Travel - Viajes

Vodka in the Sun IV: The Lower, Lower City

By Eric D. Goodman

While the western world is not blocked out of Nizhni Novgorod, neither does it contaminate this fine Russian city. And the lower part of Nizhni Novgorod (lower “Lower Old City,” to give an accurate translation) is even more of an untouched region. That could seem ironic since the Yarmaka, in the lower part of the city, was once the largest world trade center in all of Europe. Yarmaka still there and it’s still operating … but needless to say, it has lost its title.

The lower part of the city features a number of stores, shops, cafes, restaurants, and beautiful Russian Orthodox churches and monasteries. It also includes an enormous monument to Lenin in Lenin Square and several other soldier-citizen monuments left from the soviet days.

It was in lower Nizhni Novgorod that I fondly remember (nearly ten years ago) spending good times with friends in an old wooden pub that drew it’s beer from huge wooden barrels. Some friends and I went in search of the bar, but instead we found a new restaurant with a stuffy interior and white plastic chairs and tables. The modern setting did not suite us, so we went to another place the Russians thought I would like.

The Crazy Bison tried to be a Western-style pub and restaurant. We ate fried meat and seafood salads with beer and vodka. The polished-wood and stone interior had a hunting lodge ambiance. A band played in the distance, and there was a small dance floor of shiny wood. We played billiards near the strip-tease show. We played roulette with some Russians and a couple of Germans. One big-spending German claimed to have a great system, but apparently not a very good one. He lost a lot of money. Good thing he was playing roulette in Russia instead of Russian roulette.

Russian Hooters

Russia has its share of impressive hooters, and Nizhni Novgorod is no exception. A “hooter” (or “hootor” with the proper accent) is a large communal farm with five to 10 homes all owned by an extended family, including aunts, uncles, brothers and distant relatives and in-laws. Sholkovski Hootor is both a park, outdoor museum, and a working village made up of historic constructions, all of them wood. The village includes several old peasant homes open for tour, allowing visitors to see what home life was like in centuries past. Contrary to what most people think, not all peasants were poor. In fact, some of the peasant mansions were huge, even if primitive. Other historic buildings in the outdoor museum included old barns, cottages and churches.

One of the churches was partially burned. One of the onion domes was gone, and the others were charcoal-black. When we crossed a native walking with her goats, I asked her about the church—curious to know if the defamation was the work of religious or political critics. She advised surely that it was nothing more than the work of vandal hooligans. The church had been attacked before, and it would be again.

On the way back we walked through the forest path, shaded from the sun by spruces, oaks, elms and birches. At the edge of the forest, a woman used a forked tree branch to rake dried grass. We came to the pond’s edge and walked along it.

People bathed in the sun and in the water. Dogs chased sticks into the water, and friends laughed as they drank beer and kvas. Some of the swimsuits were more revealing than the orange and white uniforms at a certain American restaurant chain. No, Russian hooters are not to be missed.

Birthday on the Edge

Considering Russia’s reputation for enjoying the drink, imagine the birthday party of a prosperous businessman. I didn’t have to imagine it. I lived it.

Vasily’s party was held in the lower part of the city at the riverside café of a friend—and the entire outdoor café was devoted to the party. Since there were only a dozen of us, we received top-notch service. To one side we could see the double-staircase weaving its way up the hillside to Minin Square, and to the other side we watched the golden sun set into the Volga River with a cathedral silhouetted upon the horizon.

Long after the moon had taken the sun’s place in the sky, we continued to celebrate. In fact, we were just getting started. We dined on more salads than I can remember, on seafood, and on fresh kabobs of beef, pork and chicken. We drank beer, wine and vodka, all native to the region. The only thing here that was American, besides me, was a carton of cigarettes. That, and some of the music.

One of the party members was a military officer who had spent time in the war in Chechnya—a conflict that continues today. His wife was a television reporter who covered the war. We talked about the war and its effects on Russia, and when we had several drinks in us we decided to coordinate a series of writings targeted toward westerners about the day-to-day living of a Russian soldier in Chechnya. Several toasts later, after toasting to the project, it was long forgotten.

After the initial birthday toasts and well wishes were made, the three-man band began to play. We danced and sang along with the music, Russian, American and British. At one point, after I’d had enough to drink to convince myself I could sing, I was asked to take the mike and lend my voice to their renditions of “Time in a Bottle,” “Let It Be” and “Yesterday.” And while the party raged on well into the wee hours of the next day, when I awoke in the late morning “yesterday” was the last thing I wanted to think about.