Moscow in Winter

I was told before I left that Frank Lloyd Wright called Hotel Moskva the ugliest building he had ever seen, but I found the towering edifice rather consistent with how I envisioned intimidating Soviet architecture. Like a stubborn granite cliff, the hotel rises over Red Square, dwarfing the Kremlin. The Kremlin, one might imagine, without enough strength, is conquerable--Hotel Moskva is impervious.

The lobby feels like a bank vault, where, except for the alluring lights and songs emanating from the casino tucked away in one corner, there is little to indicate that people are coming here to enjoy themselves.

The rooms are rather nice--typical Russian hotel amenities--small table, couch and numerous chairs and stiff bed. The best rooms look over Red Square. All rooms have the MY3 television station, so you may make jet lag a bit more enjoyable with Russian and American music videos.

I want to mention the 10-minute phone call I made to the United States that was less than a $5 charge. The call itself is not worth reporting, but in the 24 hours following the call, three hotel employees stopped me to remind me that I must pay for my phone call. So, as with the hotel itself, call it a model of residual Soviet supervision or a model of efficiency.

Three short blocks away from the stunning Old Tretyakov Gallery stands the New Tretyakov Gallery. The museum is approached through a sculpture garden that appears to double as a graveyard for discarded sculptures. Busts of Karl Marx in marble and granite, steel Soviet stars, tributes of Lenin as well as a compelling compilation of idealized workers and romanticized beggars rest rather quietly in the snow. Beyond this collection stand throngs of other pieces -- poor imitations of Brancusi, frolicking bronze figures, and abstract forms.

The Gallery itself is enormous, so if you are a fan of Russian modern art, plan on spending a considerable amount of time here. I was immediately pegged as American, so the woman who collected my ticket pointed me to the Chagall and Kandinsky room. Indeed, both are well represented here with striking canvases, but there is a lot more to see.

Suprematism is often regarded as the high point of Russian modernism, and there are large rooms filled with abstract canvases by Malevich and Tatlin. Black Square, by Malevich, is a painting that had enormous influence on artists, and this sparse painting representing a black square set over a white canvas has a stunning obstinacy amid rooms of electric color.

Works on paper by Rodchenko continue in the Suprematist tradition, while the large canvases and sculptures of Soviet realism offer images of robust working figures that recall the emboldened figures of Michelangelo. Pertov-Vodkin''s Bathing the Red Horse, in the first room of the third-floor galleries, is a Symbolist piece that remains a popular image today.

While traveling, I am an inveterate walker. In my view, it is the only way to see a foreign city. Walk. Walk until you can do nothing but collapse in late evenings when returning to your hotel. Walk until the balls of your feet are blistered (but be sure not so much that they are tender the next morning.)

Some city maps are deceiving. For example, Beijing, on paper, looks like it is a manageable labyrinth on foot--that is, until you learn that traversing a block might take a half hour. Moscow, however, is a walker’s city. It is the perfect combination of maze-like lanes and broad views. For example, from Red Square to the Arbat is a half-hour walk that winds through lanes bordered with begrimed yellow buildings; the Chekhov museum, Tchaikovsky conservatory, and Vrubel mosaics are all treasures to discover before all roads spill out onto the New Arbat, a garish, proud avenue that rivals 42nd Street. Forking off to the southwest is the Old Arbat--a tourist ghetto, indeed, but a decent place to haggle a bit and, if alone, meet fellow English-speaking travelers.

A Moscow winter poses interesting challenges to the walker. The combination of snow and cobblestone creates a slippery ground, yet I noticed most Muscovites have mastered a few techniques for staying upright. First, there is the one-knee bend: try to imagine a cross-country skier braking on a downhill slope--this is an essential move for keeping yourself bruise-free. Second, there is the wide base approach: this will reduce the likelihood of a tumble but it drastically slows you down. Finally, there is the cartoon scramble, which demands that if you lose your footing, you kick out and in and wildly throw your arms around in order to regain your balance. Truth is, people fall, yet that doesn’t keep most from moving about.

A walk across the Bolshoi Kamenny Bridge is essential, particularly in a snow squall, when an atmospheric white veil emphasizes the illusiveness of the great buildings around the Kremlin. The graceful golden onion domes of the Assumption and the Annunciation cathedrals sneak up from behind the unyielding Kremlin walls. Christ the Savior Cathedral is a big white ghost to the distant left. Set beneath the masts of a monumental ship, a statute of Peter the Great beckons westward--although apparently immortalized in a moment of departure, the frozen figure of Peter the Great is oddly consistent with a city sodden with snow and ice. Even the ice on the Moskva River seems permanent, visible through gaps in the bridge’s iron guardrail adorned with Soviet stars. The air here makes the cheeks smart and eyes water, but pausing for a moment is worth a brief sting, for the sight of the Sofia embankment is an eternally grand view of Russia.