Sunday, May 1, Labor Day Parade and Kazan Cathedral

Today was crazy in the best possible way. My plan had been to walk to the Kazan Cathedral,  Uber over the shop in Loft Project Etazhi and buy that perfect flowy-yet-structured blouse for Robin, and end the day visiting the Benois wing of the Russian Museum.

I walked to the corner and grabbed a flat white double shot and an almond croissant. Started toward Kazan, looked up from my iPhone map and realized the intersection with Nevsky Prospekt was empty. What the what? This is the 5th Avenue and Broadway of St. Petersburg, thronging with humanity and bumper to bumper cars 24/7.

I turned onto Nevsky Prospekt to find police and soldiers lining the curbs, one  every ten or 12 feet. They looked really young, in their teens and early twenties. A parade was coming in 15 minutes. I’d been told the Victory Day Parade was on the 9th, but this was the Labor Day Parade, International Workers Day.

I changed my plans instantly. Not missing this once in a lifetime experience. Turns out, though it looked like they were braced for riots, the parade was as mellow as the Inman the Park Festival, even without my funky favorites, the Seed and Feed Abominable Marching Band. Balloons galore, babies in strollers, girls in short skirts with pompoms, and homemade floats in the back of pickup trucks. It was an entirely peaceful crowd, and most of the people walking in the parade looked like they were doing a 5K for charity. Ambling along, smiling at the blue sky, babies on shoulders.

Happy Labor Day! I’d bet cash money they’d all vote for Bernie.

There were occasional synchronized cheers, but for what, I have no clue. A proud Putin supporter on the sidelines waved his flag. Everybody got along.

The cops were mostly there to keep people from swarming the streets with their iPhone cameras, and from crossing in front of the marchers. A lost cause, that. The babushkas did it anyway, and the boy soldiers got red-faced, and looked like they wanted to cry. I posted a clip on FaceBook of a lady drum line – adorable and so perky. May 9th is when the tanks roll down the streets and I was told that, from now until then everybody takes time off, like our unofficial Christmas to New Year’s break.

After an hour of happy Russian people on parade goodness, I walked up the street to the Kazan Cathedral. Outside, a choir sang in celebration of Orthodox Easter.

Inside, I lit candles for my family and friends.

I wrote a prayer request list too and the lady who took it and my ruble donation sternly demanded, ‘Orthodox?’ ‘No,’ I admitted. ‘Catholic?’ she asked. ‘Yes.’ Turns out that got my prayers in the right slot of the box at her side. I didn’t ask if the two slots were for the sheep and the goats. I’ll wait on Judgement day for that. I thought the Kazan was officially a museum, not a place of worship, but people were lined up to touch this particular icon, and press their foreheads or lips to the lower right side of it. Nuns patrolled the aisles, plucking out candle stubs and swiping the glass framed icons with rags that I hoped were soaked in disinfectant. The touching and kissing of icons is something I witnessed in every church I ventured in.*

Urbered to the Etazhi market to buy that blouse for Robin. Alas, the shop was closed and no days/times posted.  A kind woman on the register in a nearby shop tried to call them, but the number posted was defunct. Strike one. 

Wandered around the Benois wing of the Russian museum, 20th century art that, to my prejudiced eye, was mostly lame, but a few things stood out in a good way  A portrait of women mill workers.

Alexander Dieneka, 1927, Textile Workers

It remindedme of the movie Norma Rae, and this portrait of three oncologists in Edinburgh.

Scottish National Portrait Gallery:

This elegant small watercolor of an African woman.

This, mostly because the the delicious light on her toes.

And this happy go lucky duo.

I imagine it’s a comment on the global climate crisis. “Does it feel hot to you? I’m burning up.”

I had another great dinner at Fruktovaya Lavka. They brought me a special plate of Russian Easter treats, on the house. A stollen type bread, cubes of ricotta cheese, nut, and fruit spread, and a colored hardboiled egg.

By the time I walked back to the Astoria, I had racked up 5.75 miles. Sleepily making plans for tomorrow, since the Hermitage is closed on Mondays.

*Still thinking about what separates spiritual from superstition, and what part ritual plays in a spiritual life. I light candles to direct and focus my intentions, not to solicit divine intervention. I believe in a power greater than myself, I just don’t expect to have any control over it.

 

 

Saturday, April 30, and now for something completely different

Woke at five and wrote two blog entries, which took me to 10:45 mostly because I get caught up in editing and looking up clarifications on the internet and time flies away.  I approached the concierge about negotiating entrance to the Hermitage Storage Facility and the Stieglitz Academy and Museum over the phone, and she went to bat for me immediately. No luck. The Hermitage played pass-the-problem-to-another-department until she called one that doesn’t answer their phones. The plucky and determined concierge, named Xenia after the patron saint of the city, assured me she’d keep trying. She was wry and expressive and funny and clearly capable. Just watching her work her magic over the phone was entertaining.

I walked to the corner to try the Angel of Happiness café, and it was way too high-end hip and crowded. I loved the place mat.

My server didn’t approve of my choice to have milk with my granola instead of yogurt, and let her displeasure be known. The granola was great, like a homemade version of  Sugar Smacks loaded with many varieties of nuts. Took this photo of this guy outside the window, holding a bouquet of daisies and texting, thinking he’s’ gonna get lucky.

The girl in the yellow coat facing the other direction, across the street? That’s a story right there.

Before I left, he walked in with the object of his affection; a blonde in supple black leather. No wonder he was so hopeful.

Decided to walk to the Benois wing of the Russian museum and set out, following my Google Maps GPS. I pasted in an address from my master list. Bad call. It led me far away in the wrong direction. When I figured out I had nearly walked back to my old hotel, I stopped and called Uber. Know when you are defeated.

Scooted to the first place on my shopping list, Loft Project Etazhi (74 Ligovsky Prospect). I vaguely recalled it described as many arty shops in a loft. Pay dirt! Walked into the courtyard from the street into a mash-up of Wonderroot, Krog Street market, Homegrown, with an East Atlanta/Earl vibe. Skinny, young(er) people with bubblegum pink streaks in peacock blue hair, or shaved and cut at angles, or – extra credit – a sprongy mass of dreds to the waist. Guys with green top knots. Everyone pecking away on their phones, more texting then talking. Lots of I-am-too-cool-to have-a-facial-expression stares, but also lots of little kids, from babes in arms to toddlers lurching around, to resigned youths of eight or nine glued to their iPhones. It reminded me of  Krog Street Market, but much rougher physically, People kept pouring in, paying 100 rubles to get in the loft door. It was a street party in an alley.

The interior was falling apart (sections of the wooden bannister rail came off in my hand. Twice,) but creatively divvyed up. Multiple tiny cubbies, made with loving hands out of scrap wood and lollypop colored plastic panels and insulation board. Raw edges and patchwork of found materials; the unisex bathroom stall doors were made out of insulation foam boards. 

Poster boy for their target market.

There were five floors of these hole-in the-wall-shops stocked with hipster/boho/Goth/hippie/rocker/souvenier merch. Excellent! Some American thrift store tat, cool local designers who must be sewing in their bedrooms, sneakers, ‘herbs’, soap, pizza on hotplates and pushed through windows, magnets, charms, cards, leather cuff bracelets, and so on.

I thought this would be ideal for Robin, but needed her confirmation. Texted her the photo.

Simple in color, complex in design. Moves beautifully. Photo does not do it justice.

I didn’t hear back – I think it was 2am her time –  so ended up buying a few small things and a teeshirt. On the fourth floor I stepped into a large open restaurant where the bread factory had been. Made by loving hands hippie decor reminded me of back in the day in Haight-Ashbury.  Wooden crates, for light fixtures, tin buckets for delivering the check, Yellow butterflies cut out of construction paper and tacked onto every exposed surface; walls, ducts, columns, windows, and tables. I thought of Remedios the Beauty in 100 Years of Solitude who metamorphoses into yellow butterflies. Or maybe it’s a sly reference to Nabokov. The window ledges were lined with tropical plants and desert cacti.

Intended to order something safe, but asked the waitress what she suggested. Mushroom pancakes was her answer and I said yes, though my heart sank. She brought me blini with fresh sautéed  mushrooms in a light cream sauce and it was fantastic. My lucky day!

Three costumed figures turned up.  I don’t know if they were folk tale Russian characters or hipster weirdness. This couple wandered around doing mime and posing with the clientele.

Mr & Mrs Weird

A top floor art gallery displayed drippy versions of famous people; Bill Murray, Frida Kahlo, Woody Allen. No Russians. The air was redolent with Hookah smoke, pizza, sneezy incense, coffee, and that essential oils and soap reek. Thumping club music, twittery electronica, American R&B made it an ongoing battle of the bands.  Looked out the window and saw the green buds of birch tree leaves dotting the bare branches and remember how when he saw the sticky little leaves as they open in spring, Ivan Karamazov fell back in love with the world he wanted to renounce. Then this happened;

On the way out  I bought myself a soft, clementine orange bag in leather-ish material made in St Petersburg. Just a simple tote, but it pleased me mightily.  Left with Incense clinging to my hair like a halo.

Ubered back to the Astoria with its distinctive red awnings and air of prosperity and permanence. Got a yes to the shirt from Robin, so will return and nab it tomorrow.  The concierge had worked magic – I’m scheduled for tours in both places. Russian language, but that doesn’t matter, I just want to look. She said they were impressed I was from Atlanta because of our famed Kimball museum. Um, no. That’s in Fort Worth.

 

 

Friday, April 30, Moving Day

Raining borscht and vodka, a drenching steady rain. I showered, had breakfast and finished packing. I updated my blog until noon, when It was time to call Uber Black and move to the swanky Astoria.*

Upon arrival one man ran out, opened my door, handed me an umbrella, and carried my bags, Another man opened the hotel’s entry door, and a third  man took the umbrella from me, and guided me to the desk where a very polite young women checked me in. Another woman walked me to my room and two guys showed up to hand off my luggage. But wait! There’s more. A maid arrived with a bathmat so I don’t fall in the shower and then two men (do they travel in pairs? Are they a matched set?) presented a plate of fresh fruit, another plate with four chocolates (oh, the chocolates! So good my eyes rolled up in my head), and a handwritten note from customer relations, thanking me for coming. Full court press.

The lobby smells like rich men. Expensive cologne air freshener, essence of Tom Ford maybe? White marble, sparkling chandeliers, fresh flowers. Polished is the word that comes to mind

Every surface gleams.

Double glazed double windows in my room, so there is not a whisper of sound from the brisk traffic four floors  below. Imposing St Isaak’s, bedecked with angels and saints, topped with golden domes and spires, is my view. It looks close enough to reach out and touch.

After I unpacked, ready to race over to the Hermitage, it took 20 minutes of searching to admit I had lost my key card. I was heading downstairs to beg them for another, when I saw the damn thing. It had its own lit up slot in the wall by the door. Who knew? I realized I needed a license to drive this room.

By the time I walked into the Hermitage at 5pm, I could wander freely. Spent quality time in the peacock room and saw Catherine’s hanging garden mirrored by her indoor forest of chandeliers and fluted white columns
Sat and sketched Danae, trying to get the line of her creamy thigh just right.

Dawdled in the armor room. The plumes don’t seem right on men and horses tricked out to wreak carnage. Even jousting was serious business.

War, Famine, Pestilence, Death and me.

Left on a quest to find Peter’s Winter Palace, which exhibits a few rooms modeled on his original residence.

home sweet home

I made a wrong turn and was thrown out by an irate ticket checker for the Hermitage theater. The ladies at the coat check were kind though and, thanks to GoogleTranslate, also helpful. We passed my iPhone back and forth and they explained to me I was one building and a canal bridge away. Finally found the right door and immediately felt at home in his intimate and practical rooms.

Peter’s workshop. Love the files hanging on the back wall. He and Robert would have gotten along like peas and carrots.

One of the eerier exhibits was a wax effigy of Peter, created from a mold made of his head, hands, and legs three days after his death. The torso was whittled out of wood and jointed, the better to pose it. I see the resemblance to that statue with distorted proportions in the Peter and Paul Fortress, but it was described as ‘startlingly life life’, and it looks stiff and artificial to me. I’m getting very fond of this Tsar, except for his tendency to torture and execute people in creative ways, and having his first wife kidnapped and incarcerated in a nunnery against her will. Listening to Peter the Great: His Life and World, by R.K. Massie, has made the hair on the nape of my neck rise more than once.

Walked from the museum to dinner at Fruk, and  trotted back to the hotel afterwards past inventive store windows, expensive hotels and charming eateries, my iPod blasting Eric Paslay’s High Class.

Back up to my room to find the bed linen turned down and chocolates on my pillow.**  There’s a footage of a merrily blazing fire, complete with crackling sound, on the flatscreen.

*When I started putting this trip together last July, my cosmopolitan nephew urged me to stay at the Astoria.  It’s expensive, but I could eke out a short stay using 1. the nonrefundable discount 2. further discount of booking far in advance 3. the plunge of the ruble.
Given the length of my stay I needed something more affordable for the initial three weeks. My TripAdvisor research led me to the Alexander house, where I was very happy. If the Astoria booking wasn’t non-refundable I would have tried to stay on there, but now that I am here, and rolling in the soft, warm lap of luxury, it sure is nice. I don’t fit in, but the staff are kind to me. I don’t behave like an entitled bitch, so that probably works in my favor.

**One funny story; coming back to my room that first night, I’m  walking down the long corridor, and a man steps out of a room in a white terrycloth bathrobe and looks in my direction. I keep walking his way because my room is in that direction, and he keeps staring. I have to pass by him because, yup, my room is next to his. He does a 180 to keep me in his sights. Different culture or dangerously creepy? Don’t know and don’t care, I just figure out how to use the chain lock on my door with record speed. Later that night I heard a lot of voices and girly laughter and, er, furniture banging, so I think maybe he had me mixed up with someone else, a person he perhaps did not actually know, but was expecting. I am sure I did not look like what he ordered.
I could be totally off base with my speculation (he was expecting his niece! They were playing Heads Up charades!), but I’m not knocking on the door and asking for clarification.

Thursday, April 29, Peter & Paul Fortress

Turned away from the Stieglitz Academy of Art and Design, I blundered into an orthodox mass and grabbed enough blue sky to walk around the Peter and Paul Fortress and walk back across the bridge. Learned skipping breakfast is a very bad idea and Uber, while not infallible, is close to it.

I stayed up late reading*, then updated my blog. I was running late, so I figured I’d  grab a coffee on the street.** Ebullient at the prospect of seeing the Stieglitz, the cradle of St Petersburg artists, I skipped to the entrance. Young people were coming in and out like bees to a hive. A woman carrying a large portfolio came out, a skinny person of ambiguous sexuality and asymmetrical, semi-shaved green hair went in. I was in the right place. A ticket office box is next to a turnstile, but I can’t quite see how to get to it. The clerk tapped a finger on the inside of the glass.***

No soup for you.

Sad for me. I came up with Plan B on the fly. The sky was blue, I’d walk to some nearby cafe for a coffee and pastry, then Uber to the Peter and Paul Fortress and poke around the church and cosmonaut exhibits. I set out to the nearby Transfiguration Cathedral that I’d marked on my Google Map, where I intended to light a few candles and say my prayers. I didn’t see a cafe until I was on the square of the church where I saw a swanky specialty coffee and tea place. Eureka. It’s past noon and I am feeling the lack of caffeine and calories. There was one customer there and the clerk, measuring out tea leaf by leaf. No, I am not exaggerating. They consulted on the next tea selection. Five minutes went by without any acknowledgement. I left, now seriously cranky.

Walked into the church and smack into a mass in full swing. Incense in clouds, priests and altar boys dressed elaborate purple and gold Lenten vestments. The floor was packed with SRO worshipers, who bowed and crossed themselves in repetitious patterns. They were not in synch with each other, but moved to their own beat. There was a slender, dark man in my peripheral vision. He wore a goatee, dressed entirely in black,and gave off a  D’Artagnan vibe, complete with sardonic expression. It was as hot as a bakery oven with a heady odor of sanctity – incense, beeswax, cologne and humanity. An altar boy appeared and handed  D’Artagnan a wrapped package of what looked  like a very large biscuit. I lit candles for my beloveds and slipped out.

Uber took me to the entry to the Fortress, where I walked around listening to an audio guide of the island’s history on my iPhone, and hoping to find a cafe. No luck, just little kiosks of  souvenirs and carts selling boiled corn on the cob. This sculpture of Peter the Great drew a crowd of youths who stood in line to rub his skeletal fingers. I felt like he looks. Not happy.

I visited the engineers’ house and the Cathedral of Saints Peter and Paul, which holds the marble sepulchers of the Romanovs.

RIP, Peter.

In one of the hallways was a family tree with images of each member of the dynasty. That would be handy to have in your pocket when you’re trying to keep all the Alexanders straight.
The golden angel that tops the church’s spire has fallen repeatedly (bringing to mind another fallen angel). I liked the story of the third angel that broke and dangled precariously overhead. A roofer repaired it, using his ropes to climb up to it without delay, sparing the city the cost of scaffolding.

I circled the island twice, but failed to find the cosmonauts exhibit, and was too depleted by hunger to care. I came across this manhole cover and thought of my dearly missed spouse, Robert Kempf.

I miss you, Boatie.

Traffic was not moving on the road leading to the bridge back across the river, so I decided to walk across and then call Uber. A creative and nimble driver was able to outwit traffic and delivered me to the door of my favorite restaurant Fruktovaya Lavka at 4:30. Minutes later, good bread and olive oil was in front of me.  By the time I finished my main course, followed by a raspberry custard tartlet, all was well with my world.

Meatballs with cranberries on fresh green pea  puree.

Back to The Alexander House to pack for my move to the Astoria Hotel. I’ve enjoyed my stay in this friendly little hotel on the outskirts. They have treated me very well, and provided that welcoming, safe home base I had hoped for. My room was bright, spacious and comfortable and the cost not only reasonable, but thrifty. The staff are friendly, cheerful, and flexible. They are the heart and soul of the establishment and make all the difference. I’d stay here again, and heartily recommend it to people who want what I wanted – a quiet haven at the end of the day, removed from the bustle of the center.

* Mistake #1 (tired) ** Mistake #2 (hungry) ***Mistake #3 (angry).  My trifecta of errors. Never skip breakfast. Low blood sugar sucks the joy out of living.

Wednesday, April 28, Dostoyevsky & a red duffle

It’s raining, cool, and predicted to be this way for the next five days. I’m good  to go with my rain boots, my umbrella, and Uber app. A nice American woman at the hotel sprained her ankle on day one of her trip and is on crutches. She’s says the emergency care here is great. Hope I never find out first-hand.

I trod on holy ground today; the Dostoyevsky Museum. A room devoted to  the anniversary of the publication of Crime and Punishment was particularly well done, the walls papered with facsimiles of his manuscript pages, drawings of fictional characters and photos of their historical counterparts, and photos of the intellectual miscreants he consorted with.Those bad boys got him jailed, condemned, driven to execution, and reprieved at the last moment by the Tsar. He was sentenced to hard labor (one of his many personal experiences with crime and punishment) and there are images representing his view of the road on the way to his mock execution. Also, photos of men in chains.

Locked down

Prisoners in work camps.

Working on the chain gang

And naughty ladies. Represent ladies.

Filles de joies

dance faster.

This is the real saint all writers under deadlines should pray to.

There were screens mounted on the walls with multiple (muted) versions of the film adaptations playing, a series of projected images of churches that he attended or that featured in various stories, and many photographs of the great man himself. I liked one set apart, near a window and beside a candle. He worked through the night in the summer of 1865, writing The Gambler by day and Crime and Punishment at night. “Projected under the title The Drunkards, it was to deal “with the present question of drunkness … [in] all its ramifications, especially the picture of a family and the bringing up of children in these circumstances, etc., etc.””

If he didn’t meet his deadline, he’d lose the rights to all his work. He had 30 days.

Mr. D and notes. Revisions are a bitch, but essential. Ask any editor.

On the silver lining side, he was so buried under deadlines and desperate that he hired an stenographer, Anna Snitkina, to try the method of dictation, and proposed to her a month later She was 20, he was 45.

She accepted one of the least romantic proposals in history

The happy couple. 

The family’s living quarters seemed both sterile and oppressive, but his plain, sturdy desk gave me shivers. I took a photo from the window. 

Delete the cars and modern signage, and the view may not have changed that much since he stared out of it. There was something about descending the gouged and pitted stone stairs just as he must have done, that seemed more evocative than the sparse, carefully arranged room vignettes.

I bought some souvenir pens and pencils, and a mug with a quote from Notes from the Underground in Cyrillic. “I say let the world go to hell, but I should always have my tea.”

I went to the food market afterwards. I didn’t feel up to haggling with glowering men, so I passed the produce by.

Descending from the sublime to the international shrine of consumerism, I Ubered to the Galeria, a giant shopping mall. I trudged to the top floor, in search of a pedestrian piece of luggage I could use to bring home non-fragile items, clearing my small case for mugs and a ceramic bowl. I have a two suitcase allowance on my flight home, might as well use it.

I ate something for lunch that was on my list of Russian foods to try – a blini from Teremok, the MacDs of Russia. I ordered by pointing to what looked like ham and cheese. The guy on the register was patient and kind. It was 149 rubles, so $2.25. Watching them make it was a mistake – pour a ladle of pancake batter on the griddle and fill it with stuff squirted out of plastic bags. Ew. It was edible, but not good. Flabby pancake/crepe with gummy filling.  I ate it anyway. It just made me love my regular Fruk joint more.

Found a small red duffle bag to carry my loot home. I went for red because, Russia. Just doing my part to support St Petersburg.

Tuesday, April 26, General Staff Building

Zipped into the Hermitage at the opening bell, on a mission to mail postcards.  I was surprised at how vast and  empty it felt, tourists just beginning to trickle in, the babushkas still strolling to their posts.  I keep thinking of the Empress looking at her paintings, her only company the mice.  Dropped off two dozen postcards, a cash only transaction. Left by way of the main entrance, which I’d never even seen. Here’s the line I have also never been in, thanks to my Friends of the Hermitage card.

I walked across to the General Staff building this morning to see  what’s on second and who’s on first. My apologies to Abbott and Costello.

There were marvelous things in the collection of lavish diplomatic gifts presented to the Russian Imperial Court. Saddles were a popular choice.

Golden.

Blue velvet.

Oriental.

I came across a small room dedicated to Rodin, with half a dozen pairs of his lovers, embracing.

Get a room.

I liked poking around in the Faberge exhibit too.

Brooding viking considers his cut glass boat.

But what about the contemporary art? Let’s start with the most famous work.

Eeny meeny miney.

Which one of these paintings cost them a cool 8 million? Wanna guess? It’s in the middle. Black Square, by Kasimir Malevich. I’d say I felt nothing but that’s not strictly true. I was irritated. The time I spent looking at this I will never get back. I’d heard of it, and did some Googling, and the idea in the context of the time etc., blahblahblah, but it fails me as visual art, so that doesn’t fix the problem. I know it is my problem, not Malevich’s. This is where I think visual art jumps the shark. Not art per se, but visual art. It’s like Peter’s wooden fruit, stuck in bowls of the real thing – part joke and part field sobriety test.

Next up, Red Wagon.

This installation is supposed to evoke the dismantling of the Soviet Empire. I thought it was a temporary site for workman to leave equipment, or possibly an exhibition under construction. Several of the building’s bigger rooms are empty. Lots of blind alleys and dead ends and maze-like hallways. But some welcome open spaces too. Anyway, now I know that it’s a bone fide conceptual installation? Don’t care.

This is a temporary exhibition. It’s a big deal.

It’s large. Parts are bristly, parts are smooth. Definitely big. Again, meh.

This is what I’d trade all of these for. It was up on the third floor, in the French rooms. It’s very small, 13.5″ x15″

Watercolorist at the Louvre, by Pascal Dagnan-Bouveret. I couldn’t get enough of it. Zoom in if you can. The subject is a woman in the act of painting, which of course matters to me. It’s shamelessly charming. That frothy pink bonbon of a dress is absurd, but the curves and flounces speak to the carved and gilded frame of the large painting. I love the backs of canvases stacked and leaning against the wall, the landscape painting-within-the-painting, the way the light caresses her. The whole thing is so replete with beauty, it’s practically edible. It’s even more captivating in real life than on this screen, trust me.

It will surprise no one that, although I fit the technical definition of a contemporary artist in that i am alive and I do make art, in the world of contemporary art I fall somewhere between an anathema and an anachronism. It’s important to add that every piece of art was not made just for me. You might love Malevich. Have at it. More for you! No lines, no waiting!

I lit some candles at St. Nicholas on my way to dinner at a joint around the corner from my hotel, Romeo’s. A film crew had set up right outside the door, reminding me of my Romeo. Glad we are not star-crossed lovers, just temporarily separated by a mere 4,982 miles.

Russian apple boxes are different.

Dinner was okay. My favorite part was dessert.

Tiramisu

I think if you try to use the fork on the plate, they don’t let you drive home.