The reader may dismiss everything previously learned on arrival at other ports-of-call. Russian immigration is an entirely different ballgame, sports fans. Authorities there roll up the welcome mat, and figuratively slap you about your backside with it. Do the math: 2,000 passengers divided by 3 passport inspection booths equals 80 minutes of weight-shifting; from left foot to right, and back again. It's within The View margin of error to declare that more muttered expletives were uttered per/passenger between the hours of 9:00 am and 10:30 am on that day than in all of greater St. Petersburg. It's as if the Ruskies were sending the message, "You're on our turf- now, play by our rules, and smile; even if it has to be through personal discomfort and clenched teeth. We did.
Once outside the passport-immigration "botique", the traveller must, at all times, remain in the presence of a licensed tour guide. Under the circumstances, how could anyone feel less than a media celebrity?
Our guide, Juliana, and her driver, Edward, greeted us in their big, black Mercedes van, for visits to Pushkin, and the palace of Queen Catherine, then to Peterhof; the summer palace of Peter the Great. But the day's journey began with a dock-side stop along the Neva River, where we rubbed the tooth of a brass griffin while whispering a wish in his ear; an old St. Petersburg tradition. Juliana has first-hand knowledge that this quaint little practice has brought good luck to some of her friends. Time will tell if it does the same for her and us. The river and adjoining docks along the promenade appeared surprisingly clean, and the walls were totally free of graffiti. It was a great feeling to walk amongst the common people in a land that had made itself virtually inaccessible to casual, foreign travellers.
Even though Hungary and the former Yugoslavia were still communist satellites when we visited there, restrictions weren't nearly so tight.
It's all too obvious: In her "summer cottage", Catherine, wife of Peter the Great, surrounded her-self with all the opulence befitting a queen of state. Gold leaf embellishes every wall and ceiling; murals included.
Virtually every room in the palace has a monumental heating "fixture" in a corner, covered by blue Delft china. For the House of Romanoff, money was not an object. Small wonder that the monarchy was ultimately overthrown. Their daughter, Elizabeth, had no appreciation for the ornate tastes of her mother. Her section of rooms were finished in subdued tones of light green with white wood and stucco trim.
His most elaborate design showed him to be the king-turned-practical joker. There is a grotto, excavated from a hillside in one section of his sprawling garden. Over its entrance cascades a waterfall. Guests and visitors were invited to inspect the grotto's interior after their host had shut off the flow. Once inside, he would turn the water on again, sending a goodly amount through jets concealed in the rockery, leaving all "captives" thoroughly drenched. Only heads of royal families could be above retaliation for such a stunt. This man would have been a joy for any sixth grade teacher to have in his classroom.
Springs and reservoirs provided the estate, "Peterhof", with an endless supply of water for "The Great's" fetes of aquatic engineering. Once spent, it was diverted out to the Baltic, which Peter could see from virtually every room in his summer abode. The Baltic played an important part in Peter's perception of his role in Russia's place in world affairs. Because of his and it's proximity to that sea, he became a navigator and shipwright of no mean skills.
Even though one cannot see and enjoy all of Catherine's palace in one day, and even though Peter's haunt is a second-place finisher in most itineraries, no one can give St. Petersburg a been-there-done-that if they haven't seen the tribute to the working man, which lies many meters deep below its streets. That would be its well-conceived and wondrous subway stations.
Completed in 1955, which was a very, very good year for those of us of a certain vintage, every arrival/departure point is like walking through an art museum. For openers, the citizens of this fair city hold these places in the highest regard. As in other venues, there is not a single speck of graffiti to be found, anywhere. One might argue that the unblemished surfaces owe to the looming presence of the law and its enforcers. But still others might say that those who built these tributes to the working class command respect and admiration.
Brocaded columns abound. Beneath each is a bas-relief of a laborer, engaged in his daily work. Crystal chandeliers line the ceilings of every station. Where are the white ties and tails? When the Oregon Symphony has a night in town, their concert hall looks almost....but not quite as good.
One cannot do justice to St. Petersburg in a couple of days, which for those visa-deprived and guide-dependent among us is all that's available. Still it might well be worth a place on a bucket list. HLR
Completed in 1955, which was a very, very good year for those of us of a certain vintage, every arrival/departure point is like walking through an art museum. For openers, the citizens of this fair city hold these places in the highest regard. As in other venues, there is not a single speck of graffiti to be found, anywhere. One might argue that the unblemished surfaces owe to the looming presence of the law and its enforcers. But still others might say that those who built these tributes to the working class command respect and admiration.
Brocaded columns abound. Beneath each is a bas-relief of a laborer, engaged in his daily work. Crystal chandeliers line the ceilings of every station. Where are the white ties and tails? When the Oregon Symphony has a night in town, their concert hall looks almost....but not quite as good.
One cannot do justice to St. Petersburg in a couple of days, which for those visa-deprived and guide-dependent among us is all that's available. Still it might well be worth a place on a bucket list. HLR
