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When I arrived at Finland Station in St. Petersburg, I spotted a sign promoting "Dostoyevsky's apartment," a museum based on the writer's real-life abode.
The chance to delve into the Russian literary world was an experience I couldn't resist. The problem: It was 4 p.m. and the museum closed at 6. I figured I had just enough time to travel there, rummage through his desk a bit and hail a cab, all before closing time.
I headed to the Haymarket area, where Crime and Punishment was set 140 years earlier. Because I don't speak Russian - and couldn't read the Cyrillic street signs - I became totally lost. It was 5:20. Using sign language and a map, a kindly woman pointed to the Muzey Dostoevsovo (Kuznechnyy perelok 5/2). I think it was on the only street I hadn't visited, and luckily just two blocks away.
At 5:30 sharp, I raced up the stairs to the cashier's desk. A woman was cleaning the apartment. She spotted me inching toward the doorjamb and shouted so harshly that I didn't need translation. A less-hazardous-looking woman arrived at the cash to investigate the fracas. Relieved, I smiled and passed my money for a ticket. It was 5:35.
The cashier's name seemed to be Olga, because it was peppered throughout the mopper's diatribe. With an apologetic look, Olga returned my money. I looked puzzled. She showed me a worn-out sign in English stating the 6 p.m. closing time. I pointed to the clock - we still had 25 minutes.
I explained that I had flown from Canada to visit the museum. A whopping lie of course, but to them, I was speaking gibberish. I even mimed flying by flapping my arms, making me look even more ridiculous.
Olga laughed as I flapped. "Toe-ronn-toe?" she asked.
"Toronto, yes!" I responded, pleased to make any connection.
Chatting in Russian, she probably explained she had family who had emigrated there and was asking if I knew them. I nodded wholeheartedly. The time: 5:45. Her work complete, the mopper then rummaged through a closet. I glanced at my new best friend Olga, looking for conspiratorial co-operation. And to my joy, she nodded permissively toward the threshold.
I crept toward the author's writing desk. Deep in awe and lost in literary heaven, I felt a blast of sour air on my neck. The mopper, who was twice my age, height and girth, towered over me like an ominous cloud. She stared at my running shoes. I realized they probably cost more than she earned in a month. I regretted my display of conspicuous Western consumption.
Then it occurred to me that the problem wasn't socio-economic. Nope: My shoes had left footprints on the floor.
Survival instincts kicked in. I attempted international detente by reaching for the mop so that I could scrub away my transgressions. But the mopper shot me the universal don't-even-think-about-it glance.
Sheepishly, I returned the mop. Relying exclusively on facial expression and tone, she escorted me from the museum. Not aggressively mind you - more like someone berating a kitten for unravelling a ball of yarn. As I passed by Olga, I simply shrugged and waved.
Unable to resist injecting a little Russian humour, Olga pointed to the clock. It was 6 p.m.
Special to The Globe and Mail