That Water Killed Tchaikovsky!!! Well, after two frantic days in St. Petersburg, I’m now in Moscow, with the cheesy Russian version of “Name That Tune” (“Ugodai Melodiyu”) playing on TV in the background. What I love about that show is that the host is from the Baltics—he has a tremendous accent and doesn’t always speak with correct grammar. It’s considered a real insult to your Russian skills if someone asks you if you’re “iz pribaltiki” (from one of the Baltic republics.) Regardless... it was hot, humid, and dusty in St. Petersburg. I only discovered how dusty when I sat down in the airport last night and discovered that I could have written my name in the layers on my ankles and shoes. Uck. I had taken a very long walk yesterday evening, to cool down after a tremendously frustrating set of negotiations with a somewhat difficult St. Petersburg colleague. I think I must have kicked up a lot of dust along the roads. (From poor farming techniques, Russian soil tends to be loose and shifting—you end up carting a lot around with you...) During my walk, I befriended a delightful Santa Claus-like man who was a professional photographer. He, like many photographers in Russian cities, maintains a small stand in front of a local landmark (in this case the Kazan Cathedral, which the Soviets rather nastily turned into The State Museum of the History of Atheism.) These photographers shoot pictures of tourists, have a friend race the film back to a processing location, and then the tourists can pick up their nearly-instant memories in about two hours. Sasha, this particular photographer, started chatting with me while I was buying a bottle of mineral water at a neighboring stand, and, within ten minutes, he’d offered to shoot some pictures of me with my camera for free. (I was wearing a jacket that I’d made, and I told him that a friend was designing a web site for my teeny weenie company, and that I needed some good shots of my stuff.) So, here, this sweet gentleman, who makes almost no money taking pictures shoots some for free. I tried to convince him to take a tip, at the very least, but he wouldn’t think of it. What a sweetheart. Can’t wait to see his pictures... Now, you might be wondering about the title of this chapter (or then again, you might be saying “Shut up!”) Well, the water in St. Petersburg is legendary. The Neva River is where the sailors of the Aurora fired the first shots of the Russian Revolution. It’s where they finally drowned Rasputin (with great difficulty) after failing to kill him by shooting him, poisoning him, beating him—you name it. And, the Neva’s teeming with disease. St. Petersburg dwellers are generally immune to the bacteria in their water supply, but visitors who foolishly drink the water are in danger of getting giardia (and if you don’t know what that’ll do to you, you don’t want to know, trust me!) Occasionally, too, other nasty problems develop in the water to which the locals are NOT immune. That was the case when Tchaikovsky met his end. It is widely believed that Pyotr Ilyich was a closeted homosexual and very depressed. One night, after the premiere of his “autobiographical” symphony, Pyotr went to a chic St. Pete restaurant with his brother, Modest. According to witnesses, he seemed very sad, despite the success of his symphony. He asked for a glass of water, unboiled, despite the fact that there was a cholera epidemic in the city. He drank it down, and, three days later, he died. Yesterday, I asked for a glass of mineral water at a small cafe in the “House of Friendship.” I got my glass, started drinking it, and I commented that the water had a strange taste—the waitress returned and, with embarrassment, explained that they’d run out of bottled water, and they’d brought me water STRAIGHT FROM THE TAP!!! “Omigod!” I yelled (in English.) And then, in Russian, “For god’s sake, woman—this water killed Tchaikovsky!” Amazingly, despite working in a building full of foreigners, she had never heard of the problems visitors have with the water. Oy vey! Now, I get to sit and wait and see if I develop giardia. Yuck. Well, I have a gold-toothed rural colleague arriving in a few minutes to negotiate a shipping contract, so I’d better sign off. Yeltsin has altered the schedule for a national holiday this week because the Russian Orthodox Church was angry over Sunday being a work day this week. So, now, my schedule has been changed—I won’t be traveling to my colleague’s provincial home town of Rybinsk, about four hours from here—nothing would be open for me to see. Now, I have five straight days in Moscow before setting out for Tashkent. In between negotiating contracts and trying to locate an MIA business associate, I will explore “the new Moscow.” I’m not going to forget “the old Moscow,” though—tomorrow I plan on visiting Dead Red Fred (a.k.a. Lenin) tomorrow, as he may soon be buried, if Yeltsin gets his wish. More in a couple of days. Have to go tend to my spider bites now... <<Previous chapter | Next chapter>> main | lamps | clothing | Uzbek fans | about | sizing links | feedback/ordering info | travel stories Copyright © 1998 Compass Rose Studios Site design and HTML by Qdesign of Bethesda, Maryland. If you experience any problems with this site, please let us know.