A Very Interesting Sunday

I had stayed up too late Saturday night, so I was still half asleep when my ride arrived at the apartment. They were going to church, and they had come to pick me up at some horrible hour of the morning to take me with them for Palm Sunday. Ludmilla and Elena are very old friends of Natalia's, and were extremely friendly. We talked the whole hour we spent driving to the church. I had never met Elena before, but found her to be a very interesting woman. She grew up and studied to be a computer programmer in Kaliningrad, the most western oblast in Russia, between Lithuania and Poland on the Baltic Sea. While traveling to Sakhalin Island, many years ago, she had met and married her husband. The two of them moved to Vladivostok, where they have been living for about thirty years. Their only daughter is currently studying economics in India.

It was a long way to the church. The distance as the crow flies wasn't great, but the road to get there was rough and winding. It was on a cove on the Russian Island. I had no idea how big the island actually was, or that there was a town on it. We passed through a tiny town, complete with stores and a school. Driving on through the woods, we saw half-demolished barracks and officer housing, remnants of when the island was a military outpost. 

Then we reached the church. I shouldn't say it was a church, because it was actually a Russian Orthodox Monastery. It was closed off by a high fence, and stepping through the gate, we put on head scarves and skirts that were there. The compound was beautiful. The buildings were in excellent condition, some were old and some were new. There were bee hives off to one side, a small garden, and they told me there was a wide variety of animals as well. 

The hkram (main building), as it is called, was a red brick building with a golden onion dome. This is where the service was held. We stepped through the door. To the right was a small shop where they sold icons, chant music and candles. Ludmilla bought a handful of the small candles and divided them between the three of us. We then passed through the doors to the right and into the central room. 

It was incredible. There were about thirty people there already. Everyone was standing, as there was no place to sit. The ceiling was low, and decorated with beautiful murals. Along the walls were giant pictures of the icons, with holders for the candles in front of them. In the middle of the floor, four tall chairs sat, like columns. There sat four priests, with long white beards, dressed in black robes. Two men, also dressed in black robes, stood at a beautifully carved podium to the side, singing the scriptures and chanting. For the first hour nothing much happened. People listened to the chants. They would cross themselves and bow at intervals, several times each minute. People walked slowly and silently to the different icons. They kissed the beautiful illustrations, lit their candles and stuck them in one of the spaces in the holders. The candle holders were large brass circles or squares, with thirty or fourth small cups for the candles. As more and more people came, the holders filled. It was beautiful, with the brass lit up by all the little lights. 

It grew ever more hot as the lit candles increased, as did the people. But then the real service began. At the back of the room there was a small corridor that ran in a circle around a central sanctuary. This sanctuary was decorated on the outside by exquisitely painted icons and murals, and the double doors were made of carved filigree wood, with scarlet curtains behind them. From a side door coming out of the sanctuary, a tall priest emerged and stood at the side of the room. A long line of people formed in front of him. One by one, people went up to him and he placed a richly embroidered cloth over their head. They bowed and whispered into his ear, or gave him a paper they had written beforehand. Confession, I figured, and the line remained full during the entire service.

Next, the double doors of the inner sanctuary were opened, and a man in magnificent green and gold robes, with an equally impressive beard and hat, strode out. He swung back and forth a golden incense lantern. The smoke billowed out and the little bells adorning the chains chimed as it swung. Everyone bowed low at the waist and remained like that. First, he walked slowly around the circular inner sanctuary. Then he came out into the room where all were standing. The people along the walls moved to the center, and we huddled together as the priest walked around the perimeter. He stopped and prayed at each icon. In the center, we remained bowed over, turning our bodies to face whichever wall the priest walked along. So as he moved along in a circle, we all rotated as one. As he entered the sanctuary again we all straightened up. Looking in, I could see a richly decorated table in the inner room. There stood an impressive candle display, and importantly displayed, the largest, most impressive bible I had ever seen. We all bowed again as the priest took the bible, and holding it above his head, came back out, flanked by candle bearers. He stood in the middle of the room, and while we kept our eyes on the floor, he read for twenty minutes from the Word. 

By the time all this had finished, it had been a little over two hours and the service still wasn't over. The heat was almost unbearable now, and the incense hung thick in the air. Aches had set in after the first hour from all the bowing and standing, and now it too was almost unbearable. Ludmilla and Elena had stepped out for periods of time to sit in the corridor, but I had not. We decided to leave a little early, and shaking slightly, we left. Even the cup of holy water we drank after didn't help much, but as soon as we were out in the fresh cool air, we all felt much better. 

Conversations with Peter

A while back I wrote a blog post about visiting a hospice here in Vlad. I wrote specifically about a certain man named Peter, who had spent time in the United States. I go back to the hospice as often as I can, and spend most of my time there chatting with Peter. We talk about many things: Washington state, Russian-American relations, mysteries of science, literature and Russian culture, to name a few. However, my favorite conversations are those about his travels when he was working on cargo ships. 

On my last visit he talked about a trip to North Korea. He didn't exactly remember the year, but he was working on a ship delivering cargo to a port near Pyongyang. The sailors stayed at a sort of "club," which was a small closed town, with hotels, cafes and stores. It even had its own currency that was given to the sailors. "They didn't want us going into the town," Peter said. 

Peter bought a Korean book there with simple phrases and pronunciation for foreigners. He recalled, with humor, how this caused confusion later when he visited South Korea, and was using phrases he learned from this book, which was written with North Korean pronunciation. "My Korean friend told me after lunch that he had decided I wasn't a North Korean spy!" he laughed. 

During their stay, Peter had to go back to Vladivostok to begin University. His ship however, was not returning to Vladivostok, but continuing south. He spoke to his senior officer and it was arranged that he would take the train back to Russia. He was given his ticket, a can of soup, a sausage, a loaf of bread, and was sent on his way. 

On the train he met two men, and though they didn't share a language, they did share food. He said once he offered them some of his food, they quickly ate it all. "They were so poor. I don't think they had ever tasted sausage in their life," he said. "They traded me small, colorful rice cakes. They were not to my taste, but they were enough to fill me." 

He had very interesting observations of what he saw and the people he met. He spoke of the high, sharp mountains, through which the train wound. All the people, he said, had a pin with the face of the dictator on it. The size, color and beauty of the pins determined their position in society. Large, fancy pins were pinned on the chests of the wealthy and important. Small, plain pins belonged to the lower class. Of the towns he passed through, he recalled how young children would run to shooting school, where they spent the day learning how to shoot various guns. 

He eventually arrived back in Russia and started his studies. With his degree in electrical engineering he continued to work on ships, traveling to more foreign countries. The count is at 15. However, his favorite place in all his travels is Washington state, USA. The place that just so happens to be my home.