I told the cab driver, “We need to make two stops. One at the Verizon store, then the second at a house on Napoleon Ave.” The taxi driver nodded and started off. While Justin was inside the Verizon store, I told the taxi driver the exact address of the house: 2203 Napoleon Avenue, cross street Loyola. “Cross street Loyola? That’s not possible; that’s far away.” I shrugged. “Maybe. It could be far away. That’s the address I have.” “No, it must be close by.” I questioned his logic. Theoretically, a destination could be far away from the airport.
Justin came back to the cab and we set off once again. We came to West Napoleon. We cruised up and down. The cab driver stopped. “West Napoleon, right?” “No, I think it’s just Napoleon. Cross street Loyola.” “No, Loyola is too far away.” Once again, I wondered why he thought we couldn’t be staying at an address far away from the airport.
“Okay. Let me call my co-worker.”
“Hey, Mike, where is the house? On Napoleon, or West Napoleon?” “Umm. I think Napoleon. Let me check.” Wait. Wait. Wait. “Yep, Napoleon, cross street Loyola.” I conveyed this information to the cab driver. Exasperated, he said, “But that’s so far away! You didn’t tell me that.”
In my head, I thought, “You’re a cab driver. I thought that I could give you an address and you would take us there.” Externally I said, “Could you please take us there?”
More exasperated, “I gave you the near-by fare. That was to here. The address you’re telling me is far away. That’s the far-away fare.” I thought for a moment. “Could you please take us there? We’ll pay the far-away fare.”
He thought for a moment. “Okay.”
We arrived at our destination. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I thought you were going near, so I told you the near-by price, but you were really going far.”
I’ve never had a taxi driver explain the fare in near-by or far-away terms, and was simply happy we arrived safe and sound.
I love board games, my favorite being Scrabble. It’s a family tradition to play late into the night every Christmas vacation. When Words with Friends (WWF) came out a couple of years ago, I was hooked. Now I could play what is essentially online Scrabble with friends all over the country, one or two moves at a time? Heaven.
Some of the people who I play with know that I love a good wager. And that I might be a bit competitive. So when Darin offered a bet of winner buys beers next time we’re in the same city, I took it. Did I mention that Darin is a better player than me? Several games and wagers later, I was booked on a flight to Minneapolis.
My flight landed in the late afternoon, just as the sun was beginning to set. Intense golden rays blanketed the runway. I’ve only seen light so beautiful one other place in the world, South Africa. Everything is more beautiful in that light.
Highlights of the trip included:
The most fun I’ve ever had singing karaoke in public. Stoner, the Willie Nelson lookalike with two pure, snow-white braids in his beard sitting next to me at the bar, complimented me on my performance.
Co-working with two of my awesome colleagues. Having one of Alison’s amazing homemade apple muffins for breakfast.
Sampling a ridiculously delicious sausage sampler platter at Butcher & the Boar
Game night with real life Scrabble and our own version of Pictionary
And, of course, spending three fantastic days with dear friends
We were surprised when we arrived to our hotel. The fifteen story building looked out-of-place among the more modest two- and three-story buildings in the neighborhood.
The Charlee Hotel – looking up
Our surprise turned to glee when we arrived to our room and noticed the glass doors opened completely onto a decent sized patio, creating the perfect indoor/outdoor living space. The weather in Medellin is perfect to have windows open all the time – not too hot, not too cold.
Indoor Outdoor Living
We unpacked then explored the hotel. The top floor housed the pool, surrounded by amazing panoramic views of the city.
Me and Cris by the rooftop poolTony showing off his imaginary DJ skills
Each floor highlighted a different artist. Life (us) imitated art on each of the floors as we chose our favorite pieces and took photos. I think we’re going to like it here just fine.
The three of us crowded into the back seat of a small taxi, battling early morning traffic to get to the market. Tony had regaled me with stories of how the parking lot was filled with armies of flower vendors. I love flowers – the colors, the shapes, the smells, the textures. I couldn’t wait.
We got there and immediately went to the buñuelo vendor for a quick breakfast. She was pulling fresh breads out of the oven. The smell was intoxicating. Flour, sugar, yeast – all wrapped up in the smell of warmth. He brought tiny metal stools for us to sit on – plates of metal on unsteady legs. I sat carefully, watching her move the breads from the oven drawer to the glass warming case on top of it. Tony told her what we wanted and she placed the bread directly from the oven onto our oval plastic plate, lined with paper-thin napkins. One with cheese, one with arequipe (caramel) and one filled with a guava jelly. The outside of the bread was slightly hard to the touch, and immediately yielded to soft, fluffy bread once broken. We shared the three among the three of us and ordered more, in additional to pan de yucca, a petite oval loaf made from yucca root. People came and went, sitting on the rickety metal chairs for several minutes, chatting with others or sitting silently enjoying their breakfast treat and a small cup of coffee.
Fresh Out of the Oven
Next, we walked towards the corner of the massive parking lot. Tony sighed, saying there weren’t many vendors there compared to Saturday or Wednesday. But there were! There were flowers everywhere! Roses, carnations, orchids, sunflowers, flowers I had never seen before. Buckets and buckets and buckets of flowers, vendors calling out, offering bunches for 50 cents or a few dollars. I stood still, breathed deeply, and felt the sun shining down. Pure joy. We meandered through the rows of vendors, choosing flowers for the apartment. Blush roses, beautiful greenery, baby sunflowers.
After we filled our bag, we headed indoors to the fruit and vegetable vendors. Pyramids of tomatoes and onions and peppers and avocados and carrots and broccoli and cauliflower and onions and yucca greeted us. Mesmerized, I followed Tony and Cris, wandering aisle to aisle, stopping to snap photos of the brightly colored arrangements. We bought vegetables for dinner, then wandered through the fruit section – oh the apples! the strawberries! the magnificent grapes! – then on to the herbs.
We were searching for sage. At the first booth, Cris asked the vendor for sage. The vendor mumbled something and Cris immediately left. I asked him, “What did he say?” “When I asked for sage, he said they only have the kind for feminine baths. We don’t want that in our chicken.” I laughed hysterically as we continued to the other vendors, asking for sage that wasn’t for feminine baths or cattle. We eventually found it, then made our way through the fish vendors, back through the vegetable vendors, and back to a taxi. A delightful morning at the market.
The guard laughed as he saw my eyebrows lift in surprise and my mouth form an “Ooooh!” when the thunder boomed. We had been discussing what to do next; the immediate patter of rain made our decision for us. We ducked into the museum just as the downpour began.
Only two floors and less than twenty rooms, the museum was manageable, not overwhelming as some museums are. We casually strolled from room to room, taking in the whimsical creations of Botero, his plump figurines interspersed between naturalezas muertas, still lifes. As we finished viewing each room of art, we walked along the pathway encircling the courtyard, occasionally sitting on a bench, watching the rain fall, and counting the time between lightning bolts and thunder claps.
Some rooms were full of statues – big statues, little statues, tall statues, short statues, but always fat statues. People reclining, Adam and Eve and apples, birds, hands – all so plump. They begged for touching; the guard had other ideas as we edged closer than necessary to the smooth stone. He made one exception – the giant hand at the entrance.
Technically a hermitage is a place where someone could live in seclusion. After spending the day at The Hermitage Museum in St Petersburg, I can see how that could happen here. Even following a detailed map, I doubt I visited every room. Hundreds of rooms, many hours, and two very sore feet later, I was more than satiated. I was absolutely overwhelmed by the architecture, the grandeur, the artwork, the gardens – by everything in the palace. I wandered from room to room, staring at the ceilings, the parquet floors, the wallpaper, the furniture, the doors, and, oh, yes, the art on the walls. Surprisingly, there were only a couple of occasions when the rooms were crowded, those times when tour groups were barreling through. Most other times, I was alone, staring at artwork by familiar masters – Renoir, Michelangelo, Gauguin, Monet, Manet, Matisse, Picasso, El Greco – amazed at how it all came to be housed in one place.
By lunchtime, I had covered most of the 2nd floor, the floor that exhibits former palace rooms and furniture, as well as 17th and 18th century masters – lots of Jesus and Mary; cherubs and angels; fruit and still lifes. After lunch I made my way straight to the third floor where the Impressionists and relatively more modern artwork were housed – my favorite. I savored each room devoted to an individual artist, seeing paintings in person I have read about for years. I sat on one of the many red velvet covered benches and stared, somewhat incredulous that I was seeing so much beauty in one day.
As I tried to make my way back to our group’s meeting spot, I found myself trapped in the basement/first floor, wandering through antiquities, archeological findings, and statues. I followed the map, trying to make my way back to the Grand Staircase, only to find myself met with roped off doors and hallways and exit signs (that security told me didn’t lead to exits). I asked one of the babushkas present in every room, with a Hermitage id card around her neck, how to get back to the Grand Staircase. “Stairs. Upstairs. Right. Straight. Long hallway. Down stairs.” Before I could thank her, she said, “If you must.” And then sat back down, staring into space.
On the second floor, I tried to follow her directions. And found myself in rooms I hadn’t seen before. Could one ever see all the rooms in the palace? I realized I had snapped several hundred pictures, and was fairly certain that none would capture the true grandeur of the palace.
We exited the Metro at Nevskiy Prospekt, one of the main streets of St Petersburg. Women navigated brick and cobblestone sidewalks in 5-inch heels. I held my breath as they clicked along, anxious that one would catch her stiletto in a crack and tumble. It never happened. Old babushkas stumbled along slowly, hunched over from the weight of years of hard labor. One store window contained brightly colored jerseys of the Russian Olympic team with bold swirls of red and blue. Another contained layers of ecru, pink, and lime green macaroons arranged in a Christmas tree formation. Yet another advertised dozens and dozens of matryoshkas, the brightly painted, stackable wooden dolls.
Catherine the GreatAlexandrinksy Theatre on Ostrovsky Square
We crossed the street and entered Ostrovsky Square, greeted by men and women hawking river tours over loudspeakers, flanked by vendors selling soft drinks and ice creams from mobile carts. We entered the park, walking around a huge statue of Catherine the Great and her advisors, towards the Alexandrinsky Theatre. Beds of bright pink, purple, and yellow flowers bloomed along the path, making the overcast day seem brighter.
Neoclassical Russian architecture
We rounded the corner and were met by huge buildings which Stas described as neoclassical Russian architecture, but I dubbed wedding cake architecture. Floors and floors of buildings sat like layers of cakes, decorated by multiple arches and curlicues. Some were pink, some white, some pale yellow. It was as if we were walking through aisles of a bakery, only instead of cakes, we were viewing buildings. And so many beautiful buildings! Around every corner we saw a building even more beautiful than those we had just passed. We’d stop and point and ask, “What’s that, Stas?” He’d look, and more often than not say, “Offices. Administrative building. Business.” Nothing out of the ordinary happening there, yet stunningly beautiful.
On the Bankovsky Bridge, with the Church on Spilled Blood (right) and the Lady of Kazan Cathedral (left) in the background
Stas led us to his favorite bridge, the Bankovsky Bridge, a tiny pedestrian bridge with griffins guarding each side. As we walked across, he instructed us to look in the distance. There it was! The Church on Spilled Blood! The famous Russian Orthodox church that looks like it’s made of candy. It’s called the Church on Spilled Blood because this was the exact spot where tsar Alexander II was assassinated.
My first introduction to Russian Orthodox churches was at Disneyland when I was a young girl. One of my favorite rides (despite the annoying theme song) was “It’s a Small World.” Replicas of Russian Orthodox churches soared behind little Russian children mouthing, “It’s a small world, after all….” I remember thinking that if such buildings really existed, they must be the most beautiful in the world. The colors! The angles! The towers!
At some point years later I realized that yes, the buildings were real. In my mind, I thought, “I’d love to visit one in person.” And now I’m here! I stared up at the towers, marveling at the colors and the intricacy of the design. It’s magical. Every bit of the building is beautiful.
Approaching the Church on Spilled Blood
As I walked in, I stopped and gasped. As beautiful as the outside is, the inside is even more so. Every surface is covered in mosaic. My eyes rose upward, staring at the brilliant jewel toned tiles that made up pictures of saints on each of the columns.
Inside the Church on Spilled Blood
I stood, enjoying the silence of the church, marveling at the craftsmanship and ingenuity it took to create such a spectacular memorial. I backed away, then came close to each mosaic. I shifted my position slightly to see the play of light on each tile. I walked around, then came back again. I closed my eyes for a few seconds, then opened them, each time amazed at how stunning the space continued to be.
Close up of a tile mosaic
After a long while, I exited the church, turning one last time to stare. And smile.
Capitalizing on the beautiful weather, we decided to visit Peter the Great’s summer palace, located (nowadays) about a 35 minute hydrofoil boat ride away from the city center. The story goes that Peter loved to travel and after seeing the Palace at Versailles in France, he vowed to build something even grander in St Petersburg. And thus began construction on Peterhof.
I love boats. I love gardens. I love hanging out with dear friends. I love sunshine. And I love ice cream. When all of those things happen in one day, it’s a perfect storm for a perfect day.
I’m staying in a small bed and breakfast in St Petersburg. It’s lovely and the staff are incredibly patient with my thwarted attempts at Russian. Each room is decorated like a different major city or part of the world. I’m staying in the Savanna room, which, as you can see by the picture, is decorated like an African savanna. What is so confusing is that I stayed in a room decorated very similarly to this in Kruger, South Africa. Every morning when I wake up I have to remind myself I’m in Russia, not South Africa. Even though I am in the savanna.
LoriLoo 