The Petrovka Loft is in quite an upscale Moscow neighborhood, which turns out not to be the good thing it would seem. The entrance is near a porn store in an alley, which is dark and sketchy at night, and there’s no place nearby to buy a candy bar and a bottle of water before bed. Just an espresso machine store (selling the machine, not the product) and Chanel.
I didn’t realize upon booking, but the Loft is just a B, not a B&B. The shared bathroom situation isn’t terrible. There’s more than one toilet, separate from the multiple showers. The water is hotter and stronger than at our last place, but other than that, I’d say SwissStar beats Petrovka Loft.
I accidentally typed “Lift” there at first. Freudian, because there is no lift! And it’s on the fourth floor. Have you seen my bag? (See earlier post.) It’s going to be fun thump-thumping that thing down the steps at 3am Monday.
Actually, it will be carthartic because there’s been a lot of pounding and hammering going on around here. So no, I don’t think I’d recommend Petrovka Loft. (Petrova, by the way is the family name of a line of doppelgangers central to The Vampire Diaries. That’s why I picked it.)
One of the highlights of my last trip to Moscow was seeing Lenin’s embalmed corpse. When I told my guide (a friend of a friend) that I wanted to see it, he scoffed.
“That is not the real Moscow,” he said.
I’m still wondering what the real Moscow is.
This morning, we woke early to queue up for the Lenin Mausoleum, which is only open from 10-1. We even arrived 20 minutes before 10. No one was in line and a metal barricade surrounded the rectangular red and black mausoleum. You couldn’t even get around the back to see the busts of other Soviet leaders, including Stalin.
Bad sign. We hung out until 10 in the bitter cold of Red Square, then asked a guard.
“Closed until New Year. Construction.”
Bah!!
I don’t know, maybe it’s better this way. How could the experience possibly compare to that moment 11 years ago? I’ve elevated it to the status of one of my favorite travel moments ever. How many embalmed legends does one get to see in a lifetime? The dimmed lights, the almost ceremonial procession. The memory lives on.
Rob will just have to settle for my description.
My other memory from that magical day was walking underground to a shopping mall where I struggled to communicate to a food stand lady that I wanted the bliny with mushrooms. (Russia was the first place I started to like mushrooms.) That bliny counter seems to have been replaced by a brightly lit food court featuring a Subway and Burger King where they almost speak English. In my memory the bliny counter was dimly lit. In black and white even.
Thanks, globalization for taking away my authentic cultural experience. We went to a sit-down place where I enjoyed poppy seed bliny with chocolate and vanilla sauce (and stopped at Burger King so Rob could get a cheeseburger), before venturing to the Cosmonautics Museum.
In Your Pocket told us the museum would be all in Russian, but happily, that turned out not to be true. Plus, our arrival was marked by a grand Moscow redemption. As we emerged from the metro, sun streamed through the bitter cold to highlight a monument aimed at the sky honoring the Soviet space race. Imagine! Our destination clearly visible from the metro exit. Unprecedented.
Not only are there English descriptions of some of the models of satellites and capsules, the Cosmonautics Museum features the stuffed bodies of Belka and Strelka, the first dogs in space. You’d think this would disturb me, as I can’t even watch clips from a taxidermy show on The Soup, but seeing those little doggies made my day.
If I can’t see Lenin, I’ll settle for Belka and Strelka.
I’m starting to wear down and look forward to the end of the trip when I can be reunited with my doggies. It’s not that I don’t like Moscow; I actually like it more than I did when I was here before.
It seemed grittier 11 years ago, and I didn’t feel as safe on the streets. (Of course, I didn’t have Rob last time.) This time, my feelings about St. Petersburg and Moscow are reversed.
St. Petersburg is definitely a good warmup. I remember looking at the metro signs and wondering why the station names also were written in Cyrillic. Is that just for tourists? In Moscow, they don’t bother, so it’s really a good idea to learn the alphabet.
And the metro is crowded. At one point yesterday, we exited into a tight mass of people taking baby steps to shuffle toward the escalator, where we stood single file (so people could pass on the left if they wished.)
Update: After I posted this, Rob and I almost got separated on the metro. I pushed out the door before he did, and people flooded on before he could get out. I turned to see him trying to squeeze through the throng. There was a flash of panic in his eyes. What if I don’t get out before the doors close? He managed to get through, but I wondered why he wasn’t more forceful. He could have thrown a few Muay Thai elbows.
Getting around isn’t too hard, between our selection of maps, electronic devices and the kindness of strangers.
After our requisite visit to the Kremlin, we set out for a Cold War museum described in In Your Pocket that sounded really cool. Located in a secret bunker, naturally it was hard to find. I felt victorious when I got us there, until it seemed like everything was in Russian, and the price for foreigners was $50 each.
If the Cold War were really over, wouldn’t they charge us all the same price? I was looking forward to a repeat of my Vietnam experience at the Cuchi tunnels where they showed a propaganda film describing the actions of the “American devils.” I was only one of two Americans in the group and I looked around wanting to confirm, “They’re showing this ironically, right?”
To get in the spirit for Russia, and to educate myself, I’ve been reading a book called Moscow Mule. I thought it was a novel loosely based on a British man’s experience in Russia in the early 1990s. But since the main character’s name is the same as the author’s, I have cleverly deduced that it’s intended to be straight up memoir.
Author James Young describes rather humorously how unsmiling and depressive he finds most Russians, which has been our experience as well. The overall theme though, is that the reason they are so surly is because of what the nation had been through. And things didn’t get better as soon as Russia had access to shiny magazines and McDonald’s. There was a huge influx of goods that jacked up the prices of everything beyond what the average person could afford.
So I suppose I should be understanding then, when a waiter at a snooty restaurant is a complete dick to me. I was lured by charming fairytale tractor beams up the narrow cobbled stairwell and wrought iron railings festooned with fake ivy to Pectopah Genatsvale off the Arbat. We could tell it would be expensive, from the throw pillows on the chairs, hanging lanterns and champagne buffet in the center room. Since we just wanted tea and dessert, I was prepared for our server to be peeved we didn’t order more.
After pretending not to understand English, he asked, “Just one bliny?”
“Oh, does it just come with one? Is it small?”
“Small?”
“Maly?”
“Yes, malaya.”
“Okay then, two blini.”
He brought a plate of four, intended for us to share, which I would have written off as a language miscommunication, except I was annoyed enough to quip, “I thought you said they were small.”
Shaking his head like I was the biggest idiot ever, he said, “No, not small.” Whatever gave me that idea?
What could I do? Send two of them back? Risk international incident and refuse to pay? We couldn’t skimp on the tip, because that would just reinforce the cheapskate impression he already had of us.
I exacted my revenge by eating all four blini, leaving a decent tip on our $30 tea and bliny, and loudly knocking over the glass candle holder on the table as we left (by accident.)
Moving right along, allow me to tell you about three Russians who made me smile today.
1. We shared our overnight train cabin with two other beds. Next time, we’re getting our own cabin. The bunks seem narrower than they used to. Or else I’ve gotten wider. A strange, quiet man was the first to join us. He just sat across from us on the bottom bunk and looked at us. I felt awkward and escaped to the top bunk. We were joined by Katya, a friendly translator who was accompanying some Dutchmen to an antiracism conference. The Dutchmen were a few doors down and very concerned about her all alone. She said in English, “There is another woman. It will be fine.” I piped up, “She’ll be safe with us!” I liked Katya. She had a sweet voice in both English and Russian, and a genuine smile.
2. Upon arrival in Moscow, feeling disheveled, we dragged our bags on the metro toward our lodging. Rob has gotten my cold, and I was sweating from muscling what must have been the largest suitcase on the night train to Moscow (pictured). When we emerged into the fresh air, I had neither my bearings, nor a decent map of the city. The In Your Pocket pdf of St. Petersburg worked great, but the street names on the Moscow version are fuzzy. I asked a woman for directions, and she told me in a New Zealand accent that she’d only been in Moscow two years (although she was born there), so we better ask someone else. “I can translate.” I suggested nearby food vendors, and she said, “No, they’re immigrants, they don’t know.” Then she crossed a busy street to ask some policemen on our behalf, while we waited on the sidewalk.
3. Santa Claus lives. And is selling hand-painted matryoshka dolls on the Arbat. I already decided we’d be buying from him before I learned that his prices were competitive with the souvenir mart in St. P. So we didn’t mind when he interrupted Rob’s iPad photo taking by cheerfully pointing to a sign that asked people to please buy something small before taking a picture. Rob bought me a Christmas matryoshka and a little blue lady that jingles, and Santa threw in a Christmas ornament as a “present.”
The other day when it rained on us outside the Peter and Paul Fortress, I was briefly overtaken with traveler’s fatigue (and a touch perhaps of seasonal affective disorder).
“I just want to curl up on the couch with a warm dog and watch a movie,” I said over bliny.
Fortunately, the rain was brief that day, and didn’t slow us down too much. Today, our last in St. Petersburg, it shows no sign of letting up. Because I am a genius travel planner, today is also the day we had nothing to do but visit the Hermitage Museum.
The Hermitage, like the Louvre in Paris, is one of those museums you can’t possibly see all in a day, so don’t even bother. But this may be the first time I’ve visited a museum in any foreign city when it wasn’t just one of several tourist sites on the agenda.
The Hermitage also is Catherine the Great’s Winter Palace.
Marble sculptures and European paintings adorn rooms with chandeliered and painted ceilings and walls that paralyze you because you don’t know where to look. I can’t posibly look at everything in this one room, let alone five buildings! I confess that in many of these rooms, I prefer the ceilings decorated royally in blue and white, or blue and gold, or what look to me to be the yellows, greens and reds of Provence and the Mediterranean, to the dark-hued framed paintings. (I already confessed so in Italy, actually).
My attention returned to the art on display with a small Michelangelo crouched in the middle of a room surrounded by mythological frescoes from the School of Rafael that were removed from their buildings in Rome for some reason, and eventually brought here.
I love sculpture in general. Any sculpture depicting mythology or some kind of animal catches my eye. Rob likes those showing men engaged in combat. (A nice pair of fighting statues was a highlight of the Yusupov Palace.) Today I was captivated by a white marble child (perhaps cherub) slumped over a sea creature. “Dead child and fish” sat in the center of a room exhibiting colorful painted pottery.
Right now, we’re in a different wing, sitting in a fairly standard “art museum” style room (pale blue walls, bland parquet floor) across from Renoir paintings of bouquets of roses. Man on a stair with a cigarette. Woman on a stair with a fan.
Behind the plush red bench where Rob and I are resting is a window to the murky day, where dark clouds hang over Palace Square, the asphalt and stone pavement black with rain, pedestrians moving through the square under umbrellas. I can’t think of the last time I used an umbrella. I would have bought an adorable one yesterday at Peterhof. It was clear and decorated with matryoshka dolls. But I’d never use it at home.
I sought out these galleries to see my old friends Van Gogh, Monet, Gauguin. My mom and I just saw a Gauguin exhibit in Seattle. Isn’t art amazing, that Paul Gauguin can paint in France and Tahiti, before the Internet was invented, and his work winds up in Seattle and St. Petersburg (among other places)?
I've also seen Picassos in Seattle, Paris, St. Petersburg, and other cities, I'm sure.
Having so much time at our disposal allows us to sit for a bit, cleanse our palate, so that we can view art with fresh eyes. And discover works by painters I don’t know so well. Moments ago, I stood entranced before Market in Normandy, a tall Theodore Rousseau painting of horses and cows being herded straight toward me, a small dog nipping at a cow on the right, sheep to the left.
Rather than show you photos of the paintings I describe, because I didn't take any, I give you Rob with one of the more famous Matisse works on display.
Also enchanting are Francois Flameng’s paintings, Reception at Compiegne, and Napoleon I and the King of Rome at St. Cloud in 1811. The detail on the women’s clothing is so exquisite I feel like I’m looking at the pages of Vogue. In the latter painting, I’m drawn to a man with a turban, sword and ballooning pants standing to one side beside a horse whose tail is mid-swoosh.
It’s handy that the art I find most “interesting” is in rooms with the least distracting decor. My preference is toward the impressionists and surrealists, and anything East Asian (all of which are on the Hermitage’s third floor). But that doesn’t mean that as we walk back downstairs to collect our coats and head out into the rain, I won’t appreciate the gilded walls, elegant staircase, golden columns, coat of arms and Rococo-ness of it all.
For our visits to St. Petersburg and Moscow, I selected bed and breakfasts suggested by Way to Russia. In St. Petersburg, we’re staying at the SwissStar, and were picked up at the airport by a good-looking young man who said almost nothing on the ride.
We were greeted by Lena, who spoke not very much English, but made a great effort to show us around. We shared a bathroom with three other rooms, but it was right next to our room and only once was anyone trying to use it when I wanted to. The only downside would be that the shower, toilet and sink all were in the same room, so if someone was using one, you couldn’t use another.
Lena showed us the kitchen, where shelves in the refrigerator were marked green for common use, and red for people’s private stuff. We also had a fridge in the room (and a safe). Coffee and tea were in a drawer near the sink. She would wash the breakfast dishes, but after that, we were expected to wash our own.
An old dude was drinking tea as we had our tour, and I saw him twice more, including once in the middle of the night while I was waiting for the US Consulate to call back and tell me they’d just dragged Rob’s body from the Neva. (See earlier post. Rob did not drown in the river.)
A British-ish girl asked about the wifi password as we were paying for our room, and that night, I let her go ahead of me in the bathroom before bed.
Beyond that, it’s been deathly quiet. Which I consider a huge plus. I thought we were the only ones staying here, except one morning, there were a ton of clean dishes in the dishwasher after breakfast. The previous night, I’d made eggs for dinner (the night both Rob and I were sick. See earlier post.) I’d put the skillet and plates in the dishwasher and ran it. So, while we slept (and we did sleep late) all those dishes got used and washed? And we heard nothing?
Later, we returned around 6 pm, and there was a different old dude on the computer and about four older ladies loudly eating cake and drinking tea around the kitchen table. Within an hour, they were all gone. I would have heard them if they’d all had breakfast here, wouldn’t I?
This morning, I had a couple of slices of bread with off-brand nutella I found in the tea drawer. I suspect it was from somebody’s private stash and got left behind. After three days of seeing no one else eating it, yeah, I polished it off. I felt a little guilty about eating eggs for dinner (it’s a B&B, not a B,B&D), and for eating all the off-brand nutella, until I noticed that there were four loaves of bread here around 10:30 this morning and as I’m eating the last of the hazelnut spread before bed, there’s only one loaf left. Who’s eating this stuff?? Are there people eating the food who aren’t sleeping here?
Mystery aside, I would totally recommend this place. It’s close to a central metro station, but probably hard to find if you didn’t have a prearranged airport transfer.
Today was a relaxing day, by comparison. The plan was to take the hydrofoil to Peterhof to see Peter the Great’s palace. But when we arrived at the pier with the big Meteorboat to Peterhof sign (in Cyrillic), it was deserted and the guy at the coffeeshop said there were no boats.
“Because of the weather?” I pointed at the sky as if that would make my meaning clear. It had been raining. When the guy looked at me blankly, I simplified.”Why?”
“Closed for season.”
Well that sucked. Once again, I’d researched and learned conflicting info. The company’s website said boats ran every half hour. The girl with pretty green eyes that matched her scarf at the information booth near the Hermitage said boats only ran at 12:30 and 1:30, which was great news as it was 11:54. (We’ve been sleeping late.)
Discouraged, we walked to the other pier in what felt like vain hope of finding another boat company that was still running. We could take the metro and a minbus there; I had printed instructions. But I had my heart set on a boat. (An enclosed boat.) I’d get all hot and sweaty again if I had to descend the endless metro escalator in my North Face jacket, fleece sweatshirt and scarf. Then, surely I’d have to ask 110 unsmiling Russians to point us toward the minibuses. We planned to take the minibus home, but I wanted to take the fancy boat there.
Lucky for me, there was another boat company running a hydrofoil, and it was not yet 12:30. However, pretty eyes was wrong; there was no 12:30 boat. We had to wait until 1:30 anyway.
Despite being enclosed and comfy, the boat ride was cold, so I put on my gloves and fuzzy hat. Arriving at Peterhof by boat was a treat.
We enjoyed the fresh, cold air and fall foliage as we disembarked. Peterhof’s famed 140+ fountains were in full glory and the gold and yellow palace sparkled as we ascended the steps and snapped photos.
Then I felt a familiar faintness. Hunger. Today I had my mixed nuts with me, but since it was so cold, we wanted to sit and rest for a few inside a cafe. A nice souvenir lady pointed us back toward the pier. We passed ladies sweeping up fallen yellow leaves to the “Pectopah” (That’s Cyrillic for restaurant), which turned out to be swanky. More expensive than yesterday’s cafe near Peter and Paul. It wasn’t part of the palace of course, but in a separate standalone building with a patio where no one was sitting.
They offered bear and elk and rabbit. Rob really wanted a sandwich, but we didn’t see anything like that. We decided we’d be satisfied by a bread basket, fried potatoes and pumpkin soup. Still water and apple juice to drink. Ketchup and butter were extra. Our waiter did not appear amused by our meager order.
The food was excellent, but Rob’s apple juice and my pumpkin soup were each about $10.
When we got up to leave I notice a sad-looking Asian tourist, dining alone, camera atop the table, hunched over her bowl of soup. (Maybe I’m projecting. Rob didn’t think she looked sad.)
We continued our relaxing stroll, feeling happy to have escaped the grit of the big city for a while. Taking the hydrofoil was a clever move too, because we didn’t tire our feet out trying to get to the place.
As we strolled, we discovered a self-service Pectopah inside a palace-like building.
“Dammit! That’s where I wanted to eat! Why didn’t she point us in this direction?” A person-sized plastic ice cream cone stood outside a door. “And they have ice cream!”
Rob’s chief complaint about Russia is that it doesn’t seem as friendly as Italy with gelato on every corner.
On our way back, we did in fact have to ask a few Russians for directions. But eventually, it was an Asian couple I identified as fellow travelers by their giant camera, who told us where to catch the minibus.
When I was in St. Petersburg in 2001, I wasn’t able to visit the cellar where Rasputin was murdered. Who even knows why I wanted to, except that I like macabre stuff. In my travel story, I said that it’s worth seeing the rest of the Yusupov Palace even if you can’t do the separate Rasputin tour.
Strange, because as we approached the yellow palace along the Moika River, I had no recollection of being there before. I was determined to see the cellar this time, although guide books and websites had conflicting information about how to do it. Some said you had to call in advance, others said you needed to be part of a group, and others said there was a tour every day at 1:45.
I tried calling, but the person who answered the phone spoke no English.
At the ticket counter, a sign said that the Rasputin tour indeed was at 1:45, and was in Russian only. Foreigners were required to have interpreters. No individual visits.
I tried to buy a ticket anyway. The lady shook her head at me and summoned the “administrator,” who spoke English.
“Can we just go with the tour and look?”
“It’s just two rooms. Not very interesting.”
Hmm. Clearly there’s something about Rasputin’s murder he doesn’t want me to know.
“Aren’t there wax figures or something?”
“No. It’s all in Russian. Just history.”
Weird. All the reviews said there were wax figures depicting the attempted poisoning and successful shooting of Rasputin before his body was driven across town and chucked into the Malaya Nevka river.
I should add that I knew next to nothing about Rasputin, other than his name and that he was murdered there, but now I really wanted to see the damn cellar, even if the wax figures were gone and the room was empty.
Seeing the strength of my resolve, they sold me the tickets. Man, I never had to work so hard to give anyone $8 in India.
While we waited for that tour, we visited the rest of the palace, aide by spotty audioguides that clicked off midsentence during descriptions of the antique room, the theater, the prince’s study… It was a perfectly lovely palace, but there are lots of palaces around here. Dunno why you’d bother with this one unless you were in the neighborhood and/or could also see the cellar.
We still had more than a hour before the cellar tour, and I’d forgotten to replenish the supply of mixed nuts in my bag. I didn’t think I could last without a snack. The closest food joint appeared to be a cafeteria-style place across the Moika. As we crossed the river, Rob said he could go for some chicken soup.
“Good luck with that,” I said.
As we waited in line, I saw the counter dudes handing over bowls of soup.
“Guess it’s your lucky day.”
He had the soup, I had a piece of carrot cake, and we enjoyed the experience of eating with regular Russians, including uniformed soldiers.
Back at the palace we joined the tour to sit in nearly empty rooms while a lovely tour guide chattered away in Russian. I’d pretty much resigned myself to this possibility. Still, a murder happened here.
Then she led us into a dark room where three wax men plotted a murder around a table. One of them peered out the window. Another looked about to leap from his chair in protest. I discerned from the tour guide’s words the names of the perpetrators I’d read in the Rough Guide’s description of the murder. Who needs an interpreter when your B&B has copies of travel books to borrow?
Next we went downstairs where wax Prince Felix Yusupov stood beside a table where long-haired Rasputin sat, looking suspicious after eating cakes supposedly laced with cyanide. (The doctor who supplied the poison later made a deathbed confession that he hadn’t used real cyanide. Rasputin’s assassins wound up having to shoot him a bunch of times.) I recognized him as Rasputin despite not actually knowing very much about him. Upon reflection, maybe that’s why the Russians don’t want stupid foreigners to tour the Rasputin cellar. Isn’t that like someone wanting to visit Ford’sTheater without knowing anything about Lincoln except he wore a beard and a hat?
But look how much I learned!
The final room’s exhibit contained what looked like a newspaper photo of the body after he washed up downstream.
So yes, friends… I got what I wanted. Saw what I waited 11 years to see. Was it worth it? Would I recommend it? I don’t know, but I feel gratified. Yes it was weird to stand around for half an hour listening to a history lecture in a language we didn’t understand. We would have preferred to have an interpreter. But supposing they did allow individual visits, we happily would have paid to walk down to the cellar, look at the wax figures and be on our way.
Then we might have gotten to the Peter and Paul Fortress in time to see the Space museum before it closed. Instead we settled for the cathedral and the prison museum.
Pinky swear with shrunken head Peter the Great
As we approached the fortress, it started to gust wind and rain, so we popped into a fancy cafe where I ate delicious bliny with smoked salmon. I thought the pancakes would be wrapped around the salmon like a blintz, but they were presented folded with the smoked salmon on the side.
Guess what else was on the menu, which Rob ordered? Chicken noodle soup!
Rob is napping under a steel table in a Russian Laundromat, and for some reason the surly yet petite laundry lady is letting him. When we first entered, she had all eight machines running, and snarled at us something that I interpreted as “No time for your laundry. I have all these loads and eight more after that.” Having nothing else planned for the day, we sat down and said we’d wait. As Rob settled in for his nap, I reassured myself that as surly as Laundry Lady was, our laundry would get done before the place closed at 10 pm.
That’s been my experience so far in St. Petersburg. Even when the person we’re asking for help snarls and seems to hate us, they do eventually get us what we need. And that’s what matters. Not thay they like me, but that our clothes get clean. (Actually, the people I asked for directions to the Laundromat were very very kind, but they ultimately were unable to point us in the right direction.)
Today is a throwaway day. I’m suffering with a cold and Rob is recovering from overindulging in vodka after I went to bed early. He had a crazy night, and mine felt just as crazy when I woke up and saw that he wasn’t back and hadn’t posted on Facebook for hours. I panicked and called the US Consulate to report him missing. The very nice young man whom I woke up said there wasn’t much he could do until noon today, but Rob walked in the door shortly thereafter. I won’t be letting him out of my sight again.
When you’re used to visiting cities the scale of Florence or Prague, you look at a map of St. Petersburg and think it’s an easy walk from your B&B to the Church of our Savior on Spilled Blood.
It is not. Take the metro.
I’d forgotten, but that was the advice I gave in a travel story I wrote 11 years ago.
When I tried to reread it a few months ago during trip planning, I was embarassed by my lead that let on how challenged I felt.
Reading the rest of the story this morning, I think it’s a pretty awesome travel piece, if I do say so myself, especially how I conveyed what I learned from my tour guide about St. Petersburg culture.
Because I forgot my own advice, we took a long walk around the “neighborhood” last night, and happened upon a supercharming place called Soviet Cafe Kvartirka. Usually, when you’ve walked a long way in a new city and are cold, and coming down with a cold, you pick the first place you find and feel let down.
Not the case. I drank cherry beer and ate Ukrainian dumplings stuffed with potato, and soaked in the kitschy decor, music and old Russian movie on the TV. We expect to return to Kvartirka over the next few days.
Today we walked to the Troitsky (Trinity) Cathedral, metroed to St. Isaac’s and the Bronze Horseman, then metroed to the Church of Spilled Blood.
My favorite souvenir I have ever purchased came from St. Petersburg. I bought it at a stand near the Church of Spilled Blood. It also happens to be my favorite Christmas decoration. Shaped like a nesting doll, but sealed, it’s painted like Santa Claus, and jingles when it rolls. Today I learned that they’re meant for children and the nicest ones NOW cost upwards of $100. None could be had for less than $30. I almost convinced myself it was worth it, then remembered I already had one. Sort of. It’s in my mom’s custody, so I see it every Christmas.
Today is my birthday! I selected a restaurant for dinner that sounded as fun as the place we went last night. Turns out, it seems to be part of a small chain of Soviet Cafes. While Kvartirka has an urban Soviet vibe, Dachnika is decorated like a Russian cottage. The sound of a rooster crowing greets you as you open the door and make your way downstairs. Frogs croak in the bathroom.
I ordered potato pancakes and Rob ordered pork with potatoes. Sadly, they had no chocolate cake, so I had birthday cheesecake.
Continuing on the theme of me posing with statues that remind me of my dogs, here I am with a lion, posed with her foot atop her ball, just as Mia likes to do.
Kari Neumeyer 