Walking New York: First Avenue from 66th to 17th

Our walk started with coffee at Java Girl at 348 East 66th Street. This neighborhood joint is a downtown incarnation on the Upper East Side – a few odd table-and-chair combinations set against exposed brick walls. From there, turned a corner onto 1st Avenue and started walking down. In the sixties, the area is still somewhat genteel – with several inviting restaurants and shops. In the fifties, architecture becomes downright blah, although the nondescript apartment buildings on side streets are once in a while punctuated by luxury oddballs, like the tony Beekman Regent in Turtle Bay. The forties has a bureaucratic aura – the UN building, once ultra modern, is hopelessly dated now – the building as well as the body it houses. But in the vicinity of the soulless UN, we stumbled upon an oasis of fresh air. Just a few steep steps up from the avenue, upon one of Manhattan’s rocky cliffs, lays Tudor City – an enclave of neo-Gothic buildings, huddling around several tidy and civilized little parks. The tall buildings form a cozy nook with a peek-a-boo of the East River letting the light in.
Past the UN building, (three spits over my left shoulder to ward off the evil spirits congregated inside), past a hospital and onto a rundown building that has seen better days. Grilled a guard on what this was and received an explanation that it housed “crazy people” once, and now is “a shelter for the homeless where they receive assistance in the form of a bed and three hot meals a day.” Walked back to the avenue, observed the once majestic facade, and commented at how this grand building could have been turned into a luxury condominium. A passer-by, an African American man appearing to be in his late 30′s, overheard my saying that and politely interjected: why, he said that very thing just yesterday when he was spending the night here. In the friendly chat that followed, he revealed that this was none other but the famous Bellevue Hospital, and that he has been using the shelter it had become many a time. He elaborated on the condo prospect saying that the building was grand and had a lot of history. We inquired as to the quality of food at the shelter and were told that the food was mediocre at best and “don’t let them tell you otherwise.” We then inquired if he felt safe while staying at the shelter, and he readily confined that years ago, when the shelter was frequented by young men, he did not and that he slept then with one eye opened, but now it’s mostly an older crowd, so he feels ok. He himself is 48 at present. I complemented him with all sincerity that he didn’t look 48, to which he courteously responded “Thank you ma’am”. We expected, and kind of hoped, he would ask for money, but he only thanked us politely for talking to him and walked away.
With elevated spirits following this encounter, we trotted down to 17th street with no further adventures, left behind the grim balk of Stuyvesant Town looming over the avenue, crossed Union Square and walked up to Laut, Malaysian restaurant at # 15, where we gobbled up a fabulous meal to replenish the calories we lost during our arduous journey.

Apres San Francicso

Especially striking was the difference between New York and San Francisco. Dynamic and exciting, New York is always unexpected. A glance up offers a glimpse of Art Deco architecture, a glimpse down, a view of fashionable footwear. The side streets are narrower than in San Francisco and thus more proportional to the buildings. They are tree-lined and many a window is adorned with flowers. Surprisingly, you would expect more shrubbery and flowers in the warm California climate, but they are much more into health and organic gardening over there than into an an eye-pleasing aesthetics.
At the corner of Broadway and 79th street, there was a new whimsical sculpture of a giant crow perched on top of a pyramid consisting of three giant apples. The corner of Broadway and 72th was graced with a giant blue rotund penguin.
People were everywhere, noisy, loud, talking on the phone. In San Francisco, we we were shocked at how few people walked the streets and how quiet they were. Not even talking on cell phones, ubiquitous everywhere else.
Fifth Avenue had a parade. High School marching bands were strutting up the avenue strumming their strings and hooting their winds.
Bryant Park had an early Holiday Fare with various artisans selling happy holiday merchandise and a line of people was waiting to skate in a temporary skating rink. I had a cup of thick, gooey, and very hot chocolate from Max Brenner – a great way to warm up your body and your soul.

San Francisco is for Foodies.

San Francisco is a great place to visit once. Or twice. Even five times. After that, it gets a bit redundant. Especially, if you are so lucky as to visit it biennially. Charming as it is, this town is not a dynamic and ever-evolving city but, basically, a sleepy town with cultural life lagging behind other major metropoles. It is static if not stagnant. Even the ubiquitous San Francisco bums don’t seem as entertaining as ever.
We searched hard for something cultural to do, but found only an orchestra rehearsal at the San Francisco Symphony Hall. We entered the concert hall, ignoring a colorful Rastra character in a black cape, hawking a ticket to the rehearsal outside the main entrance, and took our seats with other tourists, retirees and unemployed – who else would be attending a 9 am concert? The sea of virgin gray hair, never touched by a colorist, spread beneath us. The elderly go au natureil here – no hair color and no makeup. That goes with the dress style of the young and young at heart- neither elegant nor cutting-edge, cheap chic with an attempt on artsy.
With people-watching as dull as it comes, I watched the musicians who spilled upon the stage in jeans and sneakers and struck out their required chords.
The concert was ok, although may not have been the best activity for that early in the morning. But what else do you do in a city where every neighborhood has been explored and had nothing new and unexpected to add? You eat, of course!
What is unquestionably good and abundant here is the number and quality of eating establishments.
Jason was on a a mission to feed us well.
We started out with the neighborhood Italian joint, Firenze By Night, appropriately, the night we arrived, and sampled their homemade pasta.
The next morning, at La Boulange we ate some freshly baked pastries and split a bowl of house-made granola in yogurt, dotted with honey and fresh berries. For lunch, we headed to Polk Street and stood in line to Swan’s Oyster Depot, an establishment not to be missed as much for the atmosphere as for the fresh seafood that 5 co-owners dish out to the 18 customers perched on barstools at the tiled counter. The Depot will celebrate its 100th birthday next year.
Dinner was reserved at The Stinking Rose, another North Beach restaurant, this one celebrating garlic and decorated as a bordello.
Next morning, still in North Beach, got in line to Mama’s, one of the more popular breakfast spots in the city, and had Mama’s famous French toast and omelets. Skipped lunch, thankfully, walked around the almost deserted streets of the Marina and the Pacific Heights. Dinner awaited us at the House, a hip Asian fusion restaurant where pork and sea bass, in particular, were superb.
The next morning back to La Boulange – the place turns up consistently amazing baked goods despite being part of a chain. The people we see around are mostly young and childless (hardly any little kids crossed our path), and many have the appearance of someone who has just stepped off a covered wagon that made a slow and arduous cross-country journey. Some guys appear to have emerged out of a gold-mining camp, all rough, gruff, and grizzly.
Made a cultural stop at the de Young Museum, a nice break between meals. The museum’s collection is limited but enjoyable. We inspected the African and the South Pacific expositions habitually overlooked in other, richer endowed museums in favor of more exciting exhibitions. We climbed the museum tower which offered a spectacular view of the city
After this short interlude, back to eating, at Burma Superstar, a down-to-earth diner on a melting-pot immigrant street of mostly Asian origin. Ate a terrific Bermese fare. An honorable mention goes to their tea leaf salad and poodi. At night, went to the upscale Boulevard. Was strange to see guys in hoodies, baggy jeans, and sneakers among all this opulence. The fig salad was outstanding!
Next day brought more food. Started with cappuccino at the Trieste, another North Beach landmark, continued to La Boulange, drove to the Hays and ate Indian food off a cart and then some homemade ice-cream from Smitten, drove to Chinatown and bought some greasy fast food. Then off to the Fisherman’s Wharf, where I passed, but the guys ate a crab salad sandwich followed with fries and a milkshake. Tonight we are planning on going to a Greek restaurant. I cross my fingers, we’ll fit in our seats on the airplane tomorrow. My pants are bursting at the seams.

The Master and Margarita

With Nataya’s scrumptious breakfast no more, we had to fend for ourselves and find a blini place for breakfast. While in Saint-Petersburg, they were dime in a dozen, and all great at that, in Moscow it proved somewhat challenging to find one, and when we finally did, it was so-so and overpriced.
After blini, we went to Garage Center for Contemporary Culture, an exhibition space I read about in the US. Well, the exhibition space is only as good as the exhibits it houses, and the present exhibits were one video exhibit and one – an installation.
We saw an exhibit by James Turrell, an American artist, http://www.garageccc.com/eng/exhibitions/17815.phtml, and skipped the video exhibit. I don’t usually love installation, but Turrell’s work was amusing.
Still, I was hoping for Russian and not American artists.
After the Garage, we split. Lisa and Adam went to another exhibit space at Winzavod (a former liquor plant), and the Russian speakers went to the Bulgakov House, and embarked on a tour starting at a miniature Bulgakov museum and from there to the sites mentioned in The Master and Margarita.
That was my highlight in Moscow!
We sat on a bench at the Patriarch Ponds, where the Devil first appeared in the novel, walked on Bronnaya, where the hapless Berlioz met his end, passed by the Grboedov’s and Margarita’s mansion, walked on Tverskaya, where the Master first saw her carrying those disgusting, disturbing yellow flowers, and finished up in the Bad Apartment, from which the Devil and his retinue wreaked havoc in Moscow circa 1932.
The Master in Margarita, being one of my favorite novels, if not the favorite, came to life here.
Aside from the pure pleasure of following in the footsteps of my beloved characters, the site of the Patriarch’s Ponds was delightful, and Malaya Bronnaya was the most pleasant street in Moscow thus far – all cleaned up, freshly painted, with several upscale shops, cafes, and restaurants, and well-dressed people passing by.
I said goodbye to Koroviev and Behemoth, the goofy pair frozen in bronze outside the museum, went to the Arbat, took a picture with another bronze idol, Bulat Okudzhava, and headed to Winzavod to meet the kids.
Winzavod http://www.winzavod.com/ is a great space but it has not happened yet. Most of the galleries were not yet opened, but it was pleasant to simply sit in a courtyard on some sort of hammocks, and chill out.
Conclusion: I still think that Moscow is a bore of a city. Granted, if I had to live in Russia today, I would probably pick Moscow, it being more westernized, civilized, and green. It does have the Bolshoi Ballet and a multitude of great theaters. But aesthetically, it has no chance. The architecture is incorrigible, there are very few truly beautiful places, and the proportions of the Soviet era districts (which is most of Moscow) are totally off. Soviet monstrosities overwhelm the city.
I do hope that St. Petersburg will retain its rightful place in the hierarchy of Russian cities, and that the pyshki shop will hold off against the onslaught of high real estate prices, and be there for me forever and ever.

Train to Moscow and Grandpa Lenin

The train ride was not as I remembered it. I remember it rocking me to sleep, but this train was noisy, it came to an abrupt stop around 5 AM, and then some thunderous squeaking and screeching took place, as if it had a steam engine that was being replaced by another.
We arrived in Moscow utterly tired and headed for the apartment lent to us by an acquaintance of mine for the few nights we were in Moscow. I am not looking a gift horse in the mouth, but:
1. traditionally in Russia, with no warning, hot water is turned off in the summer for a period of few weeks to few months to conduct some mysterious maintenance. With our luck, the nights we stayed at the apartment fell into this period.
2. even if it did have hot water, I don’t think I could bring myself to get into the black-and-yellow tub, half of which was occupied by some cryptic objects.
3. there was no elevator and we dragged our suitcase to the fourth floor.
4. once in the apartment, it was hot, humid, and dusty.
5. I had to sleep on a folded mat.
6. There were three pillows for the four of us. One look at the third pillow, and Anna and I made a firm decision to get by without.
Other than that, it was a place to stay for free in this very expensive city.
I have not been to Moscow since 1988, right after the Soviet Union fell apart. Moscow now has 90% of all the money in the country and it shows. Shockingly, I found the people here to be more polite than in St. Petersburg. Shockingly and sadly, because in my former life this was exactly the opposite. People were also dressed better here, not gaudy and provincially like in St. Pete, but more like in the West.
And yet, aesthetically, this was still the old Moscow – with avenues so wide, that it disturbed any sense of proportion, Soviet buildings, and even old Moscow, all painted and dolled up, still looked like the provincial city it once was.
I know, I am being a St. Petersburg snob, but this is my blog and I do as I find fit!
My friend, a native Moscovite, took us on a tour of the Novodevichy cemetery (there is a famous cemetery in St.-P too, but I never go there with all the other stuff to see in S-P, but in Moscow, with nothing much to see, this is one of the highlights), saw the rebuilt Cathedral of Christ the Savior, took a boat ride on the Moscow-river (sorry guys, it does not even come close to the boat rides in S-P!), walked the Arbat, went to a sculpture park, saw all the new sculptures by Tsereteli (uncouth, unrefined, and untalented, if you ask me), had lunch at GUM (nice building) – but overall, it was all mediocre and unremarkable.
The highlight of the day was a visit to Lenin’s Mausoleum. I am quite shocked that this monstrosity, this barbaric monument to Soviet idolatry still functions! We stood in line with other, mostly foreign tourists, to look at the embalmed body of the Soviet God. At least it’s a curiosity item now, not the godly relic that had been worshiped by the brainwashed citizens of the best country in the world. And I thanked grandpa Lenin for my happy Soviet childhood (not)!

Last Pyshkis and Stiglitz Academy

We stayed with Anna’s friend Larissa on the last night. Larissa occupies a large, former communal apartment all by herself. We were upgraded as far as the towels go, as well as a bathroom, but the rest of the apartment was in dire need of renovation. Layers of wallpaper were peeling off the walls, down to the layer of German-language newspapers, which was probably used in place of wallpaper right after the war. Patches of bare concrete were peering from behind the multitude of layers. It was almost artsy save for the apparent danger of asbestos.
The floors in the hallways were also original communal-apartment – worn out linoleum tiles of faded pink and gray. The rooms, though, had original oak floors, the ceilings were high, and the walls thick.
In Larissa, I found another pyshki enthusiast, and we shared 12, then added another 4. Washed them down with coffee that Larissa called “pail coffee.” According to her, right before we reach the end of the pyshki line and get ready to make purchase, a sturdy worker-woman comes in and pours a pail of hot water into the dregs left on the bottom of the coffee urn, stirring up the muck, and that is what is served to the customers. Jokes aside, the coffee is diluted but sweet and nostalgic.
That was my last pyshki binge and I had to get my full.
After this gluttonous orgy, we had to satisfy our spiritual hunger. We went to a museum at Stiglitz Art-Industrial Academy. The museum was small and completely empty of visitors. The exhibits were lovely, especially a collection of traditional Russian tiled stoves, but what really warranted the visit was the building itself. The ceilings were freshly renovated and truly magnificent! So were the staircases and some doors.
The museum hosted a ceramics exhibition. I really liked this piece

, and asked if it was for sale. Enter a madame with a peasant face and an attitude of a prima donna, introduced herself as an art director or something, sized me up and, apparently, deeming me insolvent, pronounced that the piece was very-very expensive and did I actually have the money to pay for it?
A “Pretty Woman” moment here.
I did have the money and was introduced to the artist, a professor at the art school. Unfortunately, I had the money to pay for the sculpture but not for shipping – which amounted to quite a few thousand dollars.
Off we went empty-handed and to the theater to see Chekhov’s Uncle Vanya. The play was poignant but I don’t like Russian acting – it’s too theatrical.
From the theater we rushed to the train station to follow in Lisa’s and Adam’s footsteps to Moscow.

Woolly Mammoth and Deformed Human Specimens

My favorite childhood Sunday activities were visits to the Zoological Museum and the Museum of Ethnography.
We followed in my childhood steps and after an obligatory stop at the pyshki shop, took a trolley bus over the Neva to the biggest of the islands upon which St. Petersburg sits.
Vasilievsky Island was the first island that was settled when the city was founded. Three-hundred-year-old buildings still stand, which gives the island an old charm. In between the stately buildings, streetcars still run along wide avenues, adding to the charm.
We got off at the split, called “the Arrow” here, with its Rostral columns, and gazed at the Winter Palace across the river. We then walked to the Zoological Museum to look at the wolly mammoth – the first and, I think, the only fully preserved grown mammoth in the world.
The museum had not changed since my childhood visits. Foreign tourists don’t come here, thus there is no reason to update the museum – no foreigners to impressed. We walked into the 1950′s, a true science museum with no frills, with stuffed animals exhibited in glass cages. They were getting old, poor dear friends of my childhood, aging and crumbling, but despite of that (or because of that) presenting an amazing collection! We actually spent a good hour or two studying them.
From the Zoological Museum we walked a few steps to the Ethnographic Museum, which did not fare as well as the Zoo Museum. Its exhibits appeared more dated. Still, it was fascinating to see politically incorrect displays of various American Indian tribes. However, we came here with a purpose. We came to see the Kunstkamera, Peter’s collection of deformed newborns and fetuses. In the Kunstkamera, I encountered another rude babushka – one of those who furiously guard exhibit halls in Russian museums from, apparently, bloodthirsty visitors.
After visiting the museums, we took a walk along the water, passed St. Petersburg State University and crossed the island, which walk was rather pleasant – old buildings were grand and well-preserved.
We then hopped on a trolley bus to go back to the mainland, over Palace Bridge, onto Nevsky, and got off to visit St. Isaac’s, the grandest church in St. Petersburg. I decided to save on the admission fee and rested in the shadow of the columns while the kids explored the innards of the great church. I did climb along with them up to the colonnade for a bird’s eye view of the city.
We then grabbed a fast meal at “Fasol na Gorohovoy” – which cleverly translates as “The bean on the Pea street” and rushed to catch a train to Moscow. Actually, Lisa and Adam were catching a train, and Anna and I were going to stay in St. Petersburg for one more night. We put them on an overnight train at the Moscow Station to arrive in Moscow at the Leningrad Station. Only two cities matter in Russia, as you can see, Moscow and Leningrad (St. Petersburg).

Russia’s answer to Versailles

We did as Russian do today, by taking the metro to Avtovo and then a shuttle, rather than a taxi or a hydrofoil, to Peter’s favorite summer palace at Peterhof.
Russians have this inherent quality of always trying to show the West that they are better, and Peter was no different. Peter, a savvy traveler, was impressed with Versailles and decided to outdo it. He did, in a way, in that the fountains at Peterhof work based on the law of connecting vessels rather than pumps. Thus, unlike Versailles, they have been functioning every day of every summer since they were first brought into existence 300 years ago, with a short interlude during World War II, when the Germans destroyed them almost entirely. It took almost 40 years to restore the fountains and the palaces to their former glory.
The sight of Peterhof is always glorious. We walked around the park, tour a tour of the underground caves that show how the fountains actually work, and visited the main palace. Again, Russians have odd ways of dealing with foreigners, like the fact that foreigners are allowed to enter the main Peterhof palace at one time, while the locals – at another. The times for the foreigners were 1 Am to noon and 2-4 PM, for the Russians, noon to 2 PM and 4-6 PM. God forbid the two groups should mix inside the palace!
At 3:50 Pm we arrived at the palace, bypassed the huge line of long-suffering Russians waiting for the ticket booth to open, and entered after having paid the double admission price that the foreigners are charged in Russian museums. For the price, we got the privilege of skipping the lines.
We actually lucked out and had the palace almost entirely all to ourselves! It was practically empty, the foreigners were already mostly gone and the Russians had not yest arrived. I tried to lead the tour with what I remembered from my previous visits.
We went back to St. Petersburg in style, on a hydrofoil, and disembarked at the Palace Embankment.
We then walked back, took a little detour to cross the Bridge of Four Lions, where we encountered another gang of tourists with whom we had to fight for our place under the almost midnight sun, to take pictures. There are too many tourist in St. Petersburg in the summer, if you ask me!

Tsars and the Yusupovs

After yet another scrumptious breakfast (mini syrniki (farmer’s cheese pancakes)for the main course) we turned our steps toward the most visited place in St. Petersburg, The Hermitage and The Winter Palace of the tsars. We skipped the long line in the courtyard and bought our way in by joining an English-language guided tour. Sadly, the guide’s English was halting, to say the least. “She is missing a lot of words”- commented a fellow tour-goer form Germany. Alas, very little information was provided to us owing to the guide’s limited vocabulary, but she knew her way around and took us through the main halls without getting lost.
Personally, I prefer to go to the parts of the Hermitage, where tourists don’t get to go. The “secondary” artists, the sculpture, the decorative pieces, the china, that is where I’d rather be. But a first-time visitor gotta take in all the highlights first.
So we had another brief tour of another great museum and then we decided to visit the palace of the Yusupovs – the richest aristocrats in Russia whose name became known to the world thank to one Felix Yusupov, the main conspirator in the plot to dispose of Rasputin. Lisa led the way to the palace, unfortunately, as it turned out, to another site named after the Yusupovs. When we finally realized that, we were so far away that we had to hitch another ride , this time with a lovely lady in a decent car. For 250 rubles (roughly $8) she dropped us off few blocks away from the Yusupov’s former residence.
We were led on a tour of the palace and of the exhibit depicting Rasputin’s murder by a stern Soviet-type former teacher, no doubt. She kept us in line, severely scolded some passer-bys, quizzed us relentlessly on the role of Rasputin at the tsar’s court, and shamed us for not remembering which dance it was that caused the fateful duel between Onegin and Lensky.
The ballroom of the palace brought out of my viscera the memories of myself as a little girl coming here to the New Year holiday parties. During Soviet times, the palace was turned into The House of Teachers, and during winter vacations hosted New Year children’s parties. My mother, a teacher, was a member of the Teachers Union and thus secured the coveted tickets to the parties where the kiddies met the Russian Santa Claus, Grandfather Frost, and his granddaughter, the Snowgirl. The ballroom was outfitted with a huge New Year Tree, there were games and a show culminating in the arrival of Grandfather Frost who, with the help of the Snowgirl (Snegurochka), distributed New Year gift packages, mostly of sweets, to the wide-eyed little children. Those parties were some of the most memorable highlights of my bleak Soviet childhood.
Back to Russia circa June 2011, we left the palace and walked along the Fontanka and to the Griboedov Canal to cross the bridge guarded by four griffons (two of them being repaired), braved a crowd of other tourists trying to take photos with the remaining two winged creatures, and back to the b&b with the sun still shining over our heads at 11:30 PM.

From Flea Market to the Bridge

Natalya made crepes for breakfast. We ate them Russian style – sour cream and melted butter, unfortunately, no caviar. The towels did not seem that small any longer.
Today we went to a flea market at Lisa’s request. This was not a true flea market but rows of stalls selling new cheap merchandise made in China. Off to the side from the main market, several pensioners set up their own third-hand market. They spread out their wares on the blankets right there on the grass. The merchandise was random to say the least. It mostly consisted of thoroughly used clothes and anything else the retirees managed to dig out from the bowels of their closets. The first prize went to a woman selling someone’s credit card. She suggested we buy it, “stick in some money”, and use it then. Anna bought it to photograph and then cut it into pieces “to restore some kind of normality.” The second prize went to a little old man (well, he could have been my age -men don’t age well here in Russia), who was selling a military water-proof coat for 100 rubles (about $3) all the while brandishing a plastic toy gun. We turned down the coat, walked away, but later on Lisa decided to splurge and pay up for the coat to take a picture of the little man with his coat. Sadly, when we came back, the coat was sold. But don’t despair, the little man offered to bring us another coat and sell it to us for mere 50 rubles, why he was ready to give it to us a gift. We declined his generous offer and inquired as to where he procured those fine garments. “At a dump, naturally,”- eagerly volunteered the merchant.
He gladly posed for a photo, plastic gun and all, minus the coat.
We then went to the Russian State Museum, briefly surveyed the highlights of Russian art, and since the rain stopped, embarked on a boat cruise along the city’s numerous rivers and canals. We got on the boat on Griboedov Canal and floated past The Church on Spilled Blood, under the lowest bridge in the city (we had to duck – the only time Adam’s hat came off his head), past palaces and grand houses, into the Fontanka, the Moika, and finally into the Neva, and back to Nevsky (all roads lead to Rome, aka Nevsky, and Lisa can attest to this).
Since the God of Rain took a nap, we decided to stay up for the opening of bridges, lingered a while at a restaurant on Nevsky (where else?) with a great view of Anichkov Bridge, walked Nevsky to the river, and arrived to the Palace Bridge by 1 AM. We joined other revelers and rejoiced communally when at 1:25 Am the drawbridge finally opened to the cheers of an adoring crowd. We walked back in the twilight but our strength gave out at about 2:30 AM. We tried to take a taxi but they became nearly extinct in the city, so we had to hitch a ride. The driver, a shady type, the kind I would never get in a car with anywhere else in world, for some reason didn’t scare me here. I guess all this daylight blurs your common sense.