Midnight Sun Madness or Russia with Love?

Journeys with JanJan Coleman

Midnight Sun Madness or Russia with Love?

Journeys with Jan | Jan Coleman | September 1, 2009 at 5:00 pm

The Volga Boatmen, who hauled barges along Russia's rivers, became folk icons and were portrayed in paintings like this one as heroic symbols of the Russian soul

Scandinavia, Land of the Midnight Sun. It has a compelling ring to it, I tell my traveling friends as we toss around suggestions for an overseas trip. The Hansen in me gives thumbs up to Denmark, Randy Crump is part Swede, and wife Jean suggests a stop in St. Petersburg. “For the magnificent architecture.” Carl adds, “Doesn’t matter where we go, as long as we get our passports stamped. Plus, Jan does the planning because she loves it.

But wait, Jan also loves aimlessness when she travels, surrendering herself to chance, arriving at a destination in clueless delight. Not likely on a 14-night trip-in peak season— in Scandinavia, too chancy. Okay, so we’ll book ahead, settle down in one place for three nights and take side trips.

I did fine until we booked the bargain airfare and read those dreaded words-non-changeable, nonrefundable. Four countries in 16 days-what was I thinking? Blame it on Rick Steves’ warning: Those who don’t get out to the fjords should have their passports revoked. “ So we’ll fly home from Norway.

The Midnight Sun Madness hit me when planning for St. Petersburg, which requires a tourist visa, which requires a hefty fee of $131, which requires an official “invitation” from a hotel. But, we’re budget travelers, opting for a 2 bedroom self-contained flat, but the one we like requires full payment through something called a “money gram.” Jean, known for her decisiveness, offers to do it at Bel Air. Later, a breathless message: “Trigger girl failed on her mission. I just couldn’t send cash to “Svetlana,” with no last name, despite how sweet she sounds over email.” So we’re on to Plan B, book through a Russian tourist agency that welcomes good old American credit cards. So what if we’re shelling out a few more rubles. They’ll take care of the visa invitation.

Three weeks later we are on the BART train bound for the Russian Consulate in San Francisco, guarding four cashier’s checks, four fully completed tourist visa applications-in black ink only-containing enough background information to satisfy any intelligence agency. And glued securely are the 1 3/4 by 2 1/2 (exact or it will be rejected) mug shots, minus a smile (or it will be rejected). As we hail a cab to reach Green Street before noon when they close, Jean asks, “Why ARE we going to Russia?” I laugh, about to remind her who suggested it. Then I think of Mr. Stern, my high school Russian teacher. After three years of taxing my boy-crazy brain to learn the Russian alphabet, all that remains is hello, goodbye, please, and thank you, but I can still belt out the Volga Boatman.

Every class started with the barge-hauler’s ballad-in Russian-inspired by a famous painting depicting the misery of the people under Tsarist rule. Yo heave ho. I grew up during the Cold War hearing “better dead than red,” but Mr. Stern’s class gave me a fascination for Russia.

Still, after arranging flights from Russia to Sweden, making deposits on the Russian flat, the Stockholm guesthouse, the couchette sleeper to Copenhagen, the Danish B&B, the overnight cruise to Oslo, the “must do” scenic train to a charming fjord-side village, I am done in by the details, insane over the itinerary. I’m Gypsy Jan, free-spirited and flexible, who likes to keep her options open, and I’m the one who preaches “quality over quantity.” This violates the creed upon which I hang my traveling hat. Will I survive?

“Relax,” Carl says. “We’ll have serendipity and plenty of adventure. We’ll rent bikes and explore, take walks without the map. Buy some free-spirited Danes some wine and ask them why-since they pay the highest income taxes in the world-they claim to be the happiest people on earth.”

We travel to open our hearts and eyes, to heighten our senses about life beyond our own horizons. For a few weeks we will live without a past or future, simply for the joy of each day’s discoveries. Okay, so every three nights we must pack up, catch a plane, train or boat because we’re committed. It won’t kill me, though Carl might consider it if I start whining. Each day is ours, totally up for grabs and completely open to every whim. And, as my traveling buddies know, my backpack is full of those.

Jan and Carl fly from Sacramento to St. Petersburg at the end of August. Check back in October for a full report on their trip: Midnight Sun Memories more rewarding..