//boroughing//
Fall 2019
Fall 2019
A Bookstore in Brighton Beach
Noah Sheidlower
I walked down Brighton Beach Avenue in Brooklyn, the Cyrillic alphabet on my dimly lit phone, the subway deafening the morning conversations between local babushkas and bread sellers. I stopped a few times, attempting to read some of the storefront signs, jealous of the group of little children in front of me talking so effortlessly about the day’s adventures in Russian. Yet one place, with huge curvy English writing on its bright yellow banner, struck my attention, no Cyrillic in sight. “Saint-Petersburg,” the sign said boldly. “BOOKS, MUSIC, VIDEO, SOUVENIRS.”
I first heard about this store when I visited Brighton Beach a few years ago with my parents, whose grandparents and great-grandparents emigrated to the United States from Russia and Poland. Brighton Beach, located just near Coney Island, is known for its significant Eastern European and Central Asian population; many people refer to Brighton Beach as New York’s “Little Odessa.” Immigrants fleeing Russia and Ukraine during the last years of the Soviet Union opened restaurants, markets, shops, and schools in the area, creating a vibrant community. The Saint-Petersburg Bookstore, which opened in 1994, soon became Brighton Beach’s epicenter for Russian books, clothes, kitchen appliances, and knick-knacks.
As I approached the store, I felt the gazes of intricately painted matryoshka nesting dolls, each staring menacingly into my soul with huge black eyes. When I got closer, I noticed an unorganized stack of books for sale for only $1.00. I looked through them, seeing authors like Jodi Picoult, Willa Cather, and even John Green. But those were the only names I recognized. Everything else was in Cyrillic. “The huge yellow sign has deceived me,” I muttered under my breath, pulling up the alphabet on my phone to try to translate these mysterious texts. I could make out a book that said “Kurdistan,” another book of contemporary Ukrainian history, and a children’s book about two brothers and their piano. My one hour and 14-minute train ride, I decided, was well worth the adventure into the unknown.
Upon walking in, I was greeted in Russian by one of the staff, to whom I replied “Privyet!” with a slightly anxious smile. I turned to my right, astounded by the selection of bronze cast sculptures and figurines depicting Norse gods, characters from Russian folklore, and bulldogs, along with a Menorah and a Kiddush cup. After passing by a strange variety of other items, I came to the Russian nesting dolls, the same ones that had watched my every movement outside. I quickly found that the store appreciates humor as much as it values Eastern European culture; while many of the dolls wear traditional Russian garments, there are also comic representations of Vladimir Putin, Dmitri Medvedev, Marilyn Monroe, and Lionel Messi. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of ornately decorated Fabergé Eggs from St. Petersburg (the eggs, of course, are knock-offs, since only 57 of the original eggs made by Carl Faberge survive, and all are housed in museums). Although they are not originals, Saint-Petersburg sells these bejeweled eggs for nearly $200 each.
I could have spent the whole day browsing tchotchkes, but I decided to venture into the bookshelves and attempt to discover the beauty of Russian literature. Based on my experience with the bin of “For Sale” books, I knew it would be difficult to find English-language books. So, I did what any tourist in a foreign country—or a Russian store only seventeen miles away from Columbia—would do: find a Russian-to-English dictionary and try to make out the titles and plots of the books. I started with the cookbooks, which were simple enough. I was overwhelmed in the poetry section, where I struggled to make out authors like Alexander Pushkin and Anna Akhmatova, as well as translations of Literature Humanities books like Metamorphoses and The Iliad. I browsed through the history and politics section, a collection of modern texts, books featuring Russian painters like Ilya Repin and Kazimir Malevich, and finally came across an entire section devoted to religion and spirituality. Despite my limited ability to read Cyrillic, I learned a great deal about the Russian literary scene with just a dictionary.
As I walked out of the St. Petersburg Bookstore, leaving behind the smiling staff, an army of nesting dolls, and creepy bear figurines, I felt better informed about Russian culture. Yet I still left with some confusion—were these decorated plates, festive snow globes, and funny costumes accurate representations of Russian culture, or merely touristy gimmicks? I can’t tell for sure. But, accurate or not, these tchotchkes and towering bookshelves reawakened my interest in my heritage, and provided me with a window—just an hour and 15 minutes from Columbia’s campus—into Russia’s artistic, literary, and popular culture scene.
I first heard about this store when I visited Brighton Beach a few years ago with my parents, whose grandparents and great-grandparents emigrated to the United States from Russia and Poland. Brighton Beach, located just near Coney Island, is known for its significant Eastern European and Central Asian population; many people refer to Brighton Beach as New York’s “Little Odessa.” Immigrants fleeing Russia and Ukraine during the last years of the Soviet Union opened restaurants, markets, shops, and schools in the area, creating a vibrant community. The Saint-Petersburg Bookstore, which opened in 1994, soon became Brighton Beach’s epicenter for Russian books, clothes, kitchen appliances, and knick-knacks.
As I approached the store, I felt the gazes of intricately painted matryoshka nesting dolls, each staring menacingly into my soul with huge black eyes. When I got closer, I noticed an unorganized stack of books for sale for only $1.00. I looked through them, seeing authors like Jodi Picoult, Willa Cather, and even John Green. But those were the only names I recognized. Everything else was in Cyrillic. “The huge yellow sign has deceived me,” I muttered under my breath, pulling up the alphabet on my phone to try to translate these mysterious texts. I could make out a book that said “Kurdistan,” another book of contemporary Ukrainian history, and a children’s book about two brothers and their piano. My one hour and 14-minute train ride, I decided, was well worth the adventure into the unknown.
Upon walking in, I was greeted in Russian by one of the staff, to whom I replied “Privyet!” with a slightly anxious smile. I turned to my right, astounded by the selection of bronze cast sculptures and figurines depicting Norse gods, characters from Russian folklore, and bulldogs, along with a Menorah and a Kiddush cup. After passing by a strange variety of other items, I came to the Russian nesting dolls, the same ones that had watched my every movement outside. I quickly found that the store appreciates humor as much as it values Eastern European culture; while many of the dolls wear traditional Russian garments, there are also comic representations of Vladimir Putin, Dmitri Medvedev, Marilyn Monroe, and Lionel Messi. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of ornately decorated Fabergé Eggs from St. Petersburg (the eggs, of course, are knock-offs, since only 57 of the original eggs made by Carl Faberge survive, and all are housed in museums). Although they are not originals, Saint-Petersburg sells these bejeweled eggs for nearly $200 each.
I could have spent the whole day browsing tchotchkes, but I decided to venture into the bookshelves and attempt to discover the beauty of Russian literature. Based on my experience with the bin of “For Sale” books, I knew it would be difficult to find English-language books. So, I did what any tourist in a foreign country—or a Russian store only seventeen miles away from Columbia—would do: find a Russian-to-English dictionary and try to make out the titles and plots of the books. I started with the cookbooks, which were simple enough. I was overwhelmed in the poetry section, where I struggled to make out authors like Alexander Pushkin and Anna Akhmatova, as well as translations of Literature Humanities books like Metamorphoses and The Iliad. I browsed through the history and politics section, a collection of modern texts, books featuring Russian painters like Ilya Repin and Kazimir Malevich, and finally came across an entire section devoted to religion and spirituality. Despite my limited ability to read Cyrillic, I learned a great deal about the Russian literary scene with just a dictionary.
As I walked out of the St. Petersburg Bookstore, leaving behind the smiling staff, an army of nesting dolls, and creepy bear figurines, I felt better informed about Russian culture. Yet I still left with some confusion—were these decorated plates, festive snow globes, and funny costumes accurate representations of Russian culture, or merely touristy gimmicks? I can’t tell for sure. But, accurate or not, these tchotchkes and towering bookshelves reawakened my interest in my heritage, and provided me with a window—just an hour and 15 minutes from Columbia’s campus—into Russia’s artistic, literary, and popular culture scene.
//NOAH SHEIDLOWER is a first year at Columbia College. He can be reached at nms2200@columbia.edu.
Photo Courtesy of Noah Sheidlower
Photo Courtesy of Noah Sheidlower