Woke at five and wrote two blog entries, which took me to 10:45 mostly because I get caught up in editing and looking up clarifications on the internet and time flies away. I approached the concierge about negotiating entrance to the Hermitage Storage Facility and the Stieglitz Academy and Museum over the phone, and she went to bat for me immediately. No luck. The Hermitage played pass-the-problem-to-another-department until she called one that doesn’t answer their phones. The plucky and determined concierge, named Xenia after the patron saint of the city, assured me she’d keep trying. She was wry and expressive and funny and clearly capable. Just watching her work her magic over the phone was entertaining.
I walked to the corner to try the Angel of Happiness café, and it was way too high-end hip and crowded. I loved the place mat.
My server didn’t approve of my choice to have milk with my granola instead of yogurt, and let her displeasure be known. The granola was great, like a homemade version of Sugar Smacks loaded with many varieties of nuts. Took this photo of this guy outside the window, holding a bouquet of daisies and texting, thinking he’s’ gonna get lucky.
Before I left, he walked in with the object of his affection; a blonde in supple black leather. No wonder he was so hopeful.
Decided to walk to the Benois wing of the Russian museum and set out, following my Google Maps GPS. I pasted in an address from my master list. Bad call. It led me far away in the wrong direction. When I figured out I had nearly walked back to my old hotel, I stopped and called Uber. Know when you are defeated.
Scooted to the first place on my shopping list, Loft Project Etazhi (74 Ligovsky Prospect). I vaguely recalled it described as many arty shops in a loft. Pay dirt! Walked into the courtyard from the street into a mash-up of Wonderroot, Krog Street market, Homegrown, with an East Atlanta/Earl vibe. Skinny, young(er) people with bubblegum pink streaks in peacock blue hair, or shaved and cut at angles, or – extra credit – a sprongy mass of dreds to the waist. Guys with green top knots. Everyone pecking away on their phones, more texting then talking. Lots of I-am-too-cool-to have-a-facial-expression stares, but also lots of little kids, from babes in arms to toddlers lurching around, to resigned youths of eight or nine glued to their iPhones. It reminded me of Krog Street Market, but much rougher physically, People kept pouring in, paying 100 rubles to get in the loft door. It was a street party in an alley.
The interior was falling apart (sections of the wooden bannister rail came off in my hand. Twice,) but creatively divvyed up. Multiple tiny cubbies, made with loving hands out of scrap wood and lollypop colored plastic panels and insulation board. Raw edges and patchwork of found materials; the unisex bathroom stall doors were made out of insulation foam boards. 
There were five floors of these hole-in the-wall-shops stocked with hipster/boho/Goth/hippie/rocker/souvenier merch. Excellent! Some American thrift store tat, cool local designers who must be sewing in their bedrooms, sneakers, ‘herbs’, soap, pizza on hotplates and pushed through windows, magnets, charms, cards, leather cuff bracelets, and so on.
I thought this would be ideal for Robin, but needed her confirmation. Texted her the photo.
I didn’t hear back – I think it was 2am her time – so ended up buying a few small things and a teeshirt. On the fourth floor I stepped into a large open restaurant where the bread factory had been. Made by loving hands hippie decor reminded me of back in the day in Haight-Ashbury. Wooden crates, for light fixtures, tin buckets for delivering the check, Yellow butterflies cut out of construction paper and tacked onto every exposed surface; walls, ducts, columns, windows, and tables. I thought of Remedios the Beauty in 100 Years of Solitude who metamorphoses into yellow butterflies. Or maybe it’s a sly reference to Nabokov. The window ledges were lined with tropical plants and desert cacti. 
Intended to order something safe, but asked the waitress what she suggested. Mushroom pancakes was her answer and I said yes, though my heart sank. She brought me blini with fresh sautéed mushrooms in a light cream sauce and it was fantastic. My lucky day!
Three costumed figures turned up. I don’t know if they were folk tale Russian characters or hipster weirdness. This couple wandered around doing mime and posing with the clientele.
A top floor art gallery displayed drippy versions of famous people; Bill Murray, Frida Kahlo, Woody Allen. No Russians. The air was redolent with Hookah smoke, pizza, sneezy incense, coffee, and that essential oils and soap reek. Thumping club music, twittery electronica, American R&B made it an ongoing battle of the bands. Looked out the window and saw the green buds of birch tree leaves dotting the bare branches and remember how when he saw the sticky little leaves as they open in spring, Ivan Karamazov fell back in love with the world he wanted to renounce. Then this happened;
On the way out I bought myself a soft, clementine orange bag in leather-ish material made in St Petersburg. Just a simple tote, but it pleased me mightily. Left with Incense clinging to my hair like a halo.
Ubered back to the Astoria with its distinctive red awnings and air of prosperity and permanence. Got a yes to the shirt from Robin, so will return and nab it tomorrow. The concierge had worked magic – I’m scheduled for tours in both places. Russian language, but that doesn’t matter, I just want to look. She said they were impressed I was from Atlanta because of our famed Kimball museum. Um, no. That’s in Fort Worth.
