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Monthly Archives: May 2019
A Moscow Scandal (an around-moscow poem)
In the great old cathedral we wore no scarves on our heads.
Male choirs stopped chanting pretentiously
as we plucked the icons from the walls
and held them pressed against our hair
so Christ’s golden circle framed our boisterous faces.
In the cathedral we’d had our fill,
so we stumbled hazy-headed into the dark alleyways and closed-off streets.
Each street guitarist played faster and faster
long hair and bodies a blur of frantic movement.
And in the quickening music, the hysteria of the cold April night,
our feet lifted off the cobblestone.
The grandmothers gasped as five young women flew away.
The Moscow Metro: A Photo Essay
The Moscow Metro
A Photo Essay
“Oсторожно, двери закрываются.” This phrase has forever been implanted in my head. I can literally hear the voice of the woman and her tone of voice every time I think of this phrase. The Moscow metro has become a significant place for me. It is my main form of transportation around this city. It brings me pride to think of how far I have come since my first ride here. I can easily navigate my way, knowing which colors lead to which lines and destinations. A metro ride represents a daily activity for most Muscovites as they travel to their various destinations throughout their day. In this photo essay, I wanted to highlight the use of light in the metro. Most metro stations are decorated with chandeliers and beautiful light structures and I wanted to express this through the shadows they create in these pictures. In this way, I present the depiction of light in an underground world. I have placed these photos in an order starting from the larger overview of a station, to the smaller pieces in the station, to actually inside the subway car to present a feeling of traveling through the metro.
Nerpa-mania!
The first time I came across the word “nerpa,” I was reading Peter Thomson’s Sacred Sea: A Journey to Lake Baikal (1) in preparation for our Siberian adventure. I learned that nerpas, one of many species endemic to Lake Baikal, are some of the world’s smallest seals, clocking in at less than a meter and a half long. If you’ve ever scrolled through my Instagram feed, you will know that I am a fan of anything “mini”: mini-pugs, dwarf hamsters, micro-extreme mini teacup piglets, etc., and thus I was immediately obsessed with the nerpa, a “mini” version of a seal. (I highly recommend googling “baby nerpa seal.” You will discover happy, fluffy, white little fuzz balls, with enormous black eyes staring endearingly back at you.) The 7-year-old part of me that says “eeeeeeee!!” when I see a cute animal now had one goal for my upcoming Baikal trip: see a nerpa in the wild. However, the rational, boring, 20-year-old part of me knew that nerpas are wild animals who do not want to see me as much as I want to see them, and furthermore, that last year’s Carleton group hadn’t seen a nerpa outside of a museum. I braced myself for certain disappointment on the wild nerpa front.
We didn’t actually see Baikal until several days after we arrived in Siberia. As soon as the shimmering blue surface of the lake came into view during the van-ride to Ust-Barguzin, I donned my glasses and glued my eyes to the window, looking for the little bead of a seal’s head breaching for air. We stopped several times along the way, but there was no nerpa to be found. Two days passed, and I began to lose hope.
Finally, on our last full day in Ust-Barguzin, we had a picnic planned in the Trans-Baikal National Park. We pulled over to take in the view of the “holy nose” peninsula, and suddenly the cry went out: “Nerpas!” A long white streak interrupted the deep blue water in the distance: ice left over from the long Siberian winter, not yet melted in the 4°C water. Scattered across the ice were hundreds of little dark smudges. With the help of Nick’s binoculars, it became apparent that the smudges were actually moving around, flopping along on the ice, and basking in the sun. Even better, some of the smudges were teeny tiny, this year’s babies who had just lost their fluffy coats! A few hours later, we returned to the same beach, to find that this ice flow had floated much closer to the shore, and now it was possible to make out tails and flippers. We had stumbled across more than a thousand wild nerpas on some of the very last ice of the year.
(video: Ian Bell)
Nerpa-mania only increased among the group members after our miraculous nerpa sighting. We thought ourselves to be veritable nerpa experts after spying on the wild nerpas at a distance, reading about their place in the ecosystem, and hearing about their life cycle from our guides. They are indeed special creatures! In addition to their diminutive size, they hold the distinction of being the world’s only freshwater species of pinniped, having somehow appeared in Baikal 3000 river kilometers from the nearest ocean. According to our guide, they can live for over half a century, owing this long life span to their diet of “pure vitamin A,” aka the oily golomyanka fish.
However, as we entered the aquarium section of the Baikal museum in Listvyanka, none of this knowledge could have prepared us for the experience of seeing two up close in person. There, right before our eyes, were the two fattest little creatures I had ever seen. They swam gracefully and quickly back and forth in their two-room tank (which was a little bit small, making me kind of sad). In profile, these healthy (not-overweight) nerpas were like watermelons with tails. We all stood there open-mouthed, staring entranced at how round, adorable, and hilarious they were.
We returned to the tank five minutes before their scheduled feeding time to find that they were patiently waiting in the corner for their lunch of golomyanka in an orderly row, like students waiting in the buffet line in the cafeterias of Moscow State University. We fell head over heels for them as they hungrily gobbled up the fish that magically appeared in the water above them. (Video of nerpa feeding, slow motion fish snatch) As we left the museum, I was sad to leave behind our two newest friends from Baikal, the last of many (human and animal) we met in our almost two weeks there. Seeing nerpas on this Baikal expedition was a special, unexpected, and exciting part of my experience, the icing on the cake of all the natural wonders we were lucky to enjoy at the Sacred Sea.
(1) Thomson, Peter. Sacred Sea: A Journey to Lake Baikal (2007). New York: Oxford University Press.
Experiencing Irkutsk and Baikal
It’s 9 o’clock at night on a Monday night, but it’s nearly June so the heavens are still a pale blue. A few lazy clouds float in the sky, but any calm is ruined by the rumble of the trams and the hiss of passing cars that jars the chest and offends the nose. I’m standing across from what is affectionately known as a taxi–hailing Lenin, but even Lenin can’t get a ride: there are no taxis in sight. Meanwhile, I’m contemplating how I will return to the hotel. The tram system is about as confusing as the works of Jacques Derrida, a philosopher who came up in our class once, and I only made it here thanks to Diane’s help, and now I’m counting on her to save me again since I don’t understand this city. But what about the metro? Alas, this is Irkutsk, and the metro is non-existent: my options are either trams or buses, neither of which provide any assistance as to where they are going. I’m waiting for a call from someone; Diane, a taxi driver, anyone, now. Left alone, I’m forced to reflect on how powerless I feel.
Earlier today, I was at Lake Baikal. Words cannot describe. Yet somehow, looking at a 25 million year old lake, one gets a sense of great force and might; I cannot escape that this lake existed before Moscow was built, before the first people’s drew on cave walls, before my entire species. Compared to this lake, I am weak and pathetic; my entire life is just another wave, breaking and then crashing against the shore, to be followed by similar but not identical waves. Yet does this inspire fear? Perhaps it does, but it also inspires love and awe in a sense of almost the Kantian sublime. An example Kant gives of this is God, whose wrath is feared but who is also loved (1). The sublime tends to feel immune to human influence. Yet 150 years later, Nietzsche declared that God is dead (2). He tried to kill God. Whether he succeeded is a question I won’t attempt to answer, and I should really leave philosophy to Ian as I probably don’t understand any of this properly. In any case, though you see how extreme of emotions I experienced. But while Baikal may be almighty next to me, I know that it is not next to humanity. If we can try to kill God, why can’t we try to kill this lake?
As various authors we have read, including Lisa Dickey (3) and Peter Thomson (4), scientists are already concerned that the lake is dying. Algae growth, contaminating the lakes crystal clear water, is becoming more common, sponges at the bottom are dying, and more pollutants are spilling in as more people begin to surround the lake. At this stage, the lake is becoming ill, at least according to the opinion of the majority of scientists, and it’s location is still so remote compared to other comparable lakes. For example, Lake Tahoe, which is also known for its depth and clear water, is surrounded by tourist resorts, casinos, and ski lifts, all of which which is generating pollutants and waste. Every summer the road to the one protected beach is clogged with cars, all producing carbon dioxide that heats the air and nitrates that pollute the water. Of course, global warming all such huge cold lakes must contend with. Somehow Tahoe has more or less survived so far, but it’s still nothing like Baikal. Part of this is unavoidable; for example, Baikal is a whole lot bigger than Tahoe and regardless of human influence, but also Tahoe feels more tame, more under human auspices, and more damaged than Baikal. Will Baikal eventually become this, or worse?
I won’t comment since I only make predictions for sports games, and I always predict that the Phillies are going to lose (since that’s what normally happens). But somehow just the question makes my current situation feel even more despicable. I stand before this city and I feel completely powerless, and my heart is filled with fear, but no love, only loathing; no awe, only disgust. Irkutsk has not made a good first impression, only from what I happened to think about when I was lost there. The whole excursion feels like a disaster and I feel terrible; I’ve managed to inconvenience everyone, and for what? A blog post? I’m sitting in a cab now and the blue sky has turned to black. My thoughts drift back to the theme of human environmental damage. Some cities are so dear to me: Moscow, San Francisco, St. Paul. Yet they to are the same in terms of environmental destructiveness, if not worse. How can I reconcile this? I gaze into the blackness, the stars invisible behind the street lights, and find no answers.
1 Kant, Immanuel. “Analytic of the Sublime.” Critique of Judgement. Translated by Werner Pluhar. Indianapolis: Hacketts Publishing Company, 1987.
2 I first heard this phrase in Thus Spoke Zarathustra, although apparently it predates that book. I am using the phrase somewhat ironically, and to be clear I’m not trying to comment in a serious way on either Kant’s or Nietzsche’s work here
3 Dickey, Lisa. Bears in the Streets: Three Journeys Across a Changing Russia. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2017.
4 Thomson, Peter. The Sacred Sea. New York: Oxford University press, 2009.
Dogs in the Street: Navigating the Animals of Ulan-Ude
Once, our grammar professor mentioned to us that Moscow was filled with feral dogs: roaming the streets and alleys, sleeping in the metro. But by the time we came the dogs were all gone: the city had rounded them up, shooting or poisoning the majority of them. While this is sad, the dogs could have been carrying disease (rabies springs to mind) and could potentially harm domestic dogs. There are of course contrary arguments, and the methods used may not have been appropriate, but here the main point is simply that there are no longer dogs roaming the streets of Moscow. Now, anyone who has done the program knows that the first book we read is called Bears in the Streets (1), the title of the book stemming from the author’s observation that many Russians believe Americans believe that there are bears in Russian cities roaming around. While the only bears in the street I have seen are advertisements for Masha and the Bear (Маша и Медведь, a cartoon) and one in a zoo, as in all cities there are still some wild animals around. For example, squirrels, muskrats, birds, harmless little things. For me, the third is the most important, as anyone who has read my St. Petersburg post knows, and looking for them will cause many of my encounters with other animals. In particular, dogs.
The birds in Siberia are totally different from those in Moscow, so a high priority upon arriving in Ulan-Ude was to locate some: Azure-winged Magpie, Daurian Redstart, Red-billed Chough, and such exotic types, which here are even common. Regrettably, the city of Ulan-Ude is not a renowned birding location, and on our first day when we toured the city, I got precisely one new species for my life, called in birding terms a “lifer”. For perspective, I was expecting in the range of 50 lifers for the trip, so this was not an encouraging start. However, from the bus and at our stops I also noted an abundance of feral dogs; individuals and even groups of 3-4. In fact, in an iconic moment a delirious Amelia asked if a larger grey dog was a wolf.
The next morning, Ian and I set off walking in order to look for birds. I intended to reach the river but couldn’t cross the necessary street, so I wandered to the back of some church, where I found a place to cross the road. But first I decided to look around the scrubby little trees that adorned the tan sandy grounds. I found a Dusky Thrush, which was only the second reported on eBird for the entire Buryatiya republic, but that has more to do with under-coverage (i.e. lack of birders reporting to the website) than rarity. Insufficient time remained to look at the river, so we set off to our homestay. As we left, we saw two sleeping dogs huddle against one of the bushy trees in the fine sand.
A few days later, Ian and I meandered down to the river, this time with the aim of finding shorebirds, as I had staked out some habitat as ideal for shorebirds the previous evening. We did find a few plovers, a multitude of Common Sandpipers, and one gorgeous non-piper, a Long-tailed Rosefinch. But the birds were the less memorable part of this trip. The more memorable part was the dog. Shortly after having seen the Rosefinch, a tiny skinny black dog appeared. More than anything, this poor little dog probably deserved pity, but I am, to be perfectly honest, terrified of feral dogs; I think I was scarred by the passage about the mad dog in Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God. In any case, as soon as it got within three feet of me, I panicked a little and darted behind Ian, and we started to walk quickly away. However, it quickly became apparent that the dog was following us: when we walked, it walked behind us, and when we stopped, it would walk ahead a little, then stop and look back. I was very jittery, and Ian kept assuring me it would soon leave, but it wouldn’t quit. Once, when it had stopped a little behind, we tried taking off as fast as we could, and thought we had lost it for a minute, but lo and behold, a few minutes later there it was. Getting desperate, I tried yelling at it, but that did nothing. We were preparing to move away from the river, and when we crossed the street, we thought for sure it wouldn’t follow, but a minute later, to quote one of my beloved books as a child, “out popped Paleo wolf, looking for leftovers” (2). But we were in a homestay, were leaving in a day, and could absolutely not try to domesticate this dog, as happens to the wolf in the children’s book. I was certain we couldn’t have it come all the way to the homestay, and was beginning to panic; what if it tried to dart inside. But we still had one major road to cross, and after that road we finally lost it.
More than likely, the little dog, possibly even a puppy was completely harmless, and, in retrospect, I was overreacting a little. However, it does allow for a little interesting reflection on what is a wild animal, and certainly shows something about me. I set out looking for wild animals (birds), and found feral dogs which in a sense are not wild and in a sense absolutely are. Furthermore, the fact that there are dogs on the streets illustrates one of the differences between modern Moscow and other cities in Russia. And now I can say I went all the way to Siberia and the wildest animal I saw was a dog.
1 Dickey, Lisa. Bears in the Streets: Three Journeys Across a Changing Russia (2017). New York: St. Martin’s Press.
2 Brett, Jan. The First Dog (1988). Orlando: Voyager Press.
Day Trip: Shlisselburg
From the era of Russia’s medieval precursor, Velikiy Novgorod, through 300 years of the Romanovs, through the tragic Blockade of Leningrad, the Oreshek Fortress has persisted. Whether its survival is stubborn or heroic, however, is incumbent upon each to decide for themselves.
The fortress sits on a tiny island in Lake Ladoga, just a five minute boat ride from the nearest pier. We visited on a particularly pleasant day: the wind was blowing, there were no clouds in the sky, and the deep unwavering blue of the lake contrasted beautifully with the green of the island and the brown stone of the fortress walls. Oresehek was originally built as a wooden fortress by the Novgorod Republic in the early 14th century, its stone walls constructed more than a hundred years later.
For nearly 400 years, Oreshek was the site of countless battles between the Russians and the Swedes and its sovereignty was constantly changing hands. The strategic importance of this fort may at first be unapparent, as it was to me when I first visited; its small size in Lake Ladoga seems fit to guard the local dachas, but not much else. It was challenging to understand why thousands of soldiers, throughout several centuries, died defending this fortress. Its significance, however, lies in the name Peter gave it: “Shlisselburg”, German for “key city”. Russia’s first emperor named it such because control over the fort granted access to the Gulf of Finland. How is this so, considering Shlisselburg sits on the south end of Lake Ladoga? The answer is the Neva River, which flows from the lake to the Gulf.
Peter’s victory over the Swedes in the Great Northern War led to lasting control over Shlisselburg from 1702, predating the establishment of Saint Petersburg by one year. The decisive victory for the Russians meant that Shlisselburg was now relatively inland, and no longer served any purpose as an important military outpost. This medieval fortress was thus given a medieval role, that of a brutal prison housing mainly political prisoners and terrorists.
The tour of Shlisselburg exposes the various macabre historical sites of the fortress, such as the wall where Lenin’s older brother was hung and the punishment cell of the prison. In the punishment cell, one slept on a weave-pattern, cast iron bed with nothing on it. The prison was particularly harsh, with those in good standing only permitted 30 minutes of outdoor time a day. Many prisoners died in their cells due to the harsh conditions. Revolutionaries, dissidents, domestic terrorists, and even a Tsar were held here. Yes, Tsar Ivan VI was imprisoned at Shlisselburg years after he was overthrown by the empress Elizabeth in a palace coup in 1740, and died in detention.
The prison’s history concluded with the revolution of 1917, when the Bolsheviks liberated the inmates and set the prison alight. Several prominent members of their party were imprisoned there. It was then converted into a museum not long after, but Shlisselburg’s future soon returned it to its founding in war.
When the Germans initiated the Blockade of Leningrad, the Soviets installed a small garrison of soldiers at Shlisselburg to defend the fortress. Its strategic significance to the citizens of Leningrad cannot be understated. The famous “Road of Life” over the frozen Lake Ladoga, the only route by which the Soviets could deliver food and supplies to their starving citizens, required protection at all costs. For 500 days, the soldiers at Shlisselburg defended the fortress and the Road of Life from the German onslaught.
The visit to Shlisselburg was fascinating for both its long survival and opposite roles of brutal prison and site of heroism. It is also a beautiful relic of medieval Slavic architecture which is striking in its own right. To get the full effect it may be necessary to visit during the dead of winter, but a visit to Shlisselburg is obligatory nonetheless. The fortress certainly feels impactful, as it played a genuinely prominent role in the days of the Novgorod Republic, the Russian Empire, and the Soviet Union.
Around Moscow!
Around two weeks into the trip, we were assigned to go and find some neighborhood in Moscow, which could be done in pairs or individually. Being that we had only been in Moscow a few weeks, the notion of going anywhere besides the stolovaya and to class alone seemed rather intimidating, so I opted to go with Claire. We then had to pick a neighborhood; we had little guidance in this, so it turned out to be an arduous process, which involved me finding a list of the most dangerous neighborhoods in Moscow and Claire looking up the best places to go with children. We almost had decided on a neighborhood until we realized that it had mostly been converted to a business district, and had to start over. Eventually we settled on Basmany (Басманный район), and decided the best way to tackle it would be to walk from Kurskaya metro station to Baumanskaya, and without finding any further knowledge, we set off. We were first greeted, exiting Kurskaya, by a mural of sorts on the wall of a nearby building, decorated with a dazzling array of colors. Later, when we would return nearly 5 weeks later, we would still be impressed by these unusual pieces of art. But besides this, after more time in Moscow our views on the neighborhood had shifted drastically.
When we first came to Baumanskaya, we had barely been away from a few very prominent landmarks like the Red Square and the vicinity of the university, which can’t really be called a neighborhood. Consequently, seeing streets like this one amazed us: streets with such architecture simply don’t exist in Carson City, and the apartments almost looked as if they could house the entire town of Northfield, which is less ridiculous than it sounds: the population of the neighborhood is around 109,000 while Northfield is around 22,000. Cars zoomed by, trains screeched, and the overall experience was at times even a bit overwhelming. On the other hand, returning 5 weeks later with our praktikantka Alyona, all of this felt normal, and though this was a nicer area, it didn’t seem anywhere near as surprising as it did the first time; rather, just like any other neighborhood in the center of Moscow. Our perspective had changed. This didn’t preclude us from finding other interesting spaces, however.
In an attempt to understand how the people here lived, we ventured away from the street businesses and distant apartments of the Garden Ring and headed towards a park we had staked out. Along the way we passed a modest church. The church presumably was an important gathering place for some of the residents, but Claire hadn’t brought a head scarf so we didn’t attempt to enter. We then found the park, where a helpful sign informed us that it was formed in the 18th century when M. P. Golitsyn (М. П. Голицын) donated part of his estate to the city. Later, a stage was built and some famous Estrada singers sang there in the 1920’s and 30’s. Around us, there were many people, most of them either with children, dogs, or both, and they mostly appeared to be locals. There was a little play area for children; a statue to Bauman, after whom the neighborhood once was named, a Soviet hero; and numerous cafes with surrounding benches. There was also an exhibition declaring Sevastopol to be one of the gems of modern Russia, perhaps betraying something about contemporary politics. It wasn’t the first such exhibition I had seen. Claire talked briefly to a woman with a dogs, who had lived in the neighborhood for multiple generations, and we continued on our way.
Considering that the park was absolutely central to our first trip, it may be surprising that we didn’t go there at all the second time, but we wanted to visit Moscow State Technical University, the one landmark Alyona knew of in the neighborhood and one of the most important universities of its type in Moscow. Founded in 1830, it is the second oldest institute of higher education in Moscow, after our beloved MSU, and offers BS, MS, and PhD’s in science and engineering related fields. The architecture there was quite nice, although the fact that it was right next to a noisy major road off-put especially Alyona a little. We then headed to a cat cafe called Kotissimo at Claire’s behest, but payment was by the hour and I had this blog post to write (among other things to do), so we politely declined and set off for Baumanskaya metro station.
On the return trip both times, we passed by a impressive looking cathedral, which the first time through I stopped into. This was my first time inside a cathedral, so I was duly awed afterwards, and it is a good cathedral. Known as the Yelekhovo Cathedral (Богоявленский собор в Елохове), it was constructed in 1837-45. Passing by, we completely missed the historical importance of the cathedral, but it turns out that in 1938 this very cathedral was briefly the chair of the Russian Orthodox Church, as all all of the other major cathedrals had been closed or destroyed. Also, in the original cathedral built in 1722 Pushkin was baptized. So this also was a very interesting place as well. A great amount of history and importance evidently are embedded in different spaces of the neighborhood, and it was interesting to explore it, although in just two visits we barely scratched the surface.
Poetry in Petersburg
Defying St. Petersburg’s Pushkin obsession, the “poem” I was reading while in town was not Eugene Onegin but Venedikt Erofeev’s Moscow To The End of The Line, an alcoholic’s lovesong to Moscow and Vladimir. It was after midnight in the hostel. Nick–one of 8 other men in our room–was dead asleep. Behind me Vadim, another guest I’d met the previous day, was clicking away on his laptop. I’d begun to wonder if he had found an elusive Internet connection (WiFi certainly hadn’t been advertised). A red-bearded man drank from a massive can of Zhiguli beer in front opposite me, just to the left of the door.
It was then, long after the lights were out and as I was still reading, that two men entered the room and started taking off suitjackets and shoes. I’d first seen them that morning, surprised to notice one of them was putting on a waistcoat. We were in a hostel where hot water came in twenty second bursts and there was no Internet. I guessed they were businessmen or students on a budget, eager to make a good impression.
Now I saw how much they looked alike; I realized they might even be brothers. They were still standing at the end of the room, undressing, when they began to address the beer drinker and exchange pleasantries. Then, with the red-bearded man lying in his bed, beer in hand, the shorter of the two men turned and moved into the center of the aisle. His “brother” moved to the left and leaned, almost too casually, against a nearby bed and pulled out his phone. The beer drinker sat up a little straighter, and I felt an unmistakable call to pay attention.
Jacket open, waistcoat still on, the man in the center began to speak in precise metre. In disbelief I realized he was reciting poetry (Lermontov, I later learned) as the other two watched.
The tempo was almost hurried. Why shouldn’t it have been? He ran past strophe after strophe without losing the cadence. It was impossible not to be taken in, and I felt my neck tingle. For the next five minutes I beat back the idea that “this is what the travel writers are talking about” and just watch this strange perforamnce.
The main theme was love, but the power of the poem lay in the free metaphors, from sunsets to the sea, stacked one on another. When the poem and my vocabulary coincided, the images drawn were melancholy and lovelorn, their sadness accredited by his husky voice. Not one detail, no matter how beautiful, disrupted the even cadence: the intonation rose in emphasis but fell in time. His voice did not echo but wafted, reaching its greatest tenderness when “love” entered in any form and with each return to that concern I grew more eager to here it again. Once, the phrase “I love you” was repeated twice in a row and I was ready to turn to the videographer and start telling him about love. At the end I had become so transfixed I failed to follow our makeshift salon and applaud the performance.
The scene continued with two more poems: some Mayokovskii, and then a humourous lyric about the history of St. Petersburg. The latter involved turning the whole room–including Nick, asleep on his bed–into a massive map, which is a story unto itself. And after this, an Irish goodbye without further ado as everyone went to sleep without even saying goodnight.
But that first recitation of Lermontov (which one, I didn’t catch), its sudden appearance in a hostel inexplicable, burned so hot I can’t recall anything else. The above description of it was wholly inadequate–as inadequate as the below photo is to describe the opulence of the Winter Palace we would see just 24 hours later. In 6 hours spent between the Hermitage museum and the palace itself, I saw masterpieces by Malevich, Kandinsky, Cezanne, Vrubel, Da Vinci, Rembrandt, Signac, Faberge and too many others to name. Notes and photographs can’t do justice to the vastness of Petersburg. All I have are some singular impressions, shown below: a malachite pavilion, the humourously porcine Faberge figures, a statue that caught my in the suburb of Pushkin. And, of course, that unforgettable, impromptu recitation, never photographed.
St. Petersburg
St. Petersburg, a popular song by Brazilian Girls
Over midterm break, we embarked on an adventure to the “Window to the West”, aka St. Petersburg.
St. Petersburg is a dream city. It has a beautiful river running through it, accompanied by numerous canals and bridges. The streets are filled with buildings of different styles and colors, each adding its own unique taste to the overall architecture. As the former capital of Russia, the city has a vast variety of monuments, museums, and palaces. It also has a rich history, filled with triumphs, wars, floods, fires, and the infamous 900-day siege. For these reasons, today, St. Petersburg is no doubt a tourist city.
Moscow is also a tourist city. Frequently, I see tour groups when visiting major museums and monuments downtown. However, St. Petersburg wins in terms of numbers. This was apparent not just from simply the tourists I saw, but from the English signs, hotels, and souvenir shops I came in contact with.
In some respects, it is easy to see how tourism may result in a negative reaction while in other ways the tourism industry in the city may have helped highlight important aspects of the place. Because of this, it was hard for me to determine my own opinion of the city. Furthermore, it helped me bring to face my own position in this country as a foreigner studying the language and culture of the country. Tourism is a major industry, bringing money and jobs. Personally, I believe it has a lot of advantages. Economically, it contributes to both private and local incomes by providing jobs in hotels, restaurants, transportation, etc. This dependence then provides incentives for the city to preserve major historical sites and the surrounding environment to better promote the city. Additionally, increasing globalization brings more cross- cultural collaborations. In this way, it promotes awareness for both locals and tourists through these interactions and subsequent understanding between the two.
Undoubtedly, tourism has its consequences. Many more authentic and local places are being replaced by souvenir shops and crowds. This contributes to the strain of local infrastructure and businesses. This is because they suffer as a result of accommodating for the increasing number of tourists. In addition, tourism has environmental problems with the continued and growing waste with the expansion of sites.
What sets me apart from other tourists? In what ways am I also damaging the “authenticity” of the country and city that I am staying in? As much as I want to consider myself not just another “tourist” am I just fooling myself?
When visiting another country, you are exposed to different languages, beliefs, food, and environments. In a lot of ways, traveling helps create a more informed, open-minded perspective of the world. It helps to break down stereotypes through first-hand experiences and relationships formed. I believe every visit is an opportunity to learn something new and embrace the complexity and diversity of the world. Even if you do visit a country as a tourist, you are granting yourself an opportunity to meet new people and expand your knowledge. However, to understand a culture, it takes more than just simply visiting a place. It requires effort forming relationships from first hand experiences and understanding between people by learning from each other.