St.Petersburg, nowhere near Tampa

St. Petersburg

8 July 2006

Previously, in my other two forays into Russia, I just got on a crew shuttle bus, went into town, did whatever my business was and scampered back. There was no lack of things to do, but the culture was so overwhelmingly alien to me that I couldn’t get comfortable. The signs in Europe are one thing, but in Cyrillic they become impenetrable.

Today was a good day though. The sun was out, the weather sunny and in the eighties (or the twenties if you read Centigrade). It’s one thing to visit a town like Vancouver, where people have a spot of winter and the first sunny day they throw off the yoke of oppressive winter. In St. Petersburg the native face 6 or 7 grim months of ice. Think of all the Russian novels. Think of Napoleon and Hitler standing outside the gates of the Russian cities in winter. That will give you just a whiff on an idea of how these folks feel when the temperature rises above 30 degrees C.

But first things first. I went to the crew office and spent $10 on a shuttle ticket, the only ticket to admission to the city if you don’t have a Seaman’s Book. (Should this ever happen again, I’ll get one.) I loaded up my passport, Laminex, the bright orange bus ticket, and forty dollars US, and headed for the gangway.

The customs shed had an unusually long line, but I thought that might be a function of the first crew shuttle, which was scheduled at 10 a.m.


That’s the shed in the picture, taken from Deck 7. The line stretched out the right hand door.

I joined the line and immediately figured out the problem. There was a large group of Spaniards who had gotten visas from the Russian embassy in Madrid. They had made arrangements for an independent tour with a Spanish-speaking guide, who was waiting on the other side of the Immigration and Customs folks. And, as they had been trying in vain for an hour or so to get out on their tour. Unfortunately, a word I find popping up whenever the rather arcane rules of the Russian government are concerned, the Spaniards were granted Transit Visas by the folks at the Madrid embassy rather than Tourist Visas, which are another thing entirely. And these folks, especially the younger ones, specifically the tallest of the new generation, a 6 foot three 23 year old pompous ass who knows nothing about dealing with Russians. I actually heard him, when the window which the Spaniards were monopolizing almost closed down, shout the F word and then offer the clerk money. Not likely to get results, either of these approaches.

Someone from the Tours desk finally arrived and tried to mediate, but I don’t know how it turned out, because once these Iberian oligarchs no longer blocked traffic, off we went. And I was amazed, totally amazed, that the gal from Tours handled them not like I was taught at my jobs (take them away, listen to the problem all the way through, throw no gas on the fire, etc.) but rather had a confrontational attitude with them, but then again I only heard a fraction of the interchange and was, thankfully, gone.


Once at St. Isaac’s I snapped a couple pictures of the massive cathedral and started to walk toward Nevskiy Prospekt, souvenirs on my mind and forty bucks in my pocket. In the first block I met Michel, the guitar player on the ship from Montreal. So off we went together, looking for a beer (it was almost noon) a meal and souvenirs.
We headed down to the Church of the Spilled Blood, built on the spot where Czar Alexander II was assassinated in 1881. The church is an exceedingly wistful building, with brightly colored onion domes and a central dome of gold.




But first we found a beer garden and had a couple of the local delicacies, and observed the traffic.

That’s Michel over there enjoying his beer, between commentary about the passers-by.



Having heard that there was a black market around the Spilled Blood church we ventured onward after a proper number of beers where had.

The Black Market turned out to be nothing more than kiosks with the usual gimcracks for sale. So off we went, looking for food this time.

But first I found it necessary to have Michel take my picture in front of the Spilled Blood Church showing off my Ruben Ramos t-shirt.




After a couple of aborted examinations of menus, we settled on a buffet lunch for about 10 bucks under a tent in the Stroganoff Palace, home of the Chocolate Museum.

The buffet was great, there was a large party of Japanese students eating there, the service was excellent, and believe it or not the music they were playing was Ella, Frank, Coltrane, Johnny Hodges, and more. We felt obligated to order another beer in celebration.

I started missing the ship, and I know from listening to my shipmates what kind of trouble guys get in if they stay too long in St. Petersburg, so I headed back to St. Isaac’s, where I was hoping I could catch the 4:15 bus back to the ship.

On the way I took this picture of the incredible statue of Czar Nicholas I. Despite its depictions on the side of the Czar crushing rebellions, the Bolsheviks decided to spare this statue for its artistic value. Note that the tail of the horse is not used to balance the weight of the Czar and his horse.



St. Isaac’s is on the other side of the square from Nicholas I and his horse. Five hundred kilograms of gold gild the cathedral’s dome, which is visible even from our ship.

Building was started in 1818, when St. Petersburg was still marshland.

To give some idea of the scale of this, one of the world’s largest cathedrals, here’s the best my camera can do of a shot of people ascending into the dome fro the outside scaffolding. Those are people on the stairway, ascending into the central dome.





And it was here that my day in St. Petersburg ended. Next time we’re going to have to deal with enhanced security because the G8 will be in town.

I still have enough time to make it to the Hermitage, the Russian Museum, and maybe Peterhof if I can get on a tour as an escort.

I still have to buy souvenirs. But I came back with $20 in my pocket and a couple hundred Rubles.