St. Petersburg, Russia
Latitude 59° 53' 39" N
September 15, 2011
This cruise is beginning to feel like “If it’s Tuesday, this must be Belgium.” Four Baltic capitals in five days is way too much!
Take today. I got up at 6:00 a.m. to rush in to the shower before Glenda, then I had to rush in to the Garden Café to grab a bite to eat, then an elevator rush in with others on the same tour we’re on. On the way to the part of the ship for disembarking it was another rush in…this time with Pam and Graden, and Glenda who were also rushin’ around all morning. We were supposed to meet our tour guide at 8:00 a.m. for day one of a two day tour of St. Petersburg. We were ready and on time, but all that early morning rushin’ around was for naught.
It had been a dark and stormy night, the Baltic wild and tempestuous. We were a full two hours late pulling into port. All that rushin’ around for nothing!
Ok, so make lemonade. It was still dark and I anticipated a brilliant sunrise over the city. You know the kind…reds on the canals, reds on the Winter Palace, reds over St. Peter and Paul fortress, reds in the square.
Instead, it was a dark and gloomy morning.
In the end, four hours after awakening, we finally met our guide…Ellena…of Alla Tours. Once on board the minivan we started rushin’ again. She had to make up for all that lost time. Ten minute photo stops. Twenty minutes at St. Peter and Paul Fortress, rushin’ around to look at the tombs of the Romanovs—Alexander I, Peter the Great, and Catherine the Great. I hated rushin’ into the newest annex to see the tombs of the last Romanov’s executed in 1917 and then, after Perestroika, interred there in 1998. I wanted to linger, examine each tomb, look at each stained glass window. But that just wasn’t going to be possible.
All this rushin’ around was making be breathless!
And nostalgic. It was quite unplanned, but I found myself thinking of my parents. It would have been their 66th anniversary had they still been alive. September 15, 1945. The war had just ended. My mother told me she had to travel to Albany to get a wedding dress. My dad was married in his uniform. She was 29, he 33—half again the age I am now.
We counted at least eight wedding parties as we roamed around the city. This was high wedding season, and the “Wedding Palace” cranked out newlyweds seven days a week, twelve hours a day. They were having their photos taken in the gardens of Peterhoff, along the canals in center city, and against the backdrop of the Bay of Finland.
In 1986 my parents had an opportunity to visit the then Soviet Union. That April I was living in Albany, in the final stretch of my MLS. I drove them to a limo service on Wolf Road and that evening they met their tour group in New York and flew off to Helsinki. The next morning, at 6:00 a.m., my aunt called me. “Oh, Dan, what are we going to do?” My cautious, non-risk taking parents had flown right into the start of Chernobyl.
There wasn’t much we could do. This was pre-Internet and pre-cell phone days. We were in touch with the tour company, all was well and the itinerary would be altered. In the end, when they got home, they were tested for radioactivity and absolutely none was on their clothing or bodies.
Twenty-five years later, though, their son’s trip was far less dramatic. The Soviet Union had fallen, the country had opened up and I was in Russia on a two day visa. Our group was tightly controlled, mostly because of the many things Elenna had planned for us, and because we were two hours late getting started. We were frustratingly hustled from one place to the next. An hour at Peter the First’s summer home—the Peterhoff; another hour at Catherine the Great’s palatial palace. I was forever at the end of the pack, snapping photos, lagging behind because of my knee. Once, I got separated from the group and was chided by Elenna for roamin’ off. I felt like the idiot in the group, a real blok head. Da! I wouldn’t do that again. I’d steppe up to the challenge and stay with the others from then on. No stalin’ around for me. Plus, we really did need to stay together. My entrance into the country was regulated by the type of visa that I had and I didn’t want some international incident. Breaking off from the group is a crime, and punishment is severe.
It’s a shame, really, that we had to see the city this way. It had been monstrously destroyed during WW II, and 2,000,000 of its inhabitants had died during the 900 day Siege of Leningrad. Restoration is still ongoing. Now, it is Europe’s fourth largest city, spread out across many different islands, and one of Europe’s most culturally significant. Sixty-seven years after the Fall of Leningrad and billions of dollars later, it’s a visual delight. The Neva River and surrounding canals reflect unbroken facades of handsome 18th and 19th century buildings. We only got a glimpse of the spellbinding collection of Russian culture that was warehoused in some of the buildings.
The Hermitage, for instance, was the Winter Palace of Catherine the Great. Her massive art collection, augmented by other royalty, makes this museum one of the largest in the world. But two hours? We raced through one collection after another, rushin’ from one room to the next. I had a hard time staying with the group. One of the museum guards scolded me for lenin’ against a wall as I attempted to rest my knee. At the end, because Ellena knew the tastes of her American/European audience, she gave us twenty minutes with the Impressionists—the second largest collection of them in the world. Twenty minutes! I’m going to have to rent the movie!
On the second day we spent an hour—an hour!—at the Yusupov Palace. I knew jack about this family but learned that they were fabulously wealthy and their home, on one of the city’s many canals, is notorious as the site where Rasputin was killed. It’s another spectacular display of the very best of European art and architecture that money could buy. It’s easy to see why Russians revolted in 1917!
In between tourist sites, Elenna would rattle off details about the landscape we were passing--cooperative vegetable gardens between buildings, the cherry orchard attached to a pre-Soviet palace, lovely parks and gardens the city carefully tended.
For the most part we had a nice international group in our van—a large smattering of Americans, and a few French. The three sisters from Ireland were ebullient and fun to be with, but a Quebecer in the group was a bit annoying. Perhaps it was a language thing, but he was convinced that the reason the group was rushin’ around at warp speed was because four in the group (us) had tickets to the ballet that evening and were the cause of the acceleration. He was really pushkin’ my buttons and I finally approached him. In the end it was an easy clarification, once I showed him the schedule. He was much more pleasant after that. We’d almost had a war, and peace was so much better.
At the end of day one, Elenna dropped Pam, Graden, Glenda and I at Sadko, an upscale and pricey eatery within walking distance to The Conservatory where we had 8:00 p.m. tickets to “Swan Lake.” This was the first time we’d been left alone all day and the longest stretch of unstructured time since we’d started this two-day dash. It was just plain nice to take our time over dinner and enjoy high quality Russian cuisine in a beautiful restaurant.
Our waiter, however, spoken terrible English and his rough Russian accent was difficult to understand.
“Und here vee have da borscht,” he said when I asked about the dish’s preparation.
“Unt here vee have da stroganoff.”
“Unt here vee have da blinis.”
I was a bit frustrated, but just gave in to a culinary gamble. I decided to play with him and use my very best bad Russian mimic.
“OK,” I said, “So vee it. I’ll have da stroganoff. Unt blinis for dessert."
Each of us ordered something different—borscht, beef stroganoff, stuffed cabbage rolls, wild mushrooms from the forests around the city, chicken Kiev and blinis, Russian crepes, for dessert. It was great to share all these yummy dishes and to experience this elegant Russian restaurant.
We were certainly putin’ on the Ritz eating at Sadko that night.
By the end of the second day, though, I’d had it. It had been just too much—an overload of art, culture, history, architecture, royal lineages…and walking. We were in St. Isaac’s Cathedral, surrounded by spectacularly lavish gold icons. I was overwhelmed, walked over to Graden, and said, “I’ll be in the van.” Pity! This had happened only once before…in June 1999 in Oaxaca, Mexico, in the tenth month of my one year leave-of-absence trip around the world. I simply had no response to the equally wonderful, but quite different, cathedral in that city. At that point I knew it was time to go home.
Just as in 1999, I’d seen too much and was saturated. I walked out of the church and spent the next fifteen minutes talking with a Florida couple who’d stayed with the driver.
By the time we got back to the boat I was petered out. St. Petersburg was just too big for two days. I wished I’d done my homework more efficiently—spending time in the library, serfin the net and gogoling information about the Romanovs, Peter and Catherine the Great and the city’s role in World War II. The visit felt more like the Siege of Leningrad than a two day leisurely tour. There would be a great deal to read up on if a repeat visit happens. I was glad to get back to the boat just to decompress.
Another time. For now, I’m satisfied that I made it to the edge of Russia, to this gorgeous city, this “Venice of the North.” Now I can check off Russia from my long list of countries left to visit.
But this I can say…I will neva do it again on a crammed two day tour. An hour here and an hour there was just not enough time to do justice to this city.
Latitude 59° 53' 39" N
September 15, 2011
This cruise is beginning to feel like “If it’s Tuesday, this must be Belgium.” Four Baltic capitals in five days is way too much!
Take today. I got up at 6:00 a.m. to rush in to the shower before Glenda, then I had to rush in to the Garden Café to grab a bite to eat, then an elevator rush in with others on the same tour we’re on. On the way to the part of the ship for disembarking it was another rush in…this time with Pam and Graden, and Glenda who were also rushin’ around all morning. We were supposed to meet our tour guide at 8:00 a.m. for day one of a two day tour of St. Petersburg. We were ready and on time, but all that early morning rushin’ around was for naught.
It had been a dark and stormy night, the Baltic wild and tempestuous. We were a full two hours late pulling into port. All that rushin’ around for nothing!
Ok, so make lemonade. It was still dark and I anticipated a brilliant sunrise over the city. You know the kind…reds on the canals, reds on the Winter Palace, reds over St. Peter and Paul fortress, reds in the square.
Instead, it was a dark and gloomy morning.
In the end, four hours after awakening, we finally met our guide…Ellena…of Alla Tours. Once on board the minivan we started rushin’ again. She had to make up for all that lost time. Ten minute photo stops. Twenty minutes at St. Peter and Paul Fortress, rushin’ around to look at the tombs of the Romanovs—Alexander I, Peter the Great, and Catherine the Great. I hated rushin’ into the newest annex to see the tombs of the last Romanov’s executed in 1917 and then, after Perestroika, interred there in 1998. I wanted to linger, examine each tomb, look at each stained glass window. But that just wasn’t going to be possible.
All this rushin’ around was making be breathless!
And nostalgic. It was quite unplanned, but I found myself thinking of my parents. It would have been their 66th anniversary had they still been alive. September 15, 1945. The war had just ended. My mother told me she had to travel to Albany to get a wedding dress. My dad was married in his uniform. She was 29, he 33—half again the age I am now.
We counted at least eight wedding parties as we roamed around the city. This was high wedding season, and the “Wedding Palace” cranked out newlyweds seven days a week, twelve hours a day. They were having their photos taken in the gardens of Peterhoff, along the canals in center city, and against the backdrop of the Bay of Finland.
In 1986 my parents had an opportunity to visit the then Soviet Union. That April I was living in Albany, in the final stretch of my MLS. I drove them to a limo service on Wolf Road and that evening they met their tour group in New York and flew off to Helsinki. The next morning, at 6:00 a.m., my aunt called me. “Oh, Dan, what are we going to do?” My cautious, non-risk taking parents had flown right into the start of Chernobyl.
There wasn’t much we could do. This was pre-Internet and pre-cell phone days. We were in touch with the tour company, all was well and the itinerary would be altered. In the end, when they got home, they were tested for radioactivity and absolutely none was on their clothing or bodies.
Twenty-five years later, though, their son’s trip was far less dramatic. The Soviet Union had fallen, the country had opened up and I was in Russia on a two day visa. Our group was tightly controlled, mostly because of the many things Elenna had planned for us, and because we were two hours late getting started. We were frustratingly hustled from one place to the next. An hour at Peter the First’s summer home—the Peterhoff; another hour at Catherine the Great’s palatial palace. I was forever at the end of the pack, snapping photos, lagging behind because of my knee. Once, I got separated from the group and was chided by Elenna for roamin’ off. I felt like the idiot in the group, a real blok head. Da! I wouldn’t do that again. I’d steppe up to the challenge and stay with the others from then on. No stalin’ around for me. Plus, we really did need to stay together. My entrance into the country was regulated by the type of visa that I had and I didn’t want some international incident. Breaking off from the group is a crime, and punishment is severe.
It’s a shame, really, that we had to see the city this way. It had been monstrously destroyed during WW II, and 2,000,000 of its inhabitants had died during the 900 day Siege of Leningrad. Restoration is still ongoing. Now, it is Europe’s fourth largest city, spread out across many different islands, and one of Europe’s most culturally significant. Sixty-seven years after the Fall of Leningrad and billions of dollars later, it’s a visual delight. The Neva River and surrounding canals reflect unbroken facades of handsome 18th and 19th century buildings. We only got a glimpse of the spellbinding collection of Russian culture that was warehoused in some of the buildings.
The Hermitage, for instance, was the Winter Palace of Catherine the Great. Her massive art collection, augmented by other royalty, makes this museum one of the largest in the world. But two hours? We raced through one collection after another, rushin’ from one room to the next. I had a hard time staying with the group. One of the museum guards scolded me for lenin’ against a wall as I attempted to rest my knee. At the end, because Ellena knew the tastes of her American/European audience, she gave us twenty minutes with the Impressionists—the second largest collection of them in the world. Twenty minutes! I’m going to have to rent the movie!
On the second day we spent an hour—an hour!—at the Yusupov Palace. I knew jack about this family but learned that they were fabulously wealthy and their home, on one of the city’s many canals, is notorious as the site where Rasputin was killed. It’s another spectacular display of the very best of European art and architecture that money could buy. It’s easy to see why Russians revolted in 1917!
In between tourist sites, Elenna would rattle off details about the landscape we were passing--cooperative vegetable gardens between buildings, the cherry orchard attached to a pre-Soviet palace, lovely parks and gardens the city carefully tended.
For the most part we had a nice international group in our van—a large smattering of Americans, and a few French. The three sisters from Ireland were ebullient and fun to be with, but a Quebecer in the group was a bit annoying. Perhaps it was a language thing, but he was convinced that the reason the group was rushin’ around at warp speed was because four in the group (us) had tickets to the ballet that evening and were the cause of the acceleration. He was really pushkin’ my buttons and I finally approached him. In the end it was an easy clarification, once I showed him the schedule. He was much more pleasant after that. We’d almost had a war, and peace was so much better.
At the end of day one, Elenna dropped Pam, Graden, Glenda and I at Sadko, an upscale and pricey eatery within walking distance to The Conservatory where we had 8:00 p.m. tickets to “Swan Lake.” This was the first time we’d been left alone all day and the longest stretch of unstructured time since we’d started this two-day dash. It was just plain nice to take our time over dinner and enjoy high quality Russian cuisine in a beautiful restaurant.
Our waiter, however, spoken terrible English and his rough Russian accent was difficult to understand.
“Und here vee have da borscht,” he said when I asked about the dish’s preparation.
“Unt here vee have da stroganoff.”
“Unt here vee have da blinis.”
I was a bit frustrated, but just gave in to a culinary gamble. I decided to play with him and use my very best bad Russian mimic.
“OK,” I said, “So vee it. I’ll have da stroganoff. Unt blinis for dessert."
Each of us ordered something different—borscht, beef stroganoff, stuffed cabbage rolls, wild mushrooms from the forests around the city, chicken Kiev and blinis, Russian crepes, for dessert. It was great to share all these yummy dishes and to experience this elegant Russian restaurant.
We were certainly putin’ on the Ritz eating at Sadko that night.
By the end of the second day, though, I’d had it. It had been just too much—an overload of art, culture, history, architecture, royal lineages…and walking. We were in St. Isaac’s Cathedral, surrounded by spectacularly lavish gold icons. I was overwhelmed, walked over to Graden, and said, “I’ll be in the van.” Pity! This had happened only once before…in June 1999 in Oaxaca, Mexico, in the tenth month of my one year leave-of-absence trip around the world. I simply had no response to the equally wonderful, but quite different, cathedral in that city. At that point I knew it was time to go home.
Just as in 1999, I’d seen too much and was saturated. I walked out of the church and spent the next fifteen minutes talking with a Florida couple who’d stayed with the driver.
By the time we got back to the boat I was petered out. St. Petersburg was just too big for two days. I wished I’d done my homework more efficiently—spending time in the library, serfin the net and gogoling information about the Romanovs, Peter and Catherine the Great and the city’s role in World War II. The visit felt more like the Siege of Leningrad than a two day leisurely tour. There would be a great deal to read up on if a repeat visit happens. I was glad to get back to the boat just to decompress.
Another time. For now, I’m satisfied that I made it to the edge of Russia, to this gorgeous city, this “Venice of the North.” Now I can check off Russia from my long list of countries left to visit.
But this I can say…I will neva do it again on a crammed two day tour. An hour here and an hour there was just not enough time to do justice to this city.
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