Off the Beaten Ring

We usually associate Russia’s Golden Ring with the magnificent churches of Vladimir, with the ringing of Suzdal’s bells, with Yaroslavl’s gorgeous waterfront... in a word, with the traditional itineraries to ancient Russian towns, where buses and cruise ships unload one tourist group after another.

And what of it? These are deservedly famous places.

And yet, all you have to do is take a small detour from these well-known places and, right next door, you find other, no less interesting towns.

Just ones that are less exhibitionist.

Life is more natural and calm in these places, yet still full of

unexpected surprises, sure to make your visit memorable.

On a brilliantly sunny
July day, we set out to visit three towns:  Pereslavl-Zalessky, Myshkin and Uglich – each closely connected with the Golden Ring. None of them are difficult to reach from Moscow, yet they are a bit removed from the main byways, in comparison with their more successful neighbors.

We set out in two cars. In the first car, I drove with my friend and her 12-year-old granddaughter, Katya. The second – younger – flight consisted of my 20-year-old daughter Anna and a couple of her friends.

We were traveling to familiar locations, but still, I had to wonder how the “young” Volkswagen and my little Zhiguli would hold up on roads running through the empty Russian countryside. Would the trip be interesting for a young girl, for a gaggle of students and for us grown-ups?

We did not bother reserving hotels in advance, deciding that our first destination, Pereslavl-Zalessky, would not likely be overrun by crowds of tourists. We would surely find somewhere to put up for the night.

We were out on the Yaroslavl road early, expecting to arrive in Pereslavl around 10 or 11 in the morning. We planned to say our farewells to Moscow life by picking up a bite to eat at a McDonald’s on the way out of town.

We met at the McDonald’s at 7:30. Alas, it did not open until eight. Deciding not to waste a half-hour waiting for it to open, we set off, our trip having begun with a failure. Still, you can’t very well set out on an empty stomach, can you?

Thus did one of the first pleasant details of our journey take shape: many “survival issues” can be easily worked out beyond the Moscow Ring Road. Our country seems to have left behind those times when, heading out on a journey, one had to take along a stock of food, a thermos of tea, bottled water, a sleeping bag and all sorts of other things.

Soon after McDonald’s, there was a BP gas station, where we were able to fill up the tank with good gas, have a nice bite to eat, sip some coffee, buy a map – in a word, secure a good start to our journey. To be honest, however, it was the first and last BP station on our journey, but on the entire path of our travels, it was practically impossible to be hungry or short on fuel. The sides of the road between Moscow and Pereslavl are crawling with little cafés, shashlyk-sellers, and people selling souvenirs, chicken, potatoes, milk, tea, coffee – you name it. Of course, the food was not of the highest quality, but sometimes you get an urge to stop for a bite of something in a dive of a restaurant, to eavesdrop on what the professional drivers are talking about at the neighboring tables. Of course, we could not do this too often. After all, we planned on seeing three towns in three days, so we had to hurry along a bit.

The driving was easy. The road to Sergiyev Posad is probably one of the best in the Moscow region (not far from here are some state residences, thus the asphalt is always kept in top condition). But one quickly stops thinking about pavement, gas stations and McDonald’s. We started to get the feeling that we were traveling backward in time, to the very distant past. For one, the air changed. With every kilometer that separated us further from Moscow, it got easier and easier to breathe. The dust and soot of the megapolis receded.

Our goal is Pereslavl, but one can’t help being attracted by the signposts along the road, beckoning us to turn off and go take a look at what is there. We drive past the turn for the town named for Sergei Korolyov, creator of the Russian space program. There is nothing of particular interest for a tourist there, but still, driving past the place where the first rockets were built, you can’t help breathing in a whiff of history. In the Bygone Days, you would not even have seen the name of this place on maps, much less on a road sign. Today, a rocket stands at the intersection leading to the town. We don’t turn off, of course, but continue down the road toward Sergiyev Posad, continuing to roll back the hands of time.

For someone familiar with Russian culture, the signposts are like placards in a museum. There is the road leading to Muranovo, the home of Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev, where he wrote many of his wonderful poems. Further on is the turnoff for Radonezh. Somewhere not far from here, in the 14th century, the adolescent Bartholomew had a spiritual vision and was soon transformed into the hermit Sergei, later becoming one of Russia’s most revered saints. Sergei lived alone in the surrounding forests, only ever disturbed in his hut by a visiting bear. One is not likely to meet with any bears here today, but the thick forest, pushing up against the road from both sides, makes it easy to imagine living the life of a medieval hermit.

The next signpost is for Abramtsevo, home of the famous millionaire Sergei Mamontov, who loved to take artists, architects and musicians under his wing. The Abramtsevo Circle, founded here in the second half of the 19th century, laid the foundation of Russian Moderne. We fight the urge to turn off toward Abramtsevo and see its superb church, its wonderful mansion, its works of art. But the road carries us along.

The woods part. Before us is a fork in the road. If we drive straight on, we will end up in Sergiyev Posad, a town that rose up around the monastery founded by that famous hermit turned saint, Sergei Radonezhsky. Another sidetrip, but not one for today. Our road turns toward Yaroslavl.

Soon, another trap gapes before us: the road to Uglich. But we do not succumb. Uglich can wait. We continue driving toward Yaroslavl and the roads take a turn for the worse, particularly in Vladimir region. Yet, as if in compensation, the views along the road are increasingly beautiful.

After another hour and a half of driving, we arrive in Pereslavl, a town with a surprising fate. In a time before memory, a glacier passed through here and left in its wake a huge and beautiful lake, which would later be named Pleshcheyevo. Wild tribes lived on its shores – there is a living memory of them. To this day, there is a huge Blue Stone on the shore, once a place of ancient pagan rites.

In the 12th century, immigrants from southern Rus’ arrived here. They named the town in memory of a southern Pereslavl. Yet the new arrivals, who came from the Ukrainian steppes, were amazed by the thick forests stretching to the horizons all around them. Thus the name: Pereslavl-Zalessky, meaning Pereslavl Hidden by the Forest.

For several centuries, Pereslavl was the center of an important Russian principality. Fortifications and a church survive from the 12th century, as does memory of Prince Alexander Nevsky, the most famous ruler of Pereslavl. In the 14th century, this area became part of the Moscow principality. Beginning in the 17th century, Pereslavl was overshadowed by its famous neighbor, Yaroslavl. Trade, money, construction – it all began to gradually concentrate in that town on the Volga. Pereslavl became a small town, but it preserved its identity, some industry and trade.

Another rise in fortune came during the era of Peter I. The young tsar, who had as yet not won for himself and his country an opening to the sea, began his experiments in sailing on the waters of Lake Pleshcheyevo. Here he built his first ship – the famous grandfather of the Russian Navy – the botik of Peter the Great. Soon, however, Peter went to war with Sweden, founded Petersburg, laid in wharves on the Baltic shore, and life once again quieted down in Pereslavl.

Today, the nearness of Yaroslavl is both a blessing and a curse for this little town. It is good to be a part of rich Yaroslavl region, and life in Pereslavl is sufficiently secure. At the same time, however, the famous neighbor receives the lion’s share of tourist revenues. But then, it would be hard for residents of Pereslavl to complain about a shortage of visitors.

We arrive in the town and decide to quickly settle into a hotel before walking about the town. But this is when we encounter a few surprises. We had carelessly arrived on a Saturday. As it turns out, so had a large number of other people. It was not that there were lots of large tourist buses – groups tend to stay in Yaroslavl and stop over here for just a few hours. But small groups such as ours, which had decided to spend the weekend here, were seemingly everywhere.

As we came into Pereslavl, we found a luxurious suburban hotel, “Lesnaya Skazka,” with wonderful grounds, a pond and plenty of trees. Along the banks of the pond, to the glee of young Katya, roamed a little white goat. Cottages were comfortably disbursed about a rather large territory. But, in a place visible from anywhere on the property, there was a small cage, in which there paced a bear, driven crazy by his confinement. As I considered whether I wanted to spend the entire day staring at this unlucky, tormented animal, the younger ones in our party had already found the administrator. She looked at us with sincere amazement. “You can’t be serious! You have to make reservations with us at least two weeks in advance.” There you have it. Life made simpler for us, I said goodbye to the unlucky bear and we head back down the road.

In the next hour, we discover that, in little provincial Pereslavl, there are many hotels. Just none for us.

I knew that there is a big hotel here called “Pereslavl,” built in the Soviet era, but quite decent. We ask, and are given simple directions: “Go to the traffic light, and you’ll see it there.”

As it turns out, most of the rooms in the hotel were being refurbished. And all the others were taken. Ah well, perhaps next summer things will be simpler and more comfortable.

We decided to investigate small, cozy hotels which advertised themselves on almost every corner. A little hotel with the promising name “Zapad” (West) announced that it meets international standards and offers wireless Internet access. Alas, we were unable to verify their quality – all the rooms were booked.

The owners of the luxurious “Subaru” hotel stood blocking the entrance and glowered at us with indulgent sympathy. They advised us to seek out the hotel “Komfort.” There, a truly homey feel reigned – just four rooms and a large table on the first floor, where guests took meals together. Unfortunately, we had arrived too late. Gritting our teeth, we drove out of the town and went to visit the botik of Peter the Great.

Here, it is bustling with tourists and there is a small camping site. When we ask if there are any vacancies, we receive only lugubrious smiles. Everything has long since been sold out.

The situation is becoming critical. Somewhere on the outskirts, we are told, is the hotel “Zvyozdochka.” But, judging by the reviews, it is a rather ungodly place. The administrator of the campsite, seeing our confusion, recommends that we drive further from the town and try to get into the sanatorium “Slavich.” And we should go quickly, he says: at noon a new crop of tourists will arrive there, and now it is 11 am. We rush to our cars and 10 minutes later find ourselves ensconced in Slavich’s last rooms. Of course, there are no creature comforts. Two rooms for the six of us and bathrooms down the hall. But still, it is clean and quiet, and we can stroll along the shore and rest peacefully.

The conclusion from these adventures is clear: you need to reserve your room in advance when you go to Pereslavl. And yet, if you try, you can probably find an acceptable room somewhere.   

Having caught our breath, we set off to see the sights. We park the cars in the center of town and go on foot. The town seems rather small, but there are itineraries here for every taste. For lovers of architecture, there is the wonderful 12th century Transfiguration of the Savior church, before which stands a monument to Alexander Nevsky. Or, more likely, to the actor Nikolai Cherkasov, who starred in this role in Eisenstein’s film. For those interested in religion, there are several ancient monasteries. For history buffs, there is a superb local history museum where, it so happens, excursions are even offered in English. Or you can investigate the remains of the fortress or see Peter’s botik. Those who prefer to relax in the bosom of nature can pitch their tents on the lakeshore, where many centuries before pagan rituals took place around the Blue Stone. Want to wax nostalgic about time gone by? Head to the dilapidated city gardens and see if you can imagine how the town’s residents once danced here to band music.

But this town is not simply a pleasant place to walk around. It is clear that some very pleasant people live here as well. Goodwill is found everywhere, from those who happily provide directions and give advice, to those who willingly talk about their town. Tanya, a young girl with whom we strolled for a time along the main street, proudly announced that several of Moscow’s educational institutions had opened affiliates in Pereslavl. “It is rather convenient,” she explained, “to study in a Moscow institute and live at home.” There you have it. And we all deceive ourselves into thinking that the youth in all of Russia’s small towns only think of how to run away to Moscow. “What are you talking about?!” our young friend replies. “We live well here now.”

True enough, the streets are clean, and the homes seem quite pleasant. The long Rostov ulitsa, the town’s main axis, is lined with little houses built in the 18th and 19th centuries. Several of them are quite shabby, but there are also some rather nice ones. In the distance, new homes are visible. “In all the new buildings, they are laying a separate line for the Internet,” Tatyana adds. That is one of the advantages of neighboring Yaroslavl – it is one of the most computerized cities in Russia. In any case, the people on the street appear to be quite satisfied with their lives here. Everywhere there are little cafés and restaurants – mainly simple, but clean and with polite waiters. And the restaurant “Rita” in the hotel Pereslavl has excellent food.

But that is still not all. People here have an unusual world-view. This became clear in the park-museum, where they exhibit different types of plants. The tour guide, digressing from her talk on coniferous trees, noted that elks gladly eat pine needles, but hares don’t like them. To my question, as to how she could know that hares don’t like pine needles, she answered simply, “Oh, you can see it in their faces.”

If there are people here who can discern meaning from the faces of hares, then this is no simple town. Another example: one resident is writing a history of all the local buildings. For now, he has published a book about just a few streets, but it is simply excellent. He describes not just construction dates and architectural peculiarities, but whom the author has visited in these homes, whom he remembers from his school days... in a word, you get the impression that the entire town is one pleasant and friendly family.

This was verified in the very center of the city, where there is a little wooden house painted in bright, lubok colors bearing the proud inscription: “Museum of the Iron.” This place has a simply tremendous collection of old irons and other household items. And this leads to an invitation to visit the Museum of Teapots (“chayniki”), located outside the town, as the two museums have one owner. On our way rushing to the sanatorium, we had seen another “playful” house with its own bright inscription: “Here live chayniki.” Now we understood. This would obviously have to be our next stop.

We were even luckier with the chayniki than with the irons. The tour was led by the creator and owner of both museums, Andrei Vorobyov. And it was so interesting and pleasant and funny that all of us – young Katya and our ironic students and we of the older generation, as well as a number of other visitors – were simply in awe. The museum is not just full of teapots, but also has sugar bowls, portable collapsible candlesticks, a little box for knitting, a huge horned bug designed for taking off shoes and much more.

After the tour, Vorobyov told us that he is actually an unsuccessful chemist and knows no other work other than collecting old things, because he is, as he put it, “simply lazy.” In reality, it is obvious what huge labor and spirit has been invested in these two museums. They are cheerfully painted in “toy” colors, on the fence and walls are painted funny sayings like “Drink tea, don’t chop wood,” and “Entrance without a camera is forbidden.” Perhaps Andrei Vorobyov also created the steam locomotive museum we have heard about down the road? “Steam engines are our friends,” he says, in answer to my questions. “We talk about them, they are a part us.” So we decide to stop in tomorrow at the Steam Engine Museum, on the way to Uglich. We owe nothing less to the friends of teapots and irons.

The day in Pereslavl was declared a

victory. All three of our generations were satisfied, all equally captivated by the museums, homes, parks, Peter’s botik, and, of course, the irons and teapots. In the evening, we casually drove along the shore of the lake, examined the Blue Stone and returned to our sanatorium. In the morning, we had a tasty breakfast in the “Rita” restaurant and headed off toward Uglich.

The road from Pereslavl to Uglich is on the map, but tourist itineraries bypass it. They tend to go from Yaroslavl to Pereslavl or from Yaroslavl to Uglich. There are trips directly from Moscow to Uglich, but, judging by the emptiness of the road, very few travel from Pereslavl to Uglich. We quickly turned off into the forest to the Steam Engine Museum – friends of the teapots. It was also an amazing place, worthy of anyone’s attention. Inside a huge depot there is a wide variety of wagons and engines, large and small, Soviet and foreign. There was a surprising exhibit of a car – a limousine – made to ride on the rails, obviously for some kind of boss during the Stalin era who thought he needed to ride the rails in a limousine, and not in a normal train car. It also turned out that, with a reservation, you can arrange to ride in a steam engine, of course for a not insignificant chunk of change. Excursions travel here from Pereslavl on the very exotic “cuckoo” – an ancient train pulling behind it two little cars – the sort of thing that traveled this way 70-80 years ago.

Bidding farewell to the steam engines, we hurried off, not certain what quality of roads we would face. As it turned out, it was not so bad. Of course, cafés and gas stations were now a bit more rare – for eight kilometers there was not even any asphalt. But the views made up for any other shortcomings. Several times we stopped simply to photograph the landscape and breathe in the sun-filled air. In the “student” car, the girls opened up the sunroof and hung out, waving their arms and crying something out into the wind. Of course, I am not fond of such behavior while driving, but I understood them completely – all around us everything was so beautiful, sunny and spacious, that you constantly wanted to sing and be happy.

In a few hours, we arrived on the outskirts of Uglich, but we suddenly decided, without even going into the town, to turn off toward Myshkin.

Here is where something completely fantastic began. First, in order to go from Uglich to Myshkin, you have to cross the Volga along the top of a hydroelectric dam. It is, perhaps, one of the ugliest confabulations I have seen in my life, yet it is still very, very impressive. And then, leaving behind this giant of iron and concrete, we entered the tiny, quaint town of Myshkin.

It would actually be a bit of a stretch to call Myshkin a town. About six thousand people live here, a part of the town having been drowned by the construction of the very dam we just drove across. Some time ago, they even took away Myshkin’s designation as a town, but then, later, they gave it back.

If Pereslavl is a town with treasures, then Myshkin is quite simply a treasure-town, or perhaps a gem-town. Certainly a museum town.

At first blush, it would seem that there is nothing special to exhibit here. Myshkin was a small town, where, legend has it, some prince fell asleep during a hunting expedition and dreamed of a mouse – thus the name, derived from mysh (“mouse”). Hard working and prosperous people lived here, trading bread up and down the Volga. But today they mainly work on the gas line that passes by not far away.

In recent times, Myshkin began to capitalize on its name. The clever residents built a Mouse Museum. In the summer, they have a City Day during which the festive residents carry huge mice figurines down the street. Thanks to this museum, the town is even beginning to draw cruise ships, packed with tourists. The arrival of a ship is one of the main events in the life of the town. Passengers are met by traders of all sorts of mouse souvenirs, be they ceramic, sewn or mice in the shape of clocks. Of course, there are also the usual spoons, ceramic tiles and woven shawls. But the main thing is that the residents here have succeeded in turning Myshkin into a huge open-air exhibition.

Across from the Mouse Museum is the Ethnographic Museum, which can easily be compared to many similar institutions in some large cities. It was started by a local retiree, a former journalist. But it did not remain simply the affair of an eccentric enthusiast. He was surrounded by a fairly large group of people who, it seems, gathered together all of the old things which they could get their hands on from the surrounding area. And thus the museum has everything, from an ancient stone cross and pagan decorations, to keys, locks and dishes from the 19th century, to clothing, letters and photographs from the Second World War, to tractors and machinery from the first Five Year Plan. It would be simply impossible to list all of the many-varied exhibitions.

In the museum’s yard, alongside the tractors and boats of the Soviet era, 19-year-old Kolya offers visitors something unusual: a chance to try their hand at throwing a clay pot. My daughter was in ecstasy at the potter’s wheel, making a vase. Kolya told us how a local master taught him this ancient art. The old fellow did not want to reveal his secrets, because, Kolya said, “in general he really didn’t like to talk to other people.” Kolya finally convinced him to open up and then served as his apprentice for a year. Now Kolya throws cups, vases, pots and whistles for tourists, gathering up the clay he needs from a special place not far from the town. Next year he will go into the army. But after that he plans to return here and continue with his art.

The town does have a special House of Crafts, where one can train to be a potter or an ironsmith, but Kolya prefers to work alone. We watch how a graceful vase takes shape from beneath his fingers. Anna is not satisfied with her work and again and again throws something crooked and off-balance, yet still rather nice. We finally tire of the potting lessons and continue on to the Museum of Pyotr Smirnoff.

It turns out that the creator of the famous vodka was born in a village located not far from here. As a result, in a neighboring building there is an exhibition of the vodkas of Smirnoff. I should say that the organizers of this museum have done something truly incredible – they are receiving money in their venture from both of the sparring factions of the Smirnoff family. And what is most interesting is not the museum’s retelling of the history of this vodka’s production, but its collection of wonderful, multi-colored bottles, cups and decanters  from the 19th century – every one just begs to be placed on a table alongside a bowl of sour pickles.

Rabidly salivating, we remember with sadness that we are driving, and so we continue on through the town. The wonders continue. In this miniscule town, there is a music school and an art gallery, where they display works of art found in local estates and done by local artists. An entire hall is given over to the quite good paintings done by a Myshkin plumber. On the main square is a library, founded back in the 19th century. Once a year they have scientific lectures here.

But the most excellent thing the Myshkiners (Myshkintsy in Russian, by the way) have thought up are the little plaques affixed to most of the old homes. Reading them, you simply don’t know how to express your delight. “Here lived counterfeiters, but the residents of Myshkin did not take offense, because they printed their money here and spent it in the capital.” In another: “There lived a noble family. They were poor but proud and gave everything they had in service to their town.” Next door was a pivnaya – a pub, as it were – which was famous not just for serving fine beer, but for offering all manner of newspapers and journals. On the next street lived the brothers Smirnoff, builders who filled the town with homes made in their particular style – with carved facades. There is a house that was electrified at the beginning of the 20th century. In another was the volunteer fire brigade, in which served the head of the village himself.

In short, it is as if you are walking about in a huge museum. For this, one can excuse Myshkin even for its large number of empty and broken-down homes, for its primitive food offerings, and for the absence of normal hotels. One would like to believe that the level of tourist service can only increase. It is obvious that the locals have enthusiasm, but even that can ebb.

We ate shashlyk which was prepared and brought to us by two huge fellows who clearly had very little understanding of how to treat guests. But, thanks to their excessive desire to serve us and to give us the best of everything, even their cardboard plates began to seem lovely.

Toward evening, having filled ourselves to bursting with impressions, we returned to Uglich. We drove back across the huge dam and stopped at the Hotel Uspenskaya, in the city center. The situation here is different from Pereslavl. Uglich is a much larger town and one with a long tradition of hosting tourists. There are plenty of hotels here, but the Uspenskaya is the clear leader. It is situated right alongside all of the main sites; rooms are to European style and standards, and prices are truly Russian. There is even a paid car park, a sauna, billiards and, within the hotel, an inexpensive cafe with good food. Truth be told, the barmen had not a clue about how to mix drinks, but, under my tutelage, he managed to make something resembling a daiquiri.

Not far away was a Caucasian restaurant with the most succulent shashlyk. Next to that was another café, and yet another. In other words, there were plenty of ways to relax after the long day.  Before heading off to bed, we strolled in the city park. Local youths whisked about on scooters among the ancient churches. The moon’s glow cast a bright road along the waters of the Volga. It was as if we were in some kind of old Russian fairy tale.

But of course I was already worrying about tomorrow. Monday is a day when, according to Russian tradition, all museums are closed. Would we really not be able to see anything in Uglich? “What are you talking about?!” the hotel administrator replied in surprise. “Everything here is for tourists. If there are tourists, then the museums will be open. What, is this not how it is in other cities?”

Now that’s how it should be. A city where everything is for the tourists. Perhaps we had arrived in a rather fine place indeed.

The next day, it all turned out to be true. There is, in fact, plenty to see in Uglich. What is more, the city can be rationally divided into two halves. On the one side, closer to the docks, there is something like a zone for foreign tourists. This is where the cruise ships stop and where excursions depart for the older churches, as tour guides recount the main events in the city’s history, stirring up events from four-hundred plus years ago.

It was here, under mysterious circumstances, that Dmitry, the 10-year-old heir to Ivan the Terrible, died. To this day, historians still cannot decide if he was murdered or whether he accidentally fell upon a knife while suffering from an epileptic seizure. But, whatever the truth, it was a tragic event, perhaps one of the most significant in Russian history. And it happened here in Uglich, where today a marvelously beautiful church stands. Alongside the ancient city center, of course, there are hawkers of souvenirs for tourists: matryoshki, scarves, tshirts – everything is waiting.

But then there is the other half of Uglich. All you have to do is walk a few dozen meters and it turns out that Uglich has many surprising places.

The King of Vodka, Pyotr Smirnoff, is immortalized here as well, although not on such a level as in Myshkin. In Uglich, they have created a museum with the proud name, “The Library of Russian Vodka.” When I asked why they have called it a library, the answer was very simple: “A library has every type of book; we have here every type of vodka.” The collection is truly impressive. What kind of vodka don’t they produce in our immense nation? There were bottles with images of commanders and historical personalities, with the names of cities and architectural monuments. There was, of course, Smirnoff vodka, but there was also Yeltsin vodka and Gorbachev vodka and Putin vodka. There were infused vodkas from all sorts of herbs and berries. And, of course, what kind of library would it be if you could not familiarize yourself with its contents? A vodka tasting was also on offer.

Young Katya was getting a bit bored, so we headed off to the Puppet Museum. It too was a rather surprising place. In a little house, right next door to the hordes of souvenir-mongers, there was a fine exhibition of puppets crafted by local artists. And they were such incredible puppets that once again our entire age-differentiated party forgot how old they each were.

Then, behind a second door, practically in the same building – as if to underscore the contrast – was the Museum of Prison Art. Here they exhibit items created by prisoners and, obviously, taken from them during searches. There were portraits sketched on bedsheets, maps made from photos of political figures, images of languid maidens and pictures of grinning tigers. And, in a neighboring room, there was a chamber in which one could, if one so desired, be locked up for a time. Hurrying away from that room and picking up, just in case, a volume on prison jargon, we went back out into the street. Freedom is a good thing.

It was time to head home, and yet it was not possible to leave without taking in the Museum of Russian Superstitions. On our way there, however, a schism developed: some of our number thought that nothing good could come from a museum with such a name. And then, again, as happened repeatedly on this trip, foolish presentiments came to nothing. Before us was the museum associated with what might be called superstitions, or perhaps national beliefs, or vestiges of paganism. And, once again it turned out to be a surprising place, of interest to grown-ups and children alike. The young ones were fascinated by images of witches, forest sprites and mermaids. The older generation was captivated by the colorful guide’s tales – we could not have asked for anything more.

We picked up various good luck charms and talismans and began to prepare for our return trip. Prior to our departure, we stopped for a coffee in a café and ice cream shop next to the hotel. It turned out to have no lesser quality or selection than you would find in a Moscow establishment.

We honestly did not want to return to the capital. We wanted to keep going further down the road, stopping at other small and not-so-small towns. And we could even have spent more time in the three we visited. But alas, time waits for no one. We headed back to Moscow directly from Uglich, not stopping anywhere. After four hours on an excellently paved road, along which we constantly wanted to stop and take in the marvelous views, we could already sense that we were approaching Moscow. Once again, we passed through the town of Korolyov – we already could breathe in the smells of the megapolis – the dust, noise and cars.

In reality, we had not been so far away, but it seemed as if the previous three days were spent in an entirely different world.

Up ahead, McDonald’s loomed.

Apparently, our travels had come to an end.  RL