The Resurrection of a Moscow Cathedral

On a recent trip to Moscow, a visit to Cathedral of Christ the Savior topped my list of new experiences. Having stumbled across the drama of its construction, destruction and eventual rebuilding, I wanted to learn more. I can't endorse all its teachings, but still, there's much to admire here, including the resilience of the Russian spirit. 

At the cathedral on a recent December evening.

Close up: Golden cupolas up there somewhere. . .

Life in the USSR grew darker still when Joseph Stalin looked out his Kremlin office window and was displeased by that cathedral, that Christ the Savior Cathedral which dominated the mid-distance. For one thing, he agreed with mentor Vladimir Lenin, that religion needed to be quashed. Another thing, the cathedral was a czar-era accomplishment, an era Stalin wanted erased from history.

Besides that, he had other plans for that very spot, plans bigger and bolder than had ever been imagined. And, so, December 1931, Stalin ordered the cathedral destroyed. Because he could.



Eyewitness account of videographer who captured the destruction.

Of course this wasn't the only Russian cathedral Stalin demolished. There were hundreds. But the Cathedral of Christ the Savior was exceptionally dear to the national psyche: It was built to celebrate surviving Napoleon's invasion. In fact, on Christmas day, 1812, as Napoleon's troops staggered out of Russian in defeat, Czar Alexander I, a contemporary of Thomas Jefferson, ordered a cathedral built . . . to signify our gratitude to Divine Providence for saving Russia from the doom that overshadowed Her. 

Generations later in 1883, the cathedral was finished and for the auspicious occasion, ~ drum roll please ~ Russia's legendary composer, P.I. Tchaikovsky, was pressed into service to write the Overture of 1812. To this day, the overture is popular, even in the U.S. where it is often played during Fourth of July fireworks displays, complete with the sound of cannon fire.

During its 50 year history, the cathedral witnessed seismic political upheavals. Protests of the early 1900's, led to the the Bolshevik Revolution of 1917, the end of the Czarist monarchy and the Russian Civil War. Then, under Vladimir Lenin, the Russian Empire evolved into the Soviet Union during which massive military parades were staged in Red Square, just blocks from the cathedral. After Lenin's death, Stalin  had dramatic changes in mind for the structure itself.

In place of the cathedral, Stalin envisioned a massive Palace to the Soviets, planned to be the tallest building in the world, topped by Vladimir Lenin himself, his right arm extended in his favorite hail-a-taxi pose.

And so, on December 5, 1931, as per Stalin's decree, the cathedral was demolished. Only thing, after all that, Stalin's Palace to the Soviets never materialized: The spot stood empty for years while Stalin dealt more pressing concerns including Hitler's invasion in 1941. But on to Plan B for the site: After Stalin's death in the early 50's, Nikita Krushchev transformed the crater into a heated swimming pool, and in typical Soviet style, it was huge.

In the early 1990's, after perestroika and waves of political changes, the Russian Orthodox church requested permission of the Russian government and city of Moscow to rebuild the cathedral. The request was granted. First, the swimming pool was dismantled in 1994 and work begun on the cathedral. Six years later, the new cathedral was finished and dedicated.


Care to join me on a tour? Here's the backstory, reconstruction and dedication. Thrilling, indeed.

Current view from the Kremlin. The cathedral has been rebuilt.As for Stalin,
his grave is in Red Square, just yards from Lenin's Mausoleum. (Photo from book, below.)

The cathedral bookshop sells this book in several languages. Copyright in 2005, published by Ivan Fiodorov. Printed
in Russia. Photos by N Rakhmanov and V. Korniushin.

In  the closing words of the video, Maybe now, the future of the church's place is assured in the minds and hearts of the Russian peoples. History will surely tell.

We are told that God is the Rewarder of those who diligently seek Him (Hebrews 11:6). May this magnificent cathedral serve to point searchers to God and to His truth.

Schwarzenegger Charms Moscow

In recent days, California Governor Arnold Schwartzenegger made good on a promise to visit Russia. The video shows him braving the Moscow metro, a feat which earned him major bonus points with locals.

What a charming conversationalist. The governor tells about being inspired as a child by a Russian weightlifter, noting the athlete's name in perfect Russian.

U.S. Soldiers March Through Red Square

Allied soldiers from France, England and the U.S. were invited to Moscow in recent days to participate in last Sunday's May 9th Victory Day Parade through Red Square. This was a first. You may have caught glimpses of the parade and evening fireworks on CNN. The festivities in Red Square were duplicated - on a more modest scale, of course - in probably every city across Russia. The motto here seems to be, If it's worth doing, it's worth doing on a massive, over-the-top scale. Gotta love it!

Below are U.S. Army troops practicing in Moscow in the days before the parade, photo courtesy of the U.S. Army website.

Photo by Bob Close

There's a wonderful human interest story here. First a bit of background. Seventy-five soldiers from the U.S. Army Europe, Company C, 2nd Battalion traveled from their base in Germany to Moscow for the festivities. They were accompanied by a 45-piece band from the U.S. Naval Forces, Europe.

According to the army website, back in 1943, a platoon leader of the Soviet Red Army, a Major Alexander Peteryaev was killed in action. Decades later, in 1996, some of the major's descendants immigrated to the States from Vladivostok, the largest city in Russia's far east. And so it is that Major Peteryavev's grandson, 1st Lt. Ilya Ivanov, Russian-born but now a Texan, serves as executive director of Company C. The lieutenant is understandably excited about being back on Russian soil for the festivities.

The video below shows The Allies coming together for the 65th anniversary celebration of the end of the Great Patriotic War, as it is known here in Russia. Of special interest is the attendance of Angela Merkel, Chancellor of Germany, who attended as a special guest of Russia's Prime Minister, Vladimir Putin. Unthinkable in 1945. Amazing how time marches on and wounds can heal.

Extreme Car Skiing in Moscow

Definitely extreme skiing: Being towed by a car along Moscow streets and highways.

Moscow: Scrambling for Space in Life and After

(Image from New York Times, photographer Sergei Kivrin)

From a recent New York Times article by Michael Schwirtz: Much of a Muscovite’s life is spent jockeying for space. Officially, some 10.5 million people live in the capital, though unofficialestimates, which include the city’s undocumented immigrants, put the figure at millions more.

On the roads, drivers become knotted in enormous traffic jams, while masses of people twist and tumble through the subway at rush hour. Housing is so sparse that feuds over property deeds are common — and sometimes end in bloodshed.

But, for the families of the 120,000 people who die annually in Moscow, the search for an afterlife dwelling is a singular challenge. . . (read more)

Photos of a Russian funeral and traditional cemetery here in Rostov-on-Don are posted here.

*Stranger in Moscow* by Michael Jackson

I was wandering in the rain
Mask of life, feelin insane
Swift and sudden fall from grace
Sunny days seem far away
Kremlins shadow belittlin me
Stalins tomb wont let me be
On and on and on it came
Wish the rain would just let me





How does it feel (how does it feel)
How does it feel
How does it feel
When youre alone
And youre cold inside

Here abandoned in my fame
Armageddon of the brain
Kgb was doggin me
Take my name and just let me be
Then a begger boy called my name
Happy days will drown the pain
On and on and on it came
And again, and again, and again...
Take my name and just let me be

How does it feel (how does it feel)
How does it feel
How does it feel
How does it feel
How does it feel (how does it feel now)
How does it feel
How does it feel
When youre alone
And youre cold inside

How does it feel (how does it feel)
How does it feel
How does it feel
How does it feel
How does it feel (how does it feel now)
How does it feel
How does it feel
When youre alone
And youre cold inside

Like stranger in moscow
Like stranger in moscow
Were talkin danger
Were talkin danger, baby
Like stranger in moscow
Were talkin danger
Were talkin danger, baby
Like stranger in moscow
Im livin lonely
Im livin lonely, baby
Stranger in moscow

(kgb interrogator -
Russian to english translation)
Why have you come from the west?
Confess! to steal the great achievements of
The people, the accomplishments of the workers...

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Ran across this song last week, searching for information about if and when Michael Jackson was ever in Russia. I had understood from Russian television that he was in Moscow in either 1996 or 2006. It's dangerous to understand Russian less than perfectly - as I do - and so I often find myself needing to confirm or clarify what I think I heard.

Anyway, never managed to find the answer to that question. Got derailed by this song. Quite poignant. . . so sad.

Trippin' on Back to Russia

Last Thursday I caught the 10:40 a.m. flight out of Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport through Atlanta and then on to Moscow. Care to have a look behind the scenes?


(Click photos to enlarge.) Dear Gail, left, and her husband Robert (behind camera) dropped me off around 8:45. What a blessing to overnight at their place which is between my hosts' home in Garland on the east and DFW on the west of Dallas. Makes lots of sense to anybody familiar with early morning traffic on LBJ.



Got to admit that I missed lots of interesting shots on The Big Trip. The thing is, photography falls into 2nd place priority sometimes. Priority one was ~ just trying to keep it all together!


Here's my second-favorite scene at Atlanta's Hartsfield-Jackson Airport. The most touching scene is the dozens of military folks being deployed out of Atlanta. That tugs at my heartstrings in a personal sort of way ~ so much so that I haven't found it in me to ask for a photograph. But above is my second-favorite. Got a whole slew of photos of these Buyer Beware displays, complete with athletic shoes made from sting-ray skin, for instance. But that's a whole 'nother blog topic complete with lots of photos.



The Delta flight Atlanta to Moscow departs is scheduled to depart at 4:15 p.m. Sunset happens soon because we're flying into the night. Thanks to the child prodigy sitting next to me, we have this photo. Elijah was his name. And he noticed earlier when we left the east coast of the US. Above we're probably over Newfoundland. Atlanta to Moscow is 10 hours. On these long flights, I like to wear a 2nd watch, a runner's watch with chronograph to show how far we are into the flight. Somebody's gotta keep track of the time, right? ;)



Prior to landing in Moscow, we were advised about swine flu precautions. Before deplaning, each traveller would need to complete a document about our health and such - including how many piglets we had kissed recently (wink, wink) - and get our temperatures taken. I was dreading the idea of all of us sitting there with thermometers poking out of our mouths.

Not to worry though, airport officials made it oh-so-simple. The gentleman heading this way down the aisle is bearing a special temperature-sensing devise. He just pointed it at each person's face and instantly pronounced approved or nyet. Seemed as though we all passed.


Here he is in action, the thermometer fellow. He was actually quite pleasant and professional. Which helped since after 10 hours of being cooped up together, deplaning was sounding so good.



Then later after clearing passport control, getting through customs, changing some $ to rubles, going to the internet cafe and the Aeroflot office to make a decision about my connecting flight to Rostov, I happened upon the best scene: This is so very Russian.

Here's the baggage-wrapping station at Sheremetevo airport, Moscow's premier international airport. This wrap is thought to discourage people from tampering with baggage. It slows them down anyway.


Cutting a slit in for the handle. This guy knows what he's doing.


Out of the airport. En route to Vnykova airport, southeast part of town. Past the Ashan and IKEA complex.


Barricades on the outskirts of Moscow in the spot where Nazi forces were stopped in their tracks.




Traffic was slow. Fortunately my taxi driver know some alternate routes from Sheremetevo airport in northwest Moscow to Vnykova in the southeast. I left the driving to him. All for like $125. There has to be a better way. . .




Eventually on Aeroflot-Don headed south to Rostov-on-Don. Here's the view out the west window, courtesy of the folks sitting over across the aisle.



Oh, and here is a prize. I wasn't prepared for this view. Dug around fast and furious for the camera and handed it to young lady seated near the window. Next time I'll want to ask for that seat, myself. Beyond the river, the Russian Orthodox church with gold cupolas is visible toward the right.




Sailing right along we have Rostov's Theatre Square. Gorky Theatre is the large white building just left of center. This side of the theatre is Stella, the obelisk taller than Lady Liberty. Oh this sight does my heart good. How I love Rostov-on-Don and the opportunity to return here and serve.

Shopping Adventures at Moscow's Sheremetevo-2 Airport

A couple of weeks ago, perhaps a lifetime ago, after our overnight train arrived Moscow, after the taxi ride from the station to the airport, I found myself thinking about you, dear blog readers. Yes, you and you. . . and YOU. I was thinking what sights might be of interest to you at Moscow's Sheremetevo-2, the international airport. Care to come along?


So here's the outside view of the main terminal. That's the best I could do with that scene. See, my luggage was sitting there by the entrance, unattended. And some man, clad in a red jacket, was loitering a bit too close to my stuff, so I had to make it snappy.

Inside the airport was a different story: We're not supposed to photograph in airports, you know. But being one to push the limits from time to time (who, me?), I did ask the security officer if per chance I could capture for you the big digital schedule board. It's huge and when it's updated every few minutes, things flutter and whirl and it makes the sound of a thousand pigeons startled into flight. How to explain that board in English? Well anyway he said, Sorry, no photos. Actually he said Nyet. Because for one thing he speaks in Russian. And for another thing, that's every official's favorite word. And you think I'm kidding, don't you. Nyet, nyet, a hundred times nyet.

But after the joys of check-in and passport control, fine gift shops await the departing passengers. Allow me to confess right here in this public form that I have yet to request permission to photograph in those gift shops. I just whip out the camera and start shooting. Quietly of course. But so far, no one has deemed that much of a security threat.

Here's some insider information: The best-kept secret of that airport is the gift shop up on second floor. It's like a whole secret world up there. The selection is astounding, as are the prices. They would be comparable to other airport shops but the stuff there is so totally Russian. The choices are almost overwhelming so I decided to narrow the focus.


Let's concentrate on matroshka dolls today, shall we? Ma-TROSH-ka dolls, the wooden nesting dolls, are the most popular souvenir of Russia. The dolls above are the prettiest. Matroshkas like these often portray characters from Russian folk tales. See the price, 1,800-some rubles. Let's see, 23.5 rubles to the dollar earlier this month. You do the math. . . without a calculator, I'd say it's well over $10. Well over.

Recognize any of these Santas? There's Santa Bush, Santa Clinton, another Santa Bush, Santa Reagan and Santa Carter painted on matroshka dolls. Imagine if you will, what a popular item this must be. Surely every visitor hopes to snatch up such a masterpiece.

Perhaps I could mention here that the Russian word, саркасм is translated sarcasm in English. It's a cognate lifted from one language into another and pronounced nearly identically in the two languages. But I digress - how did I get off onto all that? Oh yes, I mentioned the popularity of this souvenir item. Surely I wasn't being sarcastic. (Or was I?)


World leaders on matroshka, anyone? Perhaps you'd like a set of German leaders? Or would you prefer the U.S. presidents in something other than Santa attire? For the hard-to-please, there's the Castro matroshka. Just imagine what a keepsake that will be someday soon. There's probably Prince Charles and the whole royal family around here somewhere too. Why, I've even seen the Texas A&M football team painted on matroshkas. Or maybe it was the UT Longhorns. Who knows? And who cares? Well, apparently somebody, somewhere does.

These are the simple matroshkas of all. I once saw a matroshka of this sort in a Russian family's home. And that, dear blog reader, was the only time I have ever seen a matroshka doll in a national's home. It's mostly a tourist thing, best I can see. But that one little doll looked like a surviver of the years Stalin. Those were rough years, as you would know. Not only for matroshkas.


Now here's the big mama. Figure she'll set you back a couple hundred dollars. The big question, how many dolls does she hold? Oddly enough, I didn't manage to get that information. I'd guess. . .well, 16. Or maybe 32. Hard to say. Oopsie daisy, somebody needs to get this young lady's top and bottom aligned. We can't have her there in front of the entire world with her design skewed up, can we? Nyet, nyet, a thousand times nyet.

Say, do you happen to own some matroshkas? Please tell us all about your matroshkas. We're dying to hear!

Soviet-era Photos: St Basils, Babyshkas

A couple of black and white photos from the Soviet era when life was itself was monochrome. Photos courtesy of English Russia: Life in Soviet Russia.

A grandmother sweeping snow from Red Square in Moscow, using a broom made of twigs. St Basil's Cathedral looms in the distance.


A gaggle of babyshkas, the Russian grandmothers. These ladies look sweet and huggable and they are, in a certain context. But I've heard it said that the babyshkas run the country. In a war of words, the babyshka will come out on top. Heaven help the young security guard, for instance, who messes with a babyhska. Or even a grandchild or neighbor child. She will let the offender have a tongue-lashing -- loud, shrill and non-stop. Every adult today has memories of his own babyshka who tried to teach him the right way to be. That's the nature of the Russian babyshka.

I myself am occasionally on the receiving end of a babyshka and her rhetorical questions about my clothing choices. Why aren't you wearing a hat? Why aren't you wearing a heavier coat? In general, I say thank the good Lord for the babyshka patrol. On the one hand they help teach the young. On the other hand, seems to me that for many men, their only escape is alcohol. Because to a babyshka, everyone is a child. Mercy me, have we digressed here or what?

Anyway, the picture above is rich with content. I'm still trying to determine the occasion although the mood is pleasant enough. Everybody's waiting but yet there doesn't seem to be a line. All are sensibly attired in wool coats, scarves tied around their heads. But have you noticed the one person who is very different. Spot him? And then in the upper left corner are a couple of younger women, wearing furs. I like the babyshka, lower right, with her war medals and cane. Some are looking this direction, yet they don't seem to be aware of the camera.

The Domes of St Basil's, Moscow

On a frosty morning, St Basil's Cathedral reigns from across Moscow's Red Square. The cathedral almost has been destroyed several times during its 450-year history: Napoleon wanted to dismantle and rebuild it in France. Stalin’s advisors wanted to demolish it to enlarge Red Square for parades. Those two characters are long gone but St Basil’s continues to enthrall.


The cathedral was built to celebrate the military victory of Ivan the Terrible over invading Tartar Monguls. This architectural confection with its cupolas and color is meant to depict the New Jerusalem, described in the Bible. (Perhaps you had suspected? ;) )


Ice sculptors carved a replica of St Basil’s, their work displayed near the Kremlin, Moscow.(Photo credit: EnglishRussia.)


Say, should you be inspired to design something magnificent, consider investing in these wooden building blocks. They're not cheap. But then again, hasn't creativity always come with a pricetag? (Photo credit: Haba Corp.)

How about you? Ever been to Red Square and seen St Basil's? When and with whom?

Once upon a Winter's Day. . .

A Russian Orthodox church in the muted sunlight of a Moscow afternoon. (Photo credit: Mikhail Tkachev, Moscow Photographer)

Midnight Adventures at Moscow's Sheremetevo-1 Airport

Well, there’s an outlet in the women’s toilet. You can work in there.

Somehow I managed not to bray in response. I was at Sheremetevo-1 (share-ye-MYET-ye-vo), one of Moscow’s domestic airports last Sunday evening and was prepping to spend the night there. Now, if only I had some power, I could work, write and be entertained on my laptop. But the battery was down to 39% and prospects electrical were looking slim.

This wasn’t my first all-nighter at Sheremetevo-1. Last time it was accidental. That was in 2004 or so. . .and that night the food service manager let me set up camp in his restaurant, giving me all-night access to an outlet and table. The night flew by – kinda, sorta – and come morning and departure time I presented Mr. Nice Manager a decent souvenir from Athens. It was well worth it.




But management has changed in the interim and Sunday evening, I learned that Mr. Nice Manager has been replaced by Mr. Hard Line and he wasn’t sympathetic. Imagine setting up a laptop in the restroom. True, outlets are there, but picture a laptop on a wet countertop between sinks or dealing with the aroma let alone the scenery. In short, I had ambiance issues.

What to do. . . what to do. . .what to do? Back when planning these flights three weeks earlier I deliberately timed the overnight layover in Moscow en route from St Petersburg to Rostov-on-Don, figuring that I would catch a cab ($50) to the area’s least expensive hotel ($150) for a quick night’s sleep. That could have worked. But. . . but what I didn’t expect was that my weekend in St Petersburg, which followed a weeklong conference at nearby Peterhof, would run $200 for lodging. Too bad, so sad that my visions of staying in a dorm or with friends didn’t materialize. Alas, the gap between planning, expectations and. . . reality. But God was good and provided and protected and my weekend was extraordinary. Still it came with a price tag and I had grown quite weary of forking over rubles here, there and everywhere.



So Sunday evening at Sheremetevo-1, I decided to take control of the situation (If only!), bite the bullet and pull an all-nighter at the airport like a true Russian. This is one more thing to love about these folks. They’re so hardy and adaptable and willing to be uncomfortable without complaint. Admittedly, some folks down considerable amounts of hard liquor to get there, but that's another story.

Back to the quest for power. Two airport employees were especially helpful, a rare commodity here in the Land of Customer (dis)Service. Granted, it was after midnight and action was slow. But the 20-something police officer working the security scanner at the main entrance was quite helpful. For a minute there he considered unplugging his big x-ray machine and plugging it into my extension cord to share electricity. But we ended up vetoing that one.

Hands down, the Customer Service Award goes to the Information Booth lady. Not only did she smile, a novel concept in a land where smiles are carefully rationed, but she had a spare outlet inside her hut-of-a-booth. She couldn’t allow me inside to use it, unfortunately, but she did suggest that I hand over the laptop to recharge for an hour or two. Oh, did I have misgivings about that.

This laptop is my baby, I told her. No, actually it’s my brain.

She nodded. She’s probably a mother too.

May I ask your name?

It was Vera. Good enough. Vera means faith and I would have faith in Vera.

Two hours later I came back, laptop was 99% charged and good for a couple hours of Super Word Games. Viva Vera!


(Caption: I'm in this photo - can you spot me?)

You know, of course, that the secret to working all night is to set mini-goals. My first goal: stay awake until midnight, easy enough since my flight landed at 10:30 p.m. Next, stay busy until 3:00 a.m. And until then 6:00 and then around 8:00 when it’s time to head toward that 9:30 flight. Being armed with mini-goals and more bottles of Diet Coke than I care to admit, made all the difference. That and the occasional stroll the length of the waiting area.

I found a place to set up camp, in the café area with tables and chairs, no power though, and it cleared out eventually except for a truck driver named Eugene who drives to France regularly and who claimed that he had been up for three days. This Eugene, or Zhenya for short, and I decided to team up and provide security for each other. Like when he wanted to go outside and smoke I would watch his table. And when I needed to go for a stroll, he would watch my luggage, cross-stitch, books, Diet Coke and my beloved Paper-Mate mechanical pencils, all spread across the table as Americans are inclined to do.

What a photo op, strolling through the waiting area, past all the people catching a snooze after the blasted intercom music was finally turned off around 2:00. I was plotting how I might get away with photographing that scene. Best of all was a dignified middle-aged woman in a pink tweed suit who was reclining quite carefully across three seats so as not to muss her suit. She was sleeping with her pumps on and her ankles crossed. Now that’s a lady for you. Fortunately I didn’t have my camera with me because she stirred as I walked by, opened her eyes and would have caught me in the act.

Actually, I was uncomfortable with taking people’s photos that night. There weren’t that many people around and it would have been too obvious. But Zhenya was fine with it. No problem, he said! And he got away with it so the attached photos are thanks to him.

Throughout the night, Mr. Hard Line, the food service manager managed to become more pleasant. Drinking Diet Coke as I was, about every hour I needed more ice. That meant a trip to the bar and once it was Mr. Hard Line who served me. Not that he was softening on his power stance, mind you, but he was fine with the ice. I didn’t mention to him that if he had been like Mr. Nice Guy, I would have given him a souvenir of St Petersburg.

But who knows, maybe next time I overnight at Sheremetevo-1, there will be yet another food service manager and it might not matter if he gives me power or not. Maybe by then Shere-1 will have an internet cafe as does Vnykova -- pronounced VNOOK-ov-a – another of Moscow’s regional airports. It never hurts to dream about progress. Either that or I might have to amend the ladies' room sign to Women's Toilet and Computer Cafe.

In Search of Brilliance: Encounter in the Airport Gift Shop

I was browsing around an airport gift shop at Sheremetevo-2 in Moscow. A souvenir t-shirt that proclaimed, I (red heart) Russia caught my attention and on the back was this curious message. I proceeded to get out my camera and try for a decent photo of the shirt, not easily done with one free hand and fluorescent lights reflecting off the cellophane.

Odd behavior for a gift shop, I suppose and maybe that’s why the guy in a suit and tie was hovering nearby. The t-shirt display was just inside the entrance to the gift shop and chances are that over time, lots of t-shirts have evaporated. I had no such plans, of course, but I found the package quite amusing and as a self-appointed member of the grammar police – a la Eats, Shoots and Leaves, a best-seller on this very topic – I was feeling a bit superior linguistically, at least for one brief moment. That’s a feeling I have so rarely here in the Russian-speaking world.

So I acknowledged Mr. Suit, probably a store manager, and explained to him that the back of the shirt was so funny in English that I wanted to capture it. That seemed to satisfy him. Minutes later, however, as I was heading toward the exit, Mr. Suit and a handful of store personnel were huddled around the cash register examining the writing on an identical t-shirt package. They looked up as I approached and I thought maybe I should explain about the wording.

So I went through each detail, pointing out each little oddity, speaking in Russian of course. When I had finished, the cashier said, well, of course we deal with the same thing here. When we hear foreigners speak Russian they make a lot of mistakes.

And I thought, Good for you, young lady – touché! Her response was right on-target.

Now, if I were to translate the back of that package into Russian, my efforts would certainly need some tweaking. And that’s why it’s wise to bounce our translation efforts off a native speaker. That extra step ensures that not only do we look more brilliant in our spiffy new t-shirts, but sound more brilliant as well.

Snoozin' at Sheremetevo-2

Next time you find yourself at Share-ye-MYET-ye-vo-2, Moscow's international airport and want to nap between flights, may I make a recommendation. First, get checked in, do Passport Control and then go upstairs. It's a whole 'nuther world up there. I'd say it's a secret well kept from the average traveller. Including me, until a recent Saturday.

I finally persuaded myself to climb that long flight of steps, not something I particularly relish doing with a heavy carry-on bag and a cranky hip. But over time I have noticed airport personnel coming down from 2nd floor after their lunch breaks looking relaxed and comfortably full. My philosophy is, watch the locals and consider imitating them.

So at last, I decided it might be worth the trek. It is now my new favorite Shere-2 hangout. I ended up spending hours there. Hours and hours. Well, maybe two. For one thing, there's a comfortable cafe with lots of empty tables. Not inexpensive, mind you, but there was elbow room galore. After eating a good lunch (read: I figured I had earned the right to proceed on this), I found an empty table near an electrical outlet. That equals the place and space to fire up the laptop and edit photos. And oh boy, have I got some for you.

For the thousands of you who devour this blog -- okay, a slight exaggeration there -- and have been waiting patiently for an update, here's a little teaser, I'm working on a fun little story, another airport story. Maybe I'll attach the photos here in a minute...

The Short Night of the Longest Day

I had just arrived back at Sheremetevo-2 (Sheree-MYET-ye-vo), Moscow’s international airport, after an exhilarating tour of Biblical sites in Greece and Turkey. It was June 22, 2004 – the longest day of the year. And that’s part of the reason my travel plans went awry.

Our flight left Athens at 1:40 that afternoon and when we arrived in Moscow, my watch said 5:15. I was tired and looking forward to getting back in Rostov that evening.

By the time I made it through passport control, baggage pickup and transferred to Sheremetevo-1, the adjoining regional airport, it was around 6:30 p.m.according to my watch. Figured I had a couple of hours before queuing up at 8:30 for the last flight to Rostov at 9:50 that evening. How to fill those hours? For one thing, all seats in the vast waiting area were taken so my options were limited.

What better pastime at an airport than people-watching? Shortly I noticed a 50-something man file in and resign himself to standing with the rest of us around the perimeter of the waiting area.

From his appearance – a starched button-down shirt, khakis, recent haircut, hint of anxiety on his face – I determined that he was an American and come to Russia either for ministry or business. Deciding that it was my mission to brighten his day, I went over to say hello.

Do you speak English?

He was American!

I decided to clarify my intentions right away.

I serve as a missionary, I said. So believe me, I have only the purest of motives here. But, say, I’m about to get myself some bottled water. Could I get one for you?

Well – sure! And I know this is not a come on. No woman has come on to me for 35 years.

Okay, good. With that settled, we could have a nice conversation.

And we did. We talked and talked. He’s a petroleum engineer in Siberia. He works for two months and then has two months off. Something like that. He lives in Oklahoma with his wife, kids in college, horses and enjoys the pleasantries of a country life. On the other hand, small town Siberia isn’t exactly his cup of tea. He misses his family and internet access to them wasn’t easy. He speaks little Russian. His apartment needs repairs, plumbing and such, that isn’t easily solved. But still the pay isn’t bad.

I envy you, he said. I’d give anything to be able to do what you are doing.

What? I wasn’t believing my ears.

My life is so complicated, he continued. With the kids in school and our lifestyle as it is, there’s no way I can walk away from all that. But I’d give anything to be able to chuck it all and be a missionary.

We talked on and on. He had time to fill as well. He was waiting for a Russian colleague and together they would head east that evening. Eventually Colleague showed up, spotted him and headed in our direction. He stopped short when he saw me and tried to make sense of the situation, Okalahoma Engineer speaking English with some woman, obviously an American. I could see his mental wheels spinning.

Oh, I live in Rostov and we’re just visiting while I wait for my 9:50 flight .

You’d better hurry. You’re already late.

My heart leaped. I glanced at my watch. It said 8:30.

No, I’m fine. It’s only 8:30. I have plenty of time.

What was his problem? The sun was high in the sky – it wouldn’t set for two more hours. All was fine with my world.

Excuse me, he said. But it’s 9:30.

Somebody’s watch was wrong. We squinted at the airport clock across the way. It was indeed 9:30.

What on earth? This made no sense at all. It was 15 minutes until departure. But first I had to get through passport check-in, through security screening across to baggage check-in and then up to the gate and hop on a shuttle out to the plane waiting far across the tarmac.


Oh. . ..dear. . .God! I wasn’t swearing – I was praying. I grabbed my luggage and dashed across the waiting area. Folks near passport check and security made a path for me and I rushed through to baggage check-in.

We have finished boarding, said the agent.

I’ve made the dumbest mistake ever. Could you please help me catch that flight?

Gate Agent picked up the phone and talked with a co-worker out at the plane. It looked as if I might have a chance.

Do you have any luggage to check?

Yes, one suitcase.

Oops - wrong answer. They had already finished loading baggage and locked the hatch.

Sorry but unfortunately you can’t make that flight.

Oh how stupid, I thought. I’ve been at the airport for hours! How could this have happened?

How was I was an hour off? Oy!Oy! Oy! My watch was still on Athens time. I hadn’t managed to change it when we landed in Moscow.

Oh for pity’s sake. . .What to do?

Well it was obvious that I wouldn’t be spending the night in Rostov. On to Plan B . I needed to back in the morning for the 9:30 flight. But where to spend the night? There aren’t any hotels near Sheremetevo-1. I could go back to Sheremetevo-2 and stay at the Otel’ there, but taxi to and fro plus room would be $200. Plus I had to buy another plane ticket.

I decided to be bono fide Russian and spend the night sitting in the airport. People do that here and besides the whole ridiculous situation required that penance be paid.

And so I spent the night – the shortest night of the year – there in the Sheremetevo-1 airport waiting area with 150-some other travelers who were dozing off and keeping an eye on their luggage. And I ended up rather enjoying myself.

I had been itching to start editing my photos of Corinth, Meteora and Patmos and I had hundreds. All I needed was a good table and power. Toward the end of the waiting hall was a café with high round tables. That wouldn't work, but farther still, past a velvet rope and two steps up was a semi-exclusive restaurant. Perfect! I decided to go for it.

The manager readily agreed, a surprise here in the land of nyet, and allowed me to work at a table even after they closed around midnight. Soon it was just me and the cleaning lady. Every hour or so, I’d step away to refresh my Diet Coke or visit the ladies’ room and she would watch my things. The night flew by and around 4:00 a.m., through the vast wall of windows I could see the sky begin to lighten. I figured that Oklahoma Engineer and colleague had probably arrived at their Siberian oil field. And in just a few hours, I would be back in Rostov and in my own bed.

Fast forward 18 months, to January 2007. Once again I found myself at Sheremetevo-2, Moscow’s international airport after a flight from the States.I’d made it through passport control and was claiming my baggage when who should come striding into the baggage area but Oklahoma Engineer, himself. I spotted him first and decided, once again, to brighten his day.

He remembered me too, eventually. Our encounter was late morning on one of the shortest days of the year. Rest assured that I had already reset my watch to local time. After all, it was only 2:00 a.m. in Dallas. But I rather like to think that I had learned my lesson well. In short, be in whatsoever time zone you find yourself. Be there one hundred percent, watch and all.

Napping at the Airport

Catching some zzz's between connections at Sheremetevo-1, one of Moscow's regional airports, April 2007.

Lenin's Mausoleum.Cleaning the Review Stands.

Face to Face with Vladimir Lenin

On a bright morning in early March, I had 10 hours to fill in Moscow and, like most visitors to the city, I headed directly to Red Square. St Basil’s Cathedral was exquisite in the early morning light and so, after photographing to my heart’s content and thawing my frozen fingers over a breakfast of tea and blini with a local friend at a quiet café, I headed toward Lenin’s Mausoleum, which overlooks the area.

Red Square is cordoned off in the mornings until the mausoleum closes at 1:00, we learned. That translates into walking about ten times farther than necessary to reach the entrance to the mausoleum. But that, dear comrades, is another story.

Lenin wanted to be buried next to his mother in St Petersburg, they say. It wasn’t his idea to be placed in a glass coffin, his mortal remains on public display for the next 80-plus years. But since his death in January of 1924, thousands have filed past the body of this man who so influenced the world.

Lines are considerably shorter nowadays and on the day of my visit, only handful of us were there. I was totally fine with that. Once inside the mausoleum, it was quiet, dark and chilled. The narrow corridor was lined with black, granite-like stone leading to the steps down into the tomb. In the semi-darkness, only the face of a soldier was visible and he stood under a single light at the end of the corridor. His gloved hand was held chest-high and pointed to the right. So I went that-a-way. At the end of that corridor was the same sight, an expressionless face lit by an overhead light, a gloved hand pointing right. So I shuffled along in the dark, trying to anticipate the steps.

What I saw next reminded me of a phrase of a beloved hymn, Low in the grave He lay. There was the body of Vladimir Illyich Lenin. Very quiet, still and cold. No surprise there. A walkway surrounds the glass sarcophagus on three sides and I paused to view the body that had been there for decades already. The face was almost translucent, like fine porcelain. A guard approached me.

Lady, you must keep moving.

Well, okay, I thought. But I’m the only one in here at the moment, save for those ever-so-watchful guards. I’ll keep moving but it will be slow enough that I can soak in details. See, a person can walk around that coffin in a heartbeat and that’s the end of it. From there,  another dark corridor leads outside. There are no displays and no memorabilia. No photographs and no plaques. All is very solemn, quiet and dignified. And very black.

I was itching to jot down the details quick-like before I forgot. I stepped out into the sunlight, reached for my notebook and started scribbling notes. I needed a place to sit and write. What better place than those stone benches that flank the mausoleum. Before brushing off the snow to sit down, I walked over to the guard for permission.

Nyet, he said semi-apologetically.

That’s understandable, I figured. Those are the review stands from which dignitaries watch official parades and such. But nobody was there; it wasn’t as though I would be taking anyone’s spot. But I understand. The place was to be sacred versus common.

So, how about if I just stand here and write, I bartered?

Nyet, you’ve got to keep moving.

All-righty then. I can walk verrry slowly and keep writing. As I neared the end of the review stands, another soldier there was watching. It was a slow day on Red Square and his full attention was on me.

Zdrast-vwee-tye, I greeted him formally and nodded. His eyes widened slightly, hearing a foreign accent.

Lady, why are you writing? What is it that's of interest to you here? He took at my notepad and I imagined he might confiscate it.

Everything is interesting. I want to remember all these details. And if I don’t write it down right away, I’ll forget it. I wanted to add, And furthermore, in about 30 years when you’re 50, you’ll understand perfectly.

Well, lady, you must remember what you see and write it down after you leave. You may not write while you’re here.

Welcome to modern Russia, I said with more of a smile than I felt.

Da, he chuckled. Welcome to modern Russia.

* * * * *

How about you, dear Blog Reader, have you visited Lenin's Mausoleum? Please do share. . .