Calendar Chaos and Petrodegradation

The days February 1 through 13, 1918 do not exist in Russian history. This oddity can be traced back to 1582 when Pope Gregory XIII decreed that the Julian calendar in use since the time of Caesar should be replaced with a more accurate one, which required skipping over almost two weeks.  Catholic countries made the change forthwith, Protestants joined the program a century later, but the Russian Orthodox church was not about to let a Catholic pope tell them how to calculate time and in Russia the Julian calendar was used until after the Revolution when atheist Lenin decided to conform to western standards. And so in 1918, the leap was made from January 31 to February 14 and the days between remain blank and untouched.  A further oddity in all of this calendar chaos is that the revolution, which took place on 25 October 1917 in Russia, occurred according to the western calendar on 7 November, and thus, the iconic Great Socialist October Revolution, with the endless parades in Moscow and elsewhere, was always celebrated in November.

Meanwhile, the Russian Orthodox Church still persistently adheres to the Julian calendar, so 6 January is Russian Christmas Eve, and at 9 p.m. Red Kirill gives me a call. Black Max is hosting a small gathering at his apartment in an hour or two and we are both invited. Black Max, is, so to say, the antithesis of Red Kirill. Kirill dashes about, entangled in so many projects and ideas that he can barely focus his high-voltage energy, dressed in red, the color of hope. Max, on the other hand, sleeps. When he does manage to drag himself out of bed, he wears exclusively black. 

It seems that Max's parents, while not wealthy, nonetheless have enough funds on hand to keep Max installed in his comfortable, renovated apartment and to meet all of his rather modest needs, so he doesn't have to toil in the hard world of capitalistic labor. He has no real interests, plans or purpose, gets up around 4 in the afternoon, takes a look out the window, and decides he would rather sleep some more. He lives, says Kirill, a life in despair.  

At least tonight he seems to be in a good mood as he meets us at the Pioneerskaya Metro station and walks us back across ice and snow to his apartment over Restaurant Tokyo.  "Olya is still sleeping, she only gallivanted in a little while ago," says Max, referring with a sigh to his girlfriend, "Ach, she's young, which in itself isn't a disadvantage. She'll grow out of it." 

The other guests arrive shortly thereafter:  Alyoscha and Katya, a brother and sister from Moscow, and Katya's husband, Vitya, a native Petersburgian. These folks from Moscow are so surprisingly wholesome, healthy, and red-cheeked, they seem to have skipped in from the countryside and not the dissolute capital. It's as if they've been edited into Max’s Dostoevskyan despair from a different movie, something along the lines of a Russian „Oklahoma!“ Alyoscha quickly sets to preparing the main course and accoutrements with the speed, skill, and fixation of a professional chef while the rest of us gather around the table, sipping, variously, champagne, amaretto, martini, vodka and balsam.

In the meantime, Olya has woken up and staggers into the kitchen with a hairdo of partial shave/partial dreadlocks and a pet rat crawling around her shoulder. She seems like street cat who has long since understood that you might find free food around the garbage can, but oh God, is life there hard.

Spritely Katya greets her with „Merry Christmas!“

Olya squints, a cigarette drooping from her mouth, „But I’m an atheist.“

„Oh, dear! Well, then, happy holidays.“

Olya dismisses these bothersome formalities and quickly gets to the main business at hand which is to open another botttle as Kirill and Vitya start confirming that „Petrodegradation“ is in full swing – there is no cultural life in Petersburg and there never will be as long as these criminals are in power.

With a Russian Oklahoma flourish, Aloscha breaks into the Petrograd despair, and presents the main meal with a cheery grin.  Merry Russian Christmas!

Another Year Rolls Around

Happy New Year from Petersburg Roulette.
May you always have a friend near you in 2013!

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!