Atlantica - 01.02.2006, Blaðsíða 32

30 AT L A N T I CA
ST. PETERSBURGa
name changes: St. Petersburg to Petrograd to Leningrad, and, after the
fall of the Soviet Union in 1991, back to St. Petersburg.
This afternoon, the square outside the station where Lenin was
greeted by the cheers of thousands was empty and gray. We drove
into town along a clogged traffic artery, over the frozen Neva River.
The other cars on the road were noticeably and uniformly filthy, their
wheel wells, bumpers and grills caked in clay-colored mud that rendered
license plates illegible. We passed a billboard advertisement of lanky
models jetting around in helicopters. This is the Chivas Life. Capitalism
was clearly back in control.
Arriving at the hotel downtown, I squeezed into a (very cold) elevator
with a young bellboy.
“Are you from St. Petersburg?” I asked him.
“Yeah, sure,” he replied, not looking at me.
“Do you like it?” I asked, somewhat more lamely.
“Yeah, sure,” he said. “It’s a beautiful city, and I never want to leave.”
Okay, I believe you, kid.
Our first order of business was finding a proper Russian dinner for
tourists, which we were. It ended up being borscht, bliny (thin Russian
pancakes, served sweet or savory), and a free round of vodka at the
cozy basement Idiot Café, named after Dostoevsky’s famous novel. The
pre-meal vodka went down alright. Not great, but I managed. After din-
ner, to brace ourselves for the cold, we had a shot for the road. I was
impressed how much warmer I felt coming out of the restaurant than I
did going in. And so taken was I with my new panacea against subfreez-
ing temperatures that I stopped in for another before bed.
ON SECOND THOUGHT
By morning, vodka had lost its preferential status in my book. I decided
to get some historical perspective at the Russian Vodka Museum.
One thing St. Petersburg is not short on is museums, from the world-
famous Hermitage and expansive Russian Museum to more obscure
choices like the Bread Museum and the Museum of the History of
the Secret Police. The Vodka Museum’s address was in the west part
of town near the tall, black trees and white snow cover of Alexander
Garden. Though the sky was blue and the sun appeared in golden
patches on the snow, the front of my thighs burned with the cold as I
walked down the groomed lanes between the winter trees.
After ducking into a few tourist stores for directions (at one I was
warned not to drink vodka while in town because “it can be poison
and you can die”), I found my street – Konnogvardeyskiy Burvar – a
row of grand 18th century ‘Style Moderne’ buildings, St. Petersburg’s
own brand of Art Nouveau. The museum should have been at number
5, but wasn’t. An older man stood guard there in a black fur hat. I held
up five fingers and pointed at the building. He nodded. I looked again
at the building, trying to visibly demonstrate my confusion, shrugging
clownishly and peering into its dark windows.
“Vodka?” he finally asked.
026-033Atl206 StPeter.indd 30 21.2.2006 12:46:58