Friday, April 22; Tsarskoye Selo, Peterhof

My cordial and capable guide, Nina Kazarina, arrived at my hotel with  driver, Igor. He was a no-nonsense man, ex-Army. If I ever need a bodyguard, I’m calling him. We spent the drive out to Pushkin getting acquainted and I relaxed, putting myself in her capable hands.

Nina Kazarina, as nice as she is pretty.

Catherine’s palace, originally a two story structure, was transformed into eye-popping opulence by her daughter the Empress Elizabeth. She embraced rococo and ordered her architect to out-flaunt Versailles.  According to Nina, Elizabeth never wore a dress twice and spent money with both fists. Frankly, it was too fancy for my taste, more Vegas than Versailles, an aggressively gilded showplace. The Yusupov Palace was far more to my liking. The other downside was the hordes. Touring the smaller rooms, each a jewel box of exquisite objects, meant shuffling along, tightly packed into an endless, snaking line. I can’t imagine the fresh hell of high season. However, in the immortal words of Rick Steves, ‘if things are not to your liking, change your liking,’  I looked for what I could enjoy. Nina’s company and commentary were on the top of that list.

At the entry, you slip brown paper booties over your shoes. Everytime I looked down I thought of hobbit feet. Snicker.

Clean but slippery. Watch your step, Baggins.

It’s an excellent solution, when the floors are as fabulous as the ceilings, and the ceilings are intricate examples of every embellishment humans can devise. Security looks in bags and  takes water bottles, but you can mark your and retrieve it when you leave. We did.

Nina pointed out a pair of small cupids at the top of the grand staircase. More bronze than gold, they were original, purposefully left unrestored. That’s when I learned this palace was virtually razed by bombing.

After the war

Nina explained that the highly visible palace was targeted by German artillery. All this aggressive gilding I see is restoration work, almost brand new. I was fascinated by a series of photos in the downstairs hallway of Russian artisans recreating former glory from a bombed out shell. The idea that people were taught these skills and employed to do this heartened me.

Artists at work on the restoration.

The fabled Amber room, lined with panels made out of blobs of resin on gold leaf, is a tourist mecca. It’s more famous for being famous than it is beautiful. Nor is it, in fact, the actual Amber room. That was looted by the Nazis in 1941, and this facsimile was installed in 2003.

The cheerfulness of Nina, and her steady commentary of interesting facts, was a huge plus, truly entertaining. She deftly led us through the labyrinth to the exit. When we emerged, I was enchanted by the magic of softly falling snow.

 

We walked over to the nearby Museum of Festive Carriages, which I longed to see. It looked closed, but no, we were just the only people there besides the attendants (many a pensioner supplements her income with these jobs). Between growing up on horseback, and all those regency novels I am fond of reading, I was in heaven. There were the royal ceremonial coaches, like a line of Rolls Royces.

This might poof back into a pumpkin at midnight.

Just right for a fair weather family outing.

I loved the cupids, carved wheels, fringe galore. 

Loved this jaunty gold and green model, with an umbrella for shade.

Nina, looking like the Mary Poppins of guides.

It’s not all swanky bullion fringe. This carriage was a damaged by the first bomb attack  on Alexander II, but remained intact. it was the second bomb that killed the Tsar.

The carriage of Alexander II, bombed by a revolutionary, was a gift from Napoleon.

I looked my fill. I’d go back in a hoofbeat. We ate in Sochi, a nearby restaurant, going for convenience over cuisine. A cafeteria with multiple stations and black and white film footage of Louis Armstrong projected on the wall. You could see how the vast crowds of summer could be accommodated.

The drive to Peterhof took us from snowflakes to lashing rain and then to blue skies, all in thirty minutes. It was sunny and freezing at Peterhof. “The wind is blowing from Finland,” Igor explained. Locals are exceedingly proud of the engineering of the fountains (it all runs by gravity; they sneer at Versailles’ pumped water) and the many many many gold statues (I’m hearing Terry Prachett’s dwarves singing the Gold song). Peter would arrive using that waterway. How the young boat builder must have reveled in that.

Blasted by arctic winds, I hastened inside and pitied the costumed actors who stroll the terrace.

Three of my favorite stories Nina told me: Peter put pieces of fake fruit in with the real thing. He liked to punk his dinner guests and it was a measure of just how drunk they were. Catherine II blew up a frigate for the benefit of a painter. She’d commissioned a dozen paintings of a navel battle, and he’d never seen a ship explode. The Picture Hall room, wallpapered in 368 portraits of  young women, are mostly done from a single model, her head at different angles, wearing different accessories.

Instead of going back to the hotel, I asked them to drop me near my favorite restaurant, and they kindly agreed. I learned that I’ve seen enough grand palaces, that I am more interested in downstairs than upstairs. Wishing I’d come when Mon Plaisir was open.

Dinner was delicious, especially the chef’s take on beef stroganoff and the baked apple.

It’s on a bed of shaved chocolate. Mm’mm.

Thanks again, Nina. If you want a stress-free day trip, with a cordial and informed guide, she’s an excellent choice. Here’s a link to her company, Tzarina tours. www.tzarinatours.com

I whole heartedly endorse her.