From Russia with gloves
A rubber glove inserted in one’s fundament, that is. This here’s uncle guido back in athens, deep fried like a thai grasshopper.
Before I go on, a word about Russian security……argggggggh! That’s the word. After our halcyon days in St. Petersburg, we got off the 8 hour train to Moscow and were denied entrance to our hotel on the grounds that our papers weren’t in order. It seems that the travel restrictions practiced by the former unmentionable regime are still in force and one must supply hard copy to back up one’s claims at legitimacy in the Russian federation.
We were thus privileged to discover a new kind of limbo, waiting to be allowed past the border between the street and our hotel. We passed the time at the convenient hotel police station by sipping a coke or two at the convenient Limbo bar and grill, conveniently located in the basement.
All of this security begs the question “What the hell are you dopes keeping so secure?”
“We are guarding the other guards.”
“And what are they guarding?”
“It’s a secret.”
There were not only security guards at the front desk of the hotel, there were roving gangs of security who prowled the halls of this 2000 room monster left over from the heady days when Brezhnev’s guests and cronies luxuriated there. Now, the fountain reminiscent of Las Vegas’ Sands Hotel lies rusting in the Moscow rain, its mosaic tiles falling loose almost audibly.
I had planned to go on and on and vent all kinds of spleen but I am afraid that I just don’t have the energy. Some slimebag stole my laptop from the hotel lobby in Barcelona and I no longer want to live.
I will write an update soon, describing the sublime majesty of Red Square and the surrounding monolithic buildings, the warmth of the Moscow audience and much more besides.
I include for your consideration the fact that I was almost obliged to leave my violin in Moscow since its papers were not in order. I somehow neglected to get a passport for my fiddle, folks. Only a quick inspection by a violin specialist at customs saved my instrument. It seems that n’er do wells have been known to travel into Russia with a cheap violin and leave with a looted Stradivarius from the Moscow Conservatory or something. Hell.
Right now, I am in mourning for my computer. It was a cheerful little fellow, a Compaq, not astounding but all mine. No more, alas. He will be sorely missed by his doting dad.
I will keep my chin up. You have not heard the last from your correspondent, not by a long shot.