Russia

I wondered, yet again, why I did not consider climate and cuisine when I was choosing a regional expertise. Nonetheless, I would be returning to Russia in the upcoming months, so I reached for the Moscow News to catch up on the latest scandals, fiascos and highlights making news back in the land of Putin and permafrost.

A story about a new cultural attraction in St Petersburg caught my eye. A unique museum was opening amidst much fanfare with a controversial exhibit featuring Russia’s most legendary letch and holy man, Grigory Rasputin. `Now this is the Russia I fell in love with,’ I remembered, as my thoughts drifted to my own close encounter with the infamous Mad Monk.

I was living in Yekaterinburg, Russia, a gritty industrial and mining town in the Ural Mountains (like Pittsburgh, without the glitz). I was one of a handful of ex-patriot Americans and Brits working on developing markets, exporting consumerism, and other diplomatic business. Winter nights were long and cold, but we made do, sweating it out in the banya and swizzling Baltika beers.

At the turn of the 20th century, Rasputin was a local mystic with the powers of a seer and healer. He preached (and practiced) that the way to divine grace was through sin and redemption. That means getting rip-roaring drunk and engaging in sexual orgies, and then praying for forgiveness and giving thanks. Then doing it again. Go figure, the doctrine was a hit. Rasputin attracted quite a following, and it was only a matter of time before he took his show on the road to the capital.

In St Petersburg, high society was receptive to Rasputin's teachings. Despite his heavy drinking and sexual scandals – or perhaps because of them – he earned the adoration of an army of aristocratic ladies. Even more notable, Rasputin endeared himself to Tsar Nicholas II. The healer seemed to have the power to ease the pain of his son Alexei, the heir to the throne, who suffered from hemophilia. It was also rumored that the tsar's wife Alexandra became one of Rasputin's devotees.

We were not sure what to expect in Pokrovskoe, but it was worth a short detour to investigate the humble roots of this peasant-turned-priest who was at one time the most powerful man in the Russian Empire.

Jimmy agreed to drive as a way to get out of taking the train. He was used to traveling in high style and he liked his creature comforts. (He normally spent his vacations in Paris, recuperating from Russia with expensive French champagne and stylish French boys. Clearly, sharing a grungy toilet with a train car full of strangers was out of the question.) And so we piled into Jimmy’s maroon Toyota packed with food and alcohol to last us the duration of our journey.

Bob rode shotgun because he was the navigator. Bob was a natural leader - a real Boy Scout type - who was constantly organizing adventures for us. His Russian was flawless and he seemed to have friends and acquaintances everywhere we went. I rode in the back with Lady Caroline. She was not really royalty, but her Queen's English and fabulous parties had earned her the nickname.

Our foursome had perfect driving weather. In mid-May, it was the first weekend when it really felt like spring. The sun was shining, the snow had melted and the trees were beginning to bud. As we rolled across the countryside, vast fields had been ploughed and planted, but the new life was still hidden underground, awaiting some assurance that warmer temperatures were here to stay.

As Bob and Jimmy disputed which dirt road was the correct turn off the highway, Caroline and I were in the backseat engaged in a much more important task - recalling the lyrics of the silly 1970s song by the Euro disco phenom Boney M.

The bumpy, narrow road finally emerged out of the woods, and we followed it across an overgrown field to a cluster of little wooden cottages. This was vintage Siberia. The dusty road was lined on both sides with log cabins that appeared to be still standing from Rasputin’s day. Some were colorfully painted with patterns stenciled on the shutters and potted plants in the windows. Others looked like they would not survive another Siberian winter.

Our car crept slowly through the village, and we peered out, looking for some sign of life. Chickens darted across the road; alas, there was not a human soul in sight. Caroline spotted a lone man in a field behind his house. He had stopped his work, and was standing – hoe in hand – staring suspiciously at our foreign vehicle full of foreign people.

Bob rolled down his window: `Is this Pokrovskoe?’ The slack-jawed farmer just nodded. `Isn’t it the birthplace of Rasputin?’ Bob queried further. Another hesitant nod. `Well, is there some museum or something to see?’

The farmer finally found his vocal chords and directed us toward the end of the street. `There is some kind of house-museum,’ he confirmed, `but I think it is closed.’

We parked our car in front of a large but dilapidated wooden house surrounded by a high fence. Jimmy did not want to get mud on his Hugo Boss jeans so he refused to get out of his car. The rest of us piled out and peeked over the fence: the yard was overgrown with weeds and littered with bottles and trash; the house was badly in need of a paint job, not to mention some new windows and a roof repair. A huge padlock decorated the front door. The place was not only closed, it was completely abandoned.

`It’s probably closed for Sanitation Day,’ I remarked, referring to the very Soviet system of randomly closing museums for cleaning every month.

We circled the house, but found no trace of the magic that fueled Rasputin’s mystique. Disappointed, we climbed back into the car. But before Jimmy could turn the car around, Caroline again spotted our farmer friend, running down the road toward us, wildly waving his arms to get our attention. `Wait,’ he implored, as he approached the car. `Wait five minutes, and you will meet Rasputin himself!’

With the promise of lunch, Jimmy was persuaded to wait five minutes. The guys unpacked our picnic and sent Caroline and me off in search of drinks. Our friendly neighborhood farmer promised there was a cafeteria on the next street, so we wandered among the little houses, smiling politely at the curious faces that were now appearing at windows and in yards.

Sure enough, we found the cafeteria on the next street. It looked much like the other houses in the village; we recognized it only by the sign above the door. A half dozen goats grazed in the front yard. They looked up lazily as we approached, but did not budge from their tasty patch of grass. The door was open, so Caroline and I paid the goats no heed and went inside. Apparently, the cafeteria was not open for business: the counter was bare; a few chairs were upended in the corner; and a lone goat feasted on a pile of garbage. Appetizing.

So we left the goats in peace and made our way back to our friends, who were already wolfing down the cheese and salami sandwiches we had brought with us. We were so distracted by our feast, that we did not notice the dirty, disheveled peasant who approached. He tapped on my window, and suddenly I was staring into the maniacal eyes of the Mad Monk!

`Excuse me, please,’ the peasant apologized. He introduced himself as Viktor, but he was a dead ringer for Grigory Yefimovich Rasputin.

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