Merry Christmas from Petersburg Roulette

Silent Night

Moon over Petersburg's frozen Neva River

Petersburg Roulette wishes you all 
a white and wonderful Christmas!

Roulettian Intermezzo -- Photo of the Week

"Nastia!

I'll be back

25.06.2012"

Old grafitti on the sidewalk in Kupchino, a less picturesque region on the outskirts of the city. Why did the anonymous writer spray this poignant message to Nastia (his girlfriend?) on the sidewalk? Where did he go and did he return as promised? I guess we'll never know.

Roulettian Intermezzo -- Photo of the Week

A red balloon floats on the shimmering waters of Canal Griboedova

Yes, indeed, the canal is named after slaughtered statesman-author, Alexander Sergeyevich Griboedov, about whom we spoke quite a bit earlier this year. Griboedov rented a splendid flat here back in the day when it was called Catherine Canal in honor of the small-town German princess who transformed herself into one of Russia's most significant rulers -- Catherine the Great. After the 1917 Revolution, it was clear that one of the city's main waterways could not be respectably associated with the detested Tsarist regime, and the canal was rechristened in honor of Griboedov, who, as we have seen, had his own problems with the Tsarist police... in fact, Soviet historians deemed this artistic aristocrat to be an honorary Marxist. Such is life, such is fate!

Troubled Times and Ayktion Live

The official Time of Troubles in Russian history (which, when one thinks about it, seems packed with Times of Trouble) refers to the chaotic interregnum following the death of Ivan the Terrible's feeble-minded son Fyodor in 1598. Ivan had already killed off his more talented son, also called Ivan, back in 1581, and his other son, Dmitri, died under mysterious circumstances ten years later -- in any case, there was a knife stuck in his throat. In short, with Fyodor's demise, the country was left without heir or ruler, and chaos ensued.  

Michael Romanov, a distant descendent of Ivan's first wife (he had approximately seven), spent these years of famine, civil uprisings, invasions, occupations, assassinations, usurpers, and impostors tucked away in a monastery where he had been exiled along with his mother. Then one fine roulettian day in 1613, a group of nobles tracked him down in his cozy retreat and announced that he had been proclaimed the new tsar. Michael and Mother politely tried to desist, referring to his youth -- he was only sixteen -- but the weeping nobles declared that should he refuse, he would be held responsible before God for the destruction of Russia. What was there to do but consent? Thus ended the Time of Troubles and began the rule of the Romanov dynasty that lasted 304 years. These tumultuous events and their happy conclusion have been commemorated in Russia since 2005 on 4 November, the Day of the United Folk.

4 November

Day of the United Folk

Hurrah!

Meanwhile, Red Kirill and I are racing down Bolshoi Prospekt: it turns out that some sort of improvisational concert is taking place in the Sigmund Freud Dream Museum. Who even knew that there was such a museum in Petersburg where Freud never stepped foot? 

"United Folk?" scoffs Kirill, "Bah! It's an artificial holiday! They took away the celebration for the Revolution on 7 November -- believe me, they want to get as far away from revolution as possible -- so they had to replace it with something. It's nothing but food and circuses."

The Dream Museum is part of the Psychoanalysis Institute, and we soon discover that harpists, guitarists, violinists, and various other musicians are scattered throughout the mansion in which the Institute is housed. We wander through the dimly lit rooms as the musicians play improvised, dissonant melodies. It's a quirky, random, surrealistic affair with the sound effects changing as we move up, down, and around the various corridors and rooms with crowds of other attendees. 

"Ach." says Kirill, "the youth seems so enthusiastic. Maybe I'm just getting older. No, no, that can't be it. After all, whenever something creative is going on, I'm young and perky. It's just that I don't have any illusions left. They still have theirs intact. Well, give them time."

We run into Photographer Olya, who says that there is an Ayktion concert tonight. Ayktion is one of the most important rock bands in Soviet-Russian history, so this is exciting news. She calls up Music Manager Mischa who puts us all on the comp list, but there's time to spare before the concert starts, so we head back to Red Kirill's for some quick refreshment: homemade lemon vodka with cheese and pickles.

Kirill is thinking of selling his apartment and with the proceeds, buying a house just outside of Petersburg where he can set up an art colony -- or perhaps he'll move to Croatia with Artist Lena, since they've realized that the only thing keeping them in Russia, where everything is going to hell in hand basket, is their friends -- maybe they can all relocate together.  Kirill says he's asking 7,000,000 rubles, but the real estate agent has yet to come by to inspect the place so he's not sure if this is entirely realistic.  

"Cheers," we say, as we lift the vodka glasses, and I take a surreptitious look around.  It IS a big apartment with vastly high ceilings and an enviable location, but renovation hasn't been carried out for decades, it's packed with stacks of paintings, ancient furniture, piles of clutter,  and the walls, of course, are painted red, with the exception of the cramped. cavelike bathroom which is painted black.  I'm thinking the asking price is a tad high.

Meanwhile, Photographer Olya is desperately looking for new lodgings. She's been staying in a room that's four metro stops plus a mini-van ride away, but this option is ending soon. She can't afford more than $250 a month which is not really enough to find a good alternative, and she's clueless about what to do. We'll keep our ears open.

Well, it's off to the concert which is located out in a semi-industrial area in the so-called Main Club. Ayktion is magnificent, complicated, authentic music that shakes us to the bone.  Encore, encore! Afterwards, Olya tries to track down Mischa who must be around somewhere.  I suspect that she would like to hook up with him, but he is either too busy working or (this seems more likely) not interested, or perhaps both. She waits a bit forlornly, until finally the security guards ask us to leave, so we head out into the dark, drizzly Petersburg night to catch the last metro back to our respective abodes.  Happy Day of the United Folk!  

Roulettian Intermezzo -- Photo of the Week

It's October 31 (Halloween!), the first day of real snow in Petersburg, and Tyson, the black (!) courtyard cat goes for a stroll. 

Christ the Saviour and Pussy Riot

We're taking a quick jaunt to the nation's capital to admire an edifice with a rather roulettian history: the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour. Back in 1812, when Napoleon Bonaparte and his Grande Armee retreated in chaotic disgrace from undefeated Moscow, Tsar Alexander I ordained that a cathedral be built "to signify Our gratitude to Divine Providence for saving Russia from the doom that overshadowed Her."  Well, things proceeded in typical Russian fashion, the final cornerstone wasn’t laid until 1839 (Alexander had kicked the bucket almost fifteen years previously) and the church wasn’t consecrated until 26 May 1883, the day that Alexander III was crowned Tsar (Nicholas I and Alexander II had also died in the meantime).  Perched on the Moscow River within a distant stone's throw of the Kremlin, this massive building topped by gold onion domes was the tallest Orthodox church in the world.

This state of affairs continued for fifty years during which revolution swept away the autocracy, and religion soon went out of vogue. It was clearly unfitting for an orthodox church to dominate the skyline of the Soviet capital, and newspapers, towing the party line, grumbled that "the Cathedral is grotesque and totally inartistic" and "a poisonous mushroom on Moscow's face."   Plus the church domes contained over twenty tons of gold – what a waste!  Thus, in December 1933, the cathedral was demolished, the gold confiscated, and the marble put to use in nearby metro stations.

Now plans were implemented to build the largest skyscraper in the world, the Palace of the Soviets -- a massive art deco building that was to be crowned by an immense statue of Lenin with his hand raised in victory. Alas, work on this astounding palace had to be abandoned when the German army invaded in 1941, and for years, all that remained on the site of the once glorious cathedral was a flooded hole. In 1958, Nikita Khrushchev decided to make the best of a bad situation and transformed those flooded foundations into the world’s largest open air swimming pool.



Well, the wheel spun around again, Communism collapsed, the Russian Orthodox Church is back in style, and in the 1990s, the decision was made to rebuild the church from scratch.  The new building was consecrated in all of its renewed glory in 2000, has a capacity of 10,000 people, and is again the tallest Orthodox cathedral in the world.


Meanwhile, the girls who recently plunged the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour into the worldwide news are now en route to labour camps where they will serve the rest of their two year sentence for "hooliganism motivated by religious hatred". For back in February, this Cathedral was the site of the 41-second unsanctioned performance by the punk band Pussy Riot in which they sang an "obsscenity-laced prayer" asking the Mother of God to free them from Putin, while jumping, shouting and kicking their legs. 

Two years -- most of which will be spent in the harsh conditions of remote labour camps -- for a little rowdiness? The sentence is often referred to as "draconian" in the western media and has pop stars and presidents speaking out against its excessiveness -- clearly, it must be because of Putin! But why aren't most Russians appalled?  

General Director Anastasia says, "they should have gotten more time! If they had carried out such antics in a mosque, they would be dead by now."

And Sascha Musician says, "just calling something art doesn't give you the right to do whatever you want wherever you please. If they had done this on Haymarket Square there would be no problem. But you can't act like this in a church -- or in a museum or in a theatre."

My most charming English student, Golden Guy Pavel (young, tall, attractive, diligent, and wealthy -- he'll soon be heading to Latvia for pilot lessons so he can fly a Cessna) is riled when I mention the scandal.
He says, "I cannot stand these girls. I not so much believe in the God --"
"God," I say, "just God."
"Yes, I not so much believe in the God -- well, I say prayer when I am in trouble, but I not so much believe. But a church! How can they do such things in a church! There are believing people there, it is a holy place. I hate those girls. They are, umm, what is the word -- prostitutes! You know about their orgy in a museum, no? And they say it's art!"

For Russians, even young, more or less non-believers like Golden Guy, there still is a sense of sacred space that has all but gone lost in the West, and Russian Orthodox churches exude an atmosphere of religiosity that is not so readily felt in their austere protestant counterparts. Women cover their heads with shawls before entering. The candles are lit, the icons glow, the smell of incense fills the air, people stand in line for hours to pray before a miracle-working icon, the ancient liturgy is sung a capello in a haunting minor key: it is a holy space. And the Pussy Riot protest is seen like someone spitting on a most treasured possession.

So part of the miscommunication seems to be taking place as follows.

The West hears: "These girls PROTESTED AGAINST PUTIN (in a church)."
Whereas Russians hear: "These girls protested (against Putin) IN A CHURCH!!!" 
...and are quick to agree that if this provocative punk prayer had taken place in a public square there would be no issue, even had Putin remained the target.  

Still, there are some dissenting opinions. Berlin Harald, Hamburg Petra and I come across this collage at an opening in the remnants of a once vibrant art center founded back in the 90s. Putin looks down from above at three Pussy Rioters in their bright clothing and balaclava-covered faces -- topped by halos!

Roulettian Intermezzo -- Photo of the Week

Autumn comes to Petersburg.  

Pale leaves drift by in the still waters of the Canal Griboedova.  Temperatures are still above zero, but it's clear that winter will soon be here. 

Roulettian Intermezzo -- Photo of the Week

Full Moon over the Fontanka Canal

The White Nights are coming to an end. Back in June, it got this dark about 1:00 a.m.  Now dusk hits around 9:00 p.m. and it's dark by 10:30.  Well, we know where we're heading: it's only going to get worse!

A Royal Wedding and Wedding Celebrations

The last sumptuous Russian state wedding took place over one hundred years ago – in 1894, when Nicholas II married the small-town German princess Alexandra. Shortly after their engagement, the reigning Tsar, Nicholas’s father Alexander III, unexpectedly died and thus, the bride-to-be came to Russia in the shadow of a hearse and the wedding took place one week after the funeral. A bad omen? 

In fact, the story of Nicholas and Alexandra is another roulettian tale that includes hemophilia (their fifth child and only son/heir was stricken with this rare, life-threatening disease in which the blood does not clot), a questionable Siberian mystic (the infamous Grigory Rasputin who despite wild nights on the town was the only one able to ease the young boy’s suffering) and murder (Rasputin’s, in a ghastly palace slaughter that sought to remove his influence over Alexandra, thought to be destabilizing the monarchy and the country) and again murder (this time that of the royal family themselves).

Rasputin, who has been credited with unusual psychic abilities, penned a predictive warning to the royal couple late in 1916:

I feel that I shall leave life before January 1st.... if you hear the sound of the bell which will tell you that Grigory has been killed, you must know this: if it was your relations who have wrought my death then no one of your family, that is to say, none of your children or relations will remain alive for more than two years. They will be killed by the Russian people...I shall be killed. I am no longer among the living.
Twenty-three days later his bullet-ridden, poisoned corpse turned up in an icy tributary of the Neva river. And forebodingly, among Rasputin's murderers were relatives of the Tsar.

Within three months of Rasputin's horrific demise revolution swept across the land and blood flowed in rivers. Nicholas II, Emperor and Autocrat of all the Russias, Grand Duke of Finland, King of Poland, etc. etc., was now a humble prisoner stripped of all rank. Along with Alexandra and their five photogenic children he was transported to Siberia, where the whole family was ruthlessly shot by the Bolsheviks in July 1918 -- twenty months after Rasputin’s murder, much as the mysterious Siberian had predicted. This effectively ended the Romanov imperial dynasty which had enjoyed autocratic might for over 300 years. Yet the red jacket in which Nicholas was married can still be seen today in the Alexander Palace. It is inscribed with the words "To be preserved forever.“ 

Meanwhile, weddings in Russia are usually pretty lavish affairs and summer is wedding season.  Across Petersburg on any given day of the week you are apt to see luxurious white stretch limos gliding down main avenues and brides in ebullient dresses posing for photos at picturesque spots about town.  Church weddings are generally avoided.  As Golden Guy Pavel explains, "No one wants a church wedding. If you get married in the Orthodox Church, it’s almost impossible to get a divorce!“  The answer is the "wedding palace“ which works pretty much like an upscale justice of the peace. 

Petersburg's most desirable wedding palace is on the same street as the U.S. Consulate

The ceremony is short, under fifteen minutes, in which a charming (cloying) official reads a charming (cloying) statement wishing all the best to the truly charming couple

A stretch limo for the bridal party

Two golden rings often decorate the limos

A pleasant chat on the carefully groomed grass

A spritely romp along the edge of the Neva River

Splashing in the waves

Weddings don't have to break the bank as this couple demonstrates.  Why not enjoy a packaged ice cream cone instead of a fussy, elaborate cake? Nor, thankfully, must weddings prevent you from attending to important business on your handy cell phone. 

Gee, shucks!

Is there anything left to say?

Well, Nicholas and Alexandra have been accused of many things, including the demise of the Romanov dynasty, but no one has ever denied their enduring love which began at their first meeting (he was 17 and she was just 12) and continued until the day they were simultaneously shot.  With the divorce rate in Russia today at about 50%, one can only hope that these smiling brides will end up on the happy side of statistics.  

One might also ask, as does the sign on the left, where is Ludmila Putin?  Putin’s wife has virtually disappeared from public view, although she made a brief appearance at his inauguration back in May.  Rumors abound, but two receive the most attention.  Either she is with her two daughters who are studying abroad (although no one seems to know where) or, following in the good old Russian footsteps of such Tsars as Peter the Great, Putin has stashed the burdensome wife away in a monastery.

Roulettian Intermezzo -- Photo of the Week

A young girl offers bread to a host of eager pigeons in the courtyard of the Anna Akmatova museum. 

And who was Anna Akmatova? One of Russia's most important 20th century poets, who knew hardship and tragedy and how to write about them. Her husband was shot by the Bolsheviks in the early 1920s (the reprieve issued by Lenin arrived too late to stop the bullet) and her son endured several lengthy imprisonments under Stalin's brutal repressions, during which it was unclear whether he would survive the arduous ordeals. Akmatova described the unendurable horror of this situation in her wrenching poem Requiem ("husband dead, son in jail, pray for me"), which because of its sensitive topic was not allowed to be published in the Soviet Union until 1987. Surely Russia has become a better place if her apartment is now a museum-shrine and pigeons feast in her courtyard. 

The Gambler and Anatoly Alone

We mentioned some time ago that the magnificent Russian author Fyodor Dostoevsky was addicted to roulette and at one particularly low point even pawned his wife’s wedding ring. Coincidentally, his dreadful gambling habit actually led to meeting this wife in the first place.

In late September 1866 Dostoevsky was (again) in desperate need of funds in order to pay off gambling debts. So he entered into a chancy contract with a publisher, promising that he would complete a new novel by 1 November. If this strict deadline was not met, the publisher would acquire the right to publish Dostoevsky’s works for the next nine years without any compensation to the author. 

With little more than a month at his disposal, Dostoevsky had not yet written a single line. The situation was dire and at the suggestion of a friend, he hired a stenographer to assist in this gargantuan task – Anna Snitkina. She began work on 4 October and amazingly, the novel was completed 26 days later, on 30 October.  It was titled The Gambler and was partially based on Dostoevsky’s rather vast experience in the casinos of Europe. So impressed was Dostoevsky with Anna that in November 1866 he proposed and in February of the next year the two were married.  For the rest of his life, Anna remained an invaluable help to the brilliant author: in addition to her massive stenographical work on all of his future novels, she also managed finances and negotiations with publishers, and soon eliminated Dostoevsky’s debts. In 1871, he gave up gambling for good.

Meanwhile, it’s time to follow in Dostoevsky’s summer footsteps and head to Staraya Russa, a provincial town about four hours south of Petersburg, where the Dostoevskys first summered in 1872 and came every year thereafter until the author’s death in January 1881. 

 

The Dostoevskys' summer home -- the only piece of real estate they every owned -- is now a beautifully restored museum.

Tbis is the humble desk where Dostoevsky penned a large portion of his astounding Brothers Karamazov, arguably the best novel ever written. Much of the story was set in a fictitious version of Staraya Russa. 

Ach, the glove that touched the hand that wrote Brothers Karamazov!

Dostoevksy's summer home is located on the banks of a river that seems a fitting subject for a painting by Monet. 

Today Staraya Russa, one of the oldest towns in the nation, remains a charming, bucolic spot, perched on the banks of the Polist River. 

The Church of the Resurrection reflects in the river's still waters under the cool northern sun.

People sunbathe and swim....

...and watch the water drift by.

Gee, this woman looks like she could be from New Jersey!

Two grandmas sit congenially (?) in the summer sun.

Well, there is still some time before it's necessary to catch the bus out of town, and a little nourishment sounds like a good idea, so I head into an, ahem, atmospheric cafe on what appears to be a main lane in this outback town. A foreboding of the clientele is provided via the alcoholic artwork in the window.

Not long after I sit down with a paltry slice of white bread topped by paper-thin meat and cucumber, Anatoly separates himself from the group of imbibers at the next table and joins me.  I suggest juice or perhaps even beer, but he insists on a round of vodka that comes served in glasses fit for water. After one gulp down the hatch he starts talking.

"Why," he asks, "did we ever destroy communism?  Back then there was work, everyone had jobs, everyone had medical care. Now all the factories here have been closed down. Me, I'm driving a mini bus around town, 6o dollars a shift, sometimes I do two shifts. Everything is bad and it's only going to get worse."

At one point in a past that seems separated from the present by an uncountable amount of time, Anatoly apparently had two or maybe even three apartments. Unclearly, he somehow managed to be divested of them and would be homeless now were it not for his friend Sergei, an "Afghanets" -- Sergei served in the Soviet Army in Afganistan back in the 80s and became disabled during that long, brutal war. But his pension isn't enough to live on, and so Anatoly is saving the day by paying for food and utilities -- and it seems alcohol.  He orders another round.

"I had a girlfriend," he continues morosely, "we were together a long time, but she died a month ago. She was 49. I never saw her sober. And then she kicked the bucket on me. Now I'm all alone -- well, I guess, except for Sergei...."

He wants me to meet Sergei and says he'll fix me a bowl of the tasty Russian cold summer soup, but -- time is up, and given Anatoly's state of sobriety, I doubt that the promised soup would ever truly be served. He accompanies me to the bus stop, picking up a bottle of vodka along the way for him and Sergei to share. As the bus pulls out, Anatoly waves good-bye with one hand and clutches the bottle of vodka with the other. Characters worthy of Dostoevsky's novels are still roaming the lanes and ale houses of Russia.