By telling us your country of residence we are able to provide you with the most relevant travel insurance information.
Please note that not all content is translated or available to residents of all countries. Contact us for full details.
Shares
It’s still dark when we tumble off the train in Veliky Ustig. Our trip lead may or may not have coaxed the train conductor to stall as we climb off. I’m embarrassed this might be mostly for my benefit. The overnight train is supposed to stop for no more than 60 seconds in this tiny town but I’ve got a freshly broken wrist, acquired on my first night in Russia as a result of some sneaky ice, and I’m still a bit awkward at manoeuvring myself and my bag. As the train chugs away, so do we. Before long, we’re crammed around tables in a small restaurant - one of the few in town open early. After some sustenance - coffee, a bit of porridge - and some time to thaw, we bundle back out into the freezing morning air. The winter sun has risen somewhere and some light seeps through the overcast sky, reflecting on the bright white snow all around us as we tour the little village. Veliky Ustig is the home of Ded Moroz - Russian Santa Claus. It’s a beloved attraction for children all over Russia and as the day continues to rise, their eager shrieks and giggles are heard all around town. Just before lunch, a trio of us decides to pop into the museum dedicated to the “fashion” of Ded Moroz - at least, this is what we’ve understood it to be. At the front desk, we attempt some poor Russian to inquire about visiting - adult tickets? There’s a bit of confusion - we are 3 grown women alone at a children’s attraction - but we’re eventually invited in. The guide walks us around the exhibit pointing out the various outfits of the characters in this Christmas folk tale, accompanied by an English speaking employee graciously tracked down. She translates, explaining the lore behind Ded Moroz, who delivers gifts with his granddaughter, Snegurochka, at New Years to all the children who have been good this year. It’s a fairytale that delights us, even in the throws of adulthood, as much as the group of children getting the tour ahead. Towards the end, we see them sit with their parents around a pseudo-stage area, and several kids selected to go “backstage”. At our last stop, we quietly try on the final Ded Moroz costume pieces - beautiful blue mittens (I can only wear one, but it matches my bright blue cast) - not wanting to disturb the performance that’s being prepared on the other side of the room. Our guide, however, has other ideas. The translator interprets what she’s just excitedly asked us in Russian - would we like to be in the Christmas pageant? For the briefest moment, we hesitate - would 3 western women crashing a Russian children’s Christmas show be utterly ridiculous and intrusive? But our own excitement takes over - we most certainly would! We’re whisked backstage as well, and presented with our costumes - silvery capes and hats - and giggle amongst the kiddos half our height. They’re equally amused and baffled by us - but we make friends. A nine-year-old proudly speaks to us in English, showing off language skills that are far superior than our own. When it’s our time to shine, we grab hands with our scene partners and scurry out in front of our audience. With hands in the air, we twirl, directed by our new young friends, as the narrator recounts the tale. It’s in Russian so we can’t understand, but we know it’s magical. At the end, we join our fellow actors for one final bow, then crowd together with the children for a cast photo - lifting up the littlest ones in our arms to make sure they’re seen. The audience cheers, and our smiles might as well be permanently plastered on our faces. Following the smash-hit performance, we join our new young friends in some crafts - making ornaments, tying tiny little bows to wooden trinkets and on the unbelievable few hours we’ve just spent. As we leave, we try to tip the museum guides. “Oh no!” one exclaims, “That’s only in your country!” And she continues to refuse. We finally accept a hug and a photo with these wonderful women who brought us into this festive celebration.