Wednesday, May 4, part three. Finale.

How can this be over? I didn’t get a chance  to mention the hurdy gurdy man with the raccoon on a leash, or the woman who was texting with one hand and holding her toddler’s hand with the other, slowly circumnavigating a fountain while her child walked along the rim. This illustrated lineage of the doomed Romanovs, which made ‘end of the line‘ a visual truth.A display of court dress for a trio of lordlings.

So much I had to leave out, but don’t want to forget.

I’d Ubered back from the Hermitage Storage facility around 3:00, and stopped for a farewell meal at Fruktovaya Lavka.

Meatballs with pureed peas and cranberry sauce? Da! 

Finished with a raspberry custard tartlet. Not too big, not too small, not too sweet, not too tart. Just right.

Turns out my favorite server had an avocation as a clown. Here she is, ready to do a show in her bride costume. She was unfailingly patient and kind to me. 

I walked the few blocks to the Hermitage. The route – through gated courtyards, down streets alongside canals, and over bridges – was familiar now. I passed by the Hermitage Theater with its supporting cast of mighty men, holding up the portico.

There was scaffolding going up on three sides of the palace square, and Victory Day banners hung. Catherine the Great was arguing with someone on her cell phone.  I raced through the maze of the Hermitage to their post office, but it was closed, which meant the last two dozen postcards would have to be mailed by the Astoria*. The Hermitage was open until 9pm, the tour groups were gone and  I was free to wander. First, a long slow walk down the length of the Loggia.

I sat in the room of paintings of tables heaped with plenty, produce and game, fowl and seafood. Out of context, this a pair of turtles look romantically inclined.

I blew kisses to Rubens and and solemnly bid farewell to Rembrandt’s Prodigal.

My final destination was the Crouching Boy, the only work by Michelangelo in Russia. It  was hewn from a cramped cube of marble no one else wanted.

I said hello to him for my nephew, William Rich, whose encouragement helped me summon the courage to visit St. Petersburg. I said goodbye for me. It’s unlikely I will ever return. Leaving the Winter Palace was wrench, but with a 4am departure to the airport scheduled, I couldn’t afford to stay to the bitter end.

Well and truly tired, I walked back through the now familiar streets to the hotel.
Last days are like first days;  you are wide open, unwilling to miss a moment, keenly aware of your surroundings, and what a marvel life itself is.

My view of Russia has changed, from notions created secondhand by propaganda and politics, to a reality experienced firsthand.  St Petersburg has its own distinct shape in my memory, with a slant of light all its own. Cultures are infinite in variety, yet the same across all geopolitical  boundaries – everyone wears denim and everyone carries cell phones.

So, where to next? The smart money is on Rome, if I can wrangle some kind of pass to the Vatican Museum. But I am open to suggestions.

*I handed over the postcards to the front desk at the Astoria, who promised to mail them. They still haven’t arrived. But it’s only been two weeks.