My Russian Slippers

My Russian slippers are beginning to wear out. After 10+ years of wear, that's not a surprise. The blue mark comes from dropping my fountain pen on one of them.

They were given to me when I visited a Russian friend in St. Petersburg, something I had never thought I'd do. Like many of my friends, her family substituted slippers for shoes in the house. As a good hostess, she'd bought slippers for Rick and me.

Our friendship had started in Geneva on a beautiful day with a not too warm, not too cold day, a blue sky as a backdrop to Mont Blanc's snow tops, much too beautiful to take a bus. I was walking to the train station through the UN complex of alphabet agencies when a woman asked directions to the train station.

She was a Russian attending a conference. Her English was as good, if not better than mine. We walked together chatting the entire way. At the station she was to take a train and I had errands. We exchanged emails.

We began a correspondence and found a lot in common: one child each, a lover of reading literature and history, food. She invited me to St. Petersburg, which I delayed. A few years went by. After I married, she invited my husband and me to visit.

We applied for VISAs. Interesting that his as an American was about $125. Mine as a Swiss, was charged at about $25.

She met us at the St. Petersburg airport. We stayed in her flat meeting her son, husband and cats.

The woman was determined to share the city she loved and had an itinerary that included churches, famous building, museums, the incredible subway, a river ride, a classical ballet and an evening of folk dancing and a boat trip on the river. Some meals we had at home including a wonderful cucumber salad. She gave me the recipe, some meals were at restaurants. We didn't eat at the McDonald's.

We began to understand the Russian letters.  

I've never seen so much gold leaf and beautiful art work from small icons to huge statues. My friend, who knew history, gave me enough background that had I recorded it, I could have given professional tours to tourists. 

 

The metro stations were works of arts in themselves.

She took me to a book store, where my first novel Chickpea Lover: Not a Cookbook was for sale. After the Russian Cosmopolitan had given it a good review it had been on the best seller list for a week or so I was told.

Her knowledge of Russian history was a gift. One of the thrills of the trip was to see the room where Rasputin was fed cyanide. We stood by the door where he escaped to jump in the Neva river. It is one thing to read about history, but another to stand where it happened.

Seeing where Fydor Dostoevsky wrote The Brothers Karamazov was thrill. As a writer I like to be where books were written as if their talent vibes in the wall will fill my brain and nerves to my fingertips.

Because we were with a native, we had experiences that would never have happened otherwise.

After the ballet, our hostess did not like the look of the taxi drivers. "Wait here," she said.

She ran into the street and pulled a driver, a stranger over then waved for us to get in the car. She had negotiated a price with him to take us home. I tried to imagine doing that in Boston, Geneva or any other major city. I couldn't imagine it in our little French village either.

My life amazes me sometime. I bumble into things that end up giving me incredible experiences.  

Dusty pink is my favorite color. The slippers trim is dusty pink. No matter what the color is, I put them on and walk with memories.