Russian Museums
Any visit to Russia will surely make you familiar with the 'distinctive' style of Russian customer service. Encountering it always makes for a memorable experience. I found myself in the Russian Museum this afternoon, starting off in the catacombs of the basement that housed the ticket office, cloakrooms, cafe and a multitude of other elements that constitute the museum administration. I tried following the signs, I really did, but having rounded no end of corners on seemingly endless corridors I felt I was no nearer to my goal of finding the ticket office and actually getting to see something! Fortunately an example of the Russian institution that is a 'lady sat in a chair' was at hand, who unusually for such seated ladies spoke English and who offered rudimentary instructions to the ticket office in the delightful direct and rather abrupt manner this is de rigeur in Russia. Pleasantries are not utilitarian enough to be considered useful in this land!
In any case having further reduced the thickness of the shoe leather I at last found the ticket office. I asked for one ticket, indicating the number of tickets required with a finger (no not the middle one) to avoid any potential confusion, as the women sat selling tickets are typically as fluent as any others of their type, namely they speak nothing but Russian. I'd already noted the price of an adult ticket to smooth the process, but the lady heavily hammered out the price on a calculator and thrust it in my direction so I could read the amount. I handied the money over and was quickly thrown a ticket without so much as a "how's your father", but then that's how it is.
Having accomplished the targets I'd set involving the ticket office I now had to head towards the museum's exhibition, which fortunately was also sign-posted, albeit in the same less than straightforward manner as the ticket office. Off I went but just when it appeared I was heading in the right direction I was stopped short - barked at in Russian for having my daypack on my back while heading in the direction of the museum. What was I thinking! So off I trudged to the cloakroom.
I stopped at the first cloakroom I came to, and was once again shouted at in Russian. In giving the helpless "I'm a lost Englishman who has no idea what you're saying" look which I've come to perfect over the past few days she blurted out "next" and pointed to her left. Indeed next door there was another cloakroom, staffed by a not dissimilar lady to the first. In fact there seemed to be a small community of cloakrooms down any number of corridors, each with one if not more cloakroom attendant, and this seems indicative of the whole way Russian museums are run.
Russian Museums have got to be some of the largest employers of otherwise retired grandmothers known as Babushkas. Babushkas hold a certain status in Russian society that gives them the right, power and privaledge to shout at anyone who does anything out of turn. Thus they're ideal for staffing museums with, just don't expect anything beyond a level bare-bones level of service which I'm sure is wholly reminiscent of the Soviet era. The thing is, if anything the Russian museum was vastly overstaffed my Babuskas. Each room in the museum has one sat in a corner, who will eye-ball you as you walk around the room, no doubt thinking you're intent on vandalising or thieving one or more of the paintings on show (stowing it no doubt in a bag you're forbidden to take in with you). Even more crazily there are little shops selling the same museum books and postcards in every section of the museum. I can't imagine they do any trade, given that most people I would have thought would do their museum shopping when they're done browsing the art and ready to head out, slipping comfortably at this point from high-cultured afficionados back to eager tourist shoppers. And so there's this small town of Babushkas gainfully employed in keeping the museum running smoothly and efficiently. The fact that 95% of them do sod all aside from sitting around or procrasting with each other is by the by. As I often remind myself "This is Russia": things work in the way they do, and there's no point trying to question and reason their methods.
In any case the rest of the museum visit was largely uneventful. It was particularly interesting as museums go, featuring in particular some absolutely enormous paintings and work from the Soviet period. I'd almost escaped without further incident when on arriving at the exit and looking for the cloakroom I was informed that my bag was in an entirely different building! I could walk through all of the exhibitions again (the museum visit had taken about 2-3 hours) or I could leave the museum, walk down the street then go back in the main entrance and down the stairs to negotiate my way back to the ellusive cloakroom. So that's what I did, only it was 5.30pm and the museum was closing. The security guard let me in on waving my cloakroom tag at him, but my entry was hindered by a tide of Babuskas leaving the museum and heading home. I did eventually retrive my bag (just in the nick of time as the lights were being switched out)and almost ran out of the museum (without running of course in case I was scoulded by yet another Babuska for my unneccessary haste) and felt quite glad to escape their clutches. So concluded another encounter with the Russian system. "This is Russia" and I certainly know it!
In any case having further reduced the thickness of the shoe leather I at last found the ticket office. I asked for one ticket, indicating the number of tickets required with a finger (no not the middle one) to avoid any potential confusion, as the women sat selling tickets are typically as fluent as any others of their type, namely they speak nothing but Russian. I'd already noted the price of an adult ticket to smooth the process, but the lady heavily hammered out the price on a calculator and thrust it in my direction so I could read the amount. I handied the money over and was quickly thrown a ticket without so much as a "how's your father", but then that's how it is.
Having accomplished the targets I'd set involving the ticket office I now had to head towards the museum's exhibition, which fortunately was also sign-posted, albeit in the same less than straightforward manner as the ticket office. Off I went but just when it appeared I was heading in the right direction I was stopped short - barked at in Russian for having my daypack on my back while heading in the direction of the museum. What was I thinking! So off I trudged to the cloakroom.
I stopped at the first cloakroom I came to, and was once again shouted at in Russian. In giving the helpless "I'm a lost Englishman who has no idea what you're saying" look which I've come to perfect over the past few days she blurted out "next" and pointed to her left. Indeed next door there was another cloakroom, staffed by a not dissimilar lady to the first. In fact there seemed to be a small community of cloakrooms down any number of corridors, each with one if not more cloakroom attendant, and this seems indicative of the whole way Russian museums are run.
Russian Museums have got to be some of the largest employers of otherwise retired grandmothers known as Babushkas. Babushkas hold a certain status in Russian society that gives them the right, power and privaledge to shout at anyone who does anything out of turn. Thus they're ideal for staffing museums with, just don't expect anything beyond a level bare-bones level of service which I'm sure is wholly reminiscent of the Soviet era. The thing is, if anything the Russian museum was vastly overstaffed my Babuskas. Each room in the museum has one sat in a corner, who will eye-ball you as you walk around the room, no doubt thinking you're intent on vandalising or thieving one or more of the paintings on show (stowing it no doubt in a bag you're forbidden to take in with you). Even more crazily there are little shops selling the same museum books and postcards in every section of the museum. I can't imagine they do any trade, given that most people I would have thought would do their museum shopping when they're done browsing the art and ready to head out, slipping comfortably at this point from high-cultured afficionados back to eager tourist shoppers. And so there's this small town of Babushkas gainfully employed in keeping the museum running smoothly and efficiently. The fact that 95% of them do sod all aside from sitting around or procrasting with each other is by the by. As I often remind myself "This is Russia": things work in the way they do, and there's no point trying to question and reason their methods.
In any case the rest of the museum visit was largely uneventful. It was particularly interesting as museums go, featuring in particular some absolutely enormous paintings and work from the Soviet period. I'd almost escaped without further incident when on arriving at the exit and looking for the cloakroom I was informed that my bag was in an entirely different building! I could walk through all of the exhibitions again (the museum visit had taken about 2-3 hours) or I could leave the museum, walk down the street then go back in the main entrance and down the stairs to negotiate my way back to the ellusive cloakroom. So that's what I did, only it was 5.30pm and the museum was closing. The security guard let me in on waving my cloakroom tag at him, but my entry was hindered by a tide of Babuskas leaving the museum and heading home. I did eventually retrive my bag (just in the nick of time as the lights were being switched out)and almost ran out of the museum (without running of course in case I was scoulded by yet another Babuska for my unneccessary haste) and felt quite glad to escape their clutches. So concluded another encounter with the Russian system. "This is Russia" and I certainly know it!
posted by Daniel at 4:51 pm
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