Back in Russia

After a long layover, the plane does not leave Frankfurt Airport until 22:00. The lack of sleep is making my eyes glaze over. “What are they doing in Russia?” I hear Tanja start a conversation with our neighbor. “Where does she get the energy from?” I ask myself, eagerly awaiting the food. The man next to us is originally from Russia and is visiting his home country and relatives living there for the first time in 15 years. Suddenly he turns to me. I politely answer his questions. Before I know it, Tanja has withdrawn from the conversation to rest for a while. “Oh look, the rows of seats behind us are still free. We have plenty of room to sleep there,” my conversation partner suggests. To our relief, he sits down at the back. Before any more guests get the idea, I also look for a free row. As soon as I take a seat and am about to stretch out my feet, the German-Russian sits down next to me. “Uh, I have a question. I’m sure you’re familiar with bicycle gears. Well, the gears on my wife’s bike don’t work properly in seventh gear…” It’s no use explaining to him that he’s not a bike mechanic but a bike traveler at the moment, because he’s an enthusiastic cyclist and heaps me with thousands of questions. Then comes the food. When we are finished, a mother has laid her child on my neighbor’s sleeping place. He takes it in his stride, remains seated next to me and tells me about Russia and his adopted home of Germany. When I can finally close my eyes, my mind is so agitated that sleep is out of the question.

At 5.00 a.m. local time, we find ourselves at the end of the long queue in front of the Russian passport control. The airport building in the city of Samara, the unconventional smell of the building in need of heavy renovation, the desolation of the early morning and the burden of leaden tiredness do not exactly inspire joy. The officer stamps our passports without a murmur. We are the last to lift our heavy Ortlieb bags off the luggage belt. Everything is complete. Nothing was stolen or lost along the way. Our large bike boxes are also already waiting for us. One is badly damaged. We have to have all the equipment x-rayed. The man in uniform obviously wants to go home. We are through without having to open a single piece of luggage. Our Russian friend Michael is waiting outside. The joy of seeing each other again is great. “How are you?” I ask him, laughing and hugging him. “Very good. I hope you had a relaxing flight?” “The flight was okay, but I’m dog-tired,” I reply, looking at Tanja.

To get the bikes into the minibus, they have to be removed from the damaged boxes. Fortunately, they are unharmed. In the drizzle, we load everything we have brought with us into the rickety bus. We leave the boxes at the airport stairs. “No problem,” says Michael. “Didn’t you say it’s been summery warm here for weeks?” I ask. “It was until yesterday. Now it’s raining,” replies Michael with an apologetic smile. The streets of Samara are empty because it is so early in the morning. We drive directly to Iverskiy Monastery. We left some of our equipment there last November. “They’re already waiting for you. You’ll get the same room again,” says Michael.

In the monastery

In the few months we have been away, hardly anything has changed in the monastery. Almost all the buildings are being restored or rebuilt. Like many other monasteries in the country, it was misused as a warehouse and repair workshop during the Russian Revolution and the communist era. It was only with the fall of the Soviet Union and the end of socialist rule in 1991 that the Orthodox Church was able to flourish again and has since experienced a veritable renaissance.

The superior of the monastery has set herself the task of restoring the holy site to its former glory and is receiving funding from the city to do so. Passing through the rubble, we enter a residential building of the nuns and sisters. Katja, the young nurse who took exemplary care of us during our last stay, welcomes us happily. She opens the door to our modest chamber with a beaming smile. The bunk bed is covered with fresh sheets, the kettle is on the narrow table at the end of the room. There is not enough daylight through the window because of the dark rain clouds. Katja flips the light switch. Two dim light bulbs illuminate our simple dwelling. A plate of fruit, a few boxes of cookies, Russian sweets, tea and more are piled up on the windowsill. We were actually expected here. As this room is the only place available for guests during the conversion and renovation work, we are particularly pleased to be able to move back in. There could hardly be a better place for us to organize the final preparations for our stage 3 in a dirty, run-down, hectic Russian city.

A different world

After a cup of tea, Katja and Michael leave us. They will be back tomorrow. We take the opportunity to lie down in the bunk bed. As I climb upstairs and snuggle into my sleeping bag, Tanja’s steady breathing tells me that she is already fast asleep. Finally, after the sleepless journey, after all the stressful preparations of the last few days and weeks, my mind escapes into the land of dreams. At 10:30 in the morning, the beeping of our Suunto watches rouses us from a soon-to-be unconscious sleep. ‘We have to go to dinner,’ I moan quietly. “Yes, I know,” whispers a voice below me. We struggle out of bed and stagger, battered, to the nuns’ dining room. When we reach the long room, many of the nuns dressed in black are already there. A nun silently assigns us a seat. All the nuns stand facing a picture of a saint at the end of the room and sing. Then they cross themselves and sit down together at the generously laid tables.

A sister stands at a narrow lectern and reads aloud from a holy book. Only quiet whispering can be heard from time to time, otherwise those present enjoy their meal in silence. Next to me, an old woman sips her soup. There is borsch, the Russian national dish. But bread, mashed potatoes, buckwheat, fish, oatmeal cooked in milk, sweets and much more also ensure a varied diet. Hungry, we spoon up our bortsch. I look around cautiously. It’s hard to believe. A short time ago we were still in Germany, busy preparing for our trip, in familiar surroundings and now… What a culture shock. Although we left this place behind just a few months ago, it seems almost alien to me. I am now the only man sitting here among nuns. No, that’s not quite right. Two priests sit at the end of the table alongside the superior of the monastery. Everyone present is dressed in black, even Tanja is wearing a black fleece jacket. Only one of us feels like the red Hans, or perhaps better put, like a fireman, because my fleece jacket is fiery red. Startled, my gaze slides down my jacket. “My God. What do I look like? It’s terrible. Not that I have anything against the color red. I actually think it’s okay. I chose the jacket that way. But now it seems inappropriate. Unfortunately, almost all my cycling shirts are quite colorful. What a bummer. I should have thought of that. Now I’m sitting like a colorful, exotic bird in the middle of black-clad nuns in a strict monastery.”

Suddenly a bell rings. The nun behind us immediately stops reading and everyone present rises abruptly. Tanja and I also jump up. A priest prays. People cross themselves incessantly. Then the second priest takes over the prayer. They cross themselves again. At the end, all the nuns raise their voices in a beautiful chant. Only a very old nun next to me croaks a little hotter. Her voice is lost in the crowd, absorbed by the other voices. I listen spellbound and feel the peace, the peace of the monastery that is about to enter our hearts. Whispering quietly, the deeply religious women leave the hall. We follow and immediately retire to our chamber to continue our interrupted sleep.

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