TOUR JOURNALS

 

FROM RUSSIA WITH LOVE


September 12, 2003

"Fortunately, Life offers a single moment that both fulfills a youthful dream and unveils a future quest: as it occurs but once, its magnificence cannot be doubted." -La Rochefoucauld

Last Wednesday, I stood upon the world’s most remote spot: the summit of the Hundredth Hill of the Sayan Ring, on the border between the Republics of Abakan and Tuva, near where Russia, Mongolia, China, and Kazakhstan meet at the geographic center of Asia. Beyond this craggy peak unfolds an alien landscape of infinitely receding mountain chains, windswept valleys, and barren wastelands. Below us, spring-fed rivers begin their epic journeys to the Arctic Ocean. These are the fabled lands of history, where the hoards of Genghis Khan once stormed west to conquer Asia, endless nomadic caravans streamed east to trade for the treasures of China, and fortitudinous hunters plied north to plunder the riches of Siberia.

Together with a teenage pianist and a Kazakhstani guide, we ascend the Hundredth Hill and prepare for the ritual of the Tuvinian Sacrifice. We each select a flat stone from the rough ground, turn it over in our hand, and utter a Muslim prayer. By placing the rock on the centuries-old pile of accumulated offerings, we leave our troubles on the desolate mountain and depart with a purified spirit.

As we begin our descent, our guide stops and points to an approaching Mongolian horseman. He carries himself with the pride of the truly independent, and is clad in the splendid regalia of a nomad: sturdy leather boots, thick fur hat, and heavy handmade clothing. He asks for our help in welcoming his newborn son into the world and invites us to his family’s yurta. Our guide explains that this is an honor we cannot decline.


Soon we enter his nomadic tent, and are amazed to find exquisite furnishing which belie its squalid exterior.  Persian carpets, silver saddles, and delicate chinaware of past generations fill the room.  The sleeping mother beams with the universal joy of a new parent, while the excited relatives vie for the chance to see Westerners inside their yurt.  I want to meet the son, visiting from college to help his family, but the hushed atmosphere discourages speech. 


The father takes us to his herd of sirtas, a mythological-like animal which grows the head, mane, and tail of a horse from the massive body of a horned steer.  The sirta is unique to Tuva, for its breeding is a nomadic secret which has not been replicated anywhere else.  I cautiously approach a big bull, trying to stare it down, but suddenly the calf separating us bleats and darts off.  As the bull leads the herd towards me, I realize in a flash that even had I owned insurance, it would never cover the victim of a stampede of impossible beasts in a fairytale land.  I wave to the Mongolian cowboy and run away.  

We walk back towards the camp through a light tundra forest of pines and spongy lichen, looking for feeding reindeer.  I ask our guide what might happen to the newborn son, or the teenage boy.  Traditionally, she tells us, male Tuvinians go to the capital, Kyzyl, for college.  The girls, however, announce their intention of becoming a bride, retire into a tent, and invite all the young men to court them.  After an indefinite period of her choosing, she selects the best lover and takes him as her husband.  I am surprised, and tell her that this is the same custom in New York.

Before we reach the campsite, Anna, the crazy pianist from Krasnoyarsk, runs and jumps into a frozen spring-lake.  Not to be outdone, the fearless Californian audaciously follows her—only to be stunned, hauled out, and taken straightaway to the Russian banya.  I awaken to the supposed pleasure of being flogged by birch branches, sweating profusely upon the hot wooden planks.  Following another dip into the ice-cold river, I am wrapped in a bearskin, placed next to a roaring fire, and descend into a peaceful slumber under the full Siberian moon.

That night, I dream once more of my greatest childhood ambition—to tread upon every last corner of the globe—and realize, from the Yukon to the Andes, from Cairo to Capetown, from Tokyo to the Tasman Sea, from the Highlands of Scotland and now, to the Steppes of Asia, that my dream has been unquestionably fulfilled.

TOP TEN MOMENTS IN SIBERIA



1. MOSCOW

Like Peter the Great, Napoleon Bonaparte, and Van Cliburn before me, I set out to conquer Russia through its exotic capital of Moscow.  Bursting with excited anticipation, I sought to explore Russia’s mysterious Cold War clandestines, gleaming Czarist palaces, and inexhaustible artistic wealth. 

Alas, my Russo-romance was passionate but brief:  after a Kodak drive-by shooting of the Kremlin’s spectacular St. Basil’s Cathedral, and a brief appearance on the stage of Moscow Conservatory’s legendary Great Hall, practicality forced me to negotiate the airport.  Accustomed to the civility of America’s Puritan crowds, I almost missed the plane, for no respectable Muscovite stands in line—you have shove your way past determined old women who grew up in communist bread lines.  Despite important-sounding announcements in Russian and strategic signs in Cyrillic, I soon found the plane and was finally on my way to Siberia!

2. KRASNOYARSK AIRLINES

The food wasn’t all that bad, but that was the best part.  I sat between two depressing men on a crowded, dingy plane, and watched the flies drop dead from the poisonous atmosphere, which intensified with each flight.  At least there was no need for an annoying safety lecture, since the seatbacks flopped all the way back, the non-adjustable seatbelts were sized for Bavarians returning form the last day of Octoberfest, and the luggage bins fell open without notice.

But, even then, I wasn’t prepared.  I had long since gotten used to babies on flights, but not dogs, especially big ones who barked incessantly and periodically relieved themselves in the isle.  Nobody else seemed to mind, so I just sank back (even further), and wondered with wide eyes possibilities of adventure or disaster which the next two weeks would surely present.

It didn’t take long to find out.  The hotel wouldn’t take credit cards or convert my U.S. dollars (they were suspected of being counterfeit), and I had to prepay my 13-day stay.  So, I wound up with 450 rubles ($15) with which to survive for two weeks in a foreign country that had few telephones, no credit card acceptance, and one Internet terminal somewhere, but with a Cyrillic keyboard.  (I eventually contacted my heroine sister, who wired some money and saved me from the prospect of fighting the gypsies over the best begging spot in Krasnoyarsk.)

4. STOBE

Luckily, for a few rubles, Annie, the Russian pianist, took me to Siberia’s stobe, a nature reserve which holds the World’s Biggest (everything in Russia in the World’s Biggest Something) Pinnacles:  dynamic shears of rocks shooting high above the surrounding forests.  Our initial ascent was soon in peril, for we found ourselves stuck above a sheer cliff, below a slick rock face, and between two boulders.  But, like Omar Shariff in Lawrence of Arabia, there suddenly appeared before us a stobist, an expert in climbing these rocks, leading two housewives in flip-flops.  He showed us the seemingly impossible technique of walking straight up the vertiginous rock cliffs, and we soon stood atop a Siberian peak overlooking the entire taiga forest below.  

5. TRANS-SIBERIAN RAILROAD

My entire excuse for visiting Siberia was prompted by the allure of becoming the first American pianist to perform in Mongolia, on the oblique invitation of a diplomat I had met on a cruise ship.  With this end in mind, I settled down to the task of deciphering Russia’s railway schedules for a trip from Krasnoyarsk to Ulan Bator (Mongolia’s capital), with a change of train in Irkusk.  It was not encouraging to discover that these schedules are licensed to MENSA for testing material. 

The Trans-Siberian Railway departs Moscow every Odd Day, except for the first three Odd Days of each month.  It arrives in Krasnoyarsk on the Fifth Day of its Twelve Day trip.  It arrives in Irkusk on the Seventh Day.

The Trans-Mongolian train leaves Beijing every Thursday.  It arrives in Irkusk on the Ninth Day of its Thirteen Day trip.  It arrives in Ulan Bator on the Thirteenth Day. 

In the end, if I left Krasnoyarsk on Saturday, I’d get to Irkusk on Monday, where I would wait for the train until Friday, and finally get to Ulan Bator on the following Thursday—by which time my whole two-week trip would have been spent.  Or, I could fly all the way back to Moscow (an entire day) and then fly to Ulan Bator.  I opted to cede the honor of being the first American pianist to play in Mongolia, and now understand why this prestigious distinction remains unclaimed.

My next few days were spent acclimatizing myself to Russian culture.  I learned to fit in by not smiling and not saying hello to everybody (although most of the time I forgot).  I fantasized about becoming a Russian folk hero:  I would either be like St. Patrick ridding Ireland of snakes (I’d be St. Michael of Mongolia purging Siberia of flies), or I’d be like Johnny Appleseed planting apple trees throughout the New World (I’d be Johnny Johnnyseat installing clean, functional restrooms throughout the length and breadth of Russia—and lots of other countries as well, come to think of it).  Most of all, I indignantly try to persuade people that there is more to America than Hollywood, McDonalds, and Coca-Cola, but soon realize that I can’t think of anything.

I discover that Russians have only two pastimes:  playing piano and drinking vodka.  I had visited the local conservatory and was amazed at the level of pianism.  I felt like the captain of Uruguay’s Basketball Team facing the Dream Team, except here Michael Jordan was a little thirteen-year-old boy practicing Rach Third. 

Seeking a more immediately rewarding pastime, I offered one night to buy a table of Russians a few rounds of drinks.  I assumed they knew of the American shot glass, but in this country a ‘drink’ is an entire bottle of Vodka.  In no time at all, this big Russian bear of a bass was on stage singing “New York, New York” for his new best American friend, while I fended off a brood of Siberian beauties vying for a chance to dance their way towards a possible ticket out of Russia. 

That weekend, I was invited to a country dacha for a homemade dinner.  Although the family is well off, there were flies everywhere in the cottage, breeding in the food and climbing all over the table.  Noticing my agitation, they explained that such multitudes of flies are normal outside of cities, and that they themselves have long since forgotten to notice.  I involuntarily made a face and wouldn’t eat the food. 

But, I had come prepared, and presented my gifts of Western delicacies: German wine, English crackers, and French blue cheese.  They politely asked what the dark stuff in the cheese might be.  Taken aback, I explained that this is gourmet French cheese, and that the impressionistic colors were actually formed from molds and bacteria.  Upon my explanation, they involuntarily made a face and wouldn’t eat the cheese.

With no more money, a mild cold from the first hints of winter, and little progress in learning Russian, I surrendered to Siberia’s invincibility and retreated home.  After everything—the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly—I almost cried upon landing in JFK.  New York City, which had always seemed so depressing and ugly, suddenly felt as clean and chirpily happy as Disneyland.  I couldn’t help but to marvel at the bus driver, who worked with an infectiously joyous spirit; I actually hugged him on the way out.  He looked at me knowingly, and asked if I had just returned from Russia. 

Over the next few days, however, I felt changed. 

How does Russia’s virile soul thrive in a land of such sparse immensity?  In Siberia, snow-white forests of slender birches spring from soft soils of lichen and mushrooms, endless horizons of mountains and rivers cradle lofty skies of overwhelming spaciousness, and its people hide hearts of warm hospitality and deep passion behind thin shells of ennui jaded by an unforgiving history.  One can understand Russia’s inescapable sense of nostalgia and melancholy by reading Tolstoy or by listening to Rachmaninoff, but such sensorial voluptuousness can only be felt by breathing Siberian air or by contemplating Russian eyes. 

Like Peter the Great, who attempted to Westernize Russia, Napoleon, who tried to defeat Russia, and Van Cliburn, who briefly inspired Russia, I now realize that Russia epitomizes an idea too vast, too enormous to challenge:  it only engulfs and haunts you forever.

 

 

MY BIG DAY IN BRUGES


July 6, 2008




What a day—I flew from New York to Belgium on a fine Indian airline; I sat next to a Classical Indian dancer who was going to perform in Southern India. Of course I asked her all about the art as I don't know a thing. I slept a bit and read the Truman biography which was fantastic. The food was all Indian, very spicy so I didn't eat much.  A bus took us to the Intermezzo Music Festival in Bruges the next morning and I helped all the girls carry their heavy luggage up the four flights of stairs to the dorms (I thought I could use the exercise) and then we walked around the town center.

There was a huge beautiful Cathedral and a festival going on. I asked what the crowds were waiting for; there was a Marathon in one hour. Well, as I was with a few girls, I thought "I can do this! It doesn't matter that I didn't really sleep or eat; or that I've never ran over 6 or 7 miles all at once, ever; it can't be that far!". The girls agreed to see me at the finish line; I ran home, changed, ran back (I mean really ran as it was about a mile away from the hotel), got there just in time to pay and register, and ran to the very back of the line of 1,750 runners. I asked the guy next to me how far it was, and luckily it was only half a Marathon, 10 miles he said. I asked if he meant kilometers; he said it was a 16K race, but everybody called it the 10 mile race. This was easy; I sprinted past everybody and was soon in the lead pack of about 100 runners or so.




The streets were lined with the whole city, cheering and yelling, drumming and dancing, and handing out water. After a while, maybe 30 minutes, there was a big sign with the number 5. I didn't know for sure what it meant: 5k line, 5 mile line, or 5 of either left in the race. I asked the runner next to me and he said surely it must be 5k left. I smiled; I had hardly broken a sweat; I wanted to WIN!! The numbers went up every few minutes; I guessed maybe every 8-9 minutes (I was singing my piano pieces in my head to keep rhythm) so they must be miles. By now I was still passing most people but my legs were really starting to burn from the lactic acid. But, it was mile 9 so I sprinted again. I could hear screaming and yelling ahead and it felt great.

Finally, I passed the 10 marker, but nothing happened. I was in denial that the 10 could possibly only be Kilometers; they were only .6 miles; I had to be way past that. But nobody was sprinting to the finish, so I again asked a runner and he happily said that we only had 6K to go—

I almost died. My legs were all locked up, my head hurt from dehydration, but mostly my spirit sank. I thought of stopping but couldn't bear the shame as there were plenty of women and older runners still ahead; also, the girls were waiting; and, I knew that if I stopped my legs would hurt even more and I would be lost out in Belgium somewhere. Some of the guys I had passed were now passing me, but they were all supportive and told me to keep it up. I thought: there is no food in me, I better stop—but then I remembered!!! My wife Megan had cooked me a big fat ribeye steak only a day before in NYC!! I suddenly felt like The Terminator finding an alternate power source--I could feel that steak in my blood and got my second wind.

I passed people again; the markers were up to 14, then 15. (At this point some idiot had put up a '4' sign as a joke—we were all honestly furious as it was so demoralizing to involuntarily think that we were only at the 4K mark!!) My legs were still paralyzed with pain, I could hardly breathe with no water in my throat, and some of the better runners were sprinting way past me; but I ran as fast as I could, thinking that I was on some heroic mystical deed fueled only by my true love's steak. I finally passed the finish line in a blur--the crowd cheered (for everybody but it seemed especially for me) and I had a time of 1'20", an average of 8 minutes per mile!! (I'll get my official time and rank in a few days—I think the winner was a Kenyan timed at 55 minutes or so.)




I was looking for the girls but of course they weren't there, but then I started talking to the MC; he asked me where I was from, and how many Marathons I had been in. When he found out that I was from NY and that I had entered my first race on a whim after flying all night, he put me on the award stand in front of the crowd and told this all to the audience. I was cheered and they gave me an honorary medal for fun.

It was a great moment to be a hero for a split second in an old European city! I felt like a victorious general. But then my legs completely locked up so I could barely get off the podium. Later that night, at the music festival's opening dinner, I couldn't even stand up—I was introduced as the pianist who had run the Marathon that day. Nobody could believe it.





Michael Fennelly