It's not as cold as it should be in February, the cab driver in Yekaterinburg tells me. My phone says it's -7.
On my way from Berlin to Yekaterinburg I fly over A in time. I'm now one hour ahead of A, who is in Dubai. It feels good, as if I'm winning a competition.
It's great to see snow. My favourite sound is that of snow crunching under winter boots. I walk like a duck but people around me are not even afraid to bike or to do jogging on the ice. I'm told that winter lasts eight months in the Ural so I guess it's a matter of habit.
The river Iset crosses the city center of Yekaterinburg. The frozen river is used by people as a short cut but I plough through the snow along the pedestrian boulevard to get to the Yeltsin Center. I want to visit its cafe, which is called "1991." It feels right to go back in time to the year 1991 when Boris Yeltsin, who was born in the Ural, became the first president of Russia and Yekaterinburg was opened up for foreigners.
At 1991, I decide to eat a Leningrad cake. I enjoy doing things just for the name's sake.
"Ural" and "Russia" are strong words. Ulli and I write stamp poems about it. Upon entering Russia, it takes ages to have my passport examined. Finally, the controller makes that great stamping sound - bam! bam! bam! - and it feels as if I'm released from prison.
At the local ramen restaurant, a woman is taking selfies in front of the wall drawings of kung fu fighters. She strikes all kinds of cute poses and then places her hands in front of her mouth, as if carrying a mouth cover.
In Russia, there is the Art of Speech. At the dinner after the exhibition opening, I hardly find the time to eat because every few minutes someone is invited to stand up and make a speech. It seems inappropriate to shuffle down food while someone is talking.
Isn't it so Russian to come up with the idea of inviting opera singers to a private dinner? A man and a woman perform alternately, in between the speeches. They sing Ural music but also the favourite song of the museum owner: Frank Sinatra's I'll Do It My Way.
The opening of the Rosemarie Trockel exhibition is festive. I get scissors in the colour of gold to cut the red ribbon, together with four men in suit. It seems as if we're not only opening the exhibition but also the building, possibly also the street.
At the hotel 4 Seasons there are two bowls with a goldfish, both named Ellie, that you can take to your room. I find it sad but the hotel manager tells me the fish can't be put together because they would fight. I imagine how these asocial Ellies would be sleeping next to my bed, having murderous thoughts about me throughout the night.
Two young women are waiting at the entrance of the museum. They recognise me because they checked me out online. They make a hand movement across the head, which seems to indicate my hair. I know my hair is my strongest asset. One woman is called Daria whereas the other woman tells me to call her the English way, Jane. My name also changes while I'm in Russia. In Russian, I'm Anja.
I say "vodka." Jane looks perplexed and doesn't seem to understand me. I have to repeat it a few times before she realises what I'm saying: "Oh, vóóóódka!"
Close to the river is the Church-on-the-Blood. It's built on the site where the Romanovs family was executed in the basement of a house on the night of 16-17 July 1918. This was done, allegedly, on the command of Lenin. Also Lenin has a monument in Yekaterinburg, located on the 1905 square, and of course he is portrayed in the middle of giving a speech.
Every city loves to have something that makes you the smallest or the biggest in the world. I grew up in a Belgian city that had the largest (and, subsequently, the least charming) square, not in the world, but in Belgium. Yekaterinburg was in the Guiness Book of Records for the shortest subway line in the world when its three stations opened in 1991. Now it has up-(or down-)graded to nine.
I visit the Naïve Art Museum in Yekaterinburg. My favourites are the stitched ones by Zhanna M. Korznyakova. They have titles like "Feeling tired. Uncle Zhenya", "Potatoes of Baba Valya" and "Reflections on poverty".
Upon landing back in Berlin, the captain of Aeroflot says the weather is good. It is 6 degrees and when I look outside the airplane window the sky is in an eternal miserable grey. I envy the Russian captain for his optimistic outlook.
