Baby, I Was Born on a Train

Midnight trains to Saint Petersburg invariably leave the traveler a little lagged. I think I finally beat the lag today, five days, ten museums, and several cardio sessions later, after our original trip to Russia’s Northern capital (the reference books insist on calling it this). As I contemplate the whole experience of tackling this world-famous city in a mere four days, I am nearly certain that I have never been and will never be such a violent tourist ever again. If I were to literally trace our steps on any of the maps we were constantly pulling out (as pictured), I’d be looking a fractured mess of a giant circle. But that’s what made it so fun, I guess.

The first leg of our trip included a visit to the Winter Palace, otherwise known as the Hermitage Museum. The Romanovs originally resided here for a better part of the year, but once the revolution occurred, it was turned over to the public as a heritage site and more recently as world-class gallery housing Russian and European art. Visiting a place this visually complex does a number on your brain. I couldn’t decide whether I should be looking at the luxurious interiors of the palace (the wooden inlays in the floor were especially captivating for me) or the paintings and tapestries hung on every available surface. I was delighted to find a Caravaggio in the museum and more Gauguin’s than I’ve ever seen in a single location, but, when it comes down to it, we walked around the Hermitage for the better part of five hours. A body simply wants to eat after seeing that much.

Oddly enough, I feel that brings me to the subject of weather in St. Pete’s, seeing as we had to battle it every time we wanted to find a toilet, another attraction, or something to it. Bottom line: pretty unbearable. The shock inflicted by the city’s general dampness on my poor, unprepared body left me a little cranky and tired for most of the trip. That’s not to say the whole break was a bust, but running through nearly freezing rain for a half an hour or more just made me want to die. The misty rains of Petersburg seep through everything: wool coats, penny loafers, and leather purses included. The place perpetually smells of cold rain. Which is nice if you’re huddled under a blanket somewhere deep within the bowels of a hostel.

One stop that remains intriguing to me is the mini park with Catherine the Great’s giant statue. Not expressly because of the statue or the lights that made the autumnal foliage look green but because it has a reputation for being popular among the homosexual community in St. Pete’s. When our tour guide informed us of this, my ears perked up: even after having lived in Russia for over two months, I’d never heard anyone speak of gays, lesbians, transsexuals, etc. or their place within Russian society. Lena, our omnipresent babysitter (that’s more or less her job description), explained to me that here, in Russia, homosexuality simply doesn’t factor into the equation for most people; Russians rarely wonder if a friend is gay or recognize any deviations in sexual preference. And, of course, she admitted to thinking the whole concept was rather bizarre. So I’ll be doing a little more research concerning that issue, which I suspect is related to this country’s aggressive macho culture.