Peter's City.
Tumbling down Nevskiy Prospekt in a cubic Volga mini-van, the driver a harsh man with a face colder than the pavement outside, the ten hours spent bottled inside two SAS planes weighed down on us like a night of whiskey drinking. Though it was just after one in the afternoon, the sun was barely peaking over the frozen horizon, giving the impression it was closer to either dawn or dusk (an impression that didn't leave for us for the duration of our visit. You never quite knew what time it was, and even if someone told you, you didn't believe it. It kept you in an odd dreamlike state that only served to enhance your impressions of the city). The highway leading out of the airport funneled directly through the carcass of forty-five years of Soviet rule. Cold, square, ugly buildings pushed into the sides of the highway like randomly-placed thumbtacks. The endless chain of signs and billboards were adorned with words from the Cyrillic language, which seems to borrow letters from Greek, English, and Geometric equations. The sky was thick, grey and heavy.
Twenty minutes later, however, as we approached the Neva, the cold, coiled river Peter the Great built his city around three centuries earlier, the sights transformed into something altogether new. Here, we saw small cobblestone streets fronted by majestic, pillared buildings sprouting from the earth. Canals tangled off in every direction, creating a winding system of water roads that gave the sense the buildings were floating on water. Because of the constant shades of winter darkness, light exploded from everywhere. Every tree held a solar system of stars, every 18th-century building was bathed in whites, reds, and greens, the hundreds of canal bridges were dripping with endless strands of small white bulbs, the Tetris-esque mushrooms adorning the tops of churches shot beams of color into the sky, the cafes and food stands and shops glowed with bright red neon signs. You felt as if you were driving through the World's Fair, the year after they discovered electricity. It immediately reversed every image you've ever held about Russia. I couldn't imagine this city existing during Communist rule: It is too majestic and fantastical. It must have stood like a huge, bright fuck you to the strict, conformist ideals of the Communist party.
The Pushka Inn, our home for the four days, perfectly demonstrated the contradiction of St. Petersburg. The forty years spent living under the hardened hand of communist rule clashed with the flooding influence of Western ideals. The lobby was meticulous and charming, while the rooms had the look of a former KGB headquarters. The television, overflowing with local Russian news and stories about Father Frost, was located behind the beds, which were old enough to have been used by Rasputin. The staff, fighting their every instinct, seemed to be radically confused by the notion of charm. I wouldn't doubt if their training video was an episode of Mr. Belvedere. Let's get this out of the way now: Russians are not friendly by nature. They seem perpetually pissed off. Pissed at the cold, pissed that you are there, pissed that they are there, pissed that their past was stolen from them. Their faces are frozen in permanent scowls, like my face will be for the three hours of the Chargers/Colts game this Sunday. Before the trip, i'd heard such words to describe Russians: Stubborn, Harsh, Strong-WIlled, Blunt, Cold. After the trip, I wouldn't argue with that.
There is one exception to the rule: Russians love their vodka. When they enter a bar, they hang their steely demeanor with their jackets, and immediately become some of the warmest and intelligent people you could meet. On our second night, we were indoctrinated into their drinking customs at a local bar called the Office Pub (I love that they mixed my two favorite locations into a single place). I'd experienced the beauty of Russian vodka, called Russian Standard, when living in Prague, and thus ordered a bottle for our group of six.
In Russia, it's laughable to mix your vodka with anything other than a clear shot glass, so we followed custom. You pour out six shots, make a toast, and swallow. This continues until the bottle is gone. Briefly sidetracked by a fight outside involving a tire iron and drunken, off-target punches (which dragonhair had the good sense to nearly involve us in), we continued the night with a second bottle. At this point, the locals realized we were dutifully trying to appreciate their culture. The vodka loosened our inhibitions, and within minutes we were pouring and toasting shots with our new Russian friends in the bar. The language barrier (nobody in the city speaks or understands a word of English) was solved through alcohol and handshakes and simple gestures. This was true Russia, confirming my theory that if you want to truly understand a place, head to their bars. After two bottles of vodka, the six of us were in a very good place and preparing to leave. This is when we encountered the true meaning of Russian generosity: Teaching us the night was only beginning, the locals bought us another bottle of vodka for toasting. We took off our coats, and sat back down at the hard wooden tables coated in harsh lighting. Two bottles of vodka had put me at my absolute limit at this point, but would sooner get alcohol poisoning than deny an act of generosity.
This is when the weight of Russia came crashing down on us. The bar had by now closed, leaving us and a few locals to finish the bottle. The thick-chested Russian bartender, looking somewhat like a shorter Ivan Drago, had watched our exploits approvingly, and also decided to offer us a generous sign of friendship, in the manner of a tumbler filled with warm, clear vodka. He motioned me over first, demonstrating what he wanted me to do. Now, when I say a tumbler filled with vodka, i don't exaggerate (pictures are forthcoming). It was an entire glass filled with nothing but Russian Standard Vodka. Perhaps the equivalent of four shots. He motioned for me consume it all at once, which, in my drunken sensibilities, I decided not to argue. I shook my head in preperation, tipped it back, opened my throat, and poured. It smelled like Noxzema and college. It didn't burn. My speed was good, matching that of the bartender, so I was feeling good about my defense of American pride. Granted, I had never in my life consumed that much alcohol at one drink, but was confident I could get through it. The bartender, smiling, had other ideas: He opened a new bottle of vodka and refilled the tumblers.
At this point, I became aware I was playing with my life. There was no way I was going to let a vodka bottle lead to hospitalization, so I did what any self-respecting man would do: I called over Dragonhair to take the drink for me, which, despite his drunken reluctance, he immediately did.
The bartender then filled the glass for a third time, which suited us fine, as Charlie had not yet done his vodka penance. Upon completion, Charlie proudly slammed the tumbler down on the old mahogany bar, shattering it into hundreds of smooth shards, which the bartender luckily found highly amusing. Rightfully concerned, the ladies stepped in. No arguments: It was time to go.
The tumbler's worth of vodka, splashing around our stomachs with the remnants of two other bottles, went to work immediately. Charlie was the first to fall. Literally. In the snow, two blocks from the bar, he couldn't continue. He was babbling some words about Ruskies while rolling around the snow. Kim picked him up by the arms, and, through a dragging system aided by the soft snow, pulled his dead weight towards the hotel. He was not seen again until 6 PM the following day.
Dragonhair and I, with ladies in tow, stopped at the Subway sandwich shop for a Meatball sub, hoping it would help counteract the inebriation. After waiting in line, I toted the sandwiches back to the tables, to find Sy informing me Lee had been in the bathroom for a long time. I went there immediately, to find Dragonhair clutching the sides of the bathroom door, muttering in Chinese, vomit flowing everywhere as if from a spigot. Using small squares of thin, cheap Cold-War tissue paper, i did my best to wipe it up as Sy escorted him outside. A security guard approached, speeding our departure. Thick cotton snowflakes falling from the sky, we found our way to the hotel, thus ending our vodka encounter. I'm not sure if the following day we were all hungover, or actually dead for a few hours.
The following days were spent exploring the restaurants, museums, churches and landmarks, of which every city has, and thus merits only passing details: The Church of Spilled Blood (with the Orthodox architecture people usually equate more with Moscow's Red Square), the Hermitage (an enormous and ornate museum housed in the Russian czarist palace that makes the Louvre seem like a small cabin), the Summer Gardens (where Catherine the Great held elaborate summer parties) and so on. The architecture of St. Petersburg is without argument the most amazing I'd ever seen. Unlike the automated, factory-fabricated structures here, seemingly every single building in St. Petersburg was handcrafted by an artist, with immense marble pillars, ornate window molding, huge carved doors, lit by every color imaginable. Many of the buildings are some of the biggest in the world, sitting squat against a town square or river like sleeping giants. Passing one such building, another imposing giant followed. It was a huge, endless display of majesty and grandeur. The entire city was a palace.
We spent an afternoon at the antique market, digging through crates of communist hats, Red Army medals, nesting dolls, wood carvings, iron toys.
The weather was much milder than feared. Maybe around 30 degrees most of the time, in a constant state of warm snow. The wind could be biting, but not much worse than New York. The most difficult challenge was the daily lack of the sun. We were permanently stuck in daybreak.
The food isn't good. 90% of restaurants serve Russian food (or, my new favorite, Caucusian food, from the Caucus mountains. Literally, the food of the Caucasians, consisting of .. yes. Meat and potatoes) Most restaurants featured some combination of borscht soup, pork cutlet, and beef stroganoff. Not incredibly inventive, and good service is still an emerging concept. After two days, I was ready for something not involving pork or beef medallions.
The convenience stores had incredibly creative canned drinks, including tall cans of gin and grapefruit, watermelon and vodka, and other mixed drinks. There were a lot of nightcaps in Dragonhair's communistic room.
Four days later, as we got on the morning train to Helsinki, toting a bagged lunch of cheese and bread made for us by the hotel, it was clear St. Petersburg was unlike anywhere we'd ever been. A truly original city. This is why I'm more at peace when I travel than any other time. Contrast with the plain, predictable days of daily life, when traveling, every minute is new. Every meal, every word, every drink, every person.
Four days was a perfect amount of time. Traveling is too much work when you don't know the language and can find nobody who does. Example: St. Petersburg system of taxis involve average citizens who drive around in their cars after work, trying to pick up a couple of fares before heading home. To "catch a cab", you stand on a street and raise an arm, then negotiate with the first car to pull over. Not easy when neither of you speak the language.
As you can imagine, walking was the transportation method of choice.
Riding out of St. Petersburg on a train that was perhaps used by Stalin in WWII, guards checking our passports every hour, we looked forward to rolling back into the 21st Century. And Helsinki more than surpassed that criteria.
