Sputnik Adventures

I’m in Moscow now, starting to feel homesick and crabby, and ready for the kind of comfort food that can only come from my own kitchen. That, and green vegetables! The sausage is considered a vegetable in Russia.

I’m enjoying Moscow for a change. Usually I just get here and split, or roll into town before flying home. I did two very touristy things I’ve never done before–a visit inside St. Basil’s Cathedral on Red Square, and a day at the Tretyakov Museum of Art. There’s no mistaking st. Basil’s; nothing says that you’re where the rubber meets the road in Russia like St. Basil’s. It’s a magnificent sight (especially at night), and I never miss a peek at Red Square when I’m in town. But somehow I never made it inside the cathedral. I forked over the foreigner’s fee and when inside the cathedral that’s so beautiful that when Ivan the Terrible asked the architect if he could build one more beautful still, and he said that he could, Ivan had the man’s eyes put out.

It’s not all that big on the inside; a winding staircase brings you to the main level of several chambers, ornately painted to the ceiling in some of them, in various stages of restoration in others. I got to watch one artist carefully restoring one panel–he must be used to gawking tourists by now, he worked unflinchingly as flashing cameras went off while he worked. A beautiful iconostasis in the heart of the cathedral rose high toward the ceiling in the center. Mixed among the gawkers were the faithful, their journey here an act of devotion; the tourists were mostly respectful of those who came to worship.

It’s hard to top St. Basil’s, but the Tretyakov Gallery does it and then some. The world’s greatest collection of icons was very cool to see, but I must admit that I’m just not equipped to view them in any meaningful way. They are certainly beautiful, and the masters that created them captured humanity in the faces of the saints, in Mary and in Christ. But the exhibit seemed denatured; to have an icon in a secular setting like a museum seems antithetical to the icon’s creation in the first place. The Orthodox faith holds that icons, painted as a religious act, are in fact windows to heaven, and that prayers through the medium of an icon are a direct means of appeal for intercession. This has been mistaken by others as a kind of idolatry, but what better way to demonstrate Christian faith than to create, on earth, the means to reach the very heart of the faith?

The portrait gallery was my own highlight within the Tretyakov. I got to see several Repins which I had wanted to see for a long time, and Ivanov’s famous portrait of my own idol, Nikolai Gogol. The art of portraiture seems to have been taken over by photography, but I found myself drawn to the artist’s task of bringing a person’s many facets into play with a single work. The verisimilitude achieved by the masters was incredible, and reminded me of the lady sitting very still for her portrait (a portrait could require many sittings, and could take months):

Lady: While I’ve been sitting here, I’ve started to look out the window behind you. I do believe I could count every brick in that building across the street.

Artist: How do you think I feel about your face?

Sputnik Lee

Got more to tell you about Moscow, including an update from The Mall Of Russia. Cheers S-L

I’m so sorry to hear and finally see on TV the devastation in the South. My prayers are with my friends and their families as they cope with the catastrophe.

Hey Sputniki, hopscotching my way through the Vertical Stripes Tour to tell you about Ufa, where I spent two days en route to Kazan. This was the easternmost point in my travels, ten time zones east of home in Indiana, and about one hour’s drive shy of the border between Europe and Asia. This is the capital of the Republic of Bahkortostan, an autonomous republic within Russia. Although Russian is widely spoken, I regularly heard Bashkiri, a Turkic language, on the streets and in the shops. I was shocked after the oppressive dry heat of Crimea to slam suddenly into drizzly, coldish weather here, but plowed ahead along with many Ufa stalwarts to take in a football game. The rain mercifully let up that evening, and the fans were clearly stoked against rivals from neighboring Oryol. Ufa’s fighting Nyeftyaniks (‘Oilers’; perhaps Ufa is Houston’s sister city) carried the day, so all was well in town that night. My hotel was incredibly cheap, but then again so was the breakfast that awaited each morning. Usually breakfasts are a great deal here, coming as a package with the hotel–this one was bitter roots and a dollop of sour cream. My cholesterol level probably now hovers at around 800.

Overall, Ufa’s green and friendly, and will be visited again. This is necessary as I’m working to connect every place on the planet I’ve ever visited. The connection must be made by rail, boat, road etc (i.e. planes don’t count). The rules permit me to fly somewhere to reconnect the thread, and on a future trip I’ll probably fly to Ekaterinburg, the westernmost Siberian outpost, to link things up and continue the journey. The Vertical Stripes Tour joins two large chains for me, linking every place in European Russia I’ve visited, several former Soviet and Eastern Bloc nations, and cities from above the Arctic Circle to the Black Sea. This is a minor compulsion, and I could deal with it if I wanted to, but then I just wouldn’t be Sputnik Lee. Anyone else out there have over-the-road quirks they’d like to share/confess?

I met up with friends in Naberezhnye Chelny, west of Ufa, the next stop. This was the jumping-off point to last year’s rafting adventure in the Urals, and it was great seeing old pals, including several I’d be staying with in Kazan, during the huge shindig which was to come.

I was here last year and saw a vibrant city alive with commerce and culture. The focus this year has been the celebration of the 1000th anniversary of the city’s founding. Banners, pins, souvenir stands, everything’s geared to the celebration. The concerts held alongside Kazan’s magnificent kremlin (‘kreml’ is Russian for ‘fortress’, but you knew that) run the gamut. Groups mostly are squeaky clean pop acts, except for one that was kind of Joe Jackson gone big hair, if you can imagine that. Last night was the culmination of the celebration, with every square foot covered with people of every stripe, even vertical. Aside from the general positive vibe, it’s worth noting that the celebration was conducted more in Tatar (another Turkic language) than in Russian, and that there was a genuine outpouring of pride in Tatar culture and patriotism. The celebration showed none of the friction which has prevailed between Russian and Tatar peoples in both the Imperial and Soviet pasts, and I enjoyed myelf with a posse of both Tatar and Russian friends during my time here.

Laser lights on the kremlin and the newly-opened mosque (the largest in Europe), music and more music, smoke and light show beacons, a fireworks display to die for, and an overhead air show of fighter jets from around the world made this an orgy of sight and sound. How else to finish up a celebration like this, but to hop on to the opening day of the city’s subway system. Kazan’s new metro is spanking-new clean and slick, and goes to all the places around town that have been painted, remodeled, or built from scratch to be ready for the event. Looking at the new basketball fieldhouse, the hockey arena, the broad new public concourses, and the overall hum of prosperity I was forced to ask, ‘Where’s all this investment coming from?’ ‘The oil revenues, of course.’

It’s no secret that I love Russia and its many peoples. I wish them well in all things, and am gladdened by the material and civic progress that greets me with each new visit. So, if the price at the pump frosts you today, at least take solace that all the profits aren’t going to the Halliburton balance sheet. It’s making a real difference with real people over here too. So gas up that Land Cruiser and go for a spin. Cheers

Sputnik Lee

More about Kazan later.

Sputniki, I’ve never seen security in Russia stricter in a dozen years of travel here. Buses and trains routinely stop at control points on the rail line or the main road, but I am now (usually the sole foreigner on board) always yanked from the bus, conducted to a military truck and asked several questions before my documents are registered and the bus is allowed to proceed (on the train they compelte the process in my cabin). My friends say this is part of the heightened security associated with the 1000-year anniversary celebrations in Kazan, and that Russians themselves are experiencing more visible security measures. Putin and a host of foreign dignitaries are in town, so it’s perhaps understandable, but still can feel a little unnerving. If a few extra stamps in my visa page is the worst part of my trip, who could possibly complain?

I really need to tell you more about Crimea, now well over a week ago. The peninsula is rugged highlands, burning hot in summer, but absolutely beautiful along the coastline’s cliffs, and serene inland. I left the city stuff in my apartment in Sevastopol and took a couple of days hiking inland to the abandoned cave cities of Manhup Kale. Natural caves in the cliff faces were expanded to provide remote protection against invasion in the 15-16th centuries. I learned just how remote with every step along the steep trail leading to the top of two mesa-like outcroppings. Several hours of arduous climbing made me curse every superflous ounce I had packed (not very many, really, but I felt each and every one keenly).

But what a reward at the top. First, a cool, fresh-water spring was the finest drink anyone could ever want. Although there were other campers about, I could pitch camp in a secluded spot and revel in the long sunset over the granite cliffs. Dinner of kolbasa, bread, fruit and cheese was like manna from heaven (no fires for cooking or anything else, it was exceedingly dry). And finally, mornings that came early and had to be exploited fully before the full heat of day. Remnants of roads, churches, homes, and fortifications carved into rock centuries earlier gave me pause–walking in those same steps is a moving experience. Everyone, go out and find the most ancient place within reach, and see how it speaks to you.

As one of the BnA geezers, I have to put in a commercial word for trekking poles. They saved me great stress on the joints going up and down the trail. BnA pups should also make the investment in a decent pair of poles–a bargain at twice the price. Don’t ever feel that stamina should stop you from getting out to the cool places–at every level of age, fitness and ability, you can always get farther than you thought.

Contrast the heightened security in Russia with my experience in Ukraine. Back in Sevastopol, I got views that intelligence types would have literally killed for during the Cold War. Sevastopol remains a major port for Ukraine and Russian naval fleets, and the neighboring town of Balaclava was a major submarine development center and harbor. Incredibly, I walked down narrow streets until I was mere meters away from dozens of warships. I stepped casually over a knee-high chain at a gate, and ambled unchecked among sailors and dock workers as they went about their business. No pictures–I didn’t want to push my luck, and I kept going until instructed that I could go no further, without any fuss.

At Balaclava, a magnificent harbor was a top-secret location for submarines, and a tunnel carved into the mountainside at water level could be seen across the harbor from the clutch of tourist watering holes and hotels. For a better view of the harbor, I climbed along the wall of a Genoese fortress that had been built some 600 years earlier (hardly the oldest part of town, as Balaclava had recently celebrated its 2500th anniversary of its founding). Hidden from view during the climb, the top yielded a sudden, breathtaking view of the Black Sea. Fortress ruins and more recent excavations were in harmony with cliffs spilling to the sea. Pix to come, promise.

When I left Crimea for Russia, I went by bus eastward to a narrow strait where the Black Sea and the Sea of Azov converge; the Russian city of Anapa was reached by ferry in 30 minutes. Aside from my glimpse of the Sea of Azov, this was where I could exercisea favorite pastime of mine, centering myself on the planet. As the ferry slipped along the the calm surface, I faced north and placed myself on a large map superimposed on the earth, thus knowing exactly my location on the world. This can be done anywhere, but it’s a lot more fun doing it at a dramatic place on earth like Gibralter–or here. Try it–no matter where you go, there you are. Cheers

Sputnik Lee

Hey Sputniki, getting some more of the backlog pruned back. I can start by recalling my arrival at Kyiv’s Borispol airport, the first stop in Ukraine. I was minus one checked bag per usual. I had only decided that I would proceed directly to Sevastopol, on the Crimean Peninsula’s Black Sea coast, not where I was actually staying. So, I took the airline’s phone number and my claim information with me onto the next plane. It was another two-hour flight piggy-piled on my jetlagged frame, but by that time who’s counting.

It was 9 pm local time, dark but pea-soup warm outside when we arrived at Simferopol, Crimea’s hub, 90 minutes from the coast. I threaded the gauntlet of insistent taxi drivers until I was finally worn down by one who would take me to the train station, for who knows how long a wait until the next train to Sevastopol. I sweated the price out of him just before he got my bags in the trunk–100 hryvnia (about $20)–too much, in my opinion. Another taxi driver hovering nearby was quick to pounce. He had already gathered my final destination was Sevastopol–for three times what the other guy would charge me to the train station, this one would go the whole distance. We bartered a bit but struck a deal, and off we went.

In Sevastopol, the hotels were all booked in peak season, so my taxi driver sold me on renting a friend’s apartment. It was too late to argue. We proceeded apace to his friend Luba’s apartment–comfortable, clean, and $20 a night. As an added bonus, the apartment door had been salvaged from the cruise liner United States, which I had often seen as a boy, moored on New York’s west side. I showered and crashed.

The next morning I took in the deal I had struck. The apartment was a converted garage next to a clean stucco home built into the hill overlooking town. the yard was a terraced profusion of flowers, herbs, and vegetables, studded with benches and a veranda to take in the view. Breakfast was waiting, and the Crimea was mine. Tell you all about it in a bit. Cheers

Sputnik Lee

PS Sorry to be bouncing around like this. Anyone who thinks travel is a linear experience has another thing coming. S-L

Sputniki, a bit about my travel prep might provide some insight. You have all heard the advice to pack the minimum and then cut that in half. This works fine if your only object is comfort, convenience and avoiding needless worry. These objectives are not, however, the purpose of travel.

The purpose of travel is being willing to change and be changed by travel. It’s to observe and to take part, and to bring something of your own country and of yourself to those generous friends and hosts you meet along the way. More selfishly, it’s a way of wiping the slate clean yourself–if you arrive with fresh eyes and mind, you can shed your baggage as the trip unfolds, like confessing sins. The baggage need not be brought back.

I make this metaphor literal with every trip. I pack every ugly and unwanted item possible in my bags. (My kids will tell you that my wardrobe permits much future travel.) Owing to a lamentable fashion trend in prior years, I’ve dubbed this particular trip the Vertical Stripe Tour. I’ll wash an item a few times on the road, and then leave it at a bus or train station, or in a hotel room. The clothes are typically still good enough for wear; if not I simply throw them away. This lightens the load as I go.

The trip will come where I will arrive laden with every relic I regret having bought, worn, or witnessed, and step off the plane on my return with my camera and a new set of clothes. Cheers

Sputnik Lee

I’m safe and sound in Ufa, the cloak and dagger about police and scams notwithstanding. However, one more weird thing happened at the Volgograd train station before I left–I was laying low near the underpass to the train platforms when a woman approached me and said, ‘What train are you going on?’ ‘Ufa’, I blurt brightly. She strode off. All my paranoia that there was some fix in to fine this Yankee for some infraction was instantly renewed. I hot-footed it to the platform and skulked behind the stairway until the train pulled up and I hopped on board. I was just not made for these cat and mouse games.

A bit on Volgograd (formerly Stalingrad)–a fine city in its current incarnation, entirely built after WWII. The city is justifiably proud of its courage and incredible sacrifice during the war. After the battle of Stalingrad not one stone was left atop another. Months of withering bombardment by advancing German forces had left over half a million Red Army dead before the German retreat. The Germans needed Volgograd badly to gain access to Russian oil further down the Volga and Caspian at Baku; to deny it to the Russians and to control the Volga would have been a near-fatal blow to the Soviet front. Stalin recognized the importance of Stalingrad both strategically and psychologically, and dedicated every possible shred of manpower and materiel to its defense. The result was untold destruction and loss of life, but with the Germans turned away after months of bitter fighting the battle proved to be the turning point against Axis powers.

Today renamed Volgograd, I found a quiet city center with a lively park on the Volga banks. It’s an industrial town, and material wealth visible on the street seemed to be inching up, as elsewhere in Russia. Volograd is all about remembering the past, and has an excellent museum dedicated to the Battle of Stalingrad. Far more moving, though, is the memorial Mamaev Kurgan with a triumphant statue of Mother Russia wielding a huge sword. This is a Statue of Liberty-sized monument, and approaching it is moving not just for its magnificence. Mamaev Kurgan stands at the top of a hill that saw the abolute worst horrors of battle. No man’s land was a handful of yards between enemy lines, and continuous shelling was matched by waves of soldiers sent to certain doom, to claim a few steps’ advance. The hill was so ravaged by battle that for years nothing would grow on it. No one at the monument the sunny day I saw it was unmindful of the scene before them, and one old man walking slowly behind me keeping repeating, ‘Smyert, smyert’ (‘the death, the death’).

Sorry to leave it on that note today sputniki. Russia paid a terrible price against fascism and then some, and for that we, to this day, owe it a debt of gratitude.

Sputnik Lee

Details on Crimea, cave cities and Bashkiria to come.

Hey Sputniki, welcome back. Got a few minutes before I hop on the train from Volgograd to Ufa, Bashkortostan’s capital, so I’ll continue to hack away at the blog backlog.

So, the police (I never quite grasped what flavor of gendarme they were; Russia’s got umpteen different types) ask me to their office, a dusty kiosk at the corner of the train station square. Again, this validates them as legitimate officers, but then the fun starts. ‘Where are you heading to?’ ‘I don’t know yet; I’m on vacation.’ ‘Do you have any medicines, weapons, narcotics, or contraband in your possession?’ ‘Of course not.’ ‘Will you permit a search?’ Now we were getting down to brass tacks. I would not permit a search of my person; it is my right as a foreign citizen to ask that such searches be conducted at police headquarters, and this I did. This seemed to amuse the officers, and a funny (a ha-ha funny, thank God) kind of silence followed for a few seconds. A torrent of Russian followed, which causes my understanding levels to plummet. I respond with a torrent of English, which had the same effect on them, although doubtless they understood the key words American citizen’ and ‘consulate’. After we all reach a sane level, they say, ‘Look, can we just have a look in your backpack?’ I give in and open everything up. Inside is the usual assortment of travel junk. My name was duly logged in their ledger, and I was turned loose.

The whole incident would barely be worth mentioning but for a curious epilogue. I went back to the train station and asked a ticket agent about the next day’s train to Ufa. As soon as the question was out of my mouth the agent took a quick look at me, excused herself from her desk, and left the office, delivering a piece of paper to a presumed plain-clothes man who was talking with my two officers in the main hall. Coincidence? We’ll find out when/if I catch my train this morning to Ufa. Stay tuned.

Sputnik Lee

A little late off the mark getting this first post up, but hello all. I’m Lee Tarricone and glad you can join me as a sputnik (‘co-traveler’) for this trip. I’m way behind so must as usual start at the middle and nibble on the other parts as I catch up. Might as well start with the police.

I’m now in Volgograd, one week into my swoop through Crimea and the Russian heartland. More on Volgograd in a bit, but first today’s adrenaline jolt: minding my own business at the train station, I was en route to the ticket counter when I heard voices behind me, telling me to stop. As this usually means someone trying to sell me something, I kept going until the voice took on a new level of authority to STOP. Which I did. Two officers, young but all business, asked me for my passport. I’d never been stopped before in such a fashion in a dozen years of travel to Russia, and so I sized the two up for a second. They looked pretty official, and seeing badges prominently displayed I decided they were the real thing (there are plenty of scams involving guys in uniform). ‘Why didn’t you stop earlier?’ ‘I thought you were taxi drivers.’ Maybe not the best reply, but it is what came out. ‘Documents.’

Well. Still not totally convinced this was a real deal, I asked both for their badge numbers. (russian law requires they provide this.) I wrote this down, and then handed them my passport and visa, locally registered the day before. ‘This visa doesn’t list Volgograd.’ ‘I know, but is there some problem? Why am I being stopped?’ ‘You seem nervous. What are you so afraid for?’ ‘I’m an American, and being stopped like this is unusual.’ ‘Come with us.’

Gotta run, they’re closing this place up and giving me dirty looks already. Stay tuned.

SputnikLee

PS The trip so far is fun. I’ll save the fun parts for later. Cheers S-L