Out in the "provinces," as snooty Muscovites are liable to call everything in Russia except, just possibly, St. Petersburg, the natives have retained much of the whimsical absurdity of the old days, while blending it in with the new freedom.
My favorite Yaroslavl sight is, perversely, not one of the beautiful churches, the pristine white Kremlin, the long, shady promenades along the Volga river. It is a street sign. The name of the avenue in question is "Ulitsa Sobinov, formerly Tsimmervald, formerly Semyonovskaya, formerly Srubnaya, formerly Netecha." Whew. That about covers it. If any survivors of Yaroslavl's 13th century heyday show up, at least they won't be confused by new street names.
Another of Yaroslavl's more charming features is Masha. A couple of years ago a circus came to town, with a cute little bear cub named, of course, Masha. Her trainer fell ill and was unable to leave with the troupe, abandoning Masha to the tender mercies of the town's residents. Luckily, she couldn't have been in better hands.
Yaroslavl's symbol is a handsome bear striding through the centuries with what looks like a meat cleaver slung jauntily over his shoulder, so the loyal Yaroslavlites could hardly just ignore Masha's plight. They took up a collection to provide their local teddy bear with a comfortable winter hibernation den, which was built on the grounds of the local Kremlin.
Come spring, Masha's trainer was out of the hospital, and grateful for all that Yaroslavl had done for his pet. So, rather than rejoin his circus, he set up permanent residence on the Kremlin grounds, where he charges visitors a small fee to see the town mascot. It is a hard-hearted visitor indeed who does not add a bit extra for food after he or she sees Masha's adorable antics.
The hotel I stayed in had hot water. That was the good news. The bad news was that the water smelled a lot like the inside of a sewer, as did I after bathing in it. I presume it came from the river -- the odor wafting through my windows complemented the aroma from the bath. But the hardy local residents were not to be deterred-- they sought relief from the heat with a dip, refusing to interrupt their swim even for a fairly impressive thunderstorm.
The Yaroslavl charm extended to the ride home. I had not purchased a train ticket in advance, and showed up at the station laden with suitcases and anxious to get home. Warming up at the platform was a Khabarovsk to Moscow train. I asked an official-looking young man where I could get a ticket, and he smiled and said, "Hop on," which I did, with alacrity, as the train was about to pull out.
There is no such thing as a free ride, however. Besides the fact that I had to slip the guy 10,000 rubles, I was stuck in a platskartny car -- open bunks full of people who had not had a shower since eastern Siberia.
My trip ended in Moscow with an ambulance ride. Not as the result of any unfortunate occurrence -- a very nice skoraya pomoshch driver just decided to supplement her income by giving me a ride from the station -- also for 10,000 rubles.
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