The city so nice, they named it three times

June 23rd – Something I’ve forgotten to note is that we’re in the middle of white nights right now, where daylight lasts a remarkably long time. Add to this the fact that the solstice was only two days ago and that we’re pretty much right on the 60th parallel, and we’re talking almost twenty hours of daylight.

In Russia, even arriving by cruise ship, you need a visa to visit the city. This can be done relatively simply if you book a shore excursion, either through the ship or privately. After corresponding with a lady she met on Cruise Critic, Sarah signed us up for a private tour through a company called Red October. We disembark around 7:30 and meet our tour-mates, our guide, and our driver on the dock. The guide’s name is Polina. She’s actually a university professor, but she works as a tour guide “for the privilege of teaching for the rest of the year.” Our driver’s name is Igor. Nice guy, but unremarkable other than because his name is Igor.

It’s a huge city and there’s an absurd number of things to see, so most of the sightseeing is done on the road. We’re driven around in an old van; spacious, but you felt every bump right through to your skull. The tour began with a quick zip around town, and the first stop of consequence is St. Isaac’s Square. We’re told that St. Isaac’s is the fourth largest cathedral in the world. It’s also one of four cathedrals in St. Petersburg. (Generally, a cathedral is the seat of a bishop and any additional church of significance is called a basilica—but apparently Russia doesn’t roll that way.)

More sightseeing via olden days van, then we have a lengthy stop at Peter and Paul Fortress. Walked the grounds, had some nice panoramic views of the city, then explored the Cathedral, where all the Romanovs—from Peter the Great to Anastasia—are buried. It’s a nice contrast to Westminster; rather than overblown, intricately carved sarcophagi representing the status or wealth of the deceased, every single grave marker here is identical. While our guide is saying something at the grave of Catherine the Great, I notice an older guy a few feet away working on a charcoal sketch. He shows it to me, and I have no frigging idea what it is, until I finally make out my super-dark, caterpillar of an eyebrow. It’s my profile. The final product, which takes him about two minutes start to finish, makes me look like a long dead Russian hero, and it’s totally worth the five bucks I pay for it.

We’re taken to Yusupov Palace after this, formerly the home of enormously rich Russian aristocrats, now a museum owned and run by a union of secondary school teachers. Before we enter, Polina warns us of how incredibly anal the staff is: “We’re not a totalitarian people any more,” she says, “except here.” She’s not exaggerating. Some rules make sense (we’re herded in and out of rooms like sheep to prevent overcrowding), while some don’t (Sarah is scolded for wearing her purse rather than carrying it, and two minutes later, as I stand on the stairs in front of an over-crowded landing, I’m yelled at either for touching the marble banister, or for having my feet on two seperate stairs, or maybe for doing both at the same time.) But enough about schoolmarms. Yusupov’s also happens to be where Rasputin was killed (sort of). Felix Yusupov was the one who conspired to rub out the mad monk (oh, those Russians). He started with poison, moved on to shooting him once, then—after Rasputin crawled out of the house and into the street—Felix emptied a gun full of bullets into him. Rasputin’s seemingly lifeless corpse was dumped into the river, but when the body was recovered and an autopsy performed, the coroner determined the cause of death to be drowing.
Peterhof next. In the days of Peter the Great, the Winter Palace was where the royal family lived (more on that later), but Peterhof was where the Peter conducted business, welcomed foreign dignitaries, and just went for shits and giggles. It’s an enormous property, surrounded by god knows how many acres of land. A highlight is the marine canal—the waterway leading in from the Gulf of Finland. As waterborne guests of Peter the Great arrived, they came to the Great Cascade, which is a landing surrounded by several dozen statues and fountains. The fountains have no mechanical parts but operate entirely through hydraulic systems. Peter had a thing for fountains in general. Within the property are several different areas (benches, walkways) where water erupts spontaneously, and he liked to summon his guests through those areas knowing that they’d have to get soaked rather than disobey his call. Bit of a dick, Peter the Great, but there’s more to come. Within this palatial retreat is an even smaller retreat: Mon Plaisir, where Peter spent most of his time. In comparison to his other residences, it’s modest. By any other comparator: not so modest. Most notable within this building is an enormous glass, about a foot tall and as big as your head around. Peter the Great brought a number of western customs to Russia—tobacco, beer, things easily accepted by the populace; but among the things he introduced was western attire, which was not so bad for the men, but incredibly embarrassing for the women who had to come to terms with bare shoulders and decolletage for the first time. To prevent their wives and daughters from embarrassment, some of the gentry would choose to beg off an invitation before the emperor. Peter responded by demanding the offender’s presence and then forcing the individual to share a drink with him. This person was made to finish the contents of The Glass (the big-as-your-head glass), which must have held at least six litres of vodka, and was basically a death sentence.

Our Red October tour ends at 5:30, to be resumed the following day. We get back to the ship and, after quick naps all around, regroup for our shore excursion—which entails a canal cruise and a late dinner. I’m not a fan of the cruise itself. St. Petersburg is a very squat kind of city, a result of Peter the Great’s dictum that no building should be taller than the Winter Palace. That said, I’m starving to goddamn death throughout it, so this may have some effect on my judgment. The dinner is great though, and along with the wine and the four courses, they serve an ice cold shot of vodka. Good vodka, I discover, is magnificent served on its own. Vodka is the new scotch; you heard it here first.

By dinner’s end it’s still daylight out, despite the fact that it’s nearing midnight. It’s also graduation night for the secondary school kids, and every year at this time the city opens up the downtown to them. There are thousands of Russian teenagers walking the streets, chugging Red Bull or, strangely, gin and tonic from a can (not the new scotch, so we’re clear). St. Petersburg is also hosting a concert for them, which we’re told is being headlined by The Scorpians. The. Scorpians. “Hello St. Petersburg—ve are Ze Scorpians! Are you enjoying ze vhite nights?” Apparently in Russia, it’s still 1982.