Fair warning up front: Moscow left a lot on my mind...
If you couldn't tell, we were a bit discouraged in Tallinn. Staring at five more days of presumably icy weather ahead in Moscow and St. Petersburg, we were experiencing some traveler gloom. Before leaving Tallinn, we took one more jaunt around town, accompanied by lighter snow flurries, but more snow nonetheless. Tallinn really is beautiful, but we were quite happy to escape. Then, it was off to the airport. As we waited for our plane, we watched other flights leave for more exotic (i.e., warmer) destinations: Barcelona, Milan, even Munich sounded tropical. But we waited for our flight to Moscow, eager with anticipation of what lie ahead but discouraged by the rigors of Arctic Circle travel.
Estonian Air operated our flight from Tallinn to Moscow-Sheremetyevo. (First, a side note to Estonian Air, Ryanair, and several other budget airlines in Europe: your carry-on baggage policies are nonsense. If my carry-on luggage fits within your prescribed size limits, why is the weight of any concern to you? Does it really matter if my bag weighs 8kgs, 10kgs, or 100kgs? You arbitrarily set limits at 8kg (17.6 lbs) solely to profit by making me check the luggage at an exorbinant price. I find this practice to be repugnant, unethical, and prejudicial to tall people whose clothes are bigger and consequently weigh more. Sincerely, a tall disgruntled passenger). Sorry for that rant, but we dealt with the same concerns departing Stockholm on Ryanair, and it is a bit ridiculous. Yet, herein lies the beauty of my Easy Go travel bags: they are standard size backpacks that apparently don't attract much attention. Though both of our bags exceeded the weight limits, we strolled right past check-in without a problem. Meanwhile, folks with traditional roller luggage were getting pulled out of line for weight inspection. Easy Go... WINNING!
Landing at Sheremetyevo felt like a scene straight out of Fargo. Snow was blowing horizontally past the plane as we taxied to our gate. Drats. We gathered our luggage and prepared to de-plane... and unfortunately, we didn't have a ramp connected to the plane. We were going to take the stairs down to the tarmac, where we would board a bus to shuttle us to the terminal But as we approached the airplane door, just as we prepared to step into the most horrific storm we had ever seen (for Carlee to say that, coming from Colorado, you can imagine how ugly it was), the wind stopped... the snow stopped... and the sun peaked through the clouds.... All of this during the 20 meter walk from our airplane seat to the airplane door. It was a magical transformation... and perhaps a sign of good things to come?
Now, the moment of truth: Passport Control. We spent hundreds of dollars and many hours to get our visas, but we had heard the horror stories of getting into Russia: problems with a visa's validity, a long line of questioning, being detained for hours, perhaps the occasional body cavity search. I was up first. I set my Passport and visa down on the counter. The agent, a middle-aged blonde woman, was all business. Something, presumably words, flew out of her mouth in Russian. I'm sure the wide-eyes and blank expression on my face are commonplace for her, but I felt a bit helpless. "Italian?", she asked. Why the hell was she asking me this? Last I checked, Italians were neither uncommonly tall nor obscenely pasty. I stared back, speechless... "Italian?", she asked again. Needing to respond, I shook my head no. Then, she put on her slow, annunciated, stupid-American voice, "Tallinn, from Tallinn?"... Oh, got it. "Da, da" I responded, trying to charm her with the full extent of my Russian vocabulary. She reached for her stamp, inked my Passport, handed it back to me, and opened the gate. As I stepped through, I had made it behind the Iron Curtain. And Carlee.... well, she apparently had no trouble with the "Italian" question, as she stepped through the gate just moments later.
Sheremetyevo is about 50 kilometers north of Moscow. The Aeroexpress train heads nonstop to Belorusskaya station in 35 minutes for just about $12. As the train rolled into town, we were greeted by miles and miles (or shall I say, kilometers and kilometers) of Communist era housing. Tall, boxy, non-descript, and lined one after another, these buildings were a crucial cog in the Communist wheel. (Everyone would have a similar roof over their head, everyone would do their communal job/duty, and society would run like a well-oiled machine... it sounds like a brilliant plan.) But as time would tell, the world's greatest social experiment eventually failed, succumbing to the capitalist west, and Moscow is now left with a seemingly endless supply of dilapidated housing, a giant scar reminding the city of its recent, yet so distant, history.Arriving at Belorusskaya Station, the reality of Moscow hits you like a right hook to the face in a Prague nightclub (if you haven't heard that story, I'm sure I will re-live it in the Prague blog entry next week). Signs were unreadble in the Cyrilic alphabet, and nobody seemed to speak any English. On top of it, it seems that Moscow combats unemployment by hiring everyone as a uniformed police officer, because they are EVERYWHERE. Put a guy on a street corner in a uniform, hand him a batton, and he has a job . The police seemed in no way interested in helping out the lost-looking tourists, and having just read about unabated corruption and threats for bribes by police officers against tourists, we weren't interested in asking for their help, either. Without any guidance, we sought out the Metro station, fighting against crowds, construction, and unfamilarity. But somehow, we stumbled upon the Metro entrance. Even a blind squirrel sometimes finds a nut.
To top off the stress, we were fortunate enough to arrive during rush hour. We were pushed in the back at the Metro ticket booth, down the escalators, and through the long underground corridors. For some reason, the obscurely tall couple wearing backpacks, holding a map, and staring aimlessly at the Metro signage didn't jive with everyone's plans for the commute home from work. Further complicating matters, the Metro stop at Belorussskaya's station intersects with three lines, making it even more difficult to figure out which way to head. Frustrated, I finally asked a small, uniformed lady for assistance: "Teverskaya", I asked with a shug, hoping she would realize that was the station I needed to get to. Stone faced, she rattled off a series of directions in Russian, complimented by an indecipherable series of hand gestures. At the end of her explanation, she pointd down the coridor to a staircase, which led us to the Metro we needed. We wandered down another long corridor and jammed ourselves and our backpacks into the next overcrowded car. At least we were making progress.
Coming above ground at the Metro stop, we were again disoriented. Fortunately, our Bed & Breakfast gave us easy instructions to follow: look for the Beneton store and head down that street, past the McDonalds. These were directions I could handle. After walking about 10 minutes further down the road, we arrived at the address, but there was no sign of the B&B, just a series of unmarked doors, all of which were locked. (Being at the right address but not finding our destination will be a recurring theme throughout this post). Finally, a man came out of one of the doors, and through broken English, he was able to point us toward yet another unmarked, locked door. We rang the bell and the proprietor let us in and showed us to our room. He informed us that we had to pay for the room in cash (I suspect this is because the B&B is not official with the Russian government, so the transactions are done under the table). Back outside, we marched down the street where I wrestled with an ATM for several minutes. It didn't like any of my cards or my pin codes, but eventually I prevailed, as the machine surrendered by forking out several thousand Rubles, which I turned over to the B&B, sans receipt.
To simplify getting the tickets, I scribbled what we wanted on a piece of paper in my finest Cyrillic handwriting: MOCKBA --> CAHKT ПETEP6YPГ, CAПCAH, 5 IV 2012 (Moscow --> St. Petersburg, Sapsan High Speed Train, April 5, 2012). Upon entering Leningradsky station, we headed straight for a ticket window, where I pressed my paper up against the glass. First try: the lady pointed out the door toward the outside courtyard. We wandered out, finding another bank of ticket booths. Second try: the lady pointed to a building adjacent to the courtyard. We headed into the building to find another bank of ticket booths. Third try: fortunately, the lady actually came out from behind the counter and walked us to a long corrider, which she pointed us down. After walking a bit further, we reached yet another room with ticket windows on the left and right side. At this point, I was just curious how many different types of tickets and trains there were... this was all a bit odd. Fourth try: we headed to the windows on the left, but rather than wait in line, I went to an empty VIP window, where I again pressed my paper against the glass. The woman pointed us across to the right side of the room. At least we were in the right place. Fifth try: It didn't take long to realize that Russians aren't very good at forming lines. They have lines forming off of other lines and people trying to slide in at any opportunity. Turn your head for a split second and you are bound to have someone new standing in front if you when you turn back. I chose a line and cozied up to the man in front if me. As I did this, a man in the line next to me said something indecipherable to me and pointed to the space between me and the person in front of me. Apparently, he was trying to stand in two lines at once. As my line would get shorter, he would slide over and merge in front of me... and as the adjacent line got shorter, he would merge back. Back and forth he went for about 15 minutes, until finally the Russian behind me called him out. Stuck in the middle, the guys shouted around me, until the line-swapper looked to me for solace. I could tell by his body language that he asked me to confirm that I was saving his place. I shrugged and pointed back and forth, imitating the dance that the man had been doing. After some more words between the men, the ticket window opened and the line-swapper slid up to the counter, purchased his tickets, and cooler heads prevailed. Next, it was my turn, so I pressed the paper up against the glass yet again. The woman tried to ask some questions, and I figured out that she was telling me that coach seats were sold out but 1st Class was available. We ended upon spending a few extra bucks, but at least we had our ticket out of town.
Up to that point, all of our time in Moscow had been administrative... transportation, checking in, getting money. Now, it was time to get some food and see the town. Coming out of the Metro in the center of town, we caught our first glimpse of the historical city central against the skyline. With clear weather overhead, the stress of the day began to subside, and we were excited to find a cellar-type restaurant that I had found on a travel blog. We located the street, and then the correct address.... but no sign of the restaurant. Up and down the block we walked, confused and again getting frustrated. But just as we were about to give up, a young Russian girl overheard our English and asked if we needed help. I pointed to the address on the building and showed her the name of the restaurant.... she confirmed we were in the right location, but she had never heard of the place. She was actually headed to dinner herself, so she invited us to follow her to see where she was going. Down an alley, into an unmarked door, and up a flight of old wooden stairs, I immediately had flashbacks to our dinner at Splisloppen in Copenhagen. She led us into another unmarked door, where we were greeted by a large crowd of young Russians - eating, drinking, smoking, and playing board games. We grabbed a table, and the waiter quickly realized we could not read the Russian menu. He went into the back and dusted off a copy of an English menu (it seems very few non-Russian speakers go near this place). "Мастерская" (Masterskaya) - well, at least we knew the name of the place now. We ordered some Russian beer, a bowl of borscht, beef stroganoff, and a salmon dish. The borscht was phenomenal and completely unlike what we expected - it is made with beet root, so we knew it would be purple, but otherwise, it does not share any resemblance to the sweet, pickled taste of a beet. Instead it is light broth with vegetables and a bit of meat, made creamy by a dollop of sour cream. The stroganoff was topped with a pile of wasabi mashed potatoes, and the salmon was a substantial filet laying over a bed of spinach, topped with pine nuts and a cream sauce. This restaurant demonstrated how Moscow has changed in the past two decades: the younger generation is expanding Moscow's social and culinary range, while still remembering the good and bad of Russian history. These dishes could hold their own in any restaurant in any part of the world. On top of the great food, it was game night at the bar, so we made friends with our neighbors as they played different versions of cards, board games, and trivia. It is amazing how a good meal and good company could lift our spirits so quickly after a rough couple days. |
| Beef Stroganoff with Wasabi Mashed Potato |
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| Salmon and Spinach |
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| Borscht |
Walking back to the hotel, Carlee and I were reinvigorated. Our heads were clear and our outlook was positive. Our recent frustrations became a distant memory, and we walked the streets, soaking in the beauty of this fascinating country. Even in the late evening, Moscow had a restraint to its frenetic pulse. Yes, there were loads of cars and people, but the crowds seemed small amongst the enormous building facades, wide boulevards, and towering statues. Somehow, even while cars rushed by with sirens and horns blaring, Moscow maintained a peaceful quality.
True to personal form, I spotted a late-night hot dog stand and felt compelled to try Moscow's tubed meat offerings. Similar to the Ristet hot dog in Copenhagen, the Russian version also had crispy onions, creamy sauce, and pickles, but it didn't quite measure up to its Danish counterpart. Still, it was a delicious appetizer to a good night's sleep.
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| ГЦМ |
The next morning, we woke up early and walked back to Red Square, which has a much different feel during the day. There are significantly more people, and the buildings look different when they are not glowing from the floodlights. If you ever have the privilege to visit Moscow, you should see Red Square both in the daytime and at night (and I would encourage an evening visit first, because it provides a more breathtaking introduction). But a lengthy day visit is necessary to explore the interiors of the surrounding buildings, including St. Basil's Cathedral, the Kremlin, and GUM. Commissioned by Ivan the Terrible in the 16th century, St. Basil's is a labyrinth of small rooms and hidden corners, each ornately decorated with mosaics and frescoes. On the upper floor, a three man choral group offered melodic hymns, and the baritone's voice resonated throughout the Cathedral. Meanwhile, the Kremlin is a massive complex of government buildings, museums, cathedrals, and the famous massive red wall surrounding the building (where Stalin, Brezhnev, and other Communist leaders are buried). Along the opposite side of red square is GUM (ГЦМ), the most elaborate department store/mall I have ever seen. This building was originally intended to be the center sales point for Communist goods, but today, it feels like the Bellagio's Conservatory (in Las Vegas) on a massive scale, lined with upscale shopping. The long corridors are decorated with fountains, trees, bridges, all under a giant glass roof. Though the shopping was out of our price range, this was another fascinating example of Russia's common areas being so ornate, compared to the drab housing just a few blocks down the road.
We walked west along Old Arbat, a pedestrian street lined with shops, restaurants, and old Soviet standbys. Not as pretty but equally as interesting is New Arbat, which runs parallel a block north and is lined with decrepit Soviet block housing. We kept wandering west to Kamovniki, a brewery and restaurant just outside the city center. Upon entering a nondescript driveway, you walk up to a wooden shack-like structure, down a flight of stairs, and into an underground basement (believe it or not, this turned out to be one of the few place we found with relative ease). Once inside, the basement opened into a large bar and restaurant full of locals playing pool, drinking beer and vodka, and smoking cigarettes... lots of cigarettes - a favorite hobby of the Russian populace. The waiters acted as though we were the first tourists to ever enter this place. Nobody spoke English, they had one English menu that the staff couldn't even read (our waiter had to compare the English menu to the Russian menu to figure out what we wanted), and some of the staff seemed generally intimidated by a couple of tourists. But they were happy to welcome us, they were patient with our communication deficiencies, and they even greeted us with a free vodka and appetizer, all out of pure generosity. This was real, local Russia. Their house beer was crisp and refreshing. Their food was delicious home-style cooking. Through lots of pointing and head-shaking, we finally got our order through to the waiter: some delicious borscht, meat dumplings, chicken cutlets, and a lamb and rice Uzbek dish that was spicy and delicious. We topped it off with more vodka, more beer, and a beautifully plated apple strudel that was baked to order. This place had it all - fantastic food, local beer, and an incredible Russian ambiance. This hidden gem was one of the best finds of the trip.
We needed a fair amount of walking to build up our appetite, but eventually we chose a restaurant that I had found on another travel blog: Kvartira 44. Apparently, this place is styled like an old Russian library, and they serve authentic cuisine at reasonable prices (in contrast to Moscow's most famous restaurant, Cafe Pushkin, which is also in a 'library' but apparently serves similar food at exorbitant prices). We found the street for Kvartira.... we found the street number... and nothing was there. Confused, we asked a local who had no idea what the crazy English speakers were asking. We stopped in a nearby bar for a beer and some directions, but no such luck. We decided to try Kvartira's second location, since we eventually would have to walk by it on the way to the hotel. After walking about 20 minutes, we made it to the street, located the address number... and it was nowhere to be found. How many times can this happen??? Determined to find this place, I popped my head into a hotel and asked.... she said it was just in the next block.... a block we had already walked down. We went back to the block, still nothing. I asked a security guard, standing in a doorway. He didn't speak English but understood the name of the restaurant. "Da, da, da" he responded and pointed to a bank of doors. We opened the first door, only to be greeted by a turnstile and an angry looking woman.... not the place. Next door, locked. Last door led to what appeared to be some dumpsters in an alley. We gave up, but I'm sure the meal would have been fantastic.
So we set off for another restaurant near the hotel... after some more difficulty locating that place, we ended up in a bizarre Moscow fast food "cafe". This place was wild: strobe lights and blaring techno music set the mood throughout this multi-tiered restaurant/coffee shop/bar/disco. Adding to the oddity of the place, there were groups of people who appeared to be studying, a group who was trying to turn the middle tier into a makeshift dancefloor, and there were episodes of the Simpsons played on dozens of televisions around the place. The menu was about 50 pages of long, full of sub-par cuisine from around the world. The food was not noteworthy, but I took the opportunity to try kvas, a popular Russian beer-like beverage made from fermented bread (the dark drink, pictured above). The Russians refer to it as "children's beer", but I called it "plain disgusting". It had a grainy, bready essence, but it was sweet and sort of flat like old nasty soda. The Russians can leave this low alcohol beverage for the children... this was one of the few Russian foods that I just was not down with.
It was then off to bed for some rest before the trip to Saint Petersburg. But first, I met Frederic, a tourist from Barcelona who was also staying at our B&B (we are having good luck that name on this trip... remember our buddy Fredrig from Copenhagen?). After chatting his favorite Spanish athletes and sports teams (Messi & FC Barcelona and Pau Gasol & the Lakers), he and I shared our sentiments about Moscow. We came in with similar preconceived notions and judgments, but we were both amazed at how Moscow defied our expectations:We thought Moscow would be dirty... it wasn't.
We thought Moscow would be unsafe... it wasn't.
We thought Moscow would be expensive... it wasn't.
We thought Moscow would be obscenely cold... it wasn't.
We thought Russian food would be bland and unappetizing... it wasn't.
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| Cathedrals inside the Kremlin |
April 3
Walked - 9.96 miles
Total walked - 63.66 miles
April 4
Walked - 16.11 miles
Total walked - 79.77 miles
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| Masterskaya - Strawberry Cheesecake |
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| GUM |
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