Zdrastvuytee, and a very dobre ootra to you,

Wow, more than a week's worth of journeying reflections to relate to you! I fear I may be in this post office for some time...I have reading a truly marvellous book by the professor Orlando Figes (surely one of the cleverest people of all time), entitled 'Natasha's Dance - A Cultural History of Russia'(I highly reccommend it as a brilliant read whether or not you're travelling across Russia), from which I intend to borrow shamelesly for the purpose of this blog.

(Written a few days ago in Moscow..)
I write to you today from a small overpriced internet cafe in Kazanky station, Moscow. i actually got to the station several hours ago, in the mistaken belief i would somehow be able to negotiate metro, ticket queues and trains to whizz away on an early train around 7am or so. In reality, what happened,inevitably, was that i wandered around the depths of the metro for sometime desperately waving my phrase book at entirely unsympathetic strangers pointing to the russian for 'ticket office' (i've given up trying to pronounce things..), eventually surfacing to be told there was no train until 12.45, and besides, I had to go to another station...Though I must add that the moscow metro is excellent, efficient, unpacked, cheap, and some of the stations are practically works of art. And it only costs 30p. (Some more comparisons: Berlin, 1.50, Kiev, 5p!!, London, 4.00, overcrowded and horrible. It makes you wonder...) There are also some great buskers. One station had an entire string section playing brahms. But I digress.

So, Kiev....wow, wow, I love the feeling of having arrived somewhere with no expectations, no handy 'lonely planet' suggestions or really having any idea about it at all, but being completely overwhelmed..It's a city of extraordinary loveliness and ugliness, stunningly beautiful gold-domed white churches that shine in the sunlight and concrete tower blocks, dirty streets and fashionable shops, a town of steep hills set within a forest, so that when you look from above there are gleaming steeples rising out of swathes of green..I was there for just 30 hours or so, and spent most of the time walking about in a a kind of sun-induced daze (it was incredibly hot). It felt like a big switch from Poland - just arriving at the metro entrance to confront crowds of bodies and traders packed tightly together and signs everywhere in this mysterious alphabet (which I'm starting to get the hang of now..I find the problem is that you can easily start to persuade yourself that signs are saying what you want them to say, I think it must be a bit like seeing a mirage..), I had the feeling for the first time really that I was going East.

I like Ukrainians, the once I met anyway, who seem to be mostly kind and helpful, though nobody speaks english..I also ate in an amazing restaurant, a kind of ukrainian theme-park which i imagine to be a bit like an old-school soviet dining hall (but much nicer!), in which you fill your tray full of interesting-looking dishes (i was quite embarrassed by the number I'd collected at the end), for the bargain price of 2.50, and to my slight surprise, were all extremely nice.

But I'm afraid I can't tell you any interesting historical background information about Kiev, as it remains an intriguing mystery, and somewhere I'd like to explore more. And no, I didn't bump into any family members either! So then overnight 14 hours to Russia, in an extremely smart carriage this time in which I had my own compartment, complete with air conditioning, and the enjoyable experience of being woken up by border police at 1am in my sleeping bag, who were so determined to find something wrong with my passport that they went off with it for half an hour in order, i imagine, to scan in in ultraviolet, soak it it vinegar and test it for explosive devices just in case. I'm really starting to get the feeling that, well, they just don't want tourists very much here, Not only is getting a visa a nightmare, you then have to register it everywhere you go (which is expensive), and are liable to be stopped by police and any time and threatened with expulsion if you don't sort out some obscure paperwork or something. (Luckily I've managed to avoid them so far, but I've seen lots of tourists being stopped). It probably doesn't help that Britain and Russia are apparently locked in the worst 'diplomatic crisis' for some years - it's all really quite Bond...

Continued....

So...Moscow. I arrived smoothly at the hostel, situated in the famous Arbat district, home of avant-garde art, musicians, and radical poets, of whom the 'bard of Moscow', the poet Bulat Okudzhava wrote-

'Arbat, my Arbat, you are my calling
You are my happiness and my misfortune'

Now it is the home of tourist tack, aggressive leafletters and mediocre buskers, a far cry from those exciting days. the name of my abode to be was, ironically, the 'Home from Home hostel', and the day went something like this: arrive, am sent away until 1pm. Come back. Hostel manager (I never found out his name, but I like to imagine he is called Ivan) asks for booking looks confused. Mutters elusively. Wanders off. Talk to interesting russian woman who is an artist. 2pm. Still sitting at table, chat to some trans-siberian travellers. Ivan reappears, briefly. Mutters elusively. Wanders off. Feeling very tired now. 2.30pm. Fall asleep on table. 3pm. Am escorted to briefly vacant bunk in crowded room by kind person. 5pm. Wake up. Organise visa registration feeling dazed. Talk to hungarinas and dutch. Ivan mutters and wanders off, elusively. 6pm. Am eventually informed that there is not, in fact, a bed for me, and am to be taken to home of the owner, which turns out to be couch in living room of grand russian flat, with various other equally lost souls also suffering from the plight of overbooking. Feeling distinctly like a refugee...

In Russian history, Moscow has been perceived to be the cebtre of 'Russianness': Tolstoy wrote that every Russian felt Moscow to be a mother - it 'was a symbol of the old Russia, the place where ancient Russian custome were preserved.' (Figes). In contrast to the 'Europeanised ' Russia conceived of by Peter the Great and represented by St. Petersburg, Moscow was reconstructed in the fashionable 'folk style of the 19th century, following its near- destruction due to the invasion of Napoleon. The city's governor actually ordered the Krmelin to be set on fire before the city was evacuated in 1812: according to Segur,

'[Napoleon] fought his way through a wall of fire, to the crash of collapsing floors and ceilings, falling rafters and melting iron roofs. All the time, he expressed his outrage, and his admiration, at the Russian sacrifice. 'What a people! They are Scythians! What resoluteness! The barbarians!' '

Following in the new passion for all things Russian (the move away from the aristocratic habit of only speaking in French, for example). Figes writes-

'Classical facades were softened by the use of warm pastel colours, large round bulky forms and Russian ornament..More than ever, Moscow took on the appearance of a big village..Wood was declared by nationalists the 'fundamental folk material' and every architect who aspired to be 'national' constructed buildings in that material....The city's business region was suddenly taken over by ancient tent roofs and kokoshnik pediments, fancy yellow brickwork and ornate folk designs.' It was also seen as the meeting point of East and West -the poet Konstantin Batiushkov described the city as 'an amazing and incomprehensible confluence of superstition and magnificence, ignorance and enlightenment', full of the onion domes, bright colours and golden towers associated with the Byzantine style of architecture.

With St.Petersburg as the seat of administration until 1917, life in Moscow in the 19th century seemed to be devoted to enjoyment: there are some extraordinary stories of opulent partying and extravagant feasting: Count Rakhmananov, for example, apparently spent his entire inheritance (more than 8 million roubles) in a few years of high dining- he fed his poultry with truffles, and his crayfish were kept in cream and parmesan instead of water!' The St. Petersburger Nikolai Turgenev described Moscow as an 'abyss of hedonistic pleasure' and the contrast between the two places was eveidently marked: famously, St. Petersburg is is known as the 'head' of Russia, whilst Moscow is its 'heart': Gogol wrote:

'Petersburg is an accurate, punctual kind of person...before he gives a party, he will look into his accounts. Moscow is a Russian nobleman..he'll go all the way intil he drops, and he won't worry how much he's got in his pockets..Petersburg likes to tease Moscow for his awkwardness and lack of taste. Moscow reproaches Petersburg beacuse he doesn't know how to speak Russian...'

I would have loved to have seen St. Petersburg and discovered these contrasts for myself, bu alas, the time...Moscow, in a nutshell, became a place where it was considered possible to live in a way that was more 'Russian, inspiring artist and musicians such as Musorgsky, who pioneered the use of Russian folk music and melodies in his composing. The nobility constructed palaces that 'resembled small estates', full of the clutter and features of the provinces.

I had planned to go to see one of these green places for myself, that of the grand Sheremetev family (one of whom famously married a serf at a time at which it was taboo), but, unfortunately, I encountered in moscow the syndrome of Sightseeing Fatigue. This involves either a strange lethargy and general laziness about seeing Places of Interest, or habit of walking around more and more manically, getting generally lost, grumpy, and eventually unable to move due to aching calf muscles. Often both at once. After all this warm description, I felt a little disappointed to encouter high-rise concret and absurdly busy roads (crossing the road is, according to an expat magazine I read, by far the most dangerous thing you can do in Moscow. It involves either risking your life across ten lanes of drivers carefully staggered to ensure that at least one of them will have a good chance of getting you, or walking 2km to the nearest underpass which will, incomprehensibly, take you to the other side of the city). It is also full of very rude people. I can't really work out this whole 'Russian rudeness' thing. All I've managed to ascertain so far is that is definitely compulsory for women working in service industries. A typical exchange goes something like this:
Me- walks into cafe. Women talk to each other behind bar, busy themselves with tasks, generally do their best to ignore bedraggled foreigner. Eventually, reluctantly, am noticed. Murmurs, nervously, 'um..coffee?'. Silence. A pin drops. 'Nyet.' 'Um..nyet coffee?'. Silence. Icy stare. I turn around and flee. Buying tickets at stations is an equally heartening task. Generally, the pattern is as follows:
I write, laboriously in Russian, my planned departure, type of ticket wanted etc, generally at some strange hour of the night whilst on train. Arrive at station. Am hot and tired, with large bag. There are 17 different types of ticket counter. After queuing for half a lifetime at one, and thrusting my crumbled piece of paper at them, am sent to another window, who sends me to another, and so on. Eventually arrive at one where their may be a slim chance of actually purchasing something. This morning, for example, at 6.30 am, after some complex calculations, I was told 'Nyet Platskarney' (no 3rd class tickets avilable). On enquiring hopefully, 'Kupe?' I was told (and then she wrote down for me), after consulation of my dictionary, that I had to wait until 8am when the information window would be open. This is unusual. The general response to not speaking russian seems to be to shout at you very fast in russian. The best response is to nod and smile and hope that you have interpreted the hand gestures correctly. I love this - it doesnt seems to put people off at all. They'll chat/ grumble away at you qite happily even though you obviously don't understand a word they're saying. It's sort of inclusive.

This is the other side of the 'rude' thing (which can in some ways be fun- I'm really perfecting my scowl) - is that may Russians I've met (of the general public, note) have been incredibly nice and helpful. Old ladies are brilliant, the'll smile at you, jabber away in russian, guard your stuff and offer complex instructions about something you're trying to do through cackles. It's hard to go far without making a friend. Little acts of kindness make so much difference - just one example of many, on my final morning in moscow, whilst sitting, exhausted, in cafe, a piece of paper containing important stuff blew into the nearby flowerbed. A passing soldier (read, scary), climbed over and fetched it for me. I nearly wept. Really, it's an emotional rollercoaster! This is what i love about travelling alone. Whenever anybody sits themselves down next to me (I am pathetically grateful to anybody who can speak some english) and asks me, why? Why alone? I want to say, beacuse of this, because of us sitting here having this conversation, waiting for the same train, because for a minute we shared the same world. Because of the kindness of strangers.

Of course, there are always protective layers - of conditioning, culture, age, gender, preconceptions, etc etc (I was reading a novel by penelope lively recently in which the main character is a retired anthropologist. She cooments that she now realises that she would learn so much more as an old woman than a young one - as she is perceived as neutral. Sometimes I feel that way), and of course the knowledge of an 'escape route' that you can leave at any time - but at least there is not the filter of another person to colour things. Not that I don't enjoy travelling with others from time to time!! There is of course a danger in this that you could turn in to some kind of parody, in constant quest for new and more bizarre happenings for the sake of experiencing them, a kind of pathetic wannabe anthropologist. But at its root - and this is when it is wonderful - is a kind of childlike wonder, of not knowing what's about to happen, or really being in control of it, and to really delight in this. Which can turn into 'so why exactly did i think this would be a good idea???!' It's a fine balance! I also question myself whether I'd enjoy myself half as much if everyhting cost the same as britain. Not thta russia is particularly cheap- but, still there is a difference. There is a nasty tendancy of comparing places by how much they cost. (This is a part of 'backpacker culture' that makes me want to run away screaming!) But would i really think about india so nostalgically if I couldn't be in relative luxury? It makes one wonder how much I really, honestly, believe in economic equality..

It must have been these sorts of feelings that inspired, before twisted out of all recognition, the Russian Revolution. Figes says
'Popularly seen as a war against all privelege, the practical ideology of the Russian revolution owed less to Marx - whose works were hardly known by the semi-literate masses- than to the egalitarian customs and utopian yearnings of the peasantry. Long before it was written down by Marx, the Russian peoplehad lived by the idea that surplus wealth was, immoral, all property was theft, and that manual labour was the only true source of value.'

The poet Mayakovsky, whilst he was still a revolutionary darling, before he committed suicide (or was possibly murdered), after being deemed too individualist for the new soviet literature, expressed this yearning like this:

'Resurrect me -
I want to live my share!
Where love will not be - a servant
of marriages,
lust,
money.
Damning the bed,
arising from the couch
love will stride through the universe.'

Well, we all know what happened to that dream, and frankly, I'm already sick of Lenin. he's everywhere. Every main street seems to be named after him, not be mention endless statues, and in my state of apathy, i couldn't be bothered to go and see his mummy. Which is meant to be pretty amazing. Apparently there is some guy who has devoted his life to keeping him pickled, and is now selling his secrets for millions of dollars for those in search of eternal life. I also blame the soviets for my non-discovery of Cosy Moscow. As Figes explains, 'Stalin's Moscow was thus recast as an imperial city- a Soviet Petersburg..It became the Soviet capital, a city of modernity and the model of the new industrial society the Bolshevisks wanted to build. Interestingly, the Red Square was so name because the russian words for 'red' (krasnyi) and 'beautiful' (krasivyi)are almost the same.

So, to conclude with Moscow..on my second day I rebelled, and, after an inordinate amount of trouble changing travller's cheques (does nobody use them any more?), I spent the day, picnicking, arguing, and going to the ballet (ok, it was the cheap one next door to the Bolshoi, but it still felt all very pleasingly Russian) with my new Dutch friend. Which was very nice. We also hung around outside the cafe pushkin, being not grand enough to go in, and tried to find him a rich russian woman, but alas, they were all being swept away in stretch limos by the russian mafia.

So..onwards, to Suzdal, the capital of medieval Russia, impossibly picturesque with its golden spires and flower-drenched riverbanks. I was especialy happy to get into the Russian countryside, at last, having concocted the belief that this was where the true sprit of Russia could be found- there is an Russian tradition of turning to nature for solace, and many families still ahve a 'dacha' in the countryside. Figes says that

'What such young nations [as Russia] lacked in economic progress they could more than make up for in the spiritual virtues of the unspoilt countryside. Nationalists attributed a creative spontaneity and fraternity to the simple peasantantry that had long since been lost in the borgeouis West...In its oldest peasant form, the Russian religion was a religion of the soil.'

It's also very beautiful, green rolling hills and thick forests, fields of rye, little wooden houses. After Moscow this was balm to my soul and spent a happy couple of days wandering around, aided by the slightly alcoholic honey-mead brewed in the town. I especially enjoyed sitting in the orchard of the monastery under an apple tree. The monasteries were considered to be the purest form of contemplative mystical religion during the 19th century hunt for an authentic rusian faith, and this one was certainly very peaceful, although for tourists rather than actual monks. Everywhere in Sudzal is a bit like that. It's bizarre. I was there at the weekend and it was full of rich Muscovites getting married in the kremlin, the inevitable endless souvenir stands and a few toothless old men and women playing passionate russian tunes on accordions or violins, much to my delight.

Sudzal is surely the largest number of churches together in one place at any time of anywhere in the world..the lonely planet suggests there may be more churches than people, and they may not be far wrong. I'm really into all these onion-domes - literally, domes shaped like onions, I just can't get enough of them! In the constant link between religious, pagan, and rational beliefs that is said to be inherent in the Russian character (as demostrated by such great figures as Pushkin), the onion dome is also modelled on the sun. Figes says that
'The beauty of the church - the most striking feature of the Orthodox religion - was its fundamental argument as well.'
I like the story of how they decided what kind of a religion they wanted to have - in the 10th century or so, after shopping around other religions, it was in the churches of Constantinople, the Byzantium tradition, that the necessary sense of glory was found. In Russian orthodoxy, the experience of being in church is considered to be of primary importance - it is the whole atmosphere, the air of mysticism, that matters - Figes says that

'The Russian Church is contained entirely in its liturgy, and to understand it there is no point reading books: one has to go and see the Church at prayer. The Russian Orthodox service is an emotional experience. The entire spirit of the Russian people, and much of their best art and music, ahs been pored into the Church.'

The couple of times I've stumbled across a service taking place - usually early in the morning - it has been pretty incredible. The liturgy is entirely sung - a little like a gregorian chant (the orthodox ban on instrumental music meant a rich development of polyphonic harmonies)- and they have proper long candles burning everywhere, not like the tinny little nightlights we have. There are new pews: people walk in and out, prostrating and crossing themselves in front of icons. Icons (of which I have seen many beautiful depictions) are also deeply important - although I can't say they do very much for me, to the Russian orthodox, contemplating the icon is perceived as 'a gateway to the holy sphere, not a decoration or instruction for the poor, as sacred images became in Western Europe from medieval times' (a crucial difference). I really like some of the decorative art inside the churches however - in bright primary colours and symmetrical patterns, it is reminiscent of celtic or islamic patterning. There's also a liberal use of blue - a deep, sky-and sea-blue which is wonderfully evocative and soothing. This is what matters to me personally in religious places- the use of light and shade, colour and atmsophere, the overall impression rather than the individual details.

It interests me, that, whatever one's personal opinions, visiting religious monuments always is a large part of any journey. Russia, it seems, is especially difficult to separate from Christianity (apparently, traditionally, peasants would describe themselves as 'orthodox' before 'Russian', and this kind of passion can lead to some interesting results. I especially love the story of the Old Belivers, and have become obsessed with the idea of trying to spot one. At the time of the reforms to bring the church more into line with the greek orthodoxy, some of the rituals were changed. To the Old Belivers, this was heresey: paticularly contentious apparently was the number of fingers used to make the sign of the cross. At the end of the 17th century, they rose in rebellion, believing the reforms to be the work of the Antichrist, setting up their own remote communities where they refused to accept any form of progress, and even, in 1698, 20,000 are said to have shut themselves up in their wooden churches and burnt to death in mass suicides. They've also been long associated with any from of peasant revolt, and it is said that had it not been made illegal, huge numbers of people would have admitted their allegiance to this ancient faith.

I'll finish on religion with these thoughts from Dostoevsky, who suggests that

'This ceaseless longing, which has always been inherent in the Russian people, for a great universal church on earth, is the basis of our 'Russian socialism.'

And a last story from me- upon arriving in Sudzal, physically and emotionally exhausted from moscow and generally sleep deprived from Moscow, I arrived at the hotel i had apparently booked with the help of Ivan the Useless, to find that I, wasn't. To my shame, I burst into tears, and a cross looking russian girl forcibly escorted me to the hostel across the street which, although with mouldly showers and dodgy beds, was pleasingly cheaper. In my room was a girl from Kalingrad (that bit of russia that isn't actually attached), and after a converstion involving dictionaries, about to retire wearily to bed, there was a knock at the door, and two young russians filed sheepishly in. They were, it transpired, art students from Krasnoryack, Siberia, who had come to paint Sudzal. they could speak a little english, and insisted that i first come and see their pictures (which were very good), then drink some beer with them, and then wander around the town in the middle of the night. It was the first time they had spoken with a native english speaker and they were amusingly polite. They also went on and on about the siberian mafia (well, i doubt they'll be travelling 3rd class, anyway, so i should be all right!), and i think i disappointed them with my knowledge of gangster rap...

Finally...a poem written on a pleasant hillside in the evening sun, looking at Sudzal's magnificent kremlin. And then I think I shall then be thrown out of this post office, as I ahve been hogging the only computer for the last 4 hours..All comments/ disagreements (you know who you are) welcomed. Lets hear it from some of you communists out there!

Beyond the blue mirror
flower drenched defences
gold studded heads balance
on pale stalks

Inside, chiming voices clash
with insect wings
winds sings across
honey sweetened mouth

Words hang, ripened by sun
melded into long shadows
choral dissonanances of consonants
striking, mark time.