You visit a wonderful place, and the reason it is wonderful is because it is interconnected with so many other fascinating histories unless you persist in a desire to stay safely uninformed.
At home people are baffled that I go to “those places,” often unable to locate “those places” on a map, describe anything about the cultures, art, histories or significance. They often think in terms of my personal safety which must be consistently jeopardized within their own small worldviews.
I am certain this is a type of indictment, really a criticism of travelers like me. How can I not know that I might instantly die if I leave a comfort zone, their comfort zones, but not my own which is probably better informed?
There are things of interest, so many things like the threads of the most complex fabric, a fabric of silk, with intriguing designs and patterns, from the skilled endeavors of the weavers, yet bloodstained and unraveling about the edges, and yes beyond one’s doorstep.
These are the matters I try to show those who wish to travel but can’t, those who could travel but are too frightened, and those who criticize others stepping over the doorposts of perceived safety.
So you try to connect with the histories of the places and what this means. And then you attempt to relate your experiences.

How do I write about this palace in Czar’s village? It was relabeled by the Communists to Children’s Village because of the number of homeless children and orphans, then renamed for the famous writer Pushkin since he grew up here.

And how do I write about Pushkin while trying to escape from Western political correctness? His great-grandfather was an African slave purchased by the Czar, but ultimately granddad became a famous general and married a Russian Countess.

This seems like a great story until you realize the poetic grandson Pushkin died after a duel, suffering terribly the indignity of losing and then painful death on January 29, 1837.

So, all of that and how do I describe walking about through wintry nighttime garden paths, footfalls on gravel, a few distant voices of lingering visitors not wishing to end the experience, and little other sound than could be expected in a dark winter garden. And my own thoughts.

So, I will start here at Catherine Palace in the daylight first.

By the way, this is…uh…not my yard.