoes rebuilt, it openned its doors and its glory to the world. its very impressive, which also makes me curious now to see St. Basil's in Moscow as I think it was you Zach who said that Spilled Blood is more impressive.
By this time I was exhausted, completely and thoroughly. I mean trashed. I went to sleep for two hours, the dogs, my footsies, were barking loudly. I woke up and then went to the student reading... Sam Amadon was brilliant. From there it was dinner at zoom, then some running about, mobile calls and confusion trying to round up stray sheep and it was off to the waterfront for the party. All the high schools graduated last night. It was a zoo!!!!!!!!!!! There were fireworks over the Admiralty and Peter Paul Fortress, we sat at the beer garden nearest the Dvoretsky Bridge and drank beers and talked loudly as the crowd thickened with revellers... from there it was a split decision between Fort Ross and the club Red Line, I opted for the quiet of Fort Ross, after a few hours and a trip to KFC with some hungry people that wanted an escort, it was finally to bed at 5am.
Now I'm up, I'm hungry and off to get some Pelmene before the opera... mas later...
I have some stuff to put up that I've been scribbling... I hope everyone is well at home...
udatchey vsem!
A brief synopsis as time is scarce, I need to eat and then head to the Marinsky Theatre for M. Butterfly, stopping first at the Synagogue as I think the one on the other side of the street from the Marinsky is the oldest in St. Petersburg.
I couldn't sleep a wink on Thursday night. It was terrible. I woke, came here and posted and then set out on a walkabout about... I went to the Michalevsky castle where an exquisite collection of russian sculpture from the 20th century was on display. The throne room of Paul the 1st was beautiful as was the 18th century painting of his coronation.
From the palace I strolled through the Summer Gardens, (today would've been the day, alas) and took pictures of the long tree lined paths and the gorgeous statues that dove tail bushes and trees. There's a large monument to Krylov who translated Aesop into Russian and wrote many of his won fairy tales. The base of the statue is wreathed in the animals he created, his imagination, molded into bronze. There's one figure that I couldn't tear my eyes away from: a monkey clutching a cello, coming out of the base, screaming. I was enamored of him... not sure why... maybe because he had such a life like look in his eyes, or maybe that simian/human link, not sure, but he fascinated me.
From the gardens I crossed the Troitsky bridge and walked down to where the Aurora is moored, it was closed, so I took some picks of the old battle cruiser that Lenin sailed down the Nevya firing on the witner palace to kick off the 20th century's communist revolutions. I made a U turn and walked to the Mosque, which too was closed... DAMN!!! Denied, twice, between the gorgeous weather that went overcast and these two closures I was definately verkakt!
I headed back down the Troitsky and into Mars Field to see the eternal flame to the fallen heroes of the soviet union in defense of Leningrad. Mars field is gorgeous and a little desolate, you feel a little like your on Mars. It reminded me of Brenda's poem Mars Field Speaks to V. Vvedensky. From the field it was a hop skip and a jump across a canal to spilled blood, and finally, after a year of waiting, I made inside the massive doors of "Spas Na Krovi" WOW! Can I say that again? Do I need to whip out the HTML tags to emphasive the WOW?! The inside is covered with mosiacs depiciting the bible, the birth and ascencion of Christ. Its massive, its gorgeous, its breathtaking and I shot an entire roll in there... Its unbelievable. To think that this church was in complete disrepair and never fixed following the war which featured a massive shell piercing a 6 square meter hole in the largest kupula. Reconstruction started in the 1970s, it was used as a storehouse for a ballet at one time as well. Finally, in 1997, restored to its original glory, the mosaic frescoes rebuilt, it openned its doors and its glory to the world. its very impressive, which also makes me curious now to see St. Basil's in Moscow as I think it was you Zach who said that Spilled Blood is more impressive.
By this time I was exhausted, completely and thoroughly. I mean trashed. I went to sleep for two hours, the dogs, my footsies, were barking loudly. I woke up and then went to the student reading... Sam Amadon was brilliant. From there it was dinner at zoom, then some running about, mobile calls and confusion trying to round up stray sheep and it was off to the waterfront for the party. All the high schools graduated last night. It was a zoo!!!!!!!!!!! There were fireworks over the Admiralty and Peter Paul Fortress, we sat at the beer garden nearest the Dvoretsky Bridge and drank beers and talked loudly as the crowd thickened with revellers... from there it was a split decision between Fort Ross and the club Red Line, I opted for the quiet of Fort Ross, after a few hours and a trip to KFC with some hungry people that wanted an escort, it was finally to bed at 5am.
Now I'm up, I'm hungry and off to get some Pelmene before the opera... mas later...
I have some stuff to put up that I've been scribbling... I hope everyone is well at home...
udatchey vsem!
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Russia - A Tale Of Two Cities
This is later than I normally post but I was exhausted this morning and running on very little sleep. We had a very late late night last night and I was charged with opening and tending the office for the first two hours this morning. I was there, corporeally, not so sure about my head though.
Yesterday started wonderfully. After I posted I went to the church of Catharina Aleksandreavna. Its a large catholic church dating back to the early 19th century. The inside was gutted by fire in the 80s and it was since rebuilt. Sadly, the 200 year old frescoes were destroyed. There are brick altars that still show the signs of fire and destruction. I sat and talked with the woman who ran the place, she was selling beezwax canals. She told me the history of the church and talked to me a bit about the other Catholic Churches in St. Peters.
I left the church an headed down the Gribojedeva hoping to get into Spill blood-- CLOSED! Cerado! Zakrity! Well that's just my luck. I swear I'm getting into that place before I leave this time. I seem the have the dumbest luck there. Its terrible. I listened to a couple old men singing and playing accordion on one of the bridges. The singe had a gorgeous voice and the songs probably dated back to the time of Lenin or before. They were very old Russian tuns, probably military as both of them sported their medals. I dropped some money in the accordion case and then two hoods came up and began to harass the guys. I think they were trying to extort money from them. I was going to take their picture, I tend to ask before I take them, but once the thugs made it on the scene I backed off... I walked down the canal and passed a ballet school where a piano was banging out something that sounded like Tchaikovsky and the voice of the ballet teacher boomed from an open window. I could only imaging the terror of the tutu clad teenagers as they were criticized for everything from their posture to their grace. Still, there was something charming about the whole experience.
Back to the hotel with haste I went and wound up meeting James for the Dostoevsky Crime & Punishment walk. There was only one othe person who came on the walk, Karen. We started by an embankment on the Gribojedeva where Jams set th scene an conundrum of coming to St. Petersburg an wanting to see Dostoevsky's St. Petersburg. It doesn't exist. You must be asking yourself, what do you mean? It doesn't exist?! That's absurd! I think so too, but you're also thinking with a western mind. Dostoevsky was detested by both Lenin and Stalin. He was, in his own time, pronounced dead as a writer. Although in the west he has been hailed as a genius, a paragon of not only Russian letters, but literature the world over, he was not as beloved here in Russia. St. Petersburg played host to throngs of writers in the 19th century. They were everywhere. There were dozens of them. The city built by Peter the great, facades with courtyards, long perspective lines, was also a major bureaucracy and it needed clerks to run it. Lots of them. These clerks were amazing; they spoke four to five languages, wrote and did translations. Once the serfs were set free, people fooled the cities from the countryside. Petersburg swelled in its population and also in its brain trust. Gogol was here, self loathing, self hating, a short small man who burned his own manuscripts and thought of himself as a poet and not a novelist. Pushkin's legacy was live and well in both stone and paper from the bank of the Nevya to the Catherine palace outside the city limits. This was a place where writers lived, work, live and died. Although in our western mind Dostoevsky is Russian literature along with Tolstoy, the concentration of writers would make your head spin.
Now, taking that background into account, consider that the walk we went on never existed. The quarter of the city, just beside Sennay Square and the old hay market id indeed exist an th street on which Roskalnikov lived had over 14 bars and 18 brothels in a two block stretch, is a figment of one man's imagination. Fydor was very observant he would walk through the neighborhood muttering to himself. He would move often for he wrote about the places he live and exhausted the creative anima there and would need more inspiration thus he had many flats around the city. St. Petersburg is not only a real place, a place that carries the mythos of Russian literature, but is contextualized by western preference. We forced Dostoevsky back on Russia. When James came here 5 years ago to do research there were no maps that listed Dostoevsky's St. Petersburg, it doesn't exist, yet it does in a universe west of this place.
We left the embankment and made our way up the street to the house where a plak hangs announcing that Fydor wrote Crime an Punishment there. From there we crossed the street and went into a dvor (courtyard) and through an open door, to the top of a staircase that would have been where Roskalnikov lived. The walls at the top are covered with grafiti saying repent, forgive, Roskalnikov lives, murderer, we believe in you Dostoyevsky. The owners/occupants paint over it, but it doesn't stop. The graffiti is in 12 or more languages. Its everywhere. The mythos of that apartment, of a fictional character transcends both language and culture, yet here maybe its taken a little for granted.
Yes, I took pictures.
We left the flat and moved down the street and around the corner to the Pawn Broker's flat where the murder takes place. During soviet times, Stalin was hosting some cultural visit from some noteable scholars. They were so ashamed of soviet poverty that they installed Brass Knobs on the stair case that lead up to the flat. Some were still there, others were missing.
The stairwell is much cleaner, its not quite the cult locus as with R.'s flat. (aside, wow I love the tunes here, thy are playing a remix of Scottie Deep). From the pawn brokers flat it was back onto the gribojeiva for James' closing thoughts on both the impact of the novel in the west and what we just experience.
There's a quote from big D. I can't remember the whole thing but he said something like this: respect life. All inspiration should come from life for its far richer than the imagination. Trust life he said.
With that in mind we set out for dinner at Zoom. The food is still quite good there.
*****
7am the next day.
I had run out of time the day before and I decided that rather than buy more time and go back I needed food. It was off to the brick for tsatzivi and xachapuri. Back to my tale of two cities.
*****
Zoom offers one a relaxing atmosphere, relatively good service, wonderful ambiance and a generally great place to be. The menus are card catalog drawers. Every dish is on a notecard in the drawer. I could picture a joint like this in Hayes Valley in SF. James and I were joined by Andy, a participant that decided last minute to arrive early. Unfortunately housing is tight so he had to find his own digs until the second session starts and we can move him into the hotel/hostel/dorm.
After an hour or more of smoking drinking beers and general discourse concerning education and how people learn James and I left Andy to work on his book and we went back to the office. We stopped off at the hotel to drop off my camera. Tom met us in the office lobby and said we were off to Cynic. What's cynic you ask? Well let me tell you. If one was to take Kazanskaya Ulitza down to where you can see St. Isaac's Cathedral you would run into a short bit of street till it hits the giant square that in Dostoevsky's time lacked St. Isaacs. It was a massive, massive square that parallelled the massive city in which it resided. Half way up the first block one runs into an archway that leads to a dvor. There's a small sign that's easily missed, I didn't see it. But below the sign is a wooden door. I would call it pile of wood more than a door, but low and behold, a narrow set of stairs ran you down into the cellar and into a breakbeat haven of young kids. The tables were picnic style benches of wood with green metalic legs. The benches pulled out. They served Baltika No. 7 (quickly becoming my favorite beer in Petersburg.) After a liter or so the tap ran dry and we had to switch to Tuborg, also not bad. Our party consisted of Sarah, Crystal, Masha, Tom, James, Natalie and David. We spent a good hour to two listening to breakbeats and talking. I was feeling rather tired from the previous nights revelerie, but that's the funny thing about steady beer consumption: it wakes me up given enough of it. The alcohol kicks in and as long as I keep adding coal on the fire the locomotive keeps chugging right along.
Eventually another group of Americans sat down at another table (seemed quite the popular and out of the way place with the foreigners.) A large contingent of our party was on their way and eventually they arrived surly, hungry and ready for havoc. We moved to the back room which at that point was empty for lack of easy sitting and benches. Then more arrived but not before I managed one good glass of absinthe... man that was ridiculously strong. Some pour it over sugar allowing it to disolve. I took the sugar, dipped it in the glass letting the liquid creap into the white crystals turning them emarld green. I took my lighter and set it on fire watching the blue alcohol flame as it slowly cooked the sugar. I stirred it into the drink and then knocked it back... I don't like anis but I did like this.
The night continued on with sevearl shots of vodka, a den of smoke so thick you could play football with the whisps that fell to the ground, or trampel them into what seemed a thousand year old stone floor. We cavorted, moved about and told each other lies that strangers tell when feeling an immediate intimacy for no other reason than they're both strangers on a train.
Time doesn't matter in this city and I couldn't tell you what time James got up stating he couldn't stay there anymore. I stood with him as I had been nodding off feeling the weight of countless liters of beer, vodka and the green devil. We left the bar and then went on another walk. This time we were in the throws of the drink but filled with a certain hope. The fresh air filled our lungs and our pace quickened as we walked past St. Isaacs heading for the Nevya. It was very late, but in this part of town, between the Dvortsky and Troitsky bridge, the party was just getting primed. I know it was before 1:30 both bridges were still down. We passed the tribunal where Dostoevsky was tried before being sentanced to a mock execution that was stopped at the last moment and he went into exile for 10 years in Siberia. Through the garden and behold, there we were before the statue of Pushkin's Bronze Horseman. We stopped admiring it as a token of living literature. It was almost too much to take in.
We turned right at the river and headed up the street watching the people as we swam next to each other in a one sided alcoholic haze. I was happy that I had very little money on me. If we were stopped by the cops the shakedown would be cheap. As we neared the Dvoretsky bridge the corwd thickened with revellers. Somewhere near the walkway across the bridge a girl materialized in my slightly blurred vision, a fire dancer that was twirling two balls of flame against the white night sky that had darkened to its most purple hue. From somewhere drums sounded and it felt like I had stepped out of Dostoevsky's world and crossed the atlantic, the great divide and the rocky's and wound up in a burning man festival. This night was too amazing. On we pressed into Revolution square infront of the Hermitage and starred at the white columns of the castle ablaze with lights. The square was filled with motorcycles and people doing tricks here and there. We passed through a vaulted arch and out onto Nevsky Prospect turning right to head back to Kazanskaya when we hit paradise.
Are you ready for this? Positive? Cause I'm not sure I can tell you, but hell, I must, right? Viva la KFC!!! Oh yes... there's nothing like KFC at two in the morning hell bent with 19th century fire in your veins. The sweet smell of the colonel's chicken hit us with a vengence and we felled our bellies swell with hunger and the desire for something other than our liquid diet. We walked inside and ordered a couple sandwhiches and fries, pepsi no ice. (You don't want the ice in this town, its made with tap water and giardi lives in the taps.) I must say, or maybe its the absinthe and vodka that says this, but them fries were mighty tasty.
My cell phone began to explode. It was Burke. He was back at the mini hotel and wanted company. He called us three times while we were there. We stood, content with our walk, our tour, our score and proceeded back to our residence. We found Tom behind his keyboard with a bottle of Stolichnaya on his desk, sealed and three shot glasses. After spending the night drinking Ruskiy Standard Platinum my stomach turned at the notion of powering down Stoli at room temperature. We did, a couple shots later we went to bed, after hearing one of his short stories of course.
A knock on my door fifteen minutes after laying my weary head down roused me from my bed and my smoke. James and I were trashed but I would quickly sober up. One of our participants had been walking back from Datcha with two other people. A group of three seperated them and he was cornered alone like a wilda beast. The lifted him over the edge of the griffin bridge threatening to throw him into the water. During the commotion they removed his wallet, put him down and made off. Another group of three, probably with the first party came by and advised him not to call the cops and then too vanished. The other two caught up to him and they proceeded post haste back to the office. He was unharmed, shaken, but unharmed. The loss of credit card and money was minimal at best. He related this story to us in the hotel, he was still emotional, but we gathered around him and tried to let him know it was ok and that we were all happy he was safe. This is the first such incident in the history of SLS. People have had their wallets lightened by the cops, that's just life here, but never in this manner.
The next day (Thursday) Misha anounced that a group of thieves had decended upon downtown and had been robbing people left and right. He also advised the group gathered at the Petrovas & Dee reading to avoid Datcha. Between getting stopped there and the dark lanes one needs to take to get back to the hotel, its just a bad idea. I couldn't agree more... tis a tiny place that gets so packed you spend most of your time on the street anyway. I much rather sit in the beer garden all night, or at the brick under the blue light, which we did last night. It was an all nighter at the brick listening and dancing to jazz and blues. The time and space vortex made me think back to last year's jazz festival: sitting in this town, with no real sense or desire for time, listening to timeless music, its something that will never leave me. I didn't drink that much last night, mostly just beer... staying away from the vodka. I wish I had. I came home and from having slept late into the afternoon yesterday, my sleep pattern is totally off. I might have fallen asleep for an hour, but woke and couldn't get back to sleep. I finally roused myself and came here to kill time before breakfast, and the openning of the Atryum so I can get some more rubles. Then I think I'll walk for a few hours to burn some energy, take a nap and it will be off to the Nabokov museum for the open mic, Fat Pete's Wordshack as its come to be called over the years.
Some folks are trying to rope me into going to Maralyn Mansom with them on Monday night as translator, I'm not so sure I want to, and I may have to work that night anyway, I'll be on night patrol then (notchnoy deezhour). But anyway, that's still several days away and I'm hard up for sleep, so that may determine my schedule more than anything.
So I'm going to say adieu, shislivo, goodnight and goodbye for the time being...
Yesterday started wonderfully. After I posted I went to the church of Catharina Aleksandreavna. Its a large catholic church dating back to the early 19th century. The inside was gutted by fire in the 80s and it was since rebuilt. Sadly, the 200 year old frescoes were destroyed. There are brick altars that still show the signs of fire and destruction. I sat and talked with the woman who ran the place, she was selling beezwax canals. She told me the history of the church and talked to me a bit about the other Catholic Churches in St. Peters.
I left the church an headed down the Gribojedeva hoping to get into Spill blood-- CLOSED! Cerado! Zakrity! Well that's just my luck. I swear I'm getting into that place before I leave this time. I seem the have the dumbest luck there. Its terrible. I listened to a couple old men singing and playing accordion on one of the bridges. The singe had a gorgeous voice and the songs probably dated back to the time of Lenin or before. They were very old Russian tuns, probably military as both of them sported their medals. I dropped some money in the accordion case and then two hoods came up and began to harass the guys. I think they were trying to extort money from them. I was going to take their picture, I tend to ask before I take them, but once the thugs made it on the scene I backed off... I walked down the canal and passed a ballet school where a piano was banging out something that sounded like Tchaikovsky and the voice of the ballet teacher boomed from an open window. I could only imaging the terror of the tutu clad teenagers as they were criticized for everything from their posture to their grace. Still, there was something charming about the whole experience.
Back to the hotel with haste I went and wound up meeting James for the Dostoevsky Crime & Punishment walk. There was only one othe person who came on the walk, Karen. We started by an embankment on the Gribojedeva where Jams set th scene an conundrum of coming to St. Petersburg an wanting to see Dostoevsky's St. Petersburg. It doesn't exist. You must be asking yourself, what do you mean? It doesn't exist?! That's absurd! I think so too, but you're also thinking with a western mind. Dostoevsky was detested by both Lenin and Stalin. He was, in his own time, pronounced dead as a writer. Although in the west he has been hailed as a genius, a paragon of not only Russian letters, but literature the world over, he was not as beloved here in Russia. St. Petersburg played host to throngs of writers in the 19th century. They were everywhere. There were dozens of them. The city built by Peter the great, facades with courtyards, long perspective lines, was also a major bureaucracy and it needed clerks to run it. Lots of them. These clerks were amazing; they spoke four to five languages, wrote and did translations. Once the serfs were set free, people fooled the cities from the countryside. Petersburg swelled in its population and also in its brain trust. Gogol was here, self loathing, self hating, a short small man who burned his own manuscripts and thought of himself as a poet and not a novelist. Pushkin's legacy was live and well in both stone and paper from the bank of the Nevya to the Catherine palace outside the city limits. This was a place where writers lived, work, live and died. Although in our western mind Dostoevsky is Russian literature along with Tolstoy, the concentration of writers would make your head spin.
Now, taking that background into account, consider that the walk we went on never existed. The quarter of the city, just beside Sennay Square and the old hay market id indeed exist an th street on which Roskalnikov lived had over 14 bars and 18 brothels in a two block stretch, is a figment of one man's imagination. Fydor was very observant he would walk through the neighborhood muttering to himself. He would move often for he wrote about the places he live and exhausted the creative anima there and would need more inspiration thus he had many flats around the city. St. Petersburg is not only a real place, a place that carries the mythos of Russian literature, but is contextualized by western preference. We forced Dostoevsky back on Russia. When James came here 5 years ago to do research there were no maps that listed Dostoevsky's St. Petersburg, it doesn't exist, yet it does in a universe west of this place.
We left the embankment and made our way up the street to the house where a plak hangs announcing that Fydor wrote Crime an Punishment there. From there we crossed the street and went into a dvor (courtyard) and through an open door, to the top of a staircase that would have been where Roskalnikov lived. The walls at the top are covered with grafiti saying repent, forgive, Roskalnikov lives, murderer, we believe in you Dostoyevsky. The owners/occupants paint over it, but it doesn't stop. The graffiti is in 12 or more languages. Its everywhere. The mythos of that apartment, of a fictional character transcends both language and culture, yet here maybe its taken a little for granted.
Yes, I took pictures.
We left the flat and moved down the street and around the corner to the Pawn Broker's flat where the murder takes place. During soviet times, Stalin was hosting some cultural visit from some noteable scholars. They were so ashamed of soviet poverty that they installed Brass Knobs on the stair case that lead up to the flat. Some were still there, others were missing.
The stairwell is much cleaner, its not quite the cult locus as with R.'s flat. (aside, wow I love the tunes here, thy are playing a remix of Scottie Deep). From the pawn brokers flat it was back onto the gribojeiva for James' closing thoughts on both the impact of the novel in the west and what we just experience.
There's a quote from big D. I can't remember the whole thing but he said something like this: respect life. All inspiration should come from life for its far richer than the imagination. Trust life he said.
With that in mind we set out for dinner at Zoom. The food is still quite good there.
*****
7am the next day.
I had run out of time the day before and I decided that rather than buy more time and go back I needed food. It was off to the brick for tsatzivi and xachapuri. Back to my tale of two cities.
*****
Zoom offers one a relaxing atmosphere, relatively good service, wonderful ambiance and a generally great place to be. The menus are card catalog drawers. Every dish is on a notecard in the drawer. I could picture a joint like this in Hayes Valley in SF. James and I were joined by Andy, a participant that decided last minute to arrive early. Unfortunately housing is tight so he had to find his own digs until the second session starts and we can move him into the hotel/hostel/dorm.
After an hour or more of smoking drinking beers and general discourse concerning education and how people learn James and I left Andy to work on his book and we went back to the office. We stopped off at the hotel to drop off my camera. Tom met us in the office lobby and said we were off to Cynic. What's cynic you ask? Well let me tell you. If one was to take Kazanskaya Ulitza down to where you can see St. Isaac's Cathedral you would run into a short bit of street till it hits the giant square that in Dostoevsky's time lacked St. Isaacs. It was a massive, massive square that parallelled the massive city in which it resided. Half way up the first block one runs into an archway that leads to a dvor. There's a small sign that's easily missed, I didn't see it. But below the sign is a wooden door. I would call it pile of wood more than a door, but low and behold, a narrow set of stairs ran you down into the cellar and into a breakbeat haven of young kids. The tables were picnic style benches of wood with green metalic legs. The benches pulled out. They served Baltika No. 7 (quickly becoming my favorite beer in Petersburg.) After a liter or so the tap ran dry and we had to switch to Tuborg, also not bad. Our party consisted of Sarah, Crystal, Masha, Tom, James, Natalie and David. We spent a good hour to two listening to breakbeats and talking. I was feeling rather tired from the previous nights revelerie, but that's the funny thing about steady beer consumption: it wakes me up given enough of it. The alcohol kicks in and as long as I keep adding coal on the fire the locomotive keeps chugging right along.
Eventually another group of Americans sat down at another table (seemed quite the popular and out of the way place with the foreigners.) A large contingent of our party was on their way and eventually they arrived surly, hungry and ready for havoc. We moved to the back room which at that point was empty for lack of easy sitting and benches. Then more arrived but not before I managed one good glass of absinthe... man that was ridiculously strong. Some pour it over sugar allowing it to disolve. I took the sugar, dipped it in the glass letting the liquid creap into the white crystals turning them emarld green. I took my lighter and set it on fire watching the blue alcohol flame as it slowly cooked the sugar. I stirred it into the drink and then knocked it back... I don't like anis but I did like this.
The night continued on with sevearl shots of vodka, a den of smoke so thick you could play football with the whisps that fell to the ground, or trampel them into what seemed a thousand year old stone floor. We cavorted, moved about and told each other lies that strangers tell when feeling an immediate intimacy for no other reason than they're both strangers on a train.
Time doesn't matter in this city and I couldn't tell you what time James got up stating he couldn't stay there anymore. I stood with him as I had been nodding off feeling the weight of countless liters of beer, vodka and the green devil. We left the bar and then went on another walk. This time we were in the throws of the drink but filled with a certain hope. The fresh air filled our lungs and our pace quickened as we walked past St. Isaacs heading for the Nevya. It was very late, but in this part of town, between the Dvortsky and Troitsky bridge, the party was just getting primed. I know it was before 1:30 both bridges were still down. We passed the tribunal where Dostoevsky was tried before being sentanced to a mock execution that was stopped at the last moment and he went into exile for 10 years in Siberia. Through the garden and behold, there we were before the statue of Pushkin's Bronze Horseman. We stopped admiring it as a token of living literature. It was almost too much to take in.
We turned right at the river and headed up the street watching the people as we swam next to each other in a one sided alcoholic haze. I was happy that I had very little money on me. If we were stopped by the cops the shakedown would be cheap. As we neared the Dvoretsky bridge the corwd thickened with revellers. Somewhere near the walkway across the bridge a girl materialized in my slightly blurred vision, a fire dancer that was twirling two balls of flame against the white night sky that had darkened to its most purple hue. From somewhere drums sounded and it felt like I had stepped out of Dostoevsky's world and crossed the atlantic, the great divide and the rocky's and wound up in a burning man festival. This night was too amazing. On we pressed into Revolution square infront of the Hermitage and starred at the white columns of the castle ablaze with lights. The square was filled with motorcycles and people doing tricks here and there. We passed through a vaulted arch and out onto Nevsky Prospect turning right to head back to Kazanskaya when we hit paradise.
Are you ready for this? Positive? Cause I'm not sure I can tell you, but hell, I must, right? Viva la KFC!!! Oh yes... there's nothing like KFC at two in the morning hell bent with 19th century fire in your veins. The sweet smell of the colonel's chicken hit us with a vengence and we felled our bellies swell with hunger and the desire for something other than our liquid diet. We walked inside and ordered a couple sandwhiches and fries, pepsi no ice. (You don't want the ice in this town, its made with tap water and giardi lives in the taps.) I must say, or maybe its the absinthe and vodka that says this, but them fries were mighty tasty.
My cell phone began to explode. It was Burke. He was back at the mini hotel and wanted company. He called us three times while we were there. We stood, content with our walk, our tour, our score and proceeded back to our residence. We found Tom behind his keyboard with a bottle of Stolichnaya on his desk, sealed and three shot glasses. After spending the night drinking Ruskiy Standard Platinum my stomach turned at the notion of powering down Stoli at room temperature. We did, a couple shots later we went to bed, after hearing one of his short stories of course.
A knock on my door fifteen minutes after laying my weary head down roused me from my bed and my smoke. James and I were trashed but I would quickly sober up. One of our participants had been walking back from Datcha with two other people. A group of three seperated them and he was cornered alone like a wilda beast. The lifted him over the edge of the griffin bridge threatening to throw him into the water. During the commotion they removed his wallet, put him down and made off. Another group of three, probably with the first party came by and advised him not to call the cops and then too vanished. The other two caught up to him and they proceeded post haste back to the office. He was unharmed, shaken, but unharmed. The loss of credit card and money was minimal at best. He related this story to us in the hotel, he was still emotional, but we gathered around him and tried to let him know it was ok and that we were all happy he was safe. This is the first such incident in the history of SLS. People have had their wallets lightened by the cops, that's just life here, but never in this manner.
The next day (Thursday) Misha anounced that a group of thieves had decended upon downtown and had been robbing people left and right. He also advised the group gathered at the Petrovas & Dee reading to avoid Datcha. Between getting stopped there and the dark lanes one needs to take to get back to the hotel, its just a bad idea. I couldn't agree more... tis a tiny place that gets so packed you spend most of your time on the street anyway. I much rather sit in the beer garden all night, or at the brick under the blue light, which we did last night. It was an all nighter at the brick listening and dancing to jazz and blues. The time and space vortex made me think back to last year's jazz festival: sitting in this town, with no real sense or desire for time, listening to timeless music, its something that will never leave me. I didn't drink that much last night, mostly just beer... staying away from the vodka. I wish I had. I came home and from having slept late into the afternoon yesterday, my sleep pattern is totally off. I might have fallen asleep for an hour, but woke and couldn't get back to sleep. I finally roused myself and came here to kill time before breakfast, and the openning of the Atryum so I can get some more rubles. Then I think I'll walk for a few hours to burn some energy, take a nap and it will be off to the Nabokov museum for the open mic, Fat Pete's Wordshack as its come to be called over the years.
Some folks are trying to rope me into going to Maralyn Mansom with them on Monday night as translator, I'm not so sure I want to, and I may have to work that night anyway, I'll be on night patrol then (notchnoy deezhour). But anyway, that's still several days away and I'm hard up for sleep, so that may determine my schedule more than anything.
So I'm going to say adieu, shislivo, goodnight and goodbye for the time being...
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Russia - Weather as uncooperative
My kingdom for a shadow, or a shadow of kingdoms or even a feifdom, something, some kind of contrast, some morsel of dark and light in opposition. The last three days have been overcast with only occasional bursts of blue that are quickly swept aside by the armada of clouds coming down from the north. Its miserable. My camera has been sitting in my closet for days now. I've snapped a few indoor pics of our illustrious office staff and that's it.
I'm heading out on the crime and punishment walk in two hours to see the hosue of Roskalnikov and then head to where the murder happened. I think we may go the the Hay Market as well (now called Gostiny Dvor). I'm going to make this short as I want to take a walk down Nevsky to the open air art bazar. I might go and see Skidan after class and see if I can find that store that is run by a friend of his that has the clothing that poems are written and sowed onto. Avante garde poetic dress... how's that for fringe?
There's talk of a private outting tonight. I'm not on night watch, but I do have to open the office tomorrow. Its wednesday, right? I forget here. Time is imaginary. Time is a cruel joke that never makes up its mind between dusk and dawn, between the hours of gray clouds and blue skies, time exists as a reminder that it must exist somewhere, but not here.
Yeah... not much to report today, maybe more tomorrow. Oh, I went back to Kilikia last night taking a group with me and ordering for the lot of em. Several people tried the bliss that is Shashlik Kurduk. After Kilikia it was back to the brick I was going to say goodnight to some people but then you sit down and someone thumps their neck and says "nu shto? po pedesat?" and the night begins anew, or maybe it never ended as you down one shot of Ruskiy Standard Platinum after another, washing them down with half liters of Baltika and making faces as the waitresses who are watching us few speakers babble in a mixture of russian and english. (They understood everyting I think.)
The Peterhoff trip is coming up, I'm looking forward to that. I didn't get into the castle last year as we arrived alte. Foreigners get in up until noon and then the rest of the afternoon is reserved for Russian Federation Citizens. We're heading out early. Sasha and I sat down and I told her what we had to do and how, the line to get in is insane and we have to keep the people hearded together, if they seperate and we get in, they will miss out. Its a small castle/palace, time is short, lines long, and this time I hope I won't have to yell at anyone. The hermitage is calling as well. There are lectures all day tomorrow, I think I'm going to blow them off and head over... I need a trip to the hermitage... its necessary.
Right... I'm off... there's a bazar with my name on it and a murder to track...
shislivo!
I'm heading out on the crime and punishment walk in two hours to see the hosue of Roskalnikov and then head to where the murder happened. I think we may go the the Hay Market as well (now called Gostiny Dvor). I'm going to make this short as I want to take a walk down Nevsky to the open air art bazar. I might go and see Skidan after class and see if I can find that store that is run by a friend of his that has the clothing that poems are written and sowed onto. Avante garde poetic dress... how's that for fringe?
There's talk of a private outting tonight. I'm not on night watch, but I do have to open the office tomorrow. Its wednesday, right? I forget here. Time is imaginary. Time is a cruel joke that never makes up its mind between dusk and dawn, between the hours of gray clouds and blue skies, time exists as a reminder that it must exist somewhere, but not here.
Yeah... not much to report today, maybe more tomorrow. Oh, I went back to Kilikia last night taking a group with me and ordering for the lot of em. Several people tried the bliss that is Shashlik Kurduk. After Kilikia it was back to the brick I was going to say goodnight to some people but then you sit down and someone thumps their neck and says "nu shto? po pedesat?" and the night begins anew, or maybe it never ended as you down one shot of Ruskiy Standard Platinum after another, washing them down with half liters of Baltika and making faces as the waitresses who are watching us few speakers babble in a mixture of russian and english. (They understood everyting I think.)
The Peterhoff trip is coming up, I'm looking forward to that. I didn't get into the castle last year as we arrived alte. Foreigners get in up until noon and then the rest of the afternoon is reserved for Russian Federation Citizens. We're heading out early. Sasha and I sat down and I told her what we had to do and how, the line to get in is insane and we have to keep the people hearded together, if they seperate and we get in, they will miss out. Its a small castle/palace, time is short, lines long, and this time I hope I won't have to yell at anyone. The hermitage is calling as well. There are lectures all day tomorrow, I think I'm going to blow them off and head over... I need a trip to the hermitage... its necessary.
Right... I'm off... there's a bazar with my name on it and a murder to track...
shislivo!
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Russia - Distance and insignificance
Long night last night. My bed and I found each other around 6 in the morning, maybe sometime there after. I woke up after having smoked far too many gauloises thinking I had skinned a small kitten and then coated my teeth with it's hide. I was quite sober all night long.
This is going to be a bit of reverse and then forward making, I hope. The day before when talking back from the internet cafe I swung through Kaznaskay Cabor. The place is marvelously dark and gothic. Its very quiet in there and I like walking around th gorgeous marble floors looking at the antique icons while relishing the smell of beez wax candles burning and filling the place with that subtle aroma. I stoppe near the end of the nave. A man was walking around with a camera and a large lens (sigma, I noticed) he came up to me and in not so good english asked me if he could take pictures here. I recognized the accent and answered in Russian, better not, I don't see anyone else taking pics. St. Isaacs is more of a museum but Kazanskay seems to be a more austere kind of place where people go to pray. There is an icon that people wait in line to approach, touch and then pray at. We talked for a fwe minutes and I found out he was Israeli, originally from Russia. He asked what else there was to see to which i was floored, there's so much! His friend came over, he was from Israel, he spoke russian but so so, his name was Manish. He asked how long I was in town for and I told him 3 weeks and he said he would go mad there staying for three weeks and had a generally unpleasant disposition. He found everything distasteful then proceeded for giving me shit for never having been to Israel because I was a jew. Actually, I really didn't like him. He asked what I did and I told him that I was a student and worked in technology teaching part time, to which he told me that I would never have a life and get married as it paid nothing. I think he missed the bit about me working full time, but the pronouncements this man made.. OY VEY!
Saturday has been arranged: I'm going to see Madame Butterfly at the Marinsky Theatre, St. Pete's largest and most beautiful. I think its several hundred years old. Saturday is the premier. I didn't bring slacks but I have a nice shirt to wear, that should suffice. I'm thinknig of getting tickets for Tourindot later in the month. We'll see. There's a ton of ballet performances at the Marinsky but I'm not a dance fan as some of you know, but I'm quite fond of the Opera.
We have readings tonight at the Mayakovsky library. Stephen Elliot will be reading and Saskia Hamilton. I'm on shore leave till then, but time is running out. I had quite the late night making sure a splinter group of students made it home ok. We had a brief run in with the cops who wanted to see our papers. We presented them and got off with a warning to go home. I was ridiculously sober, had a couple beers on the boat and that was it. Monday nights are my night for "Notchnoy Dezhurstav" The night host or night watch, along with Katia who stayed at Fort Ross with the larger group. No one was relieved of any rubels or dollars. Our "spravkas" have come in from the University. These are temporary identification cards with offical seals which are quite helpful when dealing with the local sheriffs. They searched a couple people but seemed to be pleased with having me as an interpreter there, once again marvelling at my good accent. These guys though didn't make any kind of faces when i said where I was born or that we had emigrated out of the country, as the ones last year had. It was nice to pass through the situation so quickly and easily.
During my time at the Datch club which was openned by one of the two founding members of "Dva Samoleta"(Two Airplanes - the Pearl Jam of Russia). The club is tiny and they play everything from Funk to 80s and rockabily. Its a strange place. Datcha is a funny name too. It means summer house in russian, but it also has a conotation that means "my pad" or a place to get drunk that is owned. So one going to the datcha can expect to get sauched. Period. Beers are reasonably priced and people dance, if th eplace gets packed it spills out to the street. Strange bizarre place I tell you. Met a guy from Morishas there who had just finsihed his practicals to become a doctor. He's been living in St. Pete's for 7 years. He's dating the girl that now runs the joint.
I stood outside with Jeff Allen for quite some time discussing the parcitulas of Hendrix's death. He didn't have to die. Jimmy's girlfriend wouldn't call the cops because they had a ton of hash in the flat. The story goes, as Jeff just read a biography on Hendrix, she called Eric Bourdon who told her to call the ambulance. Instead she goes out and buys a pack of smokes and then pours red wine down his throat thinking it will help. What a needless death. He was flat broke by then. He had been scrweed by his lawyers to and fro. He died with less than 8 dollars in his account and his estate has been poorly managed ever since. Michael Jeffries his manager didn't help out either. In some ways he was like a child, all he really wanted to do was play and make music. He had no business saavy at all. I just caught an add as I logged out of MSN that Michale Jackson got off. I don't know if I should be sad that Hendrix died a needless death or MJ gets off, I don't know nor care if he's innocent or guilty. The verdict isn't a surprise and from this distance seems even more irrelevant because this city is lined with the bones of needless deaths.
I heard a lovely story. As we headed back to the Moyka canal last night on the boat we passed the rose colored Michaelivski Dvoretz (The Michael Castle). Its an unusual color, different from any of the other castles or palaces in St. Pete's. The story goes that Michael (prince?) had fallen for a woman who wore an exquisite rose colored dress and that they had met at a ball. She vanished leaving behind a single glove, never to be found again. He took the glove to his artisans and instructed them to paint his palace in that color so he could be reminded of her. Its a one of a kind.
And with that... adieu...
This is going to be a bit of reverse and then forward making, I hope. The day before when talking back from the internet cafe I swung through Kaznaskay Cabor. The place is marvelously dark and gothic. Its very quiet in there and I like walking around th gorgeous marble floors looking at the antique icons while relishing the smell of beez wax candles burning and filling the place with that subtle aroma. I stoppe near the end of the nave. A man was walking around with a camera and a large lens (sigma, I noticed) he came up to me and in not so good english asked me if he could take pictures here. I recognized the accent and answered in Russian, better not, I don't see anyone else taking pics. St. Isaacs is more of a museum but Kazanskay seems to be a more austere kind of place where people go to pray. There is an icon that people wait in line to approach, touch and then pray at. We talked for a fwe minutes and I found out he was Israeli, originally from Russia. He asked what else there was to see to which i was floored, there's so much! His friend came over, he was from Israel, he spoke russian but so so, his name was Manish. He asked how long I was in town for and I told him 3 weeks and he said he would go mad there staying for three weeks and had a generally unpleasant disposition. He found everything distasteful then proceeded for giving me shit for never having been to Israel because I was a jew. Actually, I really didn't like him. He asked what I did and I told him that I was a student and worked in technology teaching part time, to which he told me that I would never have a life and get married as it paid nothing. I think he missed the bit about me working full time, but the pronouncements this man made.. OY VEY!
Saturday has been arranged: I'm going to see Madame Butterfly at the Marinsky Theatre, St. Pete's largest and most beautiful. I think its several hundred years old. Saturday is the premier. I didn't bring slacks but I have a nice shirt to wear, that should suffice. I'm thinknig of getting tickets for Tourindot later in the month. We'll see. There's a ton of ballet performances at the Marinsky but I'm not a dance fan as some of you know, but I'm quite fond of the Opera.
We have readings tonight at the Mayakovsky library. Stephen Elliot will be reading and Saskia Hamilton. I'm on shore leave till then, but time is running out. I had quite the late night making sure a splinter group of students made it home ok. We had a brief run in with the cops who wanted to see our papers. We presented them and got off with a warning to go home. I was ridiculously sober, had a couple beers on the boat and that was it. Monday nights are my night for "Notchnoy Dezhurstav" The night host or night watch, along with Katia who stayed at Fort Ross with the larger group. No one was relieved of any rubels or dollars. Our "spravkas" have come in from the University. These are temporary identification cards with offical seals which are quite helpful when dealing with the local sheriffs. They searched a couple people but seemed to be pleased with having me as an interpreter there, once again marvelling at my good accent. These guys though didn't make any kind of faces when i said where I was born or that we had emigrated out of the country, as the ones last year had. It was nice to pass through the situation so quickly and easily.
During my time at the Datch club which was openned by one of the two founding members of "Dva Samoleta"(Two Airplanes - the Pearl Jam of Russia). The club is tiny and they play everything from Funk to 80s and rockabily. Its a strange place. Datcha is a funny name too. It means summer house in russian, but it also has a conotation that means "my pad" or a place to get drunk that is owned. So one going to the datcha can expect to get sauched. Period. Beers are reasonably priced and people dance, if th eplace gets packed it spills out to the street. Strange bizarre place I tell you. Met a guy from Morishas there who had just finsihed his practicals to become a doctor. He's been living in St. Pete's for 7 years. He's dating the girl that now runs the joint.
I stood outside with Jeff Allen for quite some time discussing the parcitulas of Hendrix's death. He didn't have to die. Jimmy's girlfriend wouldn't call the cops because they had a ton of hash in the flat. The story goes, as Jeff just read a biography on Hendrix, she called Eric Bourdon who told her to call the ambulance. Instead she goes out and buys a pack of smokes and then pours red wine down his throat thinking it will help. What a needless death. He was flat broke by then. He had been scrweed by his lawyers to and fro. He died with less than 8 dollars in his account and his estate has been poorly managed ever since. Michael Jeffries his manager didn't help out either. In some ways he was like a child, all he really wanted to do was play and make music. He had no business saavy at all. I just caught an add as I logged out of MSN that Michale Jackson got off. I don't know if I should be sad that Hendrix died a needless death or MJ gets off, I don't know nor care if he's innocent or guilty. The verdict isn't a surprise and from this distance seems even more irrelevant because this city is lined with the bones of needless deaths.
I heard a lovely story. As we headed back to the Moyka canal last night on the boat we passed the rose colored Michaelivski Dvoretz (The Michael Castle). Its an unusual color, different from any of the other castles or palaces in St. Pete's. The story goes that Michael (prince?) had fallen for a woman who wore an exquisite rose colored dress and that they had met at a ball. She vanished leaving behind a single glove, never to be found again. He took the glove to his artisans and instructed them to paint his palace in that color so he could be reminded of her. Its a one of a kind.
And with that... adieu...
Monday, June 13, 2005
Russia - The fashion this season...
I've been walking around town. The office has become somewhat of a prison. Although there is an abundant amount of merry making there between the assistants and our russian counterparts (e.g. the girls Sveta [she's the boss], Tatiana [Tanya ticket queen and probably most street saavy] Olya [The airport goddess], Anna [I sleep in the office and never go home and study too much] Sasha [Dorthy who lived in Kansas for a year] Katia [My partner in crime tonight] and a the rest of the SLS staff) we make each other laugh as often as possible. Its necessary, bloody important! Still, the office has taken up every moment of my last three days. I'm feeling quite tired and thinknig that a nap might be in order. I could really use it. I decided to forego a nap and take in the nice weather (which was growing overcast) and take a walk down Nevsky Prospect to get out, see the town. I was hoping to go down and cath the afternoon light (not unlike the light all day long, as its light all day long) and take a picture of the Bronze Horseman that inspired Pushkin's poem, it elluded me last year. Part way down Nevsky the skies thwarted me and unloaded. Figures.
To avoid the rain I stopped in a small art where I bought a few prints last year. I was happy to find it still on Nevsky but sad to see the painting I debated buying last year gone. I don't remember the artist so its not like I could find him out and see if he or she has more of the same. I'm not surprised though, it was gorgeous and at 18,000 Rubels, a steal. I love this store. There are galleries all around town. A small square infront of a church on Nevsky sells local art, most of kind of cheezy but the occasional gem--there's just an abundance of art. On every canal sits an artist trying to capture St. Petersburg: an answer that preceeds a question. Its like playing ontological jeapordy. I looked over some lovely handcrafter Russian Nesting Dolls (Matroshki) I like them more than the fabricated ones that are mass produced, although quite beautiful they don't have the rustic charm of these artist (student) creations.
I have that record (the internet cafe has wonderful music, and in this case, I have this record, its a chicken lips remix of an artist whose name escapes me... )
The facts:
The fasion this season ladies and gentlemen are pointy shoes. They border on elf and sometimes cross that threshold into Santa's little helpers. This fashion applies to both men and women, its really obnoxious.
According to Tom, men have taken to wearing Capris in Moscow. (doesn't seem to have caught on here.)
Fight for your change, they hate breaking large bills.
The genuflecting old woman is on Nevsky every day. I want to take her picture. She breaks my heart a little more every time I see her and I've taken to giving her more and more money each time.
There are too many pharmacies in this city. A cornacopia of pharmacology. (I remember Stacy telling me something similar happens in France, they love their meds.)
Weather is unpredictable (but we've already discussed this.)
A nap is in my future before our midnight boat cruise...
Shislivo...
To avoid the rain I stopped in a small art where I bought a few prints last year. I was happy to find it still on Nevsky but sad to see the painting I debated buying last year gone. I don't remember the artist so its not like I could find him out and see if he or she has more of the same. I'm not surprised though, it was gorgeous and at 18,000 Rubels, a steal. I love this store. There are galleries all around town. A small square infront of a church on Nevsky sells local art, most of kind of cheezy but the occasional gem--there's just an abundance of art. On every canal sits an artist trying to capture St. Petersburg: an answer that preceeds a question. Its like playing ontological jeapordy. I looked over some lovely handcrafter Russian Nesting Dolls (Matroshki) I like them more than the fabricated ones that are mass produced, although quite beautiful they don't have the rustic charm of these artist (student) creations.
I have that record (the internet cafe has wonderful music, and in this case, I have this record, its a chicken lips remix of an artist whose name escapes me... )
The facts:
A nap is in my future before our midnight boat cruise...
Shislivo...
Russia - Academics day 1
Well classes are in full swing. I woke early this morning unable to sleep, not surprising, there's no night. Oh I must definately be in St. Petersburg. Actually my room mate was sneezing all night and I was snoring, we did a wonderful job of harassing each other out of sleep but it was great. We went across the street and bought water and coke and sat around drinking and smoking for an hour. He ran a photography business in LA so we had a ton to discuss. James Boobar, my room mate, is our resident Dostoyevsky scholar and leads the Roskalnikov tours around town. I'm going to go on one with him. Very friendly man who teaches at the University of The Redlands in southern California.
WEnt tot he office to help Tom get the classes ready for the students. We managed to heard our participants to their rooms after breakfast. Everyone settled into the groove and then Tom, Sasha and I retired for our breakfast which was comprised of Cirniki (fried cottage cheese with sour cream and honey), an omlet for tom, tea and vinigrette for Sasha. Svetta, our Russian coordinator called a meeting of all staff members. We discussed some upcoming excursions to Peterhoff, dolled out morning duties in openning the office, I have thursday mornings, and then assigned partner teams to monitor the attendants when they are out and about in the evennings, I have Monday nights with Katia.
Tonight we're going to take a boat trip down the Nevya river at 12:30 to watch the openning of the bridges. St. Petersburg should be seen from the water. Its magnificent. Floating down the Nevya gives you a view of the winter palace, summer gardens, hermitage, Peter Paul Fortress, Admiralty and everything else that makes this ctiy a majestic jewel on the rim of the arctic. The weather is perfect for such an event. The reason for the late launch of the boat is the weird spectacle of the bridges openning. Now bridges openning on the Nevya is not strange, but when yuo consider the people lined up on the banks of the river to watch them open, partying, screaming at their openning, it becomes odd and wonderful. Boats of Russians and tourists alike sail down the Nevya greatting each other and screaming "ooooooooorah" or "Udatchey" (good luck or best wishes). The bridges open at 1:35, all of them, to allow large barges and vessels to pass don the river. They close at 5 AM with brief 20 minute closer in order to allow auto and foot traffic. Pedestrians rush to the banks to be the first ones across the bridges when they lower for that 20 minute window. There's always accidents and the roads nearest the banks on the PEtrograd, Vasilevsky Island and mainland side are thronged with cars trying to escape their temporary incarcertaion on one or the other bank. Spectacular really.
Its warm, actually hot today and I'm in sandals. My left foot is relishing this light wear. Although my boots are comfortable, the amount of walking i've done over the last two days has generated a huge blister on one foot. I've had to tighten the belt. The weightloss has begun which is a rather nice feeling. Considering how much beer we've all been drinking, you still loose weight as the diet consists primarly of protein. I've had potatos once, and a little bit of bread, but mostly meat and eggs.
I'm looking forward to the first days to be over with. I'll have more time to walk and what I'm hoping, read and finish Memory For Forgetfullness by Mahmoud Darwish which I put a dent in while I was flying from JFK to Moscow. The book chronicles a single day in August which was host to the worst shelling ever of Beirut by Israeli forces. It was written after the invasion by a Palestinian poet in Exile who was living in Beirut then. He wrote it as a way to cope with the carnage and the destruction of his adopted city. Its a meditation and paradox that one has to remember in order to forget or the way he lusts for coffee and the simplest most banal things that become hallmarks of our daily routine and when they are absent the distended reality of coping with desire and hunger. Its a fantastic read, part prose, part poetry, I recommend it to everyone who has an interest in memory, horor and how to represent it without it representing you.
So much to see. I've decided to use my one roll of Color IR film in the Summer gardens. If the weather holds up I'll have time this week. Its so easy to put things off, as I'm here for three weeks and say I have time, but i'll be busy when the second session comes in and I have to take advantage of the cooperating weather, yesterday it rained cats and dogs...
Alright, back to the office to prep the afternoon classes which will be underway in about 90 minutes, maybe grab lunch at Taromoko, the blini stand near the Moyka canal, a blin with ham and cheese and a bottle of kvas are a definite treat. Oh, and one more gastronomic tale, had Satsivi last night, its a georgian chicken dish. I've heard that its the premier dish of the Georgian kitchen but I didn't have it last year. Don't even know whats in the sauce but damn is it good... Zach... weigh on this one mate, what the hell is Satsivi?! Tastes peanuty... clear the fog!
Be well my friends...
Udatchey vam vsem...
WEnt tot he office to help Tom get the classes ready for the students. We managed to heard our participants to their rooms after breakfast. Everyone settled into the groove and then Tom, Sasha and I retired for our breakfast which was comprised of Cirniki (fried cottage cheese with sour cream and honey), an omlet for tom, tea and vinigrette for Sasha. Svetta, our Russian coordinator called a meeting of all staff members. We discussed some upcoming excursions to Peterhoff, dolled out morning duties in openning the office, I have thursday mornings, and then assigned partner teams to monitor the attendants when they are out and about in the evennings, I have Monday nights with Katia.
Tonight we're going to take a boat trip down the Nevya river at 12:30 to watch the openning of the bridges. St. Petersburg should be seen from the water. Its magnificent. Floating down the Nevya gives you a view of the winter palace, summer gardens, hermitage, Peter Paul Fortress, Admiralty and everything else that makes this ctiy a majestic jewel on the rim of the arctic. The weather is perfect for such an event. The reason for the late launch of the boat is the weird spectacle of the bridges openning. Now bridges openning on the Nevya is not strange, but when yuo consider the people lined up on the banks of the river to watch them open, partying, screaming at their openning, it becomes odd and wonderful. Boats of Russians and tourists alike sail down the Nevya greatting each other and screaming "ooooooooorah" or "Udatchey" (good luck or best wishes). The bridges open at 1:35, all of them, to allow large barges and vessels to pass don the river. They close at 5 AM with brief 20 minute closer in order to allow auto and foot traffic. Pedestrians rush to the banks to be the first ones across the bridges when they lower for that 20 minute window. There's always accidents and the roads nearest the banks on the PEtrograd, Vasilevsky Island and mainland side are thronged with cars trying to escape their temporary incarcertaion on one or the other bank. Spectacular really.
Its warm, actually hot today and I'm in sandals. My left foot is relishing this light wear. Although my boots are comfortable, the amount of walking i've done over the last two days has generated a huge blister on one foot. I've had to tighten the belt. The weightloss has begun which is a rather nice feeling. Considering how much beer we've all been drinking, you still loose weight as the diet consists primarly of protein. I've had potatos once, and a little bit of bread, but mostly meat and eggs.
I'm looking forward to the first days to be over with. I'll have more time to walk and what I'm hoping, read and finish Memory For Forgetfullness by Mahmoud Darwish which I put a dent in while I was flying from JFK to Moscow. The book chronicles a single day in August which was host to the worst shelling ever of Beirut by Israeli forces. It was written after the invasion by a Palestinian poet in Exile who was living in Beirut then. He wrote it as a way to cope with the carnage and the destruction of his adopted city. Its a meditation and paradox that one has to remember in order to forget or the way he lusts for coffee and the simplest most banal things that become hallmarks of our daily routine and when they are absent the distended reality of coping with desire and hunger. Its a fantastic read, part prose, part poetry, I recommend it to everyone who has an interest in memory, horor and how to represent it without it representing you.
So much to see. I've decided to use my one roll of Color IR film in the Summer gardens. If the weather holds up I'll have time this week. Its so easy to put things off, as I'm here for three weeks and say I have time, but i'll be busy when the second session comes in and I have to take advantage of the cooperating weather, yesterday it rained cats and dogs...
Alright, back to the office to prep the afternoon classes which will be underway in about 90 minutes, maybe grab lunch at Taromoko, the blini stand near the Moyka canal, a blin with ham and cheese and a bottle of kvas are a definite treat. Oh, and one more gastronomic tale, had Satsivi last night, its a georgian chicken dish. I've heard that its the premier dish of the Georgian kitchen but I didn't have it last year. Don't even know whats in the sauce but damn is it good... Zach... weigh on this one mate, what the hell is Satsivi?! Tastes peanuty... clear the fog!
Be well my friends...
Udatchey vam vsem...
Sunday, June 12, 2005
Russia - 8 Hours... unbelievable!
I had the most amazing night of sleep last night. Albeit I didn't actually get to bed until 3 am, I slept like the dead until my alarm went off at 11. I probably could have slept well into the afternoon but work and duty calls. This was probably the first night that I slept that hard and that long. I wasn't even drunk last night, I drank my beers slowly and had a good dinner at the golden brick with the rest of the group that had arrived so I sipping beers alnight didn't get me tossed. After I woke I heard voices, tinny and forced in their approach through my window. looked through my vertical blinds and saw that my room faced the courtyard of the building. That's why it was so dark. The courtyard is very small and we're on the second floor. A heavy metal grate is over all our windows. I'm starting to like this minihotel. The minhotel is a combination hostil and B&B. The woman that runs the place is very sweet and everyone who stayed there in past years said its the quietst of the places to stay and probably most secure. We have the entire mini hotel. Its the entire second floor of this building. There are about 12 rooms in there. Maybe moore. Bathrooms are communal but you get a room with clean sheets and a clean towel. I think that addresses most of one's needs. I'm gong to be rooming with James Boobar, our resident Dostoyevsky Scholar. He's a hoot, a hard drinkin' man with a wonderful sense of humor. We got along well last year but I only met him in my last few days.
Back in time now... just a bit... It was a long day. Between the tours I did for the incoming crowd, there was tons of helping situate people in their respective domiciles. Some had to be taken to the "Profilactory" AKA Dorm, in the center of the Gherzen University complex, to helping people order lunch at the cafe In the Inn which is staffed by some very curt girls that are well on their way to becoming old soviet women. Wait, the USSR is gone... hm... must be genetic. The food at the inn is great. I had breakfast with Tom this morning (I should say Tom 7. There's also Tom 11 (AKA Tom Hill of SFSU (in)fame[y])) They were nickcnamed that by Tony Mochama who is arriving from Kenya today along with a large party of Kenyans from Nairobi. We had omlets, tea, bread and I had Olivye (russian potato salad) and Tom had a greek salad. Sleep and a good breakfast, essential fuel to function through the day. Today is going to be more tours, more arrivals and then the comencement dinner at a restaraunt not far from The Church of Spilled Blood. After that I'm sure there'll be a night of revelry and then hopefully people will have the sense to get to bed earlier because classes start tomorrow morning at 10am.
The disorientation of new arrivals is infectious. After the group dinner at the Zalatoy Kirpich (Golden Brick), the new Georgian Restaurant under the hotel, we went to the beer garden. One group went to Fort Ross, but wound up at the garden. I kind of wish we had gone to the Fort. There were an interminable number of drunks on the streets due to the holiday which decided they wanted to see "The Foreigners". I think with a group as large as we have, we might be taking the party indoors in the future. Its more epxensive. The draw of the garden is that its really bloody cheap. But its just more pleasant not to have to worry about the revlers that range from recent high school grads proving their adulthood by downing more booz than they have blood in their body to your average russian bumb in the throw of a bottle. Things will calm down soon. But yeah, the disorientation. Its infectious, although I got my bearings quickly, remembering which way to walk, what to avoid, e.g. groups of drunks on the side of the street or near the park, just cross the street and take the extra steps. But yeah... they'll learn quick. We'll have a talk about all that tonight at the reception dinner. How to keep a low profile in a city that invites you to live as large as the literary gods that line the avenues that bear their names.
Oh on another note. This world is bloody small... I mean so bloody small I could die! You will never believe who is here. So at dinner, I'm sitting one table away from this woman that looks oddly familiar. I mean really familiar. She and another woman migrate to our table because we're smoking up a storm. Later we sit down together at the beer garden asking each other the usual questions: "Where are you from?" SF!!! Yeah, I just moved from there to Brooklyn. Oh really? Then it dawned on me, you're not Rebecca Anderson are you? Boom... yes... Rebecca Anderson, former graduate advisor to Fourteen Hills and mastermind of the Ecstatic Monkey literary promotions... Wow this is a small bloody world. Mind boggling, really! Anyway, we had a good chat, it was good to see a friendly face. Her last semester at the university was my first. I had seen her at oneo f the EM events.
Well enough for now, duty and honor call... or my cell phone will start ringing in a minute. One thing I was contemplating last night, it has to do with the sound of language and its relation to the individual. Although by sound I feel at home, I know that the sounds I produce mark me as a foreigner. A Russian girl bummed a light from me. I said sure and spoke to her in Russian as I was standing with a group of Americans at the time. She was a little floored, or maybe didn't expect to hear her native tongue from the mouth of someone that spoke such clean English, beer soaked but clean. In any event, the ability to identify with the language, which creates a false feeling of familiarity bears a counter weight in the fact that my familiarty is the exact distance in regards to how distant I am to the city and the people. The closer I try and get the more distant I must ultimately feel by the fact that I am so close, but so far away thanks to accent and limited vocabulary. I'm wondering if Walter Benjamin could shed some light on this. I feel like a facsimile, a work of photography in the work of art that is St. Pete's. But this is all erudition and right now I have actual work to do.
Vsevo dobroyo...
-L
p.s. apologia for the spelling mistakes, the keyboards drive me nuts here!
Back in time now... just a bit... It was a long day. Between the tours I did for the incoming crowd, there was tons of helping situate people in their respective domiciles. Some had to be taken to the "Profilactory" AKA Dorm, in the center of the Gherzen University complex, to helping people order lunch at the cafe In the Inn which is staffed by some very curt girls that are well on their way to becoming old soviet women. Wait, the USSR is gone... hm... must be genetic. The food at the inn is great. I had breakfast with Tom this morning (I should say Tom 7. There's also Tom 11 (AKA Tom Hill of SFSU (in)fame[y])) They were nickcnamed that by Tony Mochama who is arriving from Kenya today along with a large party of Kenyans from Nairobi. We had omlets, tea, bread and I had Olivye (russian potato salad) and Tom had a greek salad. Sleep and a good breakfast, essential fuel to function through the day. Today is going to be more tours, more arrivals and then the comencement dinner at a restaraunt not far from The Church of Spilled Blood. After that I'm sure there'll be a night of revelry and then hopefully people will have the sense to get to bed earlier because classes start tomorrow morning at 10am.
The disorientation of new arrivals is infectious. After the group dinner at the Zalatoy Kirpich (Golden Brick), the new Georgian Restaurant under the hotel, we went to the beer garden. One group went to Fort Ross, but wound up at the garden. I kind of wish we had gone to the Fort. There were an interminable number of drunks on the streets due to the holiday which decided they wanted to see "The Foreigners". I think with a group as large as we have, we might be taking the party indoors in the future. Its more epxensive. The draw of the garden is that its really bloody cheap. But its just more pleasant not to have to worry about the revlers that range from recent high school grads proving their adulthood by downing more booz than they have blood in their body to your average russian bumb in the throw of a bottle. Things will calm down soon. But yeah, the disorientation. Its infectious, although I got my bearings quickly, remembering which way to walk, what to avoid, e.g. groups of drunks on the side of the street or near the park, just cross the street and take the extra steps. But yeah... they'll learn quick. We'll have a talk about all that tonight at the reception dinner. How to keep a low profile in a city that invites you to live as large as the literary gods that line the avenues that bear their names.
Oh on another note. This world is bloody small... I mean so bloody small I could die! You will never believe who is here. So at dinner, I'm sitting one table away from this woman that looks oddly familiar. I mean really familiar. She and another woman migrate to our table because we're smoking up a storm. Later we sit down together at the beer garden asking each other the usual questions: "Where are you from?" SF!!! Yeah, I just moved from there to Brooklyn. Oh really? Then it dawned on me, you're not Rebecca Anderson are you? Boom... yes... Rebecca Anderson, former graduate advisor to Fourteen Hills and mastermind of the Ecstatic Monkey literary promotions... Wow this is a small bloody world. Mind boggling, really! Anyway, we had a good chat, it was good to see a friendly face. Her last semester at the university was my first. I had seen her at oneo f the EM events.
Well enough for now, duty and honor call... or my cell phone will start ringing in a minute. One thing I was contemplating last night, it has to do with the sound of language and its relation to the individual. Although by sound I feel at home, I know that the sounds I produce mark me as a foreigner. A Russian girl bummed a light from me. I said sure and spoke to her in Russian as I was standing with a group of Americans at the time. She was a little floored, or maybe didn't expect to hear her native tongue from the mouth of someone that spoke such clean English, beer soaked but clean. In any event, the ability to identify with the language, which creates a false feeling of familiarity bears a counter weight in the fact that my familiarty is the exact distance in regards to how distant I am to the city and the people. The closer I try and get the more distant I must ultimately feel by the fact that I am so close, but so far away thanks to accent and limited vocabulary. I'm wondering if Walter Benjamin could shed some light on this. I feel like a facsimile, a work of photography in the work of art that is St. Pete's. But this is all erudition and right now I have actual work to do.
Vsevo dobroyo...
-L
p.s. apologia for the spelling mistakes, the keyboards drive me nuts here!
Friday, June 10, 2005
Russia - Arrival 6/10/2005
I'm here. Can I say that again? I'm here.
Í've been pondering how I should write this first post since my arrival. Should I just list the specifics? Perhaps a detailed chronology? Maybe impressions. How do you impress the feeling of being back in the city built on bullets and poems? Problems abound.
Lets start with logistics. I arrived in NYC after a long flight. I shlepped to the international terminal and sat in line; Aeroflot only opens its countes at 5 pm. While sitting I ran into Polly, a student in the program that had emailed me that we were on the same flight. We checked in, left the luggage and began searching for Michael, my other charge. We never found Michael, at least not at JFK. Time flew an we found ourselves on the plane. It was delayd on the runway for 1 1/2 hours. Oh how I hate that, but this is typical for Aeroflot, my experience last year was unusual and its smooth and streamlined opeation, the airline that is. The flight was long and miserable. The chairs are inredibly uncomfortable and narrow. 8 1/2 hours to Moscow. We deplained and got ourselves into the passpot control line where I looked at someone standing next to me and casually read his immigration card that was sticking out of his pocket, low and behold Michael Cohen of NYC. It was good we found him, what followed really sucked.
Immigration was a zoo as you can imagine. We waited for over an hour, closer to 1 1/2. They only had half the windows open. We were finally at the red line, waiting, waiting. All of a sudden peopl are brought my airport officials in military uniform into our line infront of us. The people behind grumble. We let one group through, not like we had a choice. Then another group, they kep sticking them in our bloody line! Then another, at which point we all exploded. A family with a small boy, the mother went a little ape shit, then cut into our line. I was livid and starting to loose my cool. Somoene "senior" was called. I was worried about our luggage, where was it? Who was going though it? A boy of twenty some odd years came walking out of the office with epauletes on his shoulders. In my best, sternest and most concerned voice I said "Look, we're trying to catch a plane to St. Petersburg, can you please let us through, we've been waiting and are concerned we might miss our flight. Can't you put some of these people in other lines." The woman behind me screamed "Can't you put them in the diplomatic line? Its empty!!!" His response was terse and matched the disgruntled expression on his youthful face: "No, I can't" Well that was that. A woman in military dress came charging up "Tovarish Capitan!" Our boy captain was power tripping and probably enjoyed my broken russian plea, fruitless, or perhaps just what he needed after a serious night of drinking who knows.
We made it through the line and got our bags which seemed untouched and dusty from the trip. Out into the throng of waiting relatives and friends, peppered with cab drivers trying to con you into a $35 (US Baby) trip to Sheremetyvo domestic terminal when there's a free bus. We fought some off, changed some dollars into rubles and then proceeded to the bar for a beer. We had a while to wait for the bus and our flight wasn't for a couple hous. The domestic terminal is small and paked, so the international one is a better place to kill time. We caught the free shuttle, my charges were extatic that I was there to navigate them through the wilds of the Russian transit.
Changed: last year you would wait in the airport lobby and someone would lead you into the parking lot where the bus stopped. This year they finished the constrution on the road and it pulls up to the front entrance, glad I asked the woman at the window.
Our flight from Moscow to Petersbug was delayed by an hour. I later learned from Katia, who met us in Petersburg that this was happeneing to everyone, everyone seems to have been late.
The flight was utterly miserable. I couldn't lower the tray without it hitting me in the chest. This was the most cramped plane I've ever been on. It was like some Tupalov jet, not one of the propellor props that sat on the run way. Thank god the flight is less than an hour.
We arrived around 8pm... and the sun was up, as if it was 3 in the afternoon. Michael couldn't believe it. He'll fit in niely. We got our luggage and Katia took us to a waiting car and off we went down Moskovsky Prospect heading for the heart of Petersburg.
Things learned from the cab drive:
Speed limits are 80km on the highway.
City streets are 60km but no one will touch you if you do 70.
71 will get you pulled over.
The city will be empty this weekend in observane of Russian Independance Day (federal holiday)this was confirmed by the sheer volume of traffic heading out the city.
There's a beer festival in a few days.
The military is starting their holidays (let the party begin).
Moskovsky Prospet was built shortly afte the war. Its all Stalinist architeture, big bold buildings that display the soiet might and grandeur, pretty run down now.
Ah... the Gherzen. Everyone is here. Tanya, Sveta, Misha, Parker, Mariya. It was wondeful to see old faces, shake hands and exchange hugs. I left my stuff at the office, gave my charges over to Sveta who took them to their rooms and Masha gave them a tour.
Parker, Michael and I walked around the corner to KILIKIA (yes... heaven, what I've been dreaming about for months now... ) and I ordered SHASHLIK KURDUK!!!! Oh I've arrived, I'm a happy happy happy traveller now. We ate, drank 300 grams of vodka and a half liter of beer. I made a true believer out of Michael who confessed to not being a mutton fan but "this is excellent!" A call later informed us that a paty was headed to the beer gardon infront of the church (Kazanskay Cabor - See the russia galleies for a piture). Enroute it was determined that bathroom trip was necessary so we made haste for Chaika, a trendy restaraun where Igor Chesnokov works, one of Parker's friends. He wasn't there, we ordered a round and took turns leaving the previous one. The place is packed with hookers who get the boot from The Grand Hotel Europa ($400 / night). They were giving us the eye, it was comic. We later saw one of them walking with an olde gent down the canal... ah commerce, it takes all kinds.
We left Chayka and headed to the beer garden, sat for a beer, then got a call from Misha that he was Lima. We left the garden crossed back over Nevskya and headed in for a beer. Tom Burke was there, waiting for Tom Hill's arrival, who was sent last minute on businss to Kiev. I got a text message from him... something about gorgeous women in the ukraine. Caroline from Kenya was there, it was hugs and shock at my clean shaven face. Last year I sported a beard. She cut off her long braids and had a funky 70s due... we chatted about her older brother, a bit of a supestar in Nairobi, a journalist, that has a drinking problem... but we still love him. He's MIA right now, probably gave us the wrong flight info, a bit absentminded. He should be in today or tomorrow.
Misha fended off a drunk that wanted to have one of those heart to hearts you're prone to want to have with a stranger at some random table discussing the most intimate details of your life. I gave a grandmother with was selling lavendar 20 rubles, she was breaking my heart. We wished each other well and a girl from inside Lima, hostess, came out with a small package of food. She broke my heart. This is what kills me about this town, most of the people doing the begging, that aren't stinking drunk, are old women. There are no social programs. I'm sure she'll get more money from me... its just inhumane not to give. I can't help it.
Oh, we walked by the 24 hour store in the hotel and what do you know, the same drunk teenager from last year was still outside the shop begging for money, still drunk. I can't bloody believe it... he still has a liver and still drinknig and still going at it. Wow!!! He didn't ask me if he was my girlfriend this year.
After a beer we walked back to the hotel and I passed out in the office, finally... woke up to the sun, which never quite set last night, just dippd down where you cuoldn't see it. Saw a gorgeous moon, might be my last for a while. Woke up to the sound of the shower running, had one myself... cold water only... yeah... that'll wake you up after only about 5 1/2 hours of sleep.
The storm begins around 1pm. We have 70 people coming in today. I'll be giving tours with Masha till 1am when the last boat load arrives every hour, alternating. Dinner tonight is at the golden brik, a new Georgian place under the hotel. I hear the food is quite good.
I'm back... did I say that? The novelty is gone, but I suppose the romance is still alive. Maybe I just feel more romantic when I'm here, in love with a heritage I don't know, a place that I can't call home and a people that aren't my own. Yet the ability to understand the langauge, some of the manerisms remind me that I've spent my life not quite one, mostly this, but not quite, a cultural fence sitter of sorts, and here I'm the same, still foreign but something familiar.
Udatchey Vsem
-L
Í've been pondering how I should write this first post since my arrival. Should I just list the specifics? Perhaps a detailed chronology? Maybe impressions. How do you impress the feeling of being back in the city built on bullets and poems? Problems abound.
Lets start with logistics. I arrived in NYC after a long flight. I shlepped to the international terminal and sat in line; Aeroflot only opens its countes at 5 pm. While sitting I ran into Polly, a student in the program that had emailed me that we were on the same flight. We checked in, left the luggage and began searching for Michael, my other charge. We never found Michael, at least not at JFK. Time flew an we found ourselves on the plane. It was delayd on the runway for 1 1/2 hours. Oh how I hate that, but this is typical for Aeroflot, my experience last year was unusual and its smooth and streamlined opeation, the airline that is. The flight was long and miserable. The chairs are inredibly uncomfortable and narrow. 8 1/2 hours to Moscow. We deplained and got ourselves into the passpot control line where I looked at someone standing next to me and casually read his immigration card that was sticking out of his pocket, low and behold Michael Cohen of NYC. It was good we found him, what followed really sucked.
Immigration was a zoo as you can imagine. We waited for over an hour, closer to 1 1/2. They only had half the windows open. We were finally at the red line, waiting, waiting. All of a sudden peopl are brought my airport officials in military uniform into our line infront of us. The people behind grumble. We let one group through, not like we had a choice. Then another group, they kep sticking them in our bloody line! Then another, at which point we all exploded. A family with a small boy, the mother went a little ape shit, then cut into our line. I was livid and starting to loose my cool. Somoene "senior" was called. I was worried about our luggage, where was it? Who was going though it? A boy of twenty some odd years came walking out of the office with epauletes on his shoulders. In my best, sternest and most concerned voice I said "Look, we're trying to catch a plane to St. Petersburg, can you please let us through, we've been waiting and are concerned we might miss our flight. Can't you put some of these people in other lines." The woman behind me screamed "Can't you put them in the diplomatic line? Its empty!!!" His response was terse and matched the disgruntled expression on his youthful face: "No, I can't" Well that was that. A woman in military dress came charging up "Tovarish Capitan!" Our boy captain was power tripping and probably enjoyed my broken russian plea, fruitless, or perhaps just what he needed after a serious night of drinking who knows.
We made it through the line and got our bags which seemed untouched and dusty from the trip. Out into the throng of waiting relatives and friends, peppered with cab drivers trying to con you into a $35 (US Baby) trip to Sheremetyvo domestic terminal when there's a free bus. We fought some off, changed some dollars into rubles and then proceeded to the bar for a beer. We had a while to wait for the bus and our flight wasn't for a couple hous. The domestic terminal is small and paked, so the international one is a better place to kill time. We caught the free shuttle, my charges were extatic that I was there to navigate them through the wilds of the Russian transit.
Changed: last year you would wait in the airport lobby and someone would lead you into the parking lot where the bus stopped. This year they finished the constrution on the road and it pulls up to the front entrance, glad I asked the woman at the window.
Our flight from Moscow to Petersbug was delayed by an hour. I later learned from Katia, who met us in Petersburg that this was happeneing to everyone, everyone seems to have been late.
The flight was utterly miserable. I couldn't lower the tray without it hitting me in the chest. This was the most cramped plane I've ever been on. It was like some Tupalov jet, not one of the propellor props that sat on the run way. Thank god the flight is less than an hour.
We arrived around 8pm... and the sun was up, as if it was 3 in the afternoon. Michael couldn't believe it. He'll fit in niely. We got our luggage and Katia took us to a waiting car and off we went down Moskovsky Prospect heading for the heart of Petersburg.
Things learned from the cab drive:
Ah... the Gherzen. Everyone is here. Tanya, Sveta, Misha, Parker, Mariya. It was wondeful to see old faces, shake hands and exchange hugs. I left my stuff at the office, gave my charges over to Sveta who took them to their rooms and Masha gave them a tour.
Parker, Michael and I walked around the corner to KILIKIA (yes... heaven, what I've been dreaming about for months now... ) and I ordered SHASHLIK KURDUK!!!! Oh I've arrived, I'm a happy happy happy traveller now. We ate, drank 300 grams of vodka and a half liter of beer. I made a true believer out of Michael who confessed to not being a mutton fan but "this is excellent!" A call later informed us that a paty was headed to the beer gardon infront of the church (Kazanskay Cabor - See the russia galleies for a piture). Enroute it was determined that bathroom trip was necessary so we made haste for Chaika, a trendy restaraun where Igor Chesnokov works, one of Parker's friends. He wasn't there, we ordered a round and took turns leaving the previous one. The place is packed with hookers who get the boot from The Grand Hotel Europa ($400 / night). They were giving us the eye, it was comic. We later saw one of them walking with an olde gent down the canal... ah commerce, it takes all kinds.
We left Chayka and headed to the beer garden, sat for a beer, then got a call from Misha that he was Lima. We left the garden crossed back over Nevskya and headed in for a beer. Tom Burke was there, waiting for Tom Hill's arrival, who was sent last minute on businss to Kiev. I got a text message from him... something about gorgeous women in the ukraine. Caroline from Kenya was there, it was hugs and shock at my clean shaven face. Last year I sported a beard. She cut off her long braids and had a funky 70s due... we chatted about her older brother, a bit of a supestar in Nairobi, a journalist, that has a drinking problem... but we still love him. He's MIA right now, probably gave us the wrong flight info, a bit absentminded. He should be in today or tomorrow.
Misha fended off a drunk that wanted to have one of those heart to hearts you're prone to want to have with a stranger at some random table discussing the most intimate details of your life. I gave a grandmother with was selling lavendar 20 rubles, she was breaking my heart. We wished each other well and a girl from inside Lima, hostess, came out with a small package of food. She broke my heart. This is what kills me about this town, most of the people doing the begging, that aren't stinking drunk, are old women. There are no social programs. I'm sure she'll get more money from me... its just inhumane not to give. I can't help it.
Oh, we walked by the 24 hour store in the hotel and what do you know, the same drunk teenager from last year was still outside the shop begging for money, still drunk. I can't bloody believe it... he still has a liver and still drinknig and still going at it. Wow!!! He didn't ask me if he was my girlfriend this year.
After a beer we walked back to the hotel and I passed out in the office, finally... woke up to the sun, which never quite set last night, just dippd down where you cuoldn't see it. Saw a gorgeous moon, might be my last for a while. Woke up to the sound of the shower running, had one myself... cold water only... yeah... that'll wake you up after only about 5 1/2 hours of sleep.
The storm begins around 1pm. We have 70 people coming in today. I'll be giving tours with Masha till 1am when the last boat load arrives every hour, alternating. Dinner tonight is at the golden brik, a new Georgian place under the hotel. I hear the food is quite good.
I'm back... did I say that? The novelty is gone, but I suppose the romance is still alive. Maybe I just feel more romantic when I'm here, in love with a heritage I don't know, a place that I can't call home and a people that aren't my own. Yet the ability to understand the langauge, some of the manerisms remind me that I've spent my life not quite one, mostly this, but not quite, a cultural fence sitter of sorts, and here I'm the same, still foreign but something familiar.
Udatchey Vsem
-L
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Houston - We're ready to go...
T-Minus 7 hours and 50 minutes... I'm ready to go...
No, its not such a big deal, not right now it isn't, but it'll become more so later. I've needed a break for quite some time. I'm finally getting it. That's not the big thing. Several times today I was asked if I was ready... Does born ready mean anything? Yeah, I'm ready.
Now, as for meeting my family in Moscow on the way home, well I'm not so sure about that. I mean I'm excited, but I'm incredibly nervous. Lu said it best, "That's kinda scary and kinda cool." Yes to both, a bit more of the first rather than the latter, but still both.
Isn't it alwys the case that both fear and an anxious joy lie in wait of each other? Its like in the play Runs With Scissors where our hero is deciding between leaving this world at the mercy of ALS or on his own terms that he also puts forth the nature of a good narrative as a tension between "death & love". Sseems as if there's some truth to that. A certain cause and affect. "Why do men chase women?" asked Olympia Dukakis in Moon Struck to which Danny Aiello replied "Because they're afraid of death." Is it that we need love as a way of fending off death or do we gladly sacrifice a piece of our own individuality in finding love so as to die a little on our own terms? And like any good shaman, reborn into plurality. Oh wait, I can't pontificate on this subject at this hour, its not even that late, but I'm that dog tired... so off to die a little death---"Fear is the mind killer, fear is the little death"
No, its not such a big deal, not right now it isn't, but it'll become more so later. I've needed a break for quite some time. I'm finally getting it. That's not the big thing. Several times today I was asked if I was ready... Does born ready mean anything? Yeah, I'm ready.
Now, as for meeting my family in Moscow on the way home, well I'm not so sure about that. I mean I'm excited, but I'm incredibly nervous. Lu said it best, "That's kinda scary and kinda cool." Yes to both, a bit more of the first rather than the latter, but still both.
Isn't it alwys the case that both fear and an anxious joy lie in wait of each other? Its like in the play Runs With Scissors where our hero is deciding between leaving this world at the mercy of ALS or on his own terms that he also puts forth the nature of a good narrative as a tension between "death & love". Sseems as if there's some truth to that. A certain cause and affect. "Why do men chase women?" asked Olympia Dukakis in Moon Struck to which Danny Aiello replied "Because they're afraid of death." Is it that we need love as a way of fending off death or do we gladly sacrifice a piece of our own individuality in finding love so as to die a little on our own terms? And like any good shaman, reborn into plurality. Oh wait, I can't pontificate on this subject at this hour, its not even that late, but I'm that dog tired... so off to die a little death---"Fear is the mind killer, fear is the little death"
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Monday, June 06, 2005
Friday, June 03, 2005
Heading East
I've started a habit of making a CD before I go on a trip. I'm leaving in six days for the motherland. So here's the soundtrack for Russia 2005:
1. The Beatles - Back in the USSR
2. Gogol Bordello - Greencard Husband
3. Vladimir Vysotsky - S.O.S.
4. Bright Like Sun - Summer Moon
5. Hectate's Angels - Half Moon Cafe
6. Robber Barons - Music For A Hanging
7. Nick Cave - Come Into My Sleep
8. All Pugacheva - Zhuravlik
9. Aqvarium - Dead Sailors Don't Sleep
10. Genesis - Land of Confusion
11. Depeche Mode - Russian Cover of Little 15
12. Modest Mouse - The Cold Part
13. Woven Hand - My Russia
14. U2 - Like A Song
15. The Decemberists - We Both Go Down Together
16. Louque - Cry, Cry
17. Beck - Farewell Ride
18. Iron & Wine - Freedom Hangs Like Heavan
19. ThaMuseMent - Protest Song
20. Four Year Bender - Rainy Day
1. The Beatles - Back in the USSR
2. Gogol Bordello - Greencard Husband
3. Vladimir Vysotsky - S.O.S.
4. Bright Like Sun - Summer Moon
5. Hectate's Angels - Half Moon Cafe
6. Robber Barons - Music For A Hanging
7. Nick Cave - Come Into My Sleep
8. All Pugacheva - Zhuravlik
9. Aqvarium - Dead Sailors Don't Sleep
10. Genesis - Land of Confusion
11. Depeche Mode - Russian Cover of Little 15
12. Modest Mouse - The Cold Part
13. Woven Hand - My Russia
14. U2 - Like A Song
15. The Decemberists - We Both Go Down Together
16. Louque - Cry, Cry
17. Beck - Farewell Ride
18. Iron & Wine - Freedom Hangs Like Heavan
19. ThaMuseMent - Protest Song
20. Four Year Bender - Rainy Day
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Friday, May 20, 2005
The Quotable Mr. Kirson
"Remember bro, I'm a caveman"
"No problem, no problem... I go with the flow... like water on a rock"
"When you get to the Metreon call me and I'll tell you how far away I am"
"You know what bro, there are more ATMs than payphones here!"
A 10 year overdue meeting is no longer in deficit.
__________________________________
The grayhound station in SF: Afterhours: Its a sketchy sketchy place.
Sitting waiting for Mr. Kirson to arrive from S.D. Couple comes in, man is saggin' really low like a b-boy. He walks past me as I read the Guardian looking for the skinny on what's going down this weekend. He inserts a five dollar bill into a vending machine; The machine eats his money and doesn't give him anything.
His girlfriend, a skinny blond with a large umbrella under her arm comes around. We have to go, "I aint leavin' without my muthafucken five dollahs"
She goes to see the sole ticket seller behind the counter. At the same time two security guards are trying to wake up a man completely passed out in the hallway. The light is a very sterile kind of flourescence without illuminating anything. It cast more shadows than it dispelled. Maybe it was the karma of the terminal.
She comes back telling him that they don't have the key to the machine. "We have to go we're going to mis sour buss, I'll give you the five dollars on Monday."
"I aint going, I want mah muthafucken money."
"Baby, if you love me you'll stop this and come away."
"Fuck that, I want my money"
"If you keep this up they'll call the cops and you'll wind up in jail"
"Shut up bitch!"
WHACK!
I didn't see him slap her in the head, only her double up next to me and scamper off, and he walked off in antoher direction. Cops arrived 5 minutes later to wake the drunk and get him up. She came back "Did you see the guy that was causing all that trouble?"
I pointed to the hall he disapeared down.
She went back to the cops.
I heard the bus pull up.
I walked out onto the run way an there was Mr. Kirson...
Lingering thought: That was your chance to leave a man who thought you were worth less than five dollars. Yet you pleaded for him to go. He was perfectly happy sitting there waiting for someone with a key that may or may not materialize tomorrow (more likely not as those were independantly owned machines). You had your chance.
I will never understand obsession with that kind of misery. It's an odd safety being able to expect despair... to be able to say this is my lot, and that's just all there is to it.
I saw a man sitting on the stairs, he had the most inwardly terrified stare I've seen in a long time.
"No problem, no problem... I go with the flow... like water on a rock"
"When you get to the Metreon call me and I'll tell you how far away I am"
"You know what bro, there are more ATMs than payphones here!"
A 10 year overdue meeting is no longer in deficit.
__________________________________
The grayhound station in SF: Afterhours: Its a sketchy sketchy place.
Sitting waiting for Mr. Kirson to arrive from S.D. Couple comes in, man is saggin' really low like a b-boy. He walks past me as I read the Guardian looking for the skinny on what's going down this weekend. He inserts a five dollar bill into a vending machine; The machine eats his money and doesn't give him anything.
His girlfriend, a skinny blond with a large umbrella under her arm comes around. We have to go, "I aint leavin' without my muthafucken five dollahs"
She goes to see the sole ticket seller behind the counter. At the same time two security guards are trying to wake up a man completely passed out in the hallway. The light is a very sterile kind of flourescence without illuminating anything. It cast more shadows than it dispelled. Maybe it was the karma of the terminal.
She comes back telling him that they don't have the key to the machine. "We have to go we're going to mis sour buss, I'll give you the five dollars on Monday."
"I aint going, I want mah muthafucken money."
"Baby, if you love me you'll stop this and come away."
"Fuck that, I want my money"
"If you keep this up they'll call the cops and you'll wind up in jail"
"Shut up bitch!"
WHACK!
I didn't see him slap her in the head, only her double up next to me and scamper off, and he walked off in antoher direction. Cops arrived 5 minutes later to wake the drunk and get him up. She came back "Did you see the guy that was causing all that trouble?"
I pointed to the hall he disapeared down.
She went back to the cops.
I heard the bus pull up.
I walked out onto the run way an there was Mr. Kirson...
Lingering thought: That was your chance to leave a man who thought you were worth less than five dollars. Yet you pleaded for him to go. He was perfectly happy sitting there waiting for someone with a key that may or may not materialize tomorrow (more likely not as those were independantly owned machines). You had your chance.
I will never understand obsession with that kind of misery. It's an odd safety being able to expect despair... to be able to say this is my lot, and that's just all there is to it.
I saw a man sitting on the stairs, he had the most inwardly terrified stare I've seen in a long time.
Thursday, May 19, 2005
I'm done...
But I don't feel it yet... the elation is underwhelming to say the least... Maybe because I signed up for another 2 years of graduate studies to finish an MFA, who knows, whatever the case or reason, it's not a monumental feeling by any means. Perhaps when I get to Russia and actually take my first vacation in a year it will settle in my gut like a shot of vodka, warming everything on the way down. I don't know, but it's not there yet... but it's still nice.
Monday, May 16, 2005
An odd interlude...
Driving to work this morning from the Russian Consulat in Pac. Heights I had a strange and bizarre run in. I was heading down Gough when a big Cadillac sedan pulls along side me. I ignore it until I realize the driver, a grizzled old ogre of a man, is trying to get my attention. I roll down the window thinking this will be yet another offer to "fix those dents". To my surprise he asks me "Do you know what old Submarine seamen call that?" pointing to the missing door guard along my passenger side that I scraped off in a tight parking space in my old flat by an iron pole hidden in a shrub. I replied "no." He said "Too much speed and not enough rudder!" and then drove on laughing as I said "Thanks." Needless to say, I was left feeling puzzled, like maybe this was some kernal of divine knowledge and I wasn't grocking it...
Friday, May 13, 2005
This land is not your land...
Driving in this morning I was listening to NPR, getting my dose of somewhat liberal radio when a report came in about a fundraising dinner/show of support for Trent Lott in D.C. the night before.
Two things:
1) I wasn't surprised that a dinner was thrown in the honor of this ethically challenged congressman. I wasn't surprise to hear that the conservative coalitions banded together to celebrate the disenfranchisement of gays and lesbians from entering into unions of marriage, continued hacking at Roe v. Wade. I wasn't surprise to hear another joker call Lott "A man who gets things done in Washington. Not the prayers, the hoopla, the cost of the plates nothing surprised me, or the fact that this was done in order to combat his dwindling image in the media. No, what did shock me was the appropriation of the tune "If I had a hammer" to celebrate Trent "The Hammer" Lott's political career. That song, at least in my mind, was always linked to a folk/hippy/counter culture movement. The rendition of it played on the radio angered me.
2) Protestors outside the hall where this red faction played out were conducting a carnival protest. They handed out bars of soap to the guests coming in. Nothing new, liberals and their antics. What was of interest was the carnival concept, for it brought ot mind a joke by Billy Crystal from his standup show in Moscow many moons ago "Midnight Train To Moscow" where he said to the whos who of the Kremlin, pre perestroika, "The Soviet Union & America aren't very different when you think about it. Lets see, you had Borishnikov, we have Borishnikov. You have the moscow circuse, we have congress."
Two things:
1) I wasn't surprised that a dinner was thrown in the honor of this ethically challenged congressman. I wasn't surprise to hear that the conservative coalitions banded together to celebrate the disenfranchisement of gays and lesbians from entering into unions of marriage, continued hacking at Roe v. Wade. I wasn't surprise to hear another joker call Lott "A man who gets things done in Washington. Not the prayers, the hoopla, the cost of the plates nothing surprised me, or the fact that this was done in order to combat his dwindling image in the media. No, what did shock me was the appropriation of the tune "If I had a hammer" to celebrate Trent "The Hammer" Lott's political career. That song, at least in my mind, was always linked to a folk/hippy/counter culture movement. The rendition of it played on the radio angered me.
2) Protestors outside the hall where this red faction played out were conducting a carnival protest. They handed out bars of soap to the guests coming in. Nothing new, liberals and their antics. What was of interest was the carnival concept, for it brought ot mind a joke by Billy Crystal from his standup show in Moscow many moons ago "Midnight Train To Moscow" where he said to the whos who of the Kremlin, pre perestroika, "The Soviet Union & America aren't very different when you think about it. Lets see, you had Borishnikov, we have Borishnikov. You have the moscow circuse, we have congress."
Thursday, May 12, 2005
Elegy For Noc Noc
I don't even have a poem in my head, just grief: pure unadulterated grief over the state of affairs that is Noc Noc. My favorite bar, for the last two years, located on the haight (lower) between Filmore & Steiner, a grotto, a cavern of post modern apocolypses in art turned on its head, is no longer a smoking establishment. Not that SF has allowed smoking in its pubs for years now, but this place, this place was special, it did, its dark facade covered in grafiti was a sanctuary for nicotine fiends that cavorted like neanderthals in a dark cave.
I saw gangsters hanging out with hipsters, marina types mingling with punks, never heard an angry word there. The beats were eclectic, you might hear a piano concerto right after the incredible bongo band followed by Deep Purple and then maybe some simple minds and breakbeats right after. It was unreal, and now, sadly, its joined the reality of our PC culture. Its a sad day.
The story from behind the bar was simple, someone ratted them out. Som granola crunching pink lunged lame-ass let the cat out of the bag and took away our sanctuary, there's no more smoking, and their business has suffered since. If I knew the name of this imbecil I would crucify him right infront of Mythic Pizza, two doors down, so that his or her corpse could hang as a reminder to those that venture outside of their lines and can't leave well enough alone. I would drive the nails in slowly, allowing for the salt to do its job with each agonizing strike of the mallet. This I would accomplish with the utmost joy and gratitude... but like an old nag or a dog thats past its prime... I hope that Noc Noc soon closes.
I don't want to think of it without smoke, without a thick wonderful cloud of tobacco smoke filling every nook and cranny: as if the bomb that hangs in the center of the room had exploded. In many ways, that bomb has detonated and we are left with a bar that isn't unlike Terry Shaivo, soulless, a shell of its former self, for this, I hope it closes its doors so that the memory and joy I had there over the last two years will remain intact. I should be extatic: I turned in my thesis this morning, but I'm sad, I had planned a night of quiet celebration but found dissapointment... good bye my dearest Noc.
Monday, May 09, 2005
Mothers and Days of Rememberence
Yesterday was mother's day. Today is the 60th anniversary of the end of the war in Europe, VE Day. May 7th was the official surrender, May 8th the surrender was ratified and celebrated. The majority of the world celebrates on May 9th. Yet in Russia, its still the 8th. However, Bush is in Russia hanging out with Putin today. He's watching Goose Stepping soldiers march up and down Red Square with old soviet flags in commemoration of an event that still unforgettable. St. Isaacs Cathedral in St. Petersburg is riddled with bullet holes on one side and a plaque to commemorate the blockade and bravery of those that kept the city from falling. Near this day is Yom Hashoah, the day of Rememberence for the 6 million jews who perished in the "Shoah" (catastrophe) as its known in Hebrew. Horst Koehler, Germany's president declared that "racism and right-wing extremism have no chance in a modern Germany." About a mile away 3,000 neo-nazis pledged their hearts to Rudolph Hess (Hitler's Deputy). Its a confusing time filled with more emotion than any made for TV movie can capture. Everone has a stake in something like this, a piece of collective memory that is ever ripe for harvest. Whatever the distance, historically and physically, from these times and places, sitting on the right of my grandmother yesterday at brunch for her, my other grandmother and my mother, I know the five of us raised a glass to the end of the war that shaped so many lives and fortunes. This much I know personally, it's still here, over a half decade later, there's still memory surrounding this day.
Sunday, May 08, 2005
Translation of Hillary's Casa Milà
Radial
I can’t draw a straight line
bodies aren’t lined
yet there’s a course to round
if my hands draw thighs
suggesting the St. Louis Arch
the same Cassiopeia at night as in
the slatted light in your bedroom
egg cartonned a captive grace
enough for expansion
as a road to a mountain
and maybe from obscurity
through the inadequacy of straights
your delicate smile appears.
I can’t draw a straight line
bodies aren’t lined
yet there’s a course to round
if my hands draw thighs
suggesting the St. Louis Arch
the same Cassiopeia at night as in
the slatted light in your bedroom
egg cartonned a captive grace
enough for expansion
as a road to a mountain
and maybe from obscurity
through the inadequacy of straights
your delicate smile appears.
Friday, May 06, 2005
Akvarium Lyrics
Mariya kindly helped me translate the lyrics of a song by Akvarium: Dead Sailors Don't Sleep. I'm currently obsessed with it... I can't remember how many times I've listened to it... and so I thought it best to post them here... if you get a chance, find it, listen to it! Boris Grebenshikov's lyrics paint a barely liminal picture obscurred by the sea and a well of tears. Its rather stirring... anyway, here goes:
Who would've thought
we'd meet under this star
I didn't look at my watch
I thought I was passing through
But keep yourself safe
don't waste your poison on me
Everything's already happened
and dead sailors don't sleep
I didn't think I was part of this war
I was going about my business
and fell down in the crossfire
I doubt I'll ever know
for whom this shot was meant
but its just as well -
dead sailors don't sleep
don't ask me I can't remember
how to feel sadness
the salty water has allowed me to remain silent
the salty water knows me by heart
if i knew ahead of time what was awaiting me
I would have carved your name in my chest
everything happened so fast
I didn't even notice your gaze
but now I know:
dead sailors don't sleep
dead sailors don't sleep
And the original...
Мертвые матросы не спят
Кто бы сказал, что мы встретимся под этой звездой,
Я не смотрел на часы, я думал у меня проездной.
Побереги себя, не трать на меня весь свой яд.
Все уже случилось. Мертвые матросы не спят.
Я не знал, что я участвую в этой войне
Я шел по своим делам, я пал в перекрестном огне
Едва ли я узнаю, кому был назначен заряд
Впрочем, все равно. Мертвые матросы не спят.
Не спрашивай меня;
Я не знаю, как испытывать грусть.
Соленая вода разрешила мне молчать.
Соленая вода знает меня наизусть.
Знать бы загодя, что уготовано мне впереди,
Я бы вырезал твое имя у себя на груди;
Все было так быстро, я даже не запомнил твой взгляд,
Но теперь я в курсе, а мертвые матросы не спят.
Мертвые матросы не спят.
Who would've thought
we'd meet under this star
I didn't look at my watch
I thought I was passing through
But keep yourself safe
don't waste your poison on me
Everything's already happened
and dead sailors don't sleep
I didn't think I was part of this war
I was going about my business
and fell down in the crossfire
I doubt I'll ever know
for whom this shot was meant
but its just as well -
dead sailors don't sleep
don't ask me I can't remember
how to feel sadness
the salty water has allowed me to remain silent
the salty water knows me by heart
if i knew ahead of time what was awaiting me
I would have carved your name in my chest
everything happened so fast
I didn't even notice your gaze
but now I know:
dead sailors don't sleep
dead sailors don't sleep
And the original...
Мертвые матросы не спят
Кто бы сказал, что мы встретимся под этой звездой,
Я не смотрел на часы, я думал у меня проездной.
Побереги себя, не трать на меня весь свой яд.
Все уже случилось. Мертвые матросы не спят.
Я не знал, что я участвую в этой войне
Я шел по своим делам, я пал в перекрестном огне
Едва ли я узнаю, кому был назначен заряд
Впрочем, все равно. Мертвые матросы не спят.
Не спрашивай меня;
Я не знаю, как испытывать грусть.
Соленая вода разрешила мне молчать.
Соленая вода знает меня наизусть.
Знать бы загодя, что уготовано мне впереди,
Я бы вырезал твое имя у себя на груди;
Все было так быстро, я даже не запомнил твой взгляд,
Но теперь я в курсе, а мертвые матросы не спят.
Мертвые матросы не спят.
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