Ready to Cast the First Stone

Another weekend in Moscow, another opportunity to visit some monasteries. What in July had seemed to be an inexhaustible supply of ready-made historical/cultural/architectural/ tourist experiences is beginning to dwindle after 6 months of pilgrimages. Frankly, the prospect of visiting yet another church in the freezing weather wasn’t all that attractive to me. But with a new camera, new thermal underwear, and an open mind, it can be a rewarding experience still.

On my way out, I saw my doorman for the first time since I left in late December. Nikolai Alexandrovitch had shaved off his moustache during that time. I commented on it, and he noted that he shaves it off every New Year’s Day only to let it grow back in during the course of the ensuing year. That sounded like an appropriately passive New Year’s Resolution for my taste; Kind of like resolving to get slightly older day by day, or to breathe only as much as is absolutely necessary.

My early start on the day allowed me to stop at a local coffee shop for a leisurely drink. I had some difficulty ordering what I wanted from the waitress – most of the conversation went well enough, but the actual product specification phase was somewhat disastrous. As I waited for my order to arrive, I had the time to speculate on why that happened. I think its because I was ordering hot chocolate at 9am on a Sunday, and local cultural norms may dictate that that beverage isn’t appropriate for breakfast.

Well, society usually builds fail-safes into its governing code of rules. If its an undesirable outcome, then the possibility of it happening should be restricted to appropriate times. For example, stores can’t sell beer before noon on Sunday and McDonalds won’t make you a Big Mac before 11am. (Don’t ask how I know those). Anyway, they happily provided me with the cocoa, which is much more like a melted chocolate bar in a coffee cup. I had to eat the last bit with a spoon after it cooled down. In retrospect, its no wonder they were surprised when I ordered it.

I got all hopped up from the sugar and caffeine and raced out to the Novospassky Monastery. Its beautiful, and charming and ancient and all that. For me, though, 16th century churches are beginning to blur together. This one was notable mainly because it had 2 Christmas trees on either side of the front door with blinking lights that played carols in that annoying digital beeping noise. I got a pretty full dose while waiting for the cathedral to open up after a break for cleaning.

Nearby is the Krutitskoye Podvorye, a cathedral with an attached residence for the local bishop. Its made entirely of brick produced on site, and an impressive pile from any viewpoint. I followed signs for a little museum and ended up going down steep staircases and through low doorways to the basement of the old palace.

The museum turned out to be about Russian pilgrims to the holy land and, judging from the surprised and excited reaction from the guide when I walked in, not a very high traffic site. He was a charming older man with a bristly white beard, and walked me through the small exhibit, turning the lights on in each display case we came to. He crossed himself hastily each time he mentioned a saint’s name – a rather frequent circumstance when discussing pilgrimages.

We came to one glass case and he flipped on the light. The guide produced a key from his pocket but paused before he opened the glass door. “Have you been christened?” he asked. I answered that I had, and he proceeded. Eventually, he let me handle an antique prayer rope – a sort of rosary – that had been prayed on some countless thousands of times by a community of monks. He claimed that the act of handling it and crossing myself would be enough to remove my sins.

“All my sins?” I asked.
He looked at me a little cockeyed.
“Maybe,” he hedged.