Saturday, Part II

After dogging the footsteps of Raskolnikov and Dostoevsky, my companions and I stopped by Shtolle for a bite to eat. Shtolle serves untoppable pirog of all sorts, and has comfy couches along the wall to boot. After finishing our tea, we split up to pursue our own interests: Stephen to the Dostoevsky museum, Jon Earle to a synagogue, and I to the Marble Palace.


I had been looking forward to seeing the Marble Palace ever since I read about it in St. Petersburg: Russia's Window to the West over the summer. The building was commissioned by Catherine the Great for Count Grigory Orlov, one of her favorites. The palace was designed and built in the middle to late 1700s by Antonio Rinaldi, who used 32 (thirty-two!) different types of marble to decorate the interior. The Marble Hall, which still has its original decorations, was my goal; forget the exhibitions of Modern and Pop Art from the Russian Museum which occupy the rest of the building.

I trekked all the way from Shtolle (west of Nevsky and south of Isaakievsky sobor) to the Palace (next to Mars Field and right on the river), entered the courtyard, cast an glance at the equestrian statue of Emperor Alexander III and the facing modern statute of a prehistoric man riding a dinosaur, and tentatively entered. I located the kassa, trying not to look too much like an American, and then saw the Sign of Doom.

Posted on the kassa window was a sign that said: Мраморной зал закрыт (Mramornoy zal zakryt -- The Marble Hall is closed). I was devastated. But I still nursed some hope for the future, so I approached the ticket-seller and asked when it would be open.

- Через два года (cherez dva goda - In two years), she replied.

I remained devastated.

On my way out, I scrutinized the sculptures in the courtyard more carefully, so that my trip out would not be completely in vain. I have nothing interesting to say about them. I continued on my excursion, crossing the Mars field. I stopped to warm up at the eternal flame and gawked inconspicuously at the marriage party taking photos. My destination was Mikhailovsky Zamok, more commonly known as the Engineering Castle, which is also a part of the Russian Museum. I spotted another wedding party at a monument to Peter the First standing in front of the entrance. I noticed that they were all rubbing something on the monument, so I waited until they departed, and then went in a for a closer look.

The monument has a metal facade on its four sides, mostly scenes of the sea, I believe/is my educated guess, seeing as the man was obsessed with boats. In one corner, there is a boatload of men, one of whom is only partly in the boat. His dangling leg is bright yellow, in contrast to the rest of the darkened metal, thanks to all these marriage parties rubbin' it. I did my part: made a little wish and moved on.

My favorite part of going to museums is getting a ticket. It's a tricky game, I like to think, to get the ticket for the Russian Student price, rather than the American Tourist price. I get a little thrill when I pay a trifling 30 rubles for entrance to a museum instead of 185 or something like that.

The moat, the courtyard, the building's interior and exterior were all equally as fascinating as the exhibit of the Grand Duchess Olga's water colors and the exhibit of Chinese art, both stamps and modern paintings. Unfortunately, I couldn't stay long -- I arrived just before (под) closing time.

I walked along the Summer Gardens on my way back to Nevsky, planning to take the inimitable 7 avtobus home. Once I got to the Neva, I could see the sky in all its glory, and it was amazingly glorious. The whole sky was covered with round, grey, pillow-y clouds. The setting sun gave a hint of color to them, and through the cracks between the clouds you could just make out the blue sky above. It was reminiscent of... marble.

Miracle of miracles, the seven pulled up to the bus stop just as I got there. I got on the crowded conveyance, and was jolted out of balance. A man caught me around my waist, and moved his hands thereabouts far more than was necessary. "A-ha, Mr. Pickpocket," I thought to myself, refraining from eye contact or even letting on that anything out of the ordinary was happening, "You will find nothing in my pockets besides a map of this city." I moved away from the end of the bus to the less crowded lower section at my soonest possible convenience.

Later, I noticed that a sketchy-looking man had also moved to the lower section, and was facing out the window, his back to the rest of the bus -- suspicious. Eventually I procured a seat, and now my back was to him, but I couldn't helping looking around every so often to check on him.

Time passed. I read The House of the Dead. And then I heard it -- the opening strains of "The Final Countdown," as interpreted by a cell phone. I couldn't help myself: I looked around to see who was answering his or her phone and, you guessed it, it was the sketchy man! I felt somehow gratified.

And that was my Saturday.

Well, not really -- a lot more stuff happened, but this was the most interesting. Many mundane things happen here in Russia, not just exciting stuff. For example, it would appear that my laptop screen is dead. My host mom served me approximately 800 grams of black beans for dinner last night. The kitchen sink doesn't work. The Smolny printer is broken. Our program manager got hit by a car. I saw Swan Lake at the Mariinksy theater on Wednesday. Ok, some of these are bad examples of the mundane. And I have work to do for one of my volunteering positions. So farewell and enjoy your weekend -- I sure plan to enjoy mine. Tsarskoe Selo, anyone?