Did laundry in the sink, because I need thin socks to wear now that St Petersburg has blue skies and 60 degree weather. The lovely Astoria had heated towel racks that will dry them in a trice.
Ate my breakfast downstairs. It was a tad formal for my relaxed Beverly Hillbillies style, but they seated me with a view of the Saint Isaac’s Cathedral. Service was impeccable, performed by waitstaff so attractive you’d think you were in LA. When I asked for porridge with raisins, it appeared in a porcelain bowl. My double shot cappuccino was world class. I ate while I sized photos for the blog, happy as an overpriced clam on ice in a silver bowl.
Ubered over to the Stieglitz museum and Academy of Art and Design. The driver was a double for Herc on The Wire. His English was serviceable and he wanted to chat, a double rarity among Russian Uber drivers. He told me he had worked in Moscow for 30 years, but he liked living in St Petersburg better. No, he didn’t go to the May 1 parade, he didn’t approve of those politics. On impulse, I showed him my video clip on my phone of the perky, prancing Russian drummer girls and he softened like butter in the tropics.
Popped out at the Stieglitz, and knocked on the door. My stout guide had an air of benevolent command and was the the doppelgänger of the announcer in the Wendy’s Burger ad from the 80s. She unlocked the first of many sets of metal gates, and off we went, her chatelaine of keys rattling. Stieglitz created a monument to the applied art and design, making the building itself a kind of visual text book, a marvelously illustrated folio of arts and crafts through the ages. Both students and the graduates of the school actively participated in the painting and decoration. The interior murals and frescos were copied from both Italian and Moscovian Palaces; hall after hall, ceiling after ceiling.
I wanted to fall to my back on the floor and just soak it in. I had a fantasy of lying on a well-padded handcart and being wheeled through the halls.
Turns out the school is closed on Mondays and we had the place to ourselves. My guide would point and announce ‘perspective’, or ‘19th century’.
Certain words, like cloisonné, required no translation. Gestures, and writing dates with her finger in dust, worked well. I discovered I preferred non-verbal tours. I spent more time looking and less time talking. She lingered near the textiles: wall mounted glass cases of dolls dressed in the regalia of their Russian region, cases of vintage French silk upholstery swatches, dresses for brides and pregnant woman, elaborate headdresses, variations on the embroidered coif.
We strolled halls lined with Spanish, French, and Italian escritoires ornamented with carving, petra dure mosaics, marquetry.
Galleries surrounding a central courtyard exhibition space were lined with copies of the broken, powerful figures of the Parthenon friezes.
Paint spattered, well-used easels and rickety chairs were set up for students.
Restoration work from the depredations of the Soviet era is ongoing. 
I got excited over a small metal box and communicated via my iPhone that I was making a bronze casket, after which she brought me behind the velvet ropes and opened various boxes for me to examine.
I typed ‘I prefer skill and beauty,’ and she sighed and indicated she loved medieval period. We bonded.
For all that the Stieglitz was plundered by the Soviets and left dusty, stripped of acquisitions, and frayed around the edges, it was still a treasure house of imagery and cultural achievements, and she was its keeper. We walked the halls for over an hour. I departed filled to the brim with beauty and possibilities, and a deep happiness that this cradle for applied arts survived being looted, whitewashed, and turned into a gym. It was, without a doubt, the best 2000 rubles I ever spent.
Recall how disappointed I was, how angry at being thwarted when I first knocked on this door and was turned away? I had to figure out a way to finagle a tour, which resulted in this deeply satisfying experience. ‘Things have a mysterious way of working out,’ as my friend Tom Magill used to say. Have a little faith.
Afterwards I called Uber and went to Café Zoom. Score! Delightful ambience, great food, and best of all, kind, smiling waitstaff. 
Very like Teplo, with a playful menu and a sense that families were welcome. I started with a salad of fresh shaved carrots and apples, my entree was cod on mashed potatoes, and I drank a non-alcoholic mojito; 7-up, lime, and mint. Very refreshing. The check came in a children’s book about a frog.
It was 3pm by the time I walked back to Astoria. I did the bulk of my packing for the trip home, and some reading. Thank you, Rose Lerner, for Listen to the Moon, book three of the Lively St. Lemeston series. Her story about an out of work valet and his maid of all work sweetheart fit right in with my day spent in glorious halls that needed dusting. Read until midnight, but didn’t wake until 7, so that’s good.
Last night I felt like I might be sickening, coming down with something; sore throat, headache. Not cholera, but not good. Uh oh.
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