Today was crazy in the best possible way. My plan had been to walk to the Kazan Cathedral, Uber over the shop in Loft Project Etazhi and buy that perfect flowy-yet-structured blouse for Robin, and end the day visiting the Benois wing of the Russian Museum.
I walked to the corner and grabbed a flat white double shot and an almond croissant. Started toward Kazan, looked up from my iPhone map and realized the intersection with Nevsky Prospekt was empty. What the what? This is the 5th Avenue and Broadway of St. Petersburg, thronging with humanity and bumper to bumper cars 24/7.
I turned onto Nevsky Prospekt to find police and soldiers lining the curbs, one every ten or 12 feet. They looked really young, in their teens and early twenties. A parade was coming in 15 minutes. I’d been told the Victory Day Parade was on the 9th, but this was the Labor Day Parade, International Workers Day.
I changed my plans instantly. Not missing this once in a lifetime experience. Turns out, though it looked like they were braced for riots, the parade was as mellow as the Inman the Park Festival, even without my funky favorites, the Seed and Feed Abominable Marching Band. Balloons galore, babies in strollers, girls in short skirts with pompoms, and homemade floats in the back of pickup trucks. It was an entirely peaceful crowd, and most of the people walking in the parade looked like they were doing a 5K for charity. Ambling along, smiling at the blue sky, babies on shoulders.
There were occasional synchronized cheers, but for what, I have no clue. A proud Putin supporter on the sidelines waved his flag. Everybody got along.
The cops were mostly there to keep people from swarming the streets with their iPhone cameras, and from crossing in front of the marchers. A lost cause, that. The babushkas did it anyway, and the boy soldiers got red-faced, and looked like they wanted to cry. I posted a clip on FaceBook of a lady drum line – adorable and so perky. May 9th is when the tanks roll down the streets and I was told that, from now until then everybody takes time off, like our unofficial Christmas to New Year’s break.
After an hour of happy Russian people on parade goodness, I walked up the street to the Kazan Cathedral. Outside, a choir sang in celebration of Orthodox Easter.
Inside, I lit candles for my family and friends.
I wrote a prayer request list too and the lady who took it and my ruble donation sternly demanded, ‘Orthodox?’ ‘No,’ I admitted. ‘Catholic?’ she asked. ‘Yes.’ Turns out that got my prayers in the right slot of the box at her side. I didn’t ask if the two slots were for the sheep and the goats. I’ll wait on Judgement day for that. I thought the Kazan was officially a museum, not a place of worship, but people were lined up to touch this particular icon, and press their foreheads or lips to the lower right side of it. 
Nuns patrolled the aisles, plucking out candle stubs and swiping the glass framed icons with rags that I hoped were soaked in disinfectant. The touching and kissing of icons is something I witnessed in every church I ventured in.*
Urbered to the Etazhi market to buy that blouse for Robin. Alas, the shop was closed and no days/times posted. A kind woman on the register in a nearby shop tried to call them, but the number posted was defunct. Strike one.
Wandered around the Benois wing of the Russian museum, 20th century art that, to my prejudiced eye, was mostly lame, but a few things stood out in a good way A portrait of women mill workers.
It remindedme of the movie Norma Rae, and this portrait of three oncologists in Edinburgh.
This elegant small watercolor of an African woman.
This, mostly because the the delicious light on her toes.
And this happy go lucky duo.
I had another great dinner at Fruktovaya Lavka. They brought me a special plate of Russian Easter treats, on the house. A stollen type bread, cubes of ricotta cheese, nut, and fruit spread, and a colored hardboiled egg. 
By the time I walked back to the Astoria, I had racked up 5.75 miles. Sleepily making plans for tomorrow, since the Hermitage is closed on Mondays.
*Still thinking about what separates spiritual from superstition, and what part ritual plays in a spiritual life. I light candles to direct and focus my intentions, not to solicit divine intervention. I believe in a power greater than myself, I just don’t expect to have any control over it.
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