I sent the morning wandering in the neighborhood on Petrogradskaya Island in a vain search for two elusive vintage stores. While they proved to be nonexistent, I found many other intriguing specimens during while on the hunt. I took the metro* for the first time, and upon leaving I almost immediately stumbled upon a nearly hidden bookstore that felt like it was the entrance to a wormhole leading to some more serious, literary past. Beyond stacks of Russian books that obviously had no meaning to me was a little cafe nestled amongst a forest of hanging and potted plants. Scratchy jazz wafted toward me from an unknown source, and elderly Russian intelligentsia types sat around tiny round tables muttering in low tones to each other. A younger generation of bibliophiles had propped laptops amongst their thick volumes and notes, and conducted very important sounding conversations. The aged proprietress, wrapped in a shawl, told me that the meal was only for her librarian staff, but that she could give me an espresso and a slice of freshly baked cake if I wanted. This pleased me greatly, so I sat and happily enjoyed a warm apple lemon coffee cake with black current sauce while poring over small prints by contemporary Russian artists, vintage photographs, and Russian cartoons. I selected some pen and ink drawings, a sketch of a hedgehog, some Victorian children's portraits, and old propaganda posters** and tucked them away, feeling like I had stumbled upon a priceless treasure trove and been told to take a handful of my favorite gems.
Wile wandering the neighborhood I also found a tiny sewing and craft store filled from floor to ceiling with buttons, zippers, and ribbons, with a sour old woman perched on a stool guarding her wares. I was the only other person in the shop, and her beady glare assured me that any sudden movement on my part would most certainly spell my doom. I also found more beautiful hand painted signs, such as this one.
(I promise you that a garage door so cute as this does not exist anywhere in the US)
Finally even my dogged optimism failed and I accepted that I would not be purchasing any second hand Soviet fashions that day, so I settled on another form of entertainment: buying many more salads with the highest mayonnaise to other ingredients ratio as possible. Armed with three saucy dishes, I wandered down a cobbled street in search of a friendly outdoor eating area. Suddenly, around a corner came an adorable little antique tram.
(A streetcar named desire?)
I was overcome with an uncontrollable desire to ride this tram to it's mysterious destination, so I hopped on. It seemed like a fantastic way to have a little adventure and see an unknown part of the city, with a built in escape plan in the form of a railroad track leading back to the city center. After crossing a canal, the tram rumbled happily along the sunny streets, slowly passing Piti's northern train station, Finlandskaya***. It slowly passed pedestrian filled squares, and manicured parks. I felt very good about my spur-of-the-moment decision.
Until the route changed.
After a sharp left turn my little tram plunged into a wild, overgrown forested area that looked like it had at one point been Soviet car factory, then a junk yard, finally being reclaimed by the elements. Among scraggly trees and half buried car parts, gypsy camps had sprouted and clusters of steely-eyed young men sat around smoldering campfires smoking rolled cigarettes and staring at the tram. They looked resentful of the disturbance we caused them, and as though they wouldn't bat an eye at the proposition of taking over the tram, holding us ransom, and becoming the self-righteous villains in a slow moving yet terrifying revolutionary film.
I put my iPad away.
*Ten times more user-friendly than Moscow's, with helpful hints and pleasant greetings posted all over the modern and well-lit stations, in Russian and - gasp! - English. Plus fares are paid with brass tokens, which I find very quaint.
**Some of which I have framed and have become part of my growing wall of tribute to global kitsch, or "glitsch." Please spread this term, as the new globalized hipster buzzword. Many thanks.
***Finlandskaya station is the historic location where Lenin gave his first speech upon returning to Russia from seventeen years in exile, speaking to his supporters en masse from the roof of his armored train car. A very exciting moment in Russian train history to be sure.