Westworld Alberta

And sure enough, the great river the Russians affectionately call "Mother Volga" does make an appearance. But for most of the time, the journey is a bewildering suc- cession of canals, lakes and locks, with a fi nal stretch on the 48-kilometre-long Neva to deliver us into St. Petersburg. But first there is Moscow. Our ship is moored outside the city on the Moscow Canal. For two days, the cruise company takes us on buses to tour the city. On the fi rst day, we ride the multi-lane Leningrad High- way for a general city tour. On the second, we tour the Kremlin. Moscow was not my reason for taking this trip, and the traffic jams and high- rise apartment blocks do not at fi rst endear me to a city where, as our vivacious 40- something guide Victoria explains, nobody lives in a house. Then, on that fi rst after- noon, I follow Victoria through Resurrec- tion Arch into the immensity of Red Square. Bells are ringing out from the pink, green and gold Kazan Cathedral. Off in the dis- tance I can see the extravagant swirls and whirls of St. Basil's Cathedral. To my right are the sombre, colossal walls of the Krem- lin and to my left, the elegant 19th-century facade of the GUM luxury shopping mall. In Soviet times, Muscovites lined up across the square in the hope of finding a few basic consumer goods here. I stop to catch my breath. The thrill is akin to what I felt when I gazed into the Grand Canyon at dawn. But here, instead of nature's grandeur, a panorama of mankind's ambition, chang- ing beliefs and thirst for power unfurls. And for anyone who remembers those old black- and-white news reports of Soviet leaders watching military parades, it is a shock to see Red Square in vibrant colour. Lenin remains in suspended non- animation in the depths of his mausoleum on one side of the square. Across from him, "spring onion soup" at a sidewalk "You go," she says. "Russian musicians very fi ne – not just tourist stuff." So I ride into Mos- cow. We park alongside a magically fl oodlit river and walk to a concert hall where Victoria turns out to be right: the singers would be at home at the Met or Covent Garden. After spending the second morning gaz- ing at royal sleighs, Ivan the Terrible's ivory As I sip tea and gaze out of the café window, I see that the Russia of my fantasies has sailed into view during the night. restaurant costs US$30. The new Russia is a baffl ing place. In the evening, we are invited to a concert of Russian folk music. I'm tired and tempted to shun what I assume is an event laid on for tourists. Victoria appears to read my mind. 24 WESTWORLD >> NOVEMBER 2011 throne, exquisite Fabergé eggs and Vladimir Putin's office windows – all behind the Kremlin walls – our boat slips away from the quay in the early afternoon. The next day, we sail into Uglich, our fi rst stop. The Viking Kirov approaches the town in late afternoon and our arrival is magical. Red, blue and gold onion domes are mirrored in the Volga. Victoria is keen to emphasize that Uglich, a town of 34,000, was never "spoiled" by the Tartars, the French army or even the Nazis. Nobody reached here to demolish its quiet charm. Not even Stalin or Brezhnev bothered to construct a soul-destroying apart- ment block on the outskirts. And, of course, there are churches. (I will rapidly become "iconed out" by a long pro- cession of morose saint and angel portraits.) But Uglich also has singers. In a concert hall, a choir of just four young men that sounds like 40 sings for tourists. They've hardly (St. Basil's Cathedral) Jon Arnold Images/Masterfi le; (sunken village) Janette Griffi ths; (Uglich girl) Steven Brydesen

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