Saint Petersburg is an aggressively ornate city, as if they wanted to show the French a thing or two when it came to excessive beauty. Wedding cake structures the color of Paas-colored Easter eggs line the wide boulevards, artists and musicians dotting them where they can find space.
This time of year, the sun bears down through thick humidity, giving way to the sweet relief of nightfall for only four hours. The city’s approach to air-conditioning is not unlike LA’s feeling about umbrellas; it’s just not that necessary. The shops, restaurants, and taxis are warm and sticky, which must feel good to a city that’s almost kissing the Arctic Circle.
The museums don’t disappoint. The Hermitage is one of the world’s grandest with a boastful collection from every period. Seeing Faberge’s work for the Czars make you understand the revolution, almost. The insane intricacy of the Church of the Savior of Spilled Blood dares to outdo St. Basil’s in Moscow, plus it has a pithier name.
I spent Sunday morning at a remote flea market, one of the world’s largest. I took an Uber (they are dirt cheap in the city), and I was lucky enough to get a driver who spoke tortured English, although far better than my Russian. He told me he lost a soccer bet, putting his chips on the English in the upset Iceland game, so now he’s tasked to do fifty drives, the proceeds going to a big party with his friends. He’s an oil and gas engineer, his new bride a lawyer, and they love watching Friends. They both long for the day to see that New York City, the one with the impossibly great apartment, but for reasons I couldn’t quite understand, a visit to the USA would somehow harm him in his career.
I like talking American politics when I can, to get a genuine perspective that’s not calcified in American media, so I threw out the T-name. “Oh, he is very smart. Billionaire. Beautiful wife.” I told him that there were a lot of rich people who weren’t all that bright. I asked him about Bill Clinton. “He very strong. He made Yeltsin give up biggest nuclear (arsenal). Great man.” Obama? “No! Clinton up here,” his hand almost reached the ceiling of the Ford Focus, “Obama here,” the other hand touching the seat. “Putin control Obama.” I’d seen evidence of this sentiment from a street artist who displayed his drawing of our President’s face on a monkey’s body, the leash held by a particularly flattering sketch of Putin.
He also went on to say that they were a family divided with relatives in the Ukraine. “Ukraine never will be part of Europe. Never!” How about George Bush? That brought a laugh. “He very stupid.” I said, “See, rich people can be stupid,” and he smiled.
Of all of the places I’ve traveled, St. Petersburg might be the most English-challenged city in the world, or at least in a photo finish tie with Mexico City. Unlike other cities where our language isn’t dominant, even Arab countries, miming and speaking slow usually makes the point. Not here. Oh, no. The sneer is immediate, as if they’ve never heard English words before, that you’re standing there speaking gibberish and wasting their time. They’ll look past you to the next customer or turn their back in disgust. Or giggle a mocking laugh as you point at menu photos.
My good friend, Barry Goldsmith, is the world’s preeminent expert on Russian architecture, and he helped me create a whirlwind tour of St. Petersburg’s greatest hits. He also hooked me up with a ridiculously opulent suite at the city’s finest, historic hotel, one fit for the Czars and their court when in the city.
The day before my departure, I started getting that all too familiar tickle in my throat, one that I feel about three times a year that leads to some bronchial nonsense. By the time I checked into the hotel, all I wanted to do was sleep. And stop coughing. The former happened, but it was punctuated by lung spasms usually reserved for someone with consumption. The hotel Doctor gave me some Thera-flu type hot drink, which helped enough to get me out of my room to see the city and all of it charms.
I believe my time in St. Petersburg would’ve been far more fun had it not been for the fever and phlegm. I would’ve embraced its charms more, letting the minor indignities of travel roll off like they usually do.
As my longest friend in the world, Barbara, mentioned, I took Russian in high school. All I really remember is how to introduce my sister Natasha, plus the Cyrillic alphabet, which had me walking around pronouncing ten-syllable words, but without a clue of what they meant. Maybe I’ll borrow the mighty Laurie Goldberg‘s remedial Russian books again that she lent me a few years back when I went to Moscow. And I think I’ll give this city another shot since I only scratched the the surface.
