It started to rain. Since midmorning I had been wandering around Moscow's inner circle, following the pathways trod by such famous Russian authors as Gogol, Gorky, Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy. The heavy overcast skies seemed to echo the mood of their novels. I felt cold and wet and needed a place to dry out.
I came upon a small entrance tucked in between two large grey concrete buildings on Tverskoi Boulevard. I could understand the word museum and so I opened the door and went inside. Since my command of Russian was scant, I gestured my way through ticket buying. I put on the provided slippers over my shoes. Strolling across the wooden floor, I entered the first exhibit room and discovered I was in a museum displaying artifacts, antiques and pictures from classical Russian theater.
As I entered each room an elderly Russian woman would flick on the light and observe my solitary viewing of the displayed treasures. In one room, even though I explained to the woman that I understood very little Russian, she tried to enlighten me about the pictures and the costumes. I smiled and absorbed as much as I could.
I returned to the cloakroom archway where I had given up my bag and umbrella. The woman in the cloakroom smiled and asked me if I was Bulgarian.
“Net, ya Amerikanka.”
Her smile broadened into curiosity.
“Amerikana!” She rattled off her few English words and I started drawing upon my few Russian words along with my fluent German. I pulled out my snapshots of my family and home. She bubbled over with warmth now and motioned me to come around inside. Having barely opened the small door to the cloakroom, she sat me down in front of a steaming glass of tea and mini chocolate bars. We excitedly shared what we could: I my American pictures, she a favorite art book and snatches from her youth as an architect. Soon the ticket lady was peeking through the archway asking to see my pictures; then the director of the museum stood beside us nodding her head in approval of our animated interactions.
I gave the cloakroom woman peace balloons and small toys for her grandchildren. She gave me a friendship hug, postcards of the famous Russian actress enshrined in the museum, an iris pictured wallet calendar and her message of hope and friendship between Americans and Russians. She hugged me again as I reentered the museum. It was still raining outside, but Tverskoi was no longer the Boulevard of fictional characters.
*Finalist Halekulani Travel Tales Short Story Contest, February 2011. See Sweepstakes and Promotions www.newyorkeronthetown.com
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