Four Degrees South of the Arctic Circle

Nearly everything that you have heard about Russia is true.

The long shadow of the past century is barely concealed by twenty short years of rampant capitalism and roughshod democracy. Tucked into the heart of St. Petersburg, the former KGB headquarters are twelve stories (six of which are underground) of dour Soviet-style architecture and very dark history. Many natives will not approach it; they cross to the far side of the street if they must pass by. It is bad luck to stand too close, as too many terrible things took place there: inventive tortures, measured murders, paranoid police-stating. Over one million people starved to death in the Nazi blockade of Leningrad. The ones who survived did so on just two or three grams of bread per day. If you see a man or woman over sixty, they probably lived through the blockade. They are quietly venerated. Outside the hotel where CIEE did its three-day orientation is a grand monument to those who fell to the Nazi siege. If anything epitomizes enduring pride and aching sadness, it is that monument. It, in many ways, is Russia.

Perhaps it is because of that past that people do not often smile on the streets, and don’t talk on the metro. Few readily volunteer information, but are very blunt when they want it. They drink too much. Drunken Russian men sometimes hit their girlfriends in public, but always hold the door for them. Plans seldom go as anticipated, or hoped. Many cops are corrupt and must be bribed. It is very cold (a week ago it was a record -30 Fahrenheit), and snows off and on nearly every day. You can stand in line for tickets to one of a hundred theaters for ages, in that cold and snow. You cultivate a special patience. I need that patience for my daily hour-long metro commute into the city center. And the metro runs well, although it looks like it hasn’t been updated since the sixties; the stations are palatial and each uniquely decorated, and a couple of them are so deep underground (a Soviet defense against nuclear war), that they take up to three minutes to reach by escalator. (Three days ago, I saw a woman reading a book titled Hasta La Vista, Baby, in Cyrillic, on the metro, and tried really hard not to laugh.) On a guided tour through the city, I saw a little bear drinking orange juice outside the Winter Palace, handle via steel collar and chain by a man with a fur hat. Everyone – or nearly – wears some fur here. The sun rarely comes out from behind the clouds, except to set over the frozen Neva, as it did yesterday. The outlying areas of the city are choked with long, tall blocks of gray and decrepit-looking Soviet apartments. I live in one.

And inside that decrepit-looking gray building, with its peeling paint and one-person elevator which practically predates Stalin, is a very snug and warm world – one well lit and clean, and furnished with new furniture, technology and flooring. The bed in my spacious room is long enough and comfortable; I have thick blankets and a soft pillow. A bust of Lenin sits on my desk, alongside my copies of Crime and Punishment and Stranger in a Strange Land and a carved wooden cat. I have my slippers and house keys. The front door (which really just opens out onto a stairwell) is nicer and newer than the doors at any previous place I’ve lived, and locks in two places. One glows blue when engaged. My host mom takes the prize, however. So far, she has been ever so jovial, helpful, and kind. I’m going to buy her flowers on Women’s Day (but don’t tell – it’s a surprise). She makes me breakfast and dinner, and in return I keep my things in order and her abreast of my day. After dinner, we sit and drink tea and eat sweet cakes, and talk in simple English (her, sometimes) and broken Russian (me, most of the time). We have to pantomime a lot, and always have a dictionary handy. We discuss – among other things – work, the weather, our language issues, our lives and loved ones, the city.

I’ve exlaimed how great the campus I’m studying at is – brilliant blue and white baroque, and at the heart of town, it is right next door to bright yellow Smolny Institute, where the Governor of St. Petersburg has her seat. Both buildings look their crisp and inspiring best in winter time. (Well actually, all of St. Petersburg looks best in winter. It was made to wear snow.) The Tsars and Tsarinas of old yearned to make St. Petersburg the envy of the world, and decades of Soviet rule have not snuffed the results of that imperial initiative. In fact, despite having been horribly damaged in the blockade, St. Petersburg has recovered remarkably well. Recently, there has been a huge effort to reclaim the 19th century look and feel (and thank god!) Laws have been made which deny the construction of buildings higher than the gleaming golden spire of the ancient Fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul. So now, there literally are graceful yellow or green or red or blue palaces (mostly housing museums or shops) on nearly every corner of the city center, and not a single skyscraper. The city is re-realizing a history that, naturally, does include the Soviet Century – but not exclusively.

My host mom and I also talk about what I do in the city. Yesterday, I told her that I was planning on meeting some friends for dinner and drinks tonight, on Vasilevsky Island (one of the city’s many), where many CIEE students are staying. We will go sledding in the winter wonderland of Pavlovsk on Saturday, and may go clubbing with Russian students that night. I also told her that the day before a couple of us went into the Hermitage (Van Gogh! Rembrandt! Picasso! Gold leaf on banisters!) and came out so blown away that we absolutely needed to have a scrumptious bowl of borsch and calming cup of tea in a restaurant on bustling Nevsky Prospekt (see Most Famous Street In St. Petersburg/Russia, under the Really Cool Places Heading of any Travel Guide to Russia), and then visit the vast House of Books. There, I bought my first collection of Pushkin in Russian, which I want to read by the end of the semester. I also explained to my host mom that I, along with most of the other CIEE students, have bought tickets to a Sunday performance of Tchaikovsky’s ballet Swan Lake and to another ballet called Giselle, both of which are playing in the one of the theater houses on the Square of Arts.

And sometimes, my host mom and I sit and simply stare out the kitchen window, at the little forested park in the courtyard outside. I mention how many trees the city has and how softly the snow sits in them, and she tells me how gorgeous they are in the dazzling spring and short summer.

So it’s true that Russia may be a riddle wrapped in an enigma, a place of extremes. But as much as St. Petersburg and her people do embody that dichotomy, she is hardly a puzzling place. When the sun does finally come out, and its weak fire lights up so much, you realize that only one truth really matters: This is the most beautiful city in the world.

Note: Of all the things I forgot to pack, the USB cable for my camera was the one. I'll take lots of pictures, and try to by a new cable here soon. I'm dying to show you St. Petersburg. Keep your fingers crossed!