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Russia

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You Choose: The Kirov or the Bolshoi?

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Giving talks in seven cities in seven days this week, I’ve met countless travelers with fun stories to tell. At a Chicago bookstore, I was ambushed by a man who asked me, “So which is considered the better ballet company — the Kirov or the Bolshoi?”

I vaguely remembered that, while Moscow’s Bolshoi was most famous, many contend that the St. Petersburg-based Kirov is better. The man pressed me for as assessment of the Kirov Ballet. I was starting to wonder what was with him.

Then he asked me, “Good as the Kirov is, is it still enjoyable when sitting behind a big pillar?” Then I put it together and laughed. The only person who would know that is Kurt — the guy I palled around with on my Russia trip back in 1993. We bought tickets from a scalper on the street, which got us seats behind a pillar in the nosebleed section of the St. Petersburg concert hall. Even with a seriously obstructed view, we were blown away by the Kirov Ballet.

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Kurt and I chatted, dredging up fun memories of traveling through Russia in those fitful years just after the break-up of the USSR. At the ballet, the big, heavy, red curtains still had their faint hammer-and-sickle embroidery. I remember thinking that while the communists were out of power, the entire society seemed to be keeping its hammers and sickles handy, as if communism might just rekindle.

We met at the St. Petersburg youth hostel which was (and is) run by a great guy, American expat Steve Carron. Back then, Steve was paying bribes to be left alone by the mafia and doing his banking an overnight train ride away in Tallinn (Estonia).

In 1993, expats in Russia were more into the Internet than we in the West were because, given the lousy communication infrastructure in Russia, it was the best way to keep in touch. The book I was working on that year (covering Moscow, St. Petersburg, and the three Baltic capitals) was the first manuscript I ever emailed home.

The St. Petersburg hostel was a refuge for Western travelers — a humble “Green Zone” where we could meet, eat food that was both affordable and palatable, and be unthreatened by thugs and thieves that seemed to be everywhere.

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Kurt was like a mountain man, vagabonding around the world for six months — really tough and really hairy. He had just rendezvoused with his power-dressing girlfriend who flew, it seemed, right out of a corporate board meeting in Chicago to join up with him. It was like Green Acres, Russki-style.

Together we took the night train to Moscow — booking four berths for the three of us to have the compartment all to ourselves. The buzz was that train personnel were working with thieves to gas travelers and then steal them blind while they slept — taking even the rings off their fingers.

On the train, we nervously jammed the door latch with a film canister, put a towel along the bottom of the door, left the window open for ventilation, and even put out a photo I took at a St. Petersburg amusement-park fun booth that made me look grotesquely muscular.

A conductor knocked on the door. We let him poke his head in, and he lifted up the lower bunk revealing a tin box the size of a small coffin under the mattress. He said, “You must put all of your valuables in this box for safety. And then you must sleep on it. All of your valuables.” When he was gone, we all thought, “Yeah, right…we’ll wake up with nothing.” And we searched for a hidden door in the tin coffin.

Apparently the thieves picked on some other tourists that night, and we made it safely to Moscow…just in time to see flames coming from the windows of the Russian parliament building. Communist hardliners where holed up in there, in a thrilling standoff with Boris Yeltsin and the Russian army.

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Pathetic and impoverished senior citizens were demonstrating against democracy and free enterprise, knowing that they would be the ones who suffered most in the transition period. (As it turned out, they — later nicknamed “the Lost Generation” — were right.) When people ask me about the scariest situation I’ve ever been in, I think of the taxi ride out to the Moscow airport. A no-neck guy who looked like a classic Russian mafia thug picked me up in a beat-up old car, and we drove down puddle-filled alleys for an hour past derelict apartments buildings…and all I could think about was movie scenes where the good guy is taken down to the river bank in the tough side of town to be shot.

This guy knew I had a passport, lots of money, and credit cards. And he knew I was completely alone. No one knew me, where I was, or where I was going. It would have been easy for him to just finish me off.

My imagination went wild. I even thought that if I were in his shoes, I’d be seriously considering doing the dirty deed. It would be so easy.

Then the no-neck finally pulled up to the airport, shook my hand, and said, “Have a good fly.”

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Home now, final blog.

I’m home…thankful for a safe and smooth trip full of learning. I always marvel at how smooth things go in Europe if you’re on the ball. In six weeks, I can’t think of a mishap.

This blog was more fun (and more time-consuming) than I expected. I’m glad I did it. In fact, I hope to make this a regular part of my travels from now on. It reminded me of the fun I had a few years ago when I went to Europe to write my Postcards from Europe anecdotal book. I went not to make a TV show, lead a tour, or update a guidebook…but with just free time and a notebook.

Every few days on this trip, when it was blog time, I’d rummage through my collection of stray notes and cobble together an entry. Entries generally grew to be larger than I planned…but it’s hard to tell a story correctly without a few paragraphs.

While all notes started out as stray notes, most ended up building something. But some never found a home. Now that my blog is done, I empty the bucket and find these last scraps (which for some reason, I can’t bear to just chuck):

* Soviets learned it’s easier to make something go away (like religion) if it’s not completely forbidden. (I may have been trying to make a marijuana parallel.)

* Parenting on a European vacation changes radically as the kids get older. On this trip (in Dublin) our kids (aged 19 and 16) routinely stayed out later than Anne and I did. In the morning, we’d slip a paper under their hotel room door (we promised not to wake them up) inviting them to join us for breakfast if they were awake. We’d breakfast alone waiting to debrief the kids on their wee hours adventures.

* I told Jackie “I tried to River Dance and almost drowned.” It’s the first time she’s laughed at one of my jokes in a long time.

* The pet peeves entry got me thinking about more pet peeves: Like hotels that put a decorative foot board on their beds that robs good sleep from guests like me over six feet tall. Like when I try to conserve by reusing the little soap bar and the hotel maid throws it out so I need to open a new one each day. Like European sinks that have separate cold and hot faucets (why on earth?). Like elevators that tell you what floor you’re on. And like having to walk back and forth through a long empty slalom of needless stanchions to get to a security check.

* In Helsinki, after a full night of restaurant visits, no one is still serving food. I ended up munching a McDonald’s meal in my hotel room. I actually felt ashamed to walk through the lobby with my McDonald’s bag.

* After visiting several European airports with a strangely relaxing ambiance, I realized why. They don’t have TVs playing CNN in each waiting area. It’s quiet and free of advertising.

Over the last six weeks, I’ve enjoyed the conversation. Thanks to all who participated with their comments. It was hard not to get involved in the discussion, but I made a personal rule to just upload the entries. I have to fess up that (in response to a few harsh comments) I did revisit a few of my entries to clarify points that were unclear or misunderstood. I think I enjoyed the experience so much because it gave me the daily excuse to be more than a guidebook researcher–to be a travel writer (which I really love). And doing this blog let me enjoy the best of both travel worlds: I was traveling both alone…and with a gang of travel partners. Thanks for joining me on my trip. And thanks also to the special reader who made sure I will never again misspell Chiwawa.

Happy travels, Rick

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Estonia: There’s a vest on every chair

I’m livin’ large in Estonia…and marveling at the exciting change this region is undergoing. On a visit to the Baltic region back in the 1980s, labor was cheaper than light bulbs…when touring museums, an old babushka would actually go through the museum with me turning on and off lights as we went from room to room.

Those days are long gone. Estonia’s thriving capital, Tallinn, is like a Petri dish of capitalism. Since Estonians won their freedom in 1991, it has blossomed. The country has the strongest economy, most freedoms, and highest standard of living of any republic that was part of the USSR. (Locals claim that, by some measures, they are now one of the freest countries on earth.)

While traveling here, you can’t help but ponder the great irony of Russia’s communist experiment. Statistically Russia–once the supposed champion of radical equality (as far as Leninism and Marxism was concerned)–is now infamous for having the worst equality. Estonians are much better off today than Russians not because they have more money per capita (they don’t), but because the wealth in this country is distributed much more evenly. Observing the differences between societies, it seems that the distribution of wealth, if you honestly get right down to it, is what much of politics is about.

Today, for my mid-morning coffee break, I stepped into a courtyard. At the entry the landlord hung a photo of the place in 2000…it looked recently bombed out. Today, it looks much the same but inhabited by thriving little businesses. I wanted to sit at the courtyard’s trendy little cafe with its wicker chairs rocking on the rough cobbles. The seat I wanted seemed empty but it had a vest hanging on it. So I looked for another empty spot…it had a vest too. I really, really needed a coffee. Then I realized every chair had a different vest hanging on it. Estonian chic. Tallinn is thriving with little creative businesses.

After traveling in Norway and Sweden, it’s refreshing to be in a cheap country again. Being able to order without regard to price stokes my appetite. And with the fierce language barrier in non-touristy eateries here, it’s good the economic stakes, when mis-ordering, are not high. (Imagine, there are only a million people who speak Estonian–a language related to just about nothing, yet spoken with a noticeable gusto. It occurred to me, I don’t know a single word in this language–making it a strong contender for my worst language in Europe.)

It poured down rain today…locals claim they really need the rain. But it makes my research so messy–balancing a goofy little umbrella on my head and shoulders, hovering over my treasured notebook, trying to keep it dry. I have a pocket sized black notebook (Moleskine…I’m evangelical about Moleskine books) and the part of my guidebook I’m currently working on (ripped out of the big book with the cover stapled on–so it’s both pocket-sized and official-looking). When my border scribbles and notes get wet, I get very anxious.

By the way, many travel writer’s pride themselves in not taking free rooms thinking that might corrupt their assessment. I take free rooms all the time and–don’t tell the hoteliers who host me–this is, ironically, not in their best interest. I must sleep in 70 hotels a year (140 nights, average 2 nights each). I can’t begin to actually sleep in each place I recommend. By sleeping (for free or otherwise) in a place, I catch things you wouldn’t catch otherwise. Last night: thin walls (persistent snorer), no dark window covering (big problem especially in the north, he “ran out of steam” in the remodel), and lumpy pillows (you don’t appreciate a good pillow until you sleep on giant cotton balls). His listing took a hit.

I was noticing how, for the first evening and morning of my time in Tallinn, I didn’t meet one American…no one recognized me. I was a little disappointed. There were lots of tourists…but nearly no Yankees. Then, the cruise ships unloaded their day-trippers. Wow, it was one big PBS love fest…old home week. I had travel buddies on each corner. There must be 50 Americans visiting via cruise ship here for every over land traveler. Estonia is being discovered and it’s about time.