By the Volga

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Early September saw a wonderful trip, a river boat trip on the Volga. Our beautiful river boat, the Lunnaya Sonata, started off by the Northern river station (Rechnoy Vokzhal) in Moscow, and made its majestic way down the Moskva river, a tributary of the Volga, to join the main river stopping by the ancient towns of the golden ring,  Kostroma, Uglich, Yaroslavl, Tutaev and  Dubna, peppered with ancient churches and monasteries,  kremlins,  relics of saints and tsarevichs, watch and cheese factories, super devout tour guides steeped in  Russian Orthodox church practices, singing  baritones,  and onion shaped domes. The cities of Russia are incredibly old (973 AD, e.g.), with legends of Ivan the terrible, and his ill fated son, later canonized as a saint,  relics of St.  John the Baptist and those of the Soviet regime, now consigned to museums as memories of a dream, albeit a collective dream that lasted 70 years, and chalked up impressive achievements. The boat drifted by gardens and cottages and riverside boulevards while we sat in plush salons with tasseled curtains, discussing geophysical flows and plasmas, punctuated by incredible meals (seven courses and champagne for breakfast), and conversations with the nicest and kindest set of students and scientists  ever seen. 

The final stop was Moscow, with a fortuitous booking in a hotel which was a 15 minute walk from the Red Square and the Kremlin across a flower strewn bridge on the Moskva. What could be nicer than the attic room with the skylight? The stairs were a pain, though. The walk along the river had incredible views, river boats with tourist tours and the Kremlin wall and towers beyond. The short walk ended in the Red Square, with the multicoloured onions of St. Basil's cathedral dominating the skyline, and the huge square choc a bloc with tourists, now mostly domestic and Japanese, due to the recent sanctions. The weather was a blessing, the sunlight was bright enough to give sunburn. The onions were Russian enough, but the beautiful buildings round the square are reminiscent of Paris, a reminder of Tsarina Catherine, and the French spoken in Russian courts. Here, of course, the reminders of the Soviet regime abound, from the tomb of the unknown soldier, and the daily salute of the goose stepping soldiers, to the graves of heroes of the Soviet Union, Josef Stalin included. The highlight was the embalmed  body of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, seen thanks to the kindness of lady guards who held my hand and whisked me through the pitch dark mausoleum two minutes after it shut! After this adventure, everything was an anticlimax, despite the statue of Marshal Zhukov on his horse, and the Kremlin Cathedrals and armoury and it's gold and silver treasures. 

 

 

 

 

 

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 So finally it was dasvidaniya Russia, a country which loomed large on the childhood of our generation, from the Sputnik, and Laika and  Gagarin and Tereshkova, to Mir Publishers and Russian fairy tales. Spasibo to kind hosts and hostesses, until we meet again. 

 

This blog post is by Neelima Gupte and Sumathi Rao.

 

Tailpiece:  People said Muscovites don't speak English, although Russian friends had said that many young people do.  As it turned out, all communication was very easy. If you asked someone something in the street, they just pulled out their phone so that you could speak in it. Then they gave the answer to the phone, so that you could read it in English. AI saves the day, here and everywhere!