The Gulag

Spoil alert: I found Perm-36 (despite the odds and the doubtful looks from the woman at the hostel). Russia - 1, Stephen - 1. Here's how:

I set my alarm for an early start which I hate doing (I'm on vacation!) but I knew today was going to be a difficult day of long bus rides, exercise in non-verbal communication,

(Sorry, quick writer's pause. It's worth noting that I'm surrounded by somewhere in the vicinity of twelve burly Russian men in tank tops, the same ones from last night making the stew, looking at me and talking about me while I write this. Unfortunately, there are no other places to go where I can sit in peace and write. So, this will have to do. When I walked through the door of the hostel an hour or so ago, they immediately recognized me as the American and asked to look at the photos I had taken of Perm-36, they knew I had went there today. I said, okay, and proceeded to do a slide show for all twelve guys, communicating with them in my poor Russian, about all the photos I had taken since Irkutsk. I had fun, they had fun, and it's all light hearted, but it's tough to write under these conditions. So, please forgive the distracted quality of this post.)

and wandering through forest looking for the gulag museum so I wanted to ensure I had an early start. I packed my bag and set out for the bus station. As soon as I walked through the thresh hold of the door to the outside I was hit in the face by snow from the blizzard that was wreaking havoc on the city. I trudged through three kilometers of this mess and, under self navigation, arrived at the bus station. The previous night I had gone to great lengths to work it out with the hostel receptionist on exactly how to go about finding this place. The reason she was skeptical that I would find it was because in order to get there I had to find and get to the bus station in Perm, find the right bus to take (to Chusovoi, a town 150 kilometers to the north through vast countryside), figure out which stop to get off at (a small turn out on a lonely highway in the forest to a small village - and its not really a stop, you just have to ask the driver to let you off), then walk the three kilometers to the village where the museum was located, then work my way through the museum with a Russian guide, all in a Russian blizzard (which is worse than a normal blizzard). To be honest, with the poor luck I had finding the Europe-Asia monument, I had my doubts as well.

I found very little information the night before on my own in english from the internet. No travel forums, no english language websites, not much at all. All the foreigners that made this trip previously that had left information through forums all went by private car - useless! But the official website of the museum did have directions in Russian, which despite my best efforts, did little to help me, even when translated. But it did have a map of the route that the bus from Perm was likely to take, and included the names of the villages that it would pass along the three hour journey to Chusovoi. I took a photo of this map and used it on the bus. I took a window seat near the back of the bus so that I would be able to look out and observe each sign that we passed on the highway that had arrows that pointed to the names of these villages and their turnouts. So for the two hours or so that I was on the bus before my stop, my eyes were glued to the window looking for village signs. When finally we had passed the last village turnout before the one that I had to get off at, I made my way to the front of the bus, asked the driver, "Kuchino?" and he said, "Nyet, russian russian russian..." which I understood to mean, no but soon. So he knew that I wanted to get off at that turnout. We soon arrived and he let me out.

Here's the scene. The bus pulled over to the side of the highway (a small, long, two lane highway), no bus stop, no land marker of any kind except a sign that said "Kuchino 3 km" and had an arrow that pointed to a small village road down the hill. Everything in view was pure white. Either side of the road was dense forest and there were countryside fields down in the area where the village road was. No buildings of any kind. And again, a snow blizzard.

But, luckily, two others got off as well and there really is only one reason to get off at this location, to make the trek into the village to see the gulag museum. They looked at me and said, "English?" and I said, "Da!". They were two Germans, Jens and Susie, who were going to the museum too. We started to trek our way through the snow and down the hill to the village. After about five minutes a massive truck passed us, moving cautiously through the storm, and slowed to a stop in front of us. He opened the passenger side door and assuming correctly that he was going to give us a lift into town, the three of us squeezed in next to him and we slowly plowed our way down to the museum. He knew where we were going without words, he pulled up right in front of the museum entrance. We jumped out and thanked him.

Perm-36 is the name of the gulag, the political prison camp, that was very active during the Soviet days in this village. During the Soviet days following WWII, hundreds of thousands of people were sent to these camps for "political crimes", a campaign led by the infamous Josef Stalin. This specific prison camp was just one of thousands across the country and is today the only known camp still standing. The camp has been renovated in many parts but a lot of the original structures still exist. We entered through one of the original buildings, the administrative building of the camp, bought our tickets, and met our guide. Here is why I was really lucky. Jens and Susie were two German teachers living in the city of Volgagrad (famous as the city that turned the tide against Hitler in WWII) and who also happened to speak Russian (as well as perfect English). So I had the benefit of a Russian guide who led us around the camp and explained different things to us and the benefit of a personal translator in Jens who could act as my intermediary. 

We started in a small cinema room where we watched a video of a short introduction to the museum and a quick overview of the history of the gulags in general. It was a film made in the mid nineties, just after the collapse of the Soviet Union and the official closing of the Perm-36 as a prison camp, but it was filmed with cameras from the seventies, so everything looked like it was filmed in the seventies. The film was in English and talked about how important the museum was and why it is important to remember the events that occurred there and in all the gulag camps around the country. It sort of seemed like a plea for money. But it was a nice intro to the museum and certainly set the grim, more serious stage that would follow us with the rest of the tour. The small cinema room was filled with Soviet propoganda posters and above the viewing screen was a large, red banner with a slogan written in Russian that Jens translated for me saying, "Marxism is good for the people and will be followed because it is the truest way," or something close to that. And on another wall were all the photos of the camps many "celebrity" inhabitants, mainly political activists.

The cinema room at the gulag, above a propaganda sign promoting marxism

When the film had finished we were led from the cinema room and walked around the camp while our guide continued to offer us facts about the rooms and the grounds. The camp looked like you might expect it to: bare walls, barbed wire, iron bars, cold, barren rooms. We walked into a small room where 60 men would sleep in bunk beds made of planks of wood that slept four, two up, two down. We walked through the prison within the prison where the troublemakers were kept. And we walked around the labor grounds where the prisoners spent most of their day.

Here are some things we learned from the guide:

-the camp housed men, women, and children held for "political crimes" but in reality, people could be sent to the camps for years for stealing a loaf of bread, riding the bus without a ticket, or making an official angry in some way. One story she told us was of a ten year old orphan girl whose family was all killed in the war and was sent to 10 years in the camp for picking an onion from a field because she was starving and homeless. Many hundreds of thousands of people were sent to these camps for similar reasons, suffering from the whims of others
-Perm-36 was one of the leading camps in the area, although their were hundreds more in the region
-this particular camp used its prisoners to produce electrical components for irons
-prisoners spent 12 hours per day (or more depending on the moods of the officers there) either making the components, or working in the labor yards doing various chores
-many of the prisoners died in the camp, mostly due to starvation and some from suicide
-etc.

The camp had a hollow feeling to it. Like you could tell that something big had once occured there. You could feel that presence around you. We were the only visitors at the time (and probably that whole day), and the quiet of the snow storm sort of added to the effect. We walked around the grounds awhile, soaking in the experience after the guided portion was done, and after having the chance to take photos and contemplate awhile, we left.

The administrative building of Perm-36

The camp grounds

Me in front of the gulag entrance

We knew this part was going to be tricky. We knew we had to walk back up the hill, out of the village, and to the highway. And we knew we had to flag down a bus coming back from Chusovoi heading to Perm. But we didn't know how frequently the buses came (not frequently as we later learned). As we began to walk back through the blizzard to the highway, a local village bus picked us up and dropped us off. Now we were on the side of the small highway and in the middle of the relentless blizzard, prepared to wait all day for a bus to take us back. But, Jens had brought a small sign from the tourist office in Perm with one side offering information on the museum and the other that, when unfolded, read "Perm" in big, red Russian letters. The idea is that you could hold this sign on the side of the road and use it to hitch hike back to the city. This is sort of emblematic of Russian tourist attractions. They are remarkably difficult to find and get access to. When you have to provide tourists with a means to hitch hike their way across 150 kilometers of blizzardy, Russian taiga, you know you need a better system. But whatever, go with the flow. We decided to hold up the sign and see what would happen.

Susie running after the bus that slowed to give us ride to the highway

Yens holding our official "get me back to Perm, please" hitch hiking sign

Someone eventually stopped. A big Russian guy pulled over in a tiny, Japanese car and the three of us quickly piled in, thanking him for stopping. Jens got in the front so that he could chat with the driver in Russian (he looked like he squeezed into a clown car - he's 6 ft 8). The driver was a local villager heading into Perm to visit a friend and was sympathetic to our cause. He drove us the three hours back into town and was super cool about it. He hadn't planned on driving to the center of the city but insisted on it after he learned we were headed there. But he was a village driver and was easily frustrated by city driving. The more we sat in traffic, the more, "tak, tak, blyadt!" we heard coming from the driver's seat (Russian words of frustration). Eventually he pulled into a parking lot and, halting to a stop, quickly turned around and said, "We're here!" smiling and laughing, relieved. We thanked him profusely and paid him a few dollars for the cost of gas (the accepted gesture of thanks when hitch hiking, mainly the reimbursement of gas money). Then the three of us walked back to Lenin Street and looked for a place to grab a bite of food.

We spent much of the rest of the day together, I was happy to have found some companions in the city. We ate some Russian food (I again had the benefit of some translators) and drank some local beer from a Russian microbrewery. It was a nice evening.

Now I'm back, having shared my travels with a bunch of Russian guys and writing this post in the zoo that is this hostel kitchen. (Another point worth observing: the gentlemen that were having a good time talking with the me, the American, a novelty, and looking at my photos all suddenly got very serious and very quiet when we hit the photos that I had taken of the gulag. Some of them, when watching the photos, started to shake their heads as if reminded by some cruel memory. They were probably too young to have been in the camps themselves but it is likely that they had family members or knew of people that had been in the camps). Tomorrow I will sleep in (because I can), check out late, head to the train station, and hop my last train along the Trans-Siberian line to Moscow where my friend Yana will hopefully be waiting for me.

I won't have internet access again until I reach Moscow on Friday. See you then!

The artists of Perm strike back!

Perm is a cool city. I only came here so I could visit the Soviet Gulag museum, called Perm-36, but today after I checked into the hostel, I walked around the city for a few hours and was pleasantly surprised. Let me step back a bit.

I found the hostel, the only hostel in the city, very easily. It’s located on Lenin St. (as is every hostel in Russia), about a mile from the train station. No problems. The young woman who checked me in stopped me before I headed out to go walk around the city and asked me if I had any questions or if I wanted to look at their English language city guide. I said, sure! This hostel, as I’m quickly finding out, mostly caters to Russian, regular people, not really backpackers, even though it is a hostel for backpackers. The truth is, not many foreigners stop in on this city. So when foreigners do come, the staff at the hostel get excited. She came back from looking for the book but said she couldn’t find it. But I asked her some questions. I told her that I wanted to see Perm-36, the gulag camp, and I knew it was located outside of the city and might be tricky to get to. She immediately looked disappointed. She told me every foreigner that comes to the city only comes to see the Gulag camp. To be fair, it is what makes this city a stopover for foreign travelers on the Trans-Siberian train, if they do stop here. She’s a local and so wishes people would come for the city itself. But, friendly as she is, she gave me the low down for how to find the bus to the village where the camp is located (and it is complicated - I hope this doesn’t turn into another Eruope-Asia border monument deal). I’ll do this tomorrow.

I thanked her and set out. As I was walking I slowly started to realize that this is one of the hippest cities I’ve ever seen. It’s not a big city. It’s buffered up against a big river and the downtown area, that centers around Lenin Street, sits on a hill above the riverbank. A lot of the buildings are old, factory or Soviet style buildings but for some reason, although they are mostly decrepit, these buildings are still lived in, they still serve a purpose and are therefore somehow oddly appealing, aesthetically. It’s hard to describe. The city just glows with this artsy vibe. Young people walk around with fashionable clothes, dyed hair, nose rings, completely different from the fancy, elegant crowds you find in every other Russian city. The old buildings all have their original, wood paneled structures with bright, peeling paint. But it all fits the artsiness of the city.

And every building in the entire city is graffitied. Some of it is normal, crappy graffiti. But mostly it is wildly impressive street art. No building was left unscathed by this artistic movement. I’m pretty sure the movement went generally accepted by the city’s inhabitants. It’s as if the city mayor stood out on the balcony of city hall and yelling out to all his townspeople said something like, “Artists of Perm, the city is yours!” Factory walls, several floors high, are painted with massive murals. Small fences are covered in small paintings and slogans. Doors to restaurants, shops, auto repair garages, all covered in art.

I walked along the river, close to the downtown strip, to locate PERMM, an art gallery of contemporary art. It is housed in an old factory building on the river right across the street from Perm I Station, the old abandoned train station before Perm II was built (I pulled into Perm II). The area is really cool. I paid a few dollars for a ticket and walked around the gallery. Other art forms are everywhere in the city too besides the government approved street graffiti. The first thing you see when walking out of the train station is a massive sculpture made from wooden logs in the shape of a “п”, the Russian letter for “P”. It symbolizes the city of Perm, “п” being the first letter in the name. The city uses it as a symbol. The hostel I’m staying in is called “Hostel P” for the same reason, as are cafes, restaurants, etc.

The pop art symbol of Perm, artwork outside the train station

A mural, one of many in the city

A mural over an old factory building

Decrepit but appealing, no? Outside the old Perm I train station

Graffiti on a new construction site

I think I am starting to understand why the reception girl at the hostel was disappointed that I was staying in her city for one full day and only asked about the one thing that all foreigners ask about, the one disastrous, sinister thing that makes this city famous. She (a hipster herself) is doing everything in her power to rebrand this city. To let the artists take back the city and turn it into a cultural haven, a distant cry from it’s less glamorous past. I’l help her. I’ll promote the other good things about this city. (GO TO PERM FOR ITS ART!) And this opinion came about from only a few hours of walking around. I think I could spend a good deal longer here if my itinerary wasn’t so lock tight.

I also found my first McDonald’s since Beijing. This wouldn’t be noteworthy except for the fact that I think it’s pretty cool to visit McDonalds’ in every country to see how they differ. For example, the McDonald’s in Japan features the “mega tomago” or the super egg Big Mac which is like two Big Macs on top of one another with a giant, fried egg in between. Indian McDonald’s have no beef - just a lot of variations of the McChicken. Chinese McDonald’s are obnoxious because the menus are all in Chinese characters (none that I could easily recognize). But the one today, the Russian McDonald’s, was awesome because I understood the entire Russian menu. My cyrillic reading ability is getting really good. After more than a week of practicing (I read aloud everything I see), I could read the words on the menu above the super-skinny Russian McDonald’s girls and understand them because they are all words taken from English. It’s like they don’t have Russian words for McDonald’s menu items so they appropriated English words and just wrote them in cyrillic. So all I had to do to order was say, “Big mac, fries, coke, ketchup,” reading them from the menu. She got it all. Awesome.

Tonight is a laid back night. I had a great time in Ekaterinburg but it was super jam packed with events that kept me up late into the night without time to stop and reflect a bit. So I’m kind of doing that now. Lastly, and this is just an unrelated side note, I know this is a Russian hostel because I’m writing this in a kitchen surrounded by big men with no shirts on cutting potatoes on the table, working up a stew. It feels like the train.

Tomorrow, the gulag!

A side trip

(Please back date to 2/25/13)

My excursion didn’t exactly go according to plan. To put it bluntly, I didn’t find the monument. It would have been cool to do as Tsar Alexander II did in in the early 19th century and drink a glass of wine on the Asian side of the border and then drink one on the European side. But at least I found Pervoraulsk! 

Lilia and I had a breakfast of bread and cheese with sausage and then Lilia, after deciding that trying to find the monument on my own would be too difficult for me to do without the benefit of Russian, decided to help me and see me off to the bus station. So we hopped back in her Suzuki and drove to the central bus station located beside the train station. We found the right bus, after lots of asking around by Lilia, I bought my ticket, and we waited. Meanwhile, Lilia had talked to the bus driver about how I could go about finding the monument from the bus station in Pervoraulsk. After observing a conversation I couldn’t understand and watching Lilia get more and more frustrated, I sensed something was wrong. Lilia, afterwards and shaking her head in frustration, said the bus driver had told her that the monument was a pretty good distance from the bus station and it would be difficult to find on my own. But, for a bribe, the bus driver would consider making a special stop at the monument. And he wouldn’t plainly describe the way to get their on my own should I decide not to pay the bribe. Lilia just looked at me and said, “Sorry...this is Russia!” shrugging her shoulders, defeated. But she did write down on a piece of paper something to the effect of, “Hello, I’d like to go to the Europe-Asia border monument, can you tell me how to get there?” and she told me to give this to a young person, preferably female, because then I would have the best chance of being helped. I thanked Lilia for the help and hopped the bus just before it pulled away.

Getting to the right bus station was easy enough, it was the last one. But the bus driver was right, there was not a clue anywhere as to where I might be able to head to the monument. The town, as far as it looked, was a small industrial one, without signs (even in cyrillic) that might indicate the direction of the monument. So, I decided to walk around into town and look for clues. I walked in the most promising direction and continuing on, found no clues, but did find some really nice roads that led out of the industrial town and down into a quiet neighborhood in the forest. It was snowing in heaps. Big, heavy, snow (but not wet, it was really cold). My view from atop a hill that I had climbed overlooked the village and was of endless pinewood trees surrounding on all sides a village green. In the middle of the green (well, not so much green as white, but you get the idea) was a walking bridge over a small frozen creek. I walked along the bridge to a small road that led further into the forest. There were several walking paths that had clearly been forged by cross country skiers (I saw a lot of cross country skiers here, cross country skiing being the most practical means of transportation for villagers) and they all led into the forest. So I wandered down some of these paths and let myself be overcome by the mystical, peaceful properties of the snowfall in the woods. Just white and green and brown and silence except for the soft sounds of the snowfall and slight creaking of the trees in the breeze. It was great.

Alone in the forest outside Pervoraulsk

Welcome to Lyeshoz

The village road I followed, the open field to the left

I wandered back out of the forest and continued down that lonely road. I saw a sign, a totem pole really, with the name of a village and a carving of a bear. The road led up a hill and ended at a very small village, just a cluster of homes all seeping smoke from their chimney tops, and a lumber yard which is probably where all the villagers worked. Across from the lumber yard was a huge open field surrounded by the forest on all sides. I walked around the field awhile, taking photos (just enough photos before my hands started to freeze) and then slowly walked back towards Pervaroulsk. 

I didn’t find the dumb monument, but my excursion turned out favorably enough. The village was obviously a border village anyway so I did spend the day straddling the two continents in any event. And had I found the monument, I might have missed the village. So I think it worked out.

Lilia was relieved when I returned that evening that I hadn’t paid any bribes and that I hadn’t gotten lost (she had told me before I hopped the bus that, worse case scenario, I could call them from Pervoraulsk and they would drive up to find me. It’s nice to have someone looking out for you...). Sasha and Lilia had made some borscht and spaghetti so I ate some of the leftovers for supper while we talked awhile about the day. Lilia had a friend over from the university and they studied together for a test they have in a few days while we talked. I was wiped and before long passed out (it was late too and I had a train in the morning).

I just hopped off that train actually, just a six hour ride to the next city in my adventure, Perm, famous for its gulag museum, after saying goodbye and thanks to my hosts in Ekaterinburg. I promised Lilia I would send her a postcard from the US when I got home (she collects post cards from around the world). And after seeing me off at the station, they returned home. I will miss them.

I just checked into the cheapest, cleanest hostel I’ve stayed at yet in Russia (almost China cheap). I’m going to rest up a bit and then walk around the city tonight. But tomorrow, and the sole reason for coming to Perm, I plan to to see the historic Perm-36, the gulag from Soviet days, preserved as a museum. It’s is supposed to be a powerful experience.

The Tivikovas

(Please back date to 2/24/13)

I stated yesterday that I was picked up at the station by my hosts in Ekaterinburg. This is the first time I have tried couch surfing. For those of you who are not familiar with this concept (it was only recently made known to me as well) couch surfing is a relatively new phenomenon to hit the budget travel crowd. It centers around a website by the same name and, with an account, you can search an area that you want to travel to and write to people that live there to see if they will host you. The idea is that people want to help out budget travelers by offering them a "couch" to sleep on for free, or a bed, or a floor, whatever. Budget travelers are not picky (I'm not picky). Couch surfing is also good, not only because it is free, but it puts you in contact with a local, someone who can give you the lowdown of the place and if available, join you around town. So, if you don't mind meeting and depending on strangers and being flexible on where you sleep, it can be an excellent way to travel.

In theory I am couch surfing here in Ekaterinburg but I managed to circumvent all the rules. In fact, I've never even been to the website. The Tivikovas are friends of a Russian girl, Helen, that I met in Beijing when she (a couch surfing "hoster") hosted some German friends of mine for a few days. We all went out for Peking duck and after telling her that I was traveling to Russia and was having a hard time finding cheap places to stay, Helen dipped into her network of friends in Russia and found Lilia willing and able to host me while I traveled to Ekaterinburg. Helen put us in contact and it all worked out.

As I mentioned yesterday, when I pulled into Ekaterinburg station at 11PM last night, Lilia, her husband Sasha, and Sasha's cousin Olga and her boyfriend Pasho, all came to the station platform to greet me to the city, large "Stephen" sign in hand. They helped me with my bags and we hopped into their car to their apartment not far from the city center. I hadn’t realize it, but yesterday also happened to be what used to be known as Soviet Army Day in Russia, now known as Defender of the Fatherland Day since the collapse of the Soviet Union, and is a day that in practice is generally for men. It's like men's day. Women in Russia have a day as well but the 23rd of February is for the guys. Women usually present their significant others with a gift and everyone usually celebrates with friends. This is why Olga and Pasho were visiting Lilia and Sasha. Lilia had baked a cake for Sasha that morning and they were waiting for me to celebrate further that evening. When we arrived at the apartment last night, they broke out some beers and the rest of the cake, and started to cook some Russian pizzas. The pizzas were excellent, made like normal pizzas but with Russian toppings like spicy sausages (that are well known around Russia - especially on the trains. I've grown quite fond of them myself) and gherkins. Pickles on a pizza. It’s pretty good.

We socialized awhile, I got tell my story, and we talked on a matter of subjects from politics (again, Russians and their politics, Pasho particularly enjoyed my thoughts on Obama) to gun laws in the US, to music. After we had our fill (it was pretty late), Olga and Pasho left and Lilia and Sasha showed me where I could sleep. They live in a really nice, spacious apartment, in a high rise not far from the main, downtown area of the city. The apartment was handed down to them from family (but is being sold soon for a more size appropriate place) and so I had a number of rooms to choose from. My room has windows wrapping around half of the room that offers panoramic views of the city and I have my own bed. I'm living large.

Sasha and Lilia were married about a year ago, honeymooning across Italy. They are roughly the same age as me. Lilia just finished up a degree at the local university having done previous work as a journalist for a local newspaper. Now she's furthering her education to specialize in public relations which she hope will get her an opportunity to work in the public relations department of the Olympic Committee in Sochi for the next winter Olympics. She's in the process of applying now and apparently is making progress. Lilia was born into a military family and has moved around a lot growing up (like me). She was born in Kamchatka (yikes! You should Google map this place if you're not familiar) and has spent much of her life in the Far East, especially in Khaborovsk (which is how she knows Helen). But now she lives in Ekaterinburg, having moved there to study, and stayed there after her marriage. She is tall, has long, straight, blonde hair, blue eyes, and has a very bubbly, outgoing personality.

Sasha is a computer programmer who works at a nearby plant called Avtomatic which produces mechanical parts for rockets in support of the Russian space program. He writes codes that automate machines that make parts for these rockets and other machines, basically. He says his level of work doesn’t require a security clearance but that a lot of the engineers who design the machines that he makes parts for are huge security risks and are not allowed to leave the country. (Security clearances are for the birds - I’ve said this all along.) He is originally from Ekaterinburg and has lived his whole life in this city. He is thin, not very tall, has long blond hair, blue eyes, and a goatee grown only from the chin in some length. When we first met, he was wearing a big Russian fur hat and an army fatigue, olive green jacket. He likes classic rock, both American and Russian, has a very extensive and impressive collection of record vinyls, and makes paper models of planes and helicopters as a hobby. His English is very good and does a lot of translating for me. Together, they make a fun pair and their hospitality has been overwhelming. 

We woke up a little later than usual. The sun here in Ekaterinburg starts coming up around 9 (it has risen at a different time in each place I've been, annoyingly...) so the days here start a bit slowly. I had discussed my plans for the two full days that I have with them the night before, basically that I want to spend one day focusing on the Romanov family history, seeing the cathedral that was built over the house that was demolished where the family was murdered and then to go to Ganina Yama, the site deep in the forest outside the city where the family was buried (or rather disposed of) and now is home to an orthodox monastery and memorial to the Tsar and his family. And the other day to do a day trip, 40 km outside the city, to a place called Pervoraulsk which has the original monument commemorating the border between Asia and Europe and where Tsar Alexander II famously drank a glass of wine on either side. They liked my ideas and since it was Sunday and they both had the day off, they decided they would join me for a drive out of the city to Ganina Yama, Sasha had never been.

The three of us made a small breakfast of yoghurt and coffee and then we hopped in Lilia’s small Suzuki sedan and drove north out of the city. We listened to “сплин” on CD, a Russian alternative rock band whose name when pronounced in English sounds like “spleen”, the organ. I forget what it means in Russian but it’s more musically appropriate I was assured. As we drove into the less dense suburbs that quickly became forest, Lilia offhandedly pointed out that there is a blacksmith who lives in a cabin deep in the woods by himself. He is famous in the city for producing the highest quality wares and runs a small blacksmithing school, also in the woods, where he teaches the “old methods” of the craft. She said he’s sort of an urban myth, but that he’s probably there. I like to think he’s there.

We briefly made a stop for gas at a Gazprom station, the world’s largest oil producer, a Russian company, where Lilia started the pump and Sasha got out to pay the teller through a little drop box from a window into the teller’s office (they don’t like to be bothered by the cold). We got back in the car and continued. We passed an old military yard that, over time, had collected heaps of green military vehicles, and tanks, and other types of machinery. Sasha told me that Ekaterinburg used to be a major producer of military machines, especially tanks, in World War II, and many of these scrap yards can be seen today scattered throughout the city. Ekaterinburg served the war by making heavy machinery mainly because of its location along the Trans-Siberian railroad. Ekaterinburg is the first major city and railway hub going east out of European Russia, where most of the war was fought, and sits just on the other side of the Ural Mountains. A strategic spot for military manufacturing and shipment.

After another half hour of driving into the woods I made a remark that I had been traveling through these woods, in the Siberian taiga, for over a week now and that I still don’t get tired of looking at the trees. They really are beautiful in their monotony. Sasha said that he agreed that they were beautiful but that they were also tricky. It happens frequently, he said, that local villagers head into the forest to search for mushrooms and are easily disoriented by the trees and often get lost, dangerous in such a wild and large place. I could see how that could happen. Continuing further we finally arrived in the isolated setting of Ganina Yama, the name given to the Orthodox monastery in memory of the Tsar Nicholas II and his family (wife Alexandra, and children Olga, Maria, Tatyana, Anastasia, and Alexei). 

Quick history lesson: Nicholas II was the last tsar of Imperial Russia when in the early 20th century, much of the country had rebelled against the imperial powers led by the Bolsheviks, young reformers under the influence of people like Vladimir Lenin, who wanted a communist style of government to spread the wealth of the nation across to the masses. During the period of fighting, Nicholas and his family were moved to Ekaterinburg from St. Petersburg, their home, in order to protect them from the revolution that was destroying the city but instead he and his entire family were brutally murdered by some over-eager Bolsheviks in the basement of a small house near the lake in the city center. Then, in an effort to hide the deed, they brought the bodies out to the place where we were visiting, Ganina Yama, deep in the forest, and “disposed” of the bodies, eliminating them rather than burying them through various means.

But although the Bolsheviks were leading a popular movement, this deed of brutality went overboard, so to speak, and much of the country mourned the generally favorable family - they had been the most tame and least radical of Tsarist families and were big supporters of the Othodox church. So the family, in the church, are regarded in a saintly way today. And on this site they created a very beautiful monastery. The grounds are covered in snow and consist of small wooden chapels constructed in what I can only describe as in the gingerbread house style of architecture topped with small golden onion domes. The place is serene and lovely. We walked around the somber grounds and visited some of the chapels. In the back of the site there was a long wall that displayed picturse from the early 1900’s of the tsar and his family. They made him and his family look like very ordinary people: going for walks, playing tennis, taking rides in the lake in rowboats. And they had built a wooden walkway that hovered aboveground in a horseshoe shape like a covered bridge around the actual site where the bodies were left. It was an incredible morning.

One of the "ginger bread house" chapels at Ganina Yama

A picture of Tsar Nicholas II and his family from the imperial photography exhibit at Ganina Yama

Sasha and Lilia Tivikova, my hosts in Ekaterinburg

When we left the monastery, we were approached by a woman, a pious one by the look of her dress, who asked for a ride back into the city. She was going to the Church Upon the Blood, the cathedral they built over the site of the now paved-over basement where the family was murdered. Lilia agreed and said that we could also visit the cathedral, completing our Romanov history day in one sweep.

The Church Upon the Blood Cathedral was built only a few years ago and is so named because it was built on top of the basement where the Romanov family was murdered. The orthodox cathedral is meant to be a place of pilgrimage for the pious and when we were there, hundreds of churchgoers were as well. The cathedral is the largest church in the city and is decorated inside with hundreds of glittering paintings of the saints and of the family members themselves. It is a beautiful place. But we stayed only a short time because Sasha had received a phone call a little earlier from his parents inviting the three of us to dinner at their apartment on the other side of the city. I was thrilled at this idea - a home cooked meal of authentic Russian food with some genuine Russian hospitality.

Church Upon the Blood, commemorating the site of the Romanov family massacre

And I was not disappointed. I met Sasha’s parents (whose names I can’t remember, sorry Sasha’s parents!), a short man with white hair and a white beard and a small woman whom you could think of as the original Russian mother. They invited us to sit at a small table in the living area and Sasha told my story to his parents (his parents could speak a little English but it was much easier for Sasha to repeat the story in Russian). His father seemed impressed by my military background (as most Russians are when they find out, Russia is still quite a militarized place, even amongst the youth) and he offered me a shot of his best vodka, a gift from Lilia’s parents on a trip they had taken. The vodka was from a small village in the Siberian taiga and was the color of whiskey. We toasted a round to me and my travels and the vodka went down smoothly.

Then we ate a glorious feast of Russian food, prepared by Sasha’s mother, of salad as a starter (pickled cabbage and potato salad, colored purple) and followed by a goulash soup (a red colored broth with potatoes, tomatoes, onions, and a big piece of beef), followed by a cabbage pie (a large pie crust filled with salty cabbage), and lastly a round of roasted chicken stuffed with apples. We drank dry, Russian, red wine with the food. I hadn’t eaten this much in a very, very long time. My stomach was bursting.

Sasha's parents made us dinner of salad, borscht, cabbage pie, and roast chicken

Sacha, Lilia, and Sasha's parents over dinner

Afterwards, Sasha’s mother showed me a collection of homemade Russian dolls made from fabric that she creates as a hobby. She told me the story (translated by Sasha) of what each doll meant and stood for: happiness, prosperity, long life, etc. And then she offered me a few as a gift. I was overwhelmed with the offer and gladly accepted three dolls and one push-pin cat. One of the dolls was specifically given to me because I told her I had a sister and she instructed me to give it to her when I got home (so Rachel, if you’re reading this, you have a Russian doll coming your way. It is a doll specifically created for female family members and it represents happiness). And afterwards Sasha’s father showed me some of his paper models of an old Russian frigate and a German U-Boat submarine (this is where Sasha gets his hobby from I think). I could not have had a better time.

With leftovers in hand we bid Sasha’s parents a warm farewell and left for home. I had wanted to walk around the city a bit before heading back so following a quick driving tour of the downtown area, they dropped me off at the city square and I walked around for a few hours before heading back to the apartment later that night. The city itself is quite beautiful and it had been snowing almost constantly since I arrived. I paid a visit to the Metenkov House Museum of Photography which had an interesting exhibit on photographs, both old and new, of Russia’s ballet scene. But after a few hours of museum gazing and walking around in the cold, I took the tram back to the apartment.

Pasho and Olga had returned that evening (Pasho had accidentally left his cell phone in the apartment and had to return anyway) and we ate some of the leftovers from earlier in the day. Then we talked for awhile over tea. But that evening and into late into the night, we all sat in the living room and played a slideshow over Sasha’s digital projector of my photos from my travels. The projector projects the images onto the far wall of the living room which blows up the photos to huge sizes. It is a very cool set up. We walked through my China travels and into Mongolia before it got too late and everyone retired. It was an action packed day. 

The plan for day two (which is a workday for Sasha and a study day for Lilia so they will not be joining me) is to venture out on a day trip to a small town called Pervoraulsk, 40 km outside the city, which is supposed to have a monument that marks the border of Europe and Asia. The directions are not too specific but I’m going to wing it. We’ll see what I find!

A long ride

Krasnoyarsk train station

A quick note: this post was written “on the fly” so the entire entry will be presented in the present tense. It is easier to write for long stretches of train rides with my laptop on the dining table next to the window in my compartment, freely writing about experiences as they are happening. [But how exciting! You can take the ride with me!]

I’m back on No. 349, the Chita to Moscow train, bound for Yekaterinburg. And by some stroke of luck, all the drunks from the night ride from Irkutsk and beyond got off the train in Krasnoyarsk as I and a few others got on. The train is quiet so far. I thought even that I might have the compartment to myself but the train stopped in Krasnoyarsk for about thirty minutes, and at the last minute two guys entered my compartment. The first, a man in his thirties in a business suit, removed his coat, put a small duffel bag under the seat, and sat down. A moment later, a young man with a big fur hat did the same. They were both locals, taking the train a short distance to the outlying villages while I was the sole overnighter. The providnista, for the first time in my Russian train experience, thought it amusing I was a foreigner and this time I was not characteristically met with a scowl and considered thereon a nuisance, but instead met by a helpful woman who helped me find my compartment after I helped her figure out my passport. The men across from me figured out quickly I was a foreigner and pretty much ignored me for their short journeys. They made small talk for a few hours with each other in Russian and after some eavesdropping I was able to discern via my improving language skills (but don’t be fooled into thinking I can speak any - I still can’t) that one was a man doing business in the city for a few days and the other was a young electrician working on the railroad.
But they are both gone now and I am starting to write this entry from my empty compartment on a quiet train. This is leaving me plenty of time to window gaze and read. I feel like Paul Theroux and his literary train ride through the world. I’m currently reading Ian Frazier’s “Travels in Siberia”, published a few years ago, which is appropriate (and a very interesting, well written account of the region). The train, after pulling out of Krasnoyarsk station, has entered into deep forest. The sun is slowly setting here and soon, I’ve read, streaks of the setting sun will push through the dense rows of endless trees in shreds, beacons of light through the forest. And I think the vast majority of my trip, until late tomorrow night, will look like this. This portion of the journey is by far my longest in one, single stretch of train track. It crosses the endless Siberian taiga that makes up the heart of Siberia. Lots and lots of trees and snow and very, very few people. Railway villages have popped up here and there but by and large, this is the portion, although beautiful, that people simply cross. For me, it’s the great expanse of the globe that will take me out of Asia and into Europe.

I don’t know how long I will have the compartment to myself. Maybe the whole ride, maybe just until our next stop (Mariinsk, in a few hours) or until our next city (Novosibirsk, tonight at midnight), but for now I am going to enjoy the peace and solitude of the empty Siberian expanse and continue to read and think. A peaceful afternoon in an altogether hectic past few weeks.

Last night, before I left the hostel, I downloaded some music for the ride. I chose a thorough (and inexpensive - the non-hits are cheap) collection of hits from the old Soviet era Red Army Choir and some new Russia top 20 hits - chiefly dance trance techno stuff as described in an earlier post. In my solitude, I decided to pop in the Red Army Choir music collection while staring out the window into a darkening Siberia (but fear not! I’ve spent a lot of time in post and current Communist countries, but I’m true blue!). The music has an interesting effect and it seems very appropriate based on the location. I don’t know if you’re familiar with the Red Army Choir, but it was the official military choir of the Soviet “Red Army” that became the music one associates so well with the USSR. It features in old Cold War movies like (what’s the one with Denzel Washington and Harrison Ford and the submarines - U-571, Das Boot, Down Periscope?). The album I downloaded is a collection of the original recordings of some of the more popular tunes that the choir sang. Some are anthems, some are folk tunes, some are operatic, etc. The Red Army Choir takes a very unique approach to music which I think is why it has resonated so distinctly in musical history. Rather than making much of an attempt at harmony or even emphasizing a clever melody, the choir instead took the approach of assembling dozens of burly military men and made them shout red-themed tunes in unison. It sounds simple but the effect is powerful and exemplifies, at least in my mind, the USSR so well. It’s like if they blared this music somehow over loudspeakers across the nation, peasants in Siberia would all dutifully stand at attention for some reason. And by comparison, Russia is and was known famously for its mastery of the classical performance arts like the orchestra, ballet, theater, etc. The Red Army was on its own page.

Anyway, we hit a snowstorm. We’ve entered a white-out of flurries that are scrambling the view of the dark greens of the forest. It’s quite nice. Snow storms slow cars down but trains just plow on through. It feels like Christmas again.

Nobody joined me in Mariinsk. We were at the station for about 20 minutes so I had plenty of time to hop off the train, head outside and stretch my legs. It was half past 6, the sun gave way to dark cloud cover and snow fell magically around the station. There is a very strong, calming effect a soft snow storm can create, even amongst a bustling train station. I walked across the platform to a small kiosk where I bought some Coke and a Snickers bar to subsidize my train diet of bread and cheese (it’s not as bad as it sounds - Russian bakeries make some good bread and the dairy products in Siberia are superb. Once again, I’m seeing signs of a dwindling Asian presence everywhere). Others joined me on the platform for a silent, shivering smoke. Industrial trains slowly pulled in around us, screeching to a halt as other passenger trains jolted to a start and slowly disappeared into the white beyond. The horn blew. We re-embarked.

My view, as stated before, is of the Russian taiga. The taiga is the largest single forest in the world. It stretches from the Ural Mountains in the west, to beyond Lake Baikal in the east, fades to frozen tundra in the north around the Arctic Circle, and fades to the Gobi Desert and Mongolian Steppe in the south. The forest is home to tigers, bears, leopards, and all kinds of unique species. And as far as I have been able to tell, the forest consists of two types of trees: evergreen pine trees and white birch trees. The dense trees give way on occasion to frozen lakes and ponds and, at times, wide fields of tall albeit dead grass. There are no signs of settlement apart from the few and distant villages that pop up every few hours along the tracks that were mainly built to service trains. And traditional, settled Siberian cities are separated each by about a day’s travel by train. Everywhere is covered in several feet of fresh snow. A winter wonderland.

We pulled into Novosibirsk last night around midnight and I was joined by three members finally to fill my compartment. Two guys in there twenties who took the upper two bunks, and a woman in her early thirties, who took the lower bunk beside mine. It was midnight though, and I was sort of sleeping so I kind of just laid there while the others got settled. I stepped out of the compartment for a little while for a stretch and a yawn when the provodnista arrived with their sheets and blankets and gave them room to make beds for themselves. Then I returned to sleep.

The two guys left early in the morning at what I believe was Omsk, the last city we’ll pass before arriving in Yekaterinburg. But the woman next to me remained and all in all slept the entire day away. We never really spoke. In fact, she didn’t even know I was a foreigner until she asked me something I didn’t understand about 12 hours after she entered the compartment. She kept mostly to herself and wasn’t a bother.

The whole car was mostly like this in fact. I awoke naturally from the sunlight beaming through the window of the compartment but the rest of the train car was still fast asleep. And most of the day and into the afternoon, all that could be heard was the occasional sliding of a door to let someone walk to the bathroom, and the general clinking of tea glasses in nearby compartments. The snow storm had ceased and gave way to sun. But all in all the landscape was much the same as yesterday. I continued to window gaze and read all morning.

I decided to get a proper meal though in the early afternoon. I had eaten some yogurt and light pastries that I had brought along with me and two cups of coffee. I was getting hungry and wanted to explore in any event. I prepared my best Russian and went up to the friendly provodnista and asked, “Izvenitye, gdye restoran?” which means, “Excuse me, where is the dining car?” Of course I didn’t exactly understand her reply but I understood the direction she was pointing. It turned out the dining car was just the next car over from mine (car no. 5). I walked in to what looked like an American diner on wheels. 50’s style seats and dining tables made up most of the car and a small bar fully stocked with Russian beer and European wine selections was located in the corner. English and Russian language music from the 80’s, synth-y, electronic stuff, softly played from a laptop sitting on the corner of the bar. There was one young Russian man at one of the tables sipping on tea and I went to the bar to look at the menu. Finally, an older Russian man came to me from the kitchen area of the car and said I could sit down, he would bring the menu to me (or what I understood he was saying in Russian). I sat awhile flipping through the menu which was quite extensive. I had read before that the menus in the Russian dining cars were thorough but the kitchens were usually poorly stocked and you could tell if each item was in stock or not if they had written a price next to the item. Well, this menu was loaded with options and everything had a price. A bit overwhelmed, I chose the route I take every time I am forced to make a decision from a complicated menu. I pick the first thing I see. So I ordered a cold dish of herring and onions and a side of fried potatoes. And then I chose a Baltika No. 7, a classic, Russian beer.

The meal was excellent. I was given a small, cold dish of sliced herring (a salty fish) with sliced, raw onions, cooked peas, and doused in olive oil with a little salt. With it came some bread. It was really very good (but I have serious onion breath now - a good way to impress my host if and when she picks me up). Then afterward, I was given a plate of fried potatoes, cut like french fries, sitting atop a dish of olive oil and salt and with some fresh cucumbers and tomatoes as garnish. A very good meal. While I was eating a few others joined the dining car for a meal including the dining car staff who sat at a table nearby and a man who sat in the table in front of me with dark, shallow eyes, and turning around to me asked, “cigaryeta?” putting two fingers to his lips. I said, “Huh? Ah, nyet, nyet.” He turned back around.

My meal in the dining car of cold herring and onions

and fried potatoes (aka french fries)

Me in the dining car, a bit ragged after two days on the train

I ate, paid, and before I left, stopped to take a few photos of the dining car. One of the staff members, a bigger, middle aged lady said to me, “photo?” pointing at me to indicate that she would take one of me at the booth. I said, “prazhalsta, spaceba” or “please, thanks” and she took my camera and gave it to the guy who needed his cigarette fix and after a few attempts at my complicated camera, snapped a few of me at my table. I thanked them, they were amused, and returned to my compartment one car over, to find my compartment mate fast asleep.

Most of the day was much the same. Lot’s of lounging and staring out of windows. I continued to make headway in “Travels in Siberia”, where the author is now starting a an adventure, with the help of two Russian guides, across Siberia by car from St. Petersburg to I guess the Pacific. He, Ian Frazier, an American from Ohio who undertook this journey only a few years ago, stopped at many of the places that I also stopped off at along the train line. He describes the hills of Krasnoyarsk (where I snowboarded) and the beauty of the Yenesei. He also visited Yekaterinburg and Perm, my next two destinations. I also decided to pop in Sigur Ros when my e-reader started to die. I don’t think there is a more appropriate band for frozen, contemplative landscapes.

I am finishing this post off now in the early morning hours of my room in the apartment of my hosts, Lilia and Sasha Tivikova, possibly the nicest people I have ever met. I will talk about my hosts in another, more dedicated post, but my train pulled into Yekaterinburg Station at 11PM local time, and walking down the steep steps of the train car to a frozen platform, was met by an enthusiastic group of four people brandishing a big sign that read, “Stephen” in playful letters. Lilia and Sasha and Sasha’s cousin and her boyfriend drove me back to their apartment where I was easily settled. After weeks of getting off at stations, bunkering down in the cold with a heavy pack over my shoulders, navigating my way by foot across frozen bridges and unfamiliar streets to a hostel I would not be sure was even staffed, this was a welcome reprieve.

I think today the three of us will drive to the forest to find a monument that was built to commemorate the border of Europe and Asia where Tsar Alexander II famously drank a glass of wine on each side (it’s Sunday, they have they day free). Hopefully we find it - it’s snowing outside...

Skinny bears

Today is my last day in Krasnoyarsk and effectively my last day in a true, Siberian city. Tomorrow around noon I will hop the same train that I disembarked a few days ago and forge my way westward for 36 hours to the city of Yekaterinburg, a city that straddles both the Asian and European continents along the Ural Mountains. I'm very excited to break through into Europe (that is, not to say that I am happy to be leaving Asia, of course). But it has been a long time in coming.

Today though, being my last day in Asia proper, was spent in the city, resting, healing (my stupid aching shoulder), and catching up on the things that require the internet. So I slept in, made breakfast and a cup of coffee (I found some really, excellent, strong, Russian instant coffee - believe or not), I did laundry, and I chatted awhile with Anatoliy. I still had one voucher left for free food at the English School Cafe, so for the third and final time I made my way to the cellar and ate what I must describe as one of the most delicious meals of my life. It's hard for me to say this and to be fair I don't usually dabble in fine dining so it must be understood that I'm easily pleased, but I will try my hardest to remember this meal and will try to make it when I'm home and domesticated again. I ordered two things. The first, a side dish, was just cut green beans and some thinly sliced red pepper that must have been sauteed in a pan with butter and some salt. Blown away. I will excuse the reader for being skeptical. The second, my main dish, consisted of cut pieces of chicken filet baked in a small dish with sliced potatoes, onions, sour cream, and cheese (and probably other things, I don't know). To be fair, it doesn't sound very Russian except for the sour cream. Russians have this strange (but awesome) love affair for using sour cream with everything. They put it in soup, they use it with salads (as opposed to salad dressing), they bake it into things. What a great idea! I'm storing this away for when I'm cooking on my own again. It's hard to explain why this meal was so good (maybe I've been eating too much stale bread and spread cheese in an effort to save money that I forget what real food tastes like...). But sometimes meals just do that to you. This was one such occasion for me.

I finished my meal and left the cellar in a glorious mood. Now I want to take the time briefly to talk about a couple of Russian culture things again, if you'll excuse me, and the first pertains to the women (again, sorry I keep bringing this topic up but I mean, it is Russia after all). One more thing that separates Russian women (and I suspect this is more about Siberian women but I'll have to wait until I get to European Russia to find out) is that almost all of them, from teenagers to the elderly, wear fur coats. Big, long, elegant fur coats and most come equipped with a large, oversized hood that they bury their heads in. The hood is sort of draped over the head so that the sides of the hood hang down to the shoulders. They are all like characters in a fairy tale donning cloaks in the forest, like little red riding hoods or something. But not only is it a very attractive way to keep warm, it looks very practical too. Like there are hundreds of skinny bears walking around the city. Don't worry, I'm not saying I'm an advocate for furs or anything (I think this only really feels appropriate in Siberia). But let's put it this way. I'm not, not an advocate for it. And some of the men wear them too but without the hood and usually it is as a symbol of wealth or that you belong to the mafia. I give those guys a wide berth.

The second topic of note is the driving situation. I can't remember if I've talked about this in an earlier post or not, but in China, drivers would rather run you over than yield to a pedestrian. I can't count how many times I have had to literally leap out of the way of an oncoming car, even when the pedestrian has the little green guy blinking in his direction to indicate it is now safe to cross the street (it is never safe to cross the street in China!). Mongolia was like that too. But as soon as I crossed into Russia, it was as if suddenly I was transported back to the safe, orderly streets of America. Russians yield to pedestrians, even when there is no crosswalk (the one difference is that you don't have to thank them like you do in the US, you just accept it Russia-style). And pedestrians give it back to the cars. They wait for their turn. They wait for the little green guy to say it's okay to cross now. Again, sorry to trouble the reader on such topics but I wouldn't be writing about it if it hadn't impacted me so much (maybe, and you just have to trust me on this one, China's drivers really are that crazy).

Moving on.

I left the cafe and walked down to the river, the Yensei, famous as one of the large north-south running rivers that dumps the frozen snows of Siberia into the Arctic Sea. I wanted to see the SV Nikolai, an old Russian river boat, a paddle boat, now dry docked as a museum on the side of the river. This boat is famous in Russian history for several reasons. My favorite reason, and the reason I came to see the boat, is that it was responsible for transporting Vladimir Lenin, the original pioneer of Soviet Communism, into exile from Krasnoyarsk, upriver to the Siberian backcountry of Shushenskoe. But the boat also dates back to the Napoleonic wars where captains used it to help beat back the French invaders. As you can perhaps imagine, I was the only visitor in yet another Russian museum. I stepped on board and was approached by a Russian soldier brandishing a rifle. I expect there is always a military member posted to keep watch of the historical vessel. He chuckled when I told him I can't speak Russian and then he led me into the Captain's cabin where a woman, the sole museum keeper, sold me a cheap ticket and showed me where I could walk around. The exhibits were all in Russian but there were a lot of pictures and maps and diagrams so I got the idea. The boat wanted to emphasize its involvement in the Napoleonic wars. But that is the extent of what I got from that. Later, I went further where there was a small exhibit on Lenin and the path that the boat took to transport him upriver. Again, I couldn't read it, but I took a picture of a picture of Lenin in his prime, creepy bald head and pointy beard and all. It should also be noted (and I got this info from Anatoliy) that SV Nikolai is named after St. Nicholas, the patron saint of sailors, and across the river from the boat is a small but beautiful orthodox chapel named after St. Nicholas and was built as a memorial to all Russian sailors. Also, I sort of have a thing for boats and ships. I had to see this one, I'm glad I did.

The SV Nikolai, Lenin's vehicle of exile

I think you know who this is

 Satisfied with my visit, I walked across town to its northern edge where the city meets some pretty steep hills left undeveloped. Beyond the hills are some small, suburban communities, but at the top of the hill is a very small, one room chapel called Chasovnya Chapel which is also featured on Russia's 10 ruble notes. Everyday at noon the chapel fires a cannon shot over the river (I don't know what the significance of this is and I didn't observe it today and it is not the chapel firing the shot, but there is a cannon for some reason at the base of the chapel itself - chapels don't fire cannons) but the main reason people come here is for the remarkable panoramic views of the city. The sun was low as well which improved the colors of the sky. From here I could see the ski resort slopes in the mountains of the Stolby Reserve way beyond in the distance, opposite the Yenesei. It was a very peaceful moment.

Chasovnya Chapel

An orthodox cross outside the chapel overlooking the city

 I walked back to the hostel where I saw Anatoliy and Mikhail. Mikhail's operation had gone well but he was not up (he couldn't really see, I don't blame him) for having dinner so I ventured off on my own to a nearby Soviet era canteen. Apparently, and Mikhail explained this to me earlier, during the Soviet days, if you wanted to eat out at a restaurant, you had to go to these common, community canteens that resemble grammar school cafeterias in the US. All restaurants were these canteens back then (Mikhail is in his 30's and is probably just old enough to remember them). You walk in, grab a tray, and pick food that has already been cooked from behind a counter, served to you by a big, unfriendly Russian woman. Then you pay based on what and how much you choose to take, Soviet-style. Today, there are some chain restaurants that still offer these Soviet-style canteens and this is where I ate tonight. This one was called Stolobaya No. 2 (I can't translate that). It is a chain that maintains it's Soviet roots and styles its canteens in a very kitschy way. But I was told by more than a few Russian people that they are pretty much the same as they used to be. Anyway, this type of restaurant is perfect for me because I don't have to speak much Russian. I just point to what looks good and they put it on a plate and I pay for it. Tonight, my server was not a big, unfriendly Russian woman, but a young, friendly girl with a sort of carefree, rocker look (her hair was dyed blue and she had a few piercings on her face). I told her when I first approached the counter that I couldn't speak Russian and she looked at me and smiled, and then chuckled a bit like she was saying, "Oh you poor boy, what on earth are you doing here." I sort of get this response a lot from Russian people when they find out I'm not Russian. I responded with a smile and shrug like I want to say, "I have no idea." Then we both laugh a bit and move on. I got my food with no problems, some goulash and mashed potatoes and some breaded chicken and a Baltika No. 7 beer, and I sat in front of a TV monitor that ran non-stop Russian music videos (as I believe all TV monitors in Russia do).

All in all it was a pretty good day. As I said before, tomorrow I hop the train to Yekaterinburg. 36 hours on a Russian train should be interesting. I expect to meet some more interesting train folks. And waiting for me on the platform for the first time will be (hopefully) my couch surfing host Lilia. That should be an exciting experience as well.

With that said, I probably won't be able to post for a few days until I'm established in Yekaterinburg. See you then!

Siberian snowboarding

(Please back date to 2/21/13)

I decided to leave the soviet style Hotel Sever and head for the hostel this morning. No problems. The hostel is located in a small apartment off Mira Prospekt in the center of the city. It is run by a very helpful Russian man named Anotoliy, whose English is spoken fluently, and who also runs tours of the city and the surrounding nature reserve. So I picked his brain all morning for local information and decided that today would be the perfect day to venture out to the local ski resort, Bobroviy Log, across the Yenesei River from the city, in the Stolby Nature Reserve. I went with the hostel's other resident, Mikhail, who came to Krasnoyarsk from Moscow in order to begin a week's worth of eye surgery. Mikhail works in the IT business and so his English is quite good. He wants to improve his fluency in English and someday move to Canada to start a business. He thought Canada would be a nice place to go because the American marketplace is too big and too competitive. But he had never been to Canada before (he had traveled once to NYC, Orlando, and LA) and had loads of questions for me about the living conditions, which cities are best, where is good for starting a business, etc. I can't attest for the marketplace situation in Canada (or the US for that matter - I'm no expert), and I haven't been to Canada that many times that I would be very helpful, but I told him I liked Vancouver very much, that it was a beautiful place, not too expensive, the people are very, very friendly, and that it is very much an international city, home to many immigrants, mainly Asians. He liked the idea of moving there more and more. I also told him I had been to Montreal and I also liked that city very much but then he said, "But they speak French, no? I'm not learning French." I said, "Fair point." I think I was the first North American that he had discussed his plans with.

Before setting off on our snowboarding adventure, we went to a place called the English School Cafe, a small restaurant, kind of swanky, in the stone and brick cellar of one of the old buildings downtown for lunch. The staff all speak English and the cafe is renowned in the city as being the place to go for English language events. The cafe works in collaboration with the hostel owner, Anotoliy, to send foreigners there, if they like, to meet local Russians, mainly students, practicing their English. The students get to speak to English speakers and the travelers get to talk to locals - a pretty good setup. But Anotoliy also gives his hostel goers these coupon vouchers that get you free food at the cafe. So Mikhail and I went there for a bite.

We continued to discuss the prospect of his moving and starting a business in Canada. I asked him if it was hard to get visas to visit these places (he had traveled on his own to Southeast Asia, the US as I stated earlier, and around Europe a bit) and he said yes, it is very hard to obtain visas. Apparently, the only way immigration officers will approve a visa request (to anywhere) to Russian citizens who want to leave the country, is if they have sound documentation that ensures the officials that the Russian citizen will eventually come back (in other words, that they will not defect). You need to prove, through documents, that you have a steady job, a relatively high and stable salary, an apartment or some residence, proof that you pay taxes and bills, and proof of any big assets that you own, like a car. So when Mikhail traveled to southeast Asia, he had to go through this process. Now it seems to reason that when you see a Russian traveler (as you often do in Southeast Asia) it is safe to assume that they are rich and have something to come back to in Russia. An interesting process. I guess it is easy for Americans to obtain visas for traveling or work because there is a reasonable assumption that they will come back. Any even if they didn't, there is no shortage of people wanting to enter the US and stay. It was an interesting look on Russia.

But we finished our lunch (of salad: tomatoes, cheese, and sour cream, and of soup: pea soup with bits of ham, and a stew of chicken hearts and potatoes, again weird sounding but truly excellent) and returned to the hostel to pick up my things. Luckily, I came well prepared to Siberia with most of my snowboarding gear from home to keep me warm. Perfect if you want to go snowboarding in Siberia.

We hopped the local bus which drove across the river to the south and into the mountains to the resort. The slopes were big and empty and beautiful. Russian housey trance techno (it's a hard genre to describe - but I actually kind of like it) boomed through the speakers, and we ducked into the lodge to inquire about rentals. Mikhail had never snowboarded before, so he asked me if I could teach him. I said, oh yeah. So we rented some boards and took the easier of the two lifts up the mountain. To be honest, for a first timer, he was doing pretty well. Especially when you consider my Americanized snowboarding terms were hard for Mikhail to interpret. I think he missed the snowboarding chapter in his English vocabulary school books. But considering he went with nothing more than a pair of jeans and some leather gloves, he fell relatively few times and made it down the mountain. I was impressed - his background was cross-country skiing. For the other runs, I let him practice on his own and I hit some of the other higher, more tricky slopes on the other lift.

At the top of the higher of the two lifts you could get a very nice panoramic view of the city to the west and the Stolby nature reserve to the south and east. We stayed late, late enough to experience Siberian night boarding and to have made two separate visits to the lodge cafe for tea and pastries. It was a pretty stellar day. (Side note: I love how snowboarding as a culture spans across borders. A snowboarder is a snowboarder, whether American or Russian or whatever. That laid back, cool snowboarding vibe is the same. Pretty cool to find that crowd here too in Siberia.) I picked up a nice Krasnoyarsk fridge magnetic that has a picture of the resort and says, "бобровый лог фанпарк" or Bobloviy Log Fun Park, and Mikhail and I hopped the bus back into town and back to the hostel.

One of the slopes at Bobroviy Log

Mikhail, my Russian snowboarding protoge

Snow clouds brewing over the resort

A view of Krasnoyarsk from atop the ski slope

Me on my board from the top, admiring the view

An action packed Russian billboard

I'm back at the hostel now and super exhausted from the snowboarding (again, I think I've gotten pretty out of shape). And I again am at the point where I can barely keep my eyes open. And my shoulder that was feeling a little better after my disastrous collision with a meter's worth of ice a few days ago, is now not feeling better, but a little worse. I guess even though you don't really use your arms for snowboarding, and I had no spills on the slopes today, you still keep the muscles tense in order to help maintain your balance, which is everything on a snowboard. It's like saying you could play soccer with a broken shoulder because you don't use your hands - maybe that's not the best metaphor... Either way tensing up the muscles in your shoulders all day is not exactly a recipe that encourages healing. So I need to take it easy for a little while. But I think it was totally worth it - Siberian snowboarding, after all.

Mikhail goes into eye surgery tomorrow (yikes) and I'll spend the day relaxing and catching up on emails. I'll try and walk around a bit and see some of the local sites. But I'm going to sleep for a long time first.