White Russians and White Russians

As I found myself seated with my family at an impromptu strip club, drinking a White Russian prepared by a White Russian, I questioned my reasons for being in St. Petersburg.

Then I realized that I was drinking a White Russian prepared by a White Russian; what more did I need to know?

Brian and I got up at noon thirty today, despite our late bedtime yesterday. We met our parents at a French Cafe down the street a ways, on one of the canals that winds through this glorious city (where the popularity for Lenin "knows no bounds," according to local propoganda). I had a Kpok Mecep (The Russian spelling of that wonderfully simple ham and cheese sandwich combo) with Apple Juice.

We walked to Nevsky Prospect, St. Petersburg's main drag, and headed north for the first time, towards the Hermitage.

We rounded the corner and the Hermitage came into view; the sight was awe inspiring. A massive building, the Hermitage was the Czar's Winter Palace, and is currently the home of the world's largest museum, making this building the Russian Louvre. Unfortunately we had no time to go inside today, so we walked to the Neva river to catch a hydrofoil to Peterhof.

If the Hermitage is the Russian Louvre, Peterhof is the Russian Versailles. Our forty minute hydrofoil brought us far away from the city, cutting the distance around the bay to a fraction of the time it would take us by car (as we found out later). Set on a piece of land right alongside the water, Peterhof was the gorgeous summer palace of the Czars.

I walked with the other tourists towards the imposing palace, passing 17th century aristocratic impersonators, Grill Dog stands (yes, a hotdog stand), and souvineer stations, following pathways that ran alongside a manmade river that led to the main fountain in front of the main doors. An ominous sole raincloud was hanging over the building, making it all the more imposing.Every fountain in the display before the stairs was encased in gold; the center fountain was a gigantic representation of Sampson holding open the jaws of the lion.

We wandered the grounds for a few hours and exited out the back of the park surrounding Peterhof to catch a bus (we had missed the last boat back, at 4:00).

In typical family fashion, we got broken directions from a woman who hardly spoke english working at a food stand using virtually no Russian, and climbed aboard a bus bound for St. Petersburg around the bay. We stood inside the bus as more and more Russians climbed aboard, stuffing us in like sardines. I had a broken conversation with the ticket collector as I paid, trying to get him to tell me when we should get off to be close to our hotel, or at least a metro stop. He yelled at me for a bit, and I said I no longer understood him, but all worked out in the end and he told me when our stop was coming up.

The Metro station an hour later was a welcome sight and a welcome sight. It was great to get off the bus and even greater to walk into such a beautiful metro station. I got four subway tokens from a machine and we hopped onto the Red Line train to Vladimirskaya. We took a meandering route to the hotel, stopping only for Blinis from Tepomok, the Russian fast-food blini king.

We found the hotel at 8. By 10 we sat to eat at Barrel, a бар and ресторан, (Bar and Restaurant) right below our Hotel.

Shortly after we had ordered food at the bar and had been asked to move over one seat to leave room next to the pole on the bar, the dancers appeared and so did my White Russian. DIR.

When dinner and the show was over, my brother and my mom went back to the hotel. My dad and I stopped at The Office, an English-style pub next to Barrel, for a last beer. We watched the latter half of the Algeria/UK game and I drank some Hoegaarden.

In the hotel by one, asleep by 2:30, still light in the sky.