Holy bread

On Saturday I finished classes, which means my personal tourist season has officially opened. In addition to the museum yesterday, I went to Peter the Great's original wooden "domik," a cottage which he had built in three days on the bank of Neva river, inaugurating construction of the city to follow.

Today I dropped by the Alexander Nevsky monastery, named after the 13th century knight who beat off the Germans and Swedes. A few years back he was voted Greatest Russian of Ever. His remains lie in a silver tomb at the eastern aisle of Trinity Church. I was somewhat annoyed at having to wait until I moved to St. Pete to visit him - Peter ordered that his body be transported here from Vladimir where he'd already resided for some four centuries. If I remember correctly, a finger or knuckle still remains there as a relic.

I stood reverently, wondering which parts of this great man had been encased and that silver box. A steady stream of devotees mounted the two small steps to bow, kiss his metallic coffin, touch their heads to the velvet carpet on which it sat. A man and a woman arrived with two newborns, lovingly bundled in matching carrycots, like bowling balls on couples' league night. They stood at the corners of the tomb, a child for each. Finally, the man approached and prayed for the health and prosperity of his new son or daughter. Then he backed down the step, exchanged children, and returned.

In the back corner, by the door, a small crowd prayed over the body of an elderly woman, lying in wake. A priest held a small service on the opposite side of the nave. Three men intoned orthodox chants in a corner.

Alienated by orientalism, I wandered the adjacent cemeteries and paid respect to a few lesser saints: Anatoly Sobchak (the city's first democratic mayor), Pyotr Tschaikovsky, Fyodor Dostoevsky.

Then I followed the smell of rising bread to a bakery tucked next to the cathedral, where I bought a loaf freshly baked that morning for 46 roubles ($1.50). There was traffic, so I walked home and ate thick slices with butter and wondered if anyone ever brought their newborn to Dostoevsky's grave and, if so, what exactly he would ask.