A Siberian Interlude: Twenty Years Ago in Perm
Twenty years ago, on the 3rd of January, I found myself in a pastry shop in the Siberian city of Perm, engrossed in Anton Chekhov’s play, "Three Sisters." The play, I had heard, was set in "a small town like Perm," a compelling enough reason to interrupt my trans-Siberian railway journey and explore this seemingly ordinary city. I sat there, surrounded by the aroma of pastries and the quiet murmur of other patrons, immersing myself in the story of three sisters yearning for the vibrant life of Moscow, a longing that mirrored my own transient existence as a traveler. The scene was overseen by two impassive guards in the ubiquitous dark blue suit, figures that seemed as permanent a fixture as the pastry shop itself. Beneath my feet, the tiled floor, sparkling clean, resembled a vast aquarium, populated by shimmering reflections rather than actual fish. Outside, the Siberian winter gripped the city in its icy embrace, a biting minus 25 degrees Celsius. Even layered in multiple garments, the cold permeated every fiber, a constant reminder of the harsh realities of this remote location.
My exploration of Perm extended beyond the confines of the pastry shop. The city zoo, a stark contrast to the warmth of the cafe, housed restless predators pacing within their enclosures, their movements a testament to their caged existence. The local museum, a repository of the city’s history and culture, was guarded by elderly women in cardigans, seated in each room, their presence adding a layer of quiet authority to the exhibits. The snow lay thick and silent, blanketing the city in a pristine white shroud. Even the mundane act of riding the tram was fraught with potential reprimand, as a sharp-tongued conductress kept a watchful eye on passengers, quick to chastise anyone who dared to linger. At the railway station, meltwater pooled on the floor, a testament to the extreme temperature fluctuations between the outside world and the heated interior. The station clock, like all clocks along the Trans-Siberian Railway, displayed Moscow time, a practice that could be both convenient and confusing for travelers trying to navigate the vast distances and differing time zones.
My arrival in Perm had been preceded by a unique New Year’s celebration. Having left Moscow on New Year’s Eve, I had the unusual experience of celebrating the new year three times on the train: the Swedish New Year, the Russian New Year, and the Permsk New Year, albeit in reverse order. The festivities, a blur of vodka, sausage, champagne, and camaraderie, unfolded against the backdrop of a snow-covered landscape, creating a surreal and unforgettable memory. The contrast between the frigid exterior and the warmth of the train, the shared experience with fellow passengers and train personnel, made for a unique transition into the new year. This multi-temporal celebration, held in the close confines of the train, felt like a fitting introduction to the unique atmosphere of Perm.
The hotel in Perm offered its own set of unique experiences. The stifling heat of the room, a stark contrast to the icy outdoors, was exacerbated by the fact that the windows were sealed shut. The friendly receptionist, fluent in German, lamented the lack of German-speaking guests, a missed opportunity to practice and improve her language skills. In the middle of the night, the quiet was shattered by the sound of breaking glass. The receptionist, ever alert, summoned the floor attendant, who emerged from a hidden door in the corridor to assess the situation. She, in turn, called for the cleaning lady, who materialized from yet another concealed door, armed with a vacuum cleaner to remove the shards of glass. This unexpected nocturnal drama, a minor incident magnified by the quiet of the night, highlighted the unique character of the hotel and its inhabitants.
Later that night, as the hotel settled back into quiet, I returned to Chekhov’s "Three Sisters," only to discover that the setting, while a provincial town, was not specifically Perm. This realization, coupled with the unusual experiences of the past few days, prompted me to re-evaluate my stay in this enigmatic city. The initial allure of Perm, based on a misinterpretation of the play’s setting, now seemed replaced by a sense of detachment. The city, with its stark contrasts and peculiar routines, felt less like a place to settle and more like a transient point on a longer journey. The yearning of Chekhov’s sisters for Moscow, a symbol of opportunity and a different life, resonated with my own feelings of restlessness.
In the morning, I packed my belongings and left Perm, leaving behind the memories of the pastry shop, the zoo, the museum, and the peculiar hotel. Unlike Chekhov’s three sisters, perpetually bound to their provincial existence, I had the freedom to move on, to continue my journey along the Trans-Siberian Railway. My brief stay in Perm, initially driven by a literary misconception, became a unique chapter in my travels, a collection of fleeting impressions and experiences that shaped my understanding of this remote Siberian city. The city, with its blend of the ordinary and the extraordinary, remained etched in my memory, a testament to the unexpected discoveries that await the observant traveler. The experience, though brief, left an indelible mark, a reminder of the enriching potential of even the most seemingly ordinary destinations.
