Metra Za Granitsei

On September 2, 2007, Metra put on more clothes than she had in years. And later in the day she wished that she had put on more.

I was wearing jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, a turtle neck wool sweater, and my coat (sans lining). Oh, and a scarf. I wish I had worn tights under my jeans. I heard my host grandmother commenting that the weather today was like October. I suspect that buying some more sweaters might be necessary.

(poor Eve, she must be quite cold)

Peterhoff is quite pretty in a somewhat frightening, overly manicured way. It was an interesting little excursion. We were there in the morning when they turned on the fountains. This involves a voice over, fireworks, smoke rings, and dancers. It’s a very strange affair.


The most interesting event of the day was being yelled at by the old ladies in charge of one of the little out building surrounding Peterhoff. You see, there are two pricing systems for museums in Russia, one for Russians – which is very inexpensive – and one for foreigners – which is more, but still inexpensive in comparison with American museums. We all have Russian Student ID cards, so we can actually get the Russian student price. Provided that no one decides to raise Cain. Cause you know, the group of kids speaking in English or accented Russian, many wearing gear from American universities, are totally Russian.

(the bridge is where the yelling took place)

So Elena (one of our babysitters) had purchased the tickets to one of the little museums in the Peterhoff complex using our studentcheskii billeti and had gotten the Russian price. We’re queuing up to head into the museum, when the lady taking our tickets starts screaming that the one of the first guys isn’t Russia and needs a different ticket. Elena yells back “On russki! On russki!” (He’s Russian!) Finally, the lady lets him through, lets a few girls through and then stops another boy with “On ne russki!” Elena yelled her down again. I was hoping that someone would concoct some solution, because it’s quite obvious from our documents that we aren’t Russian (with one or two exceptions). The name Demetria just confuses Russians, I have found, and there’s also the glaring lack of a patronymic. I think the lady just gave up and they glared at us the entire time we were in the little museum. Interestingly enough, the first guy she yelled out is the most Russian in the group. His family immigrated when he was eight.

Adventures in lying your way into Russian museums for discounted prices will continue. (Although, I’m not going to press the issue too much on my own. Two dollars versus six dollars isn’t worth an argument with an angry Babushka.)

(P.S. I think the psychotic little dog is trying to kill me.)