To See The Square

I wouldn’t normally.   I wouldn’t for myself.  But as a prop to orchestrate some momentum, something that must be done because it has been paid for . . .  the Kremlin Tour was a good idea.  They lady will be waiting for us.  She’s going to be standing there.  We need to go.  For daughter’s who’d rather come to Moscow and watch Youtube every day, this was a fine catalyst. 

Yvgenia was a smart woman and a proud Muscovite and I wanted to ask her question after question as se stood on the main bridge, over what used to be a moat. The citizens of Moscow burned their city when they retreated in the face of Napoleon.  What happened to the Kremlin?  Was it also destroyed?  “Girls, take off your head sets” Yvenia soon found it was probably best to direct questions to look for eye contact with me.

The inner churches all felt so clearly “Asian” and not European with towers and domes that spoke of Genghis Khan and Tamerlane and Persia more than anything in Western Europe. And Putin seemed to be following us around. That is where he often works.  That is where is helicopter lands.  If he receives guests he receives them right out there.  Many of the bald men with sour expressions, off over there and there and back there all looked like Vladimir.  Come to think of it, Tsar Nicholas the II, the last Romanov, is starting to look like Medvedev. 

The Armoury was full of plates and robes, which I knew my wife would enjoy but I was with my daughters, in being willing to pass through these halls quickly.  I had my eyes on the prize, which was to get them up, around the corner to see Red Square before there was a complete rebellion to go home.  I could get one of them interested with lunch.  I could beg my wife interested with the Four Seasons hotel.  Oh yeah, it’s right over there.   And so we plodded along the west side of the Kremlin.  Passing through the gate, I made a b-line for the metal detectors that would let one up into the square and was stopped by calls not from guards but from my family who pointed out that the Four Seasons was in a different direction.   Somehow, my older one decided she wanted to see the Square, remarkable, and this tipped the balance.  Up we went.   

Later that night I got everyone into a cab and off to another obligatory event I’d scheduled:  An evening at the Boshoi.  “The Queen of Spades” by Pushkin scored by Tchaikovsky.  “you know, kids, the same guy that wrote the Nutcracker!"  The cab immediately slowed to traffic and quoted us an arrival time that was far longer than our curtain call would allow.  Fortunately, I’ve come to know enough about Moscow to discern that he could just drop us off across the street and save twelve minutes of circling around. 

You must have passports to pick up the tickets?  I hadn’t thought of that.  My wife had hers and the girls and I fingered for my drivers’ license.  Fortunately, the site of the three passport was enough for the ticket gal.  Certainly, in our traveling-finest, we were still rather underdressed.  Though it was endlessly enjoyable to watch the pretty young people of Moscow mingle and take their seats. 

I loved the opera and the setting which was remarkable.  The opening scene talked about the weather that was sunny and then cloudy, dry and then wet.  Something to enjoy while it lasted and it sounded very much like the days we’d had here in this northern climate thus far.  Poor Herman has got the blues.  And his song about being glum amidst everyone else’s happiness immediately reminded me of the Who song: “Melancholia” which is has the chorus that could have summed up Herman’s sulking amidst all the bright choral dancing “The sun is shining . . . but not for me.”

Nor was it for my older daughter who wanted to leave after the second act.  True, it was a tease.  I knew Herman still had to play cards and win before he could lose and play the three cards and see the old lady’s face.  I’d done my pre-opera assignment.  But the girls thought it was done after act two and were ready to bolt.  But, wait, can’t we . . .  Instead we headed out and tried to find our Uber driver, who was on the wrong side of the street that.  Down there.  No, we won’t go out to dinner,  OK.  Let’s eat at home and try to be quite then.  

Still, I was glad we’d seen it and indeed, quickly thereafter it came up as a reference in my Andrei Bely reading.   Now I knew.  And would think of their St. Petersburg again when I arrived in Petrograd, tomorrow.

Tuesday 7/03/18