Your body becomes overwhelmed. All you can do is just stand there and look. At first, you think of the history, the architecture, the beauty of nature, whatever, but soon the numbness takes over, your soul empties out, your brain clears and your heart slows to a soft beat. All you can do is stare and let all that surrounds you take over. Peace – Travel. You cease being a tourist and become a native. The next thing you know time has passed. People have come and went. You snap out of your daze. And everything comes back in one huge wave. ‘Oh, so this is where I am.’
And although you might not have had a thought for awhile, your brain has all that you have experienced in that time stored away. And it all comes to you at once, the wave crashing down. The blood returns to your face. You are conscious of your body again. You realize that maybe it’s time for you to move on, and that is a painful realization. You know you must leave, but it’s like leaving a child, knowing you may never see that child again. But go you must, so you do, waiting for the next time when once again you can have that experience, that same sense of union with an object, a place, a view. Of not being some stupid person stumbling through life, but of being one with history, with nature. But the best thing about being a traveler is that you know, be it next week, next month, or even around the next corner, that it will happen again. That same joy of discovery, that same feeling of blissful emptiness, blissful insignificance, and that same feeling of separation. The drug of travel. The most addictive one of all. It’s all I live for.
And you never know when it’s going to happen. You can be staring down an alley in Istanbul, crossing the Bay Bridge to San Francisco, or sitting in a cafe in Voronezh. Today it happened in the city of Nizhny Novgorod, at the apartment/museum of Andei Sakharov.
Now, one should expect, when visiting a place like this, to be heavily effected. For those of you who don’t know, Andrei Sakharov was the father of the Soviet Nuclear Bomb. But soon after the first bomb was detonated, he saw what he had done. As David Remnick recalls in his book ‘Lenin’s Tomb’, at a dinner party soon after the first explosion, Sakharov made a toast, hoping that the bomb would never have to be used. In reply, a general made his toast, ‘Leave that decision to the generals’, to paraphrase. But other than keeping his mouth shut, he spoke out about the evils of the arms race, and soon become the Soviet Unions most vociferous critics from within. Needless to say, this could not be tolerated, and all means were applied to keep his mouth shut. Eventually, this lead to life in eternal exile in the closed city of Gorky, today called Nizhny Novgorod.
For the vast majority of the eighties, Sakharov and his wife, Elena Bonner, were forced to live in a normal Soviet flat, in a normal Soviet building, in a normal Soviet town. Now, that might not sound that bad. But in the hallway outside there door there was a constant KGB presence, and people weren’t allowed in. The surrounding apartments on the first floor were full of KGB agents with listening devices, where they could here everything that went on in their flat. Outside, there was a KGB trailer, where all radio and television communications were blocked. They weren’t allowed a telephone, and, of course, any mail. His flat would be searched, all his papers confiscated. They were effectively imprisoned. When Elena became very ill, she wasn’t allowed any medical treatment, so that Andrei had to resort to hunger strikes so that she could get the treatments that she needed. This led to many small strokes, and a doctor telling him that ife he didn’t stop, he’d get Parkinson’s Disease. He would be force fed, his nose pinched and a tube forced down his throat. But his plight did not go unnoticed in the west, or within the Soviet Union, where, although he was constantly vilified in the press, he was considered a hero by most, willing to sacrifice everything to publicize the lack of human rights within his country. And all this in a normal, everyday Soviet setting.
I stood at a window, staring out at the Soviet apartment blocks, the same blocks that are in every city in the ex-Soviet bloc. But this is the same window where he might have stood, and looked at the everyday life of normal people go on, a life that was unattainable for him, one that he had given up. And he would have looked a little past the children playing in the snow, past the babushkas waiting for their bus, and seen the KGB trailer, probably looking right back at him. And everything left me. I couldn’t move, all I could do was look out this window. Stare. Stop thinking. For how long? I don’t know. But then the wife said it was time to go. I lingered at the window, looking at nothing special, but unable to look away, unable to leave. I said my good-bye. I turned around and Sakharov was staring at me. The wave built and crashed. Yes, it all came to me. Where I was. Who I was. And what an insignificant piece of shit I am.
Travel – What my life is about.
#12
April 3, 1999
Feel My Disease
So, I’m sure you’re all wondering where I’ve been these last few weeks. Well y’know, a funny thing happened on my way to the Kremlin…
About a month ago, I read in the paper that one of my favorite movies of all time, ‘Valley Girl’ was going to be on TV. Sure, it would be in Russian, but I already have all the lines memorized. I waited all week with bated breath until it was on. Finally, the day came. Then, about an hour into the movie, I started to get a very sharp, intense pain below my stomach. I mean, it really hurt. I couldn’t concentrate on the movie. My luck. I called in sick the next day, and sat in bed moaning. The next day, the pain had subsided, and within a couple more days, it was gone. I felt well enough to go to Nizhny Novgorod.
The week after I returned, the pain came back. Not as intense, just an annoying throb that wouldn’t go away. I have medical insurance here, so I decided to go to the polyclinic and see what was wrong. At worst, I figured it was my appendix, there would have to be a routine operation and I would be back on my feet in a few days. So I went to the doctor, and that’s what they said it was, and I was taken to a hospital for surgery.
Now, I know your thinking, ‘Whoa! Surgery in Russia! I don’t think so!’ Now, I must admit, I had my reservations, but I am in Moscow, not Siberia, and if there is anyplace to have surgery in Russia, this is the place. Besides, it’s just a little appendectomy. So I was taken to the emergency room, they took some tests, and I was whisked off to the operating table.
When I came to the next day, after a couple hours of delirium where I thought that I had truly lost my mind and any concept of reality, I realized that I had tubes coming out of every orifice of my body, plus some coming out of places where there used to be no holes. Obviously, something more than an appendectomy had occurred. I truly started to freak out, and the fact that all the doctors were talking to me in Russian and that I couldn’t understand a word they were saying didn’t help matters. So I laid there and whined in the Russian that I know for quite a few hours. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity in hell, I saw my wife. Through the spastic tears on both sides, I realized that my appendix was fine, in fact, it was still there, but instead I was less about five feet of lower intestine, and they had took a chunk of my bowel as well. Neat. Seems I had a big hole in my intestine. Cool.
So after about a week of IV’s and such, they took out all the tubes and I could start eating food again. This was stage where I prayed that I could fart. And then it was time to thank God every time I shit. I came damn close to having a colostomy bag. At 32! I shudder thinking about it. Another week went by, and I was released from the hospital, and now here I am, back to my faithful readership. I missed you all.
As I lay in my hospital bed, I couldn’t help but think what a great Budget File this whole experience would make. Two weeks in a Russian Hospital! The wife even brought in my notebook so I could write things down. But I didn’t feel much like writing, just reading and playing Tetris. That’s what I’ve been doing for weeks now. Maybe in a month or so I’ll write more extensively about the whole experience, but right now I just don’t feel like it. The surgeons were excellent, and they treated me well. The main surgeon was an older woman who treated me like her son, and her assistant was a young Armenian who kept shaking his head going ‘David, David’ and telling me my wife was beautiful. I had a room all to myself, so I listened to the BBC on my radio drone on non-stop about Kosovo. The food was terrible, except for the Kasha (Russian oatmeal). I can’t really compare it to an American hospital, because I’ve never had to stay in one before. But I would think that the three main differences are these: In a Russian hospital, you can smoke. Sure, you have to go out on the stairwell, but your doctors’ll join you there. The second I didn’t see, but I was told about, and that was that you can buy canned gin and tonics in the cafeteria, and my wife saw doctors down there drinking them. And the third one, which really blew my mind, happened on the last day of my stay. On that day, someone else was brought into my room. This guy had just come out of surgery, and he was messed up. Had more tubes than I had, and was hooked up to some funky machines. But he had a bottle of vodka, and at one point he asked the nurse to give him a swig. She put the bottle up to his mouth and gave him a drink! ‘Damn straight!’ I thought. ‘This is Russia!’
* * *
But of course, this does really screw up my life. It seems that I have Crone’s Disease, one of those groovy diseases that no one knows where it comes from or how you get rid of it. It can lay dormant for twenty years, then snap you down, then lay dormant for another twenty. Or it can come and go every couple months. My family and some of my friends are pressuring me into coming home immediately, but I want to finish up my teaching contract. The last thing in the world I want is to go back to the States at all. I had some pretty mega plans for the summer. I was going to do the Middle East; Egypt, Palestine, Israel, Syria, Jordan, Lebanon, Turkey. I even had an invitation to visit friends in Sarajevo (which, of course, I probably couldn’t do now anyway.) Just think of the exciting stories I could tell you, oh my adored readers. But alas, that is now not possible. Instead, I will have to languish away this summer on the beach in Southern California, in my mom’s condo in the upwardly mobile San Diego suburb of Del Mar, going to the hospital and having tubes stuck up my butt. Not quite what I had planned. And, I’m afraid, not quite as exciting for you, as well. And who knows what I will do after the summer is over. Will I be able to come back to Russia? I would certainly hate to miss the elections next year. Or, will I be forced to go back to school, because I’d have nothing better to do? Will I have to look for a job? Where will I live? What the fuck am I going to do? This really screws up my plans. But anyway, I guess you’ll just have to stay tuned and find out, if you really care…
* * *
But enough about me. On to the geo-politics…
* * *
I remember reading somewhere in my convalescence, maybe in the Herald-Trib, maybe the Moscow Times, I don’t know, that in some poll Americans said that Bill Clinton was the number one foreign policy president in like the last fifty years or something. He was even put ahead of FDR. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It almost made me want to start telling people I’m Canadian. A man whose sole means of foreign policy seems to be to bomb somebody for whatever happens. A man that people with far more knowledge than me, on both sides of the political spectrum, including Clinton lovers, have often stated has only a passing interest in foreign affairs, domestic policy being his main interest. I hate to say this, because it makes me sound self-important and condescending, which I am, but Americans are ignorant boobs. But then, ignorance is bliss, right?
I have often told the story about my night when Clinton was first elected. I was living on Haight Street in San Francisco at the time. When it was known that Clinton had won, there was literally partying in the streets. The Lower Haight, populated by tattooed and pierced people in their twenties raised under Republicans, were rejoicing that finally somebody they voted for had won. That night, everybody in my flat, including myself, got laid.
Four years later and it was time to vote again. I was back in Southern California, going to school, debating on whether to vote for Clinton again. Sure, I didn’t really agree 100% with his domestic policy (mostly welfare-reform), but not enough to vote against him. But his foreign policy actions, my main interest, really stuck in my craw. Especially concerning Indonesia. He was supporting Suharto at the time, who was cracking down on the opposition, and there was the scandal about about him taking Indonesian money. I just couldn’t vote for him. I couldn’t really vote for Dole either, so I protested and voted for Ralph Nader. Of course, Clinton won, and ever since we have had to endure him shooting off his missile, er, I mean shooting off missiles, left and right. History will never say Clinton was impotent.
Clinton inherited a global situation unequaled in world history. The cold war had ended, and the US was the only real power in the world. There was a general excitement that this was going to be a time of positive change, former barriers haven fallen and the world maybe, just maybe, on the brink of a fresh start. But I want to ask you something. Look at the world today. Anywhere. Is it better off than before?
Clinton, the best foreign policy president? It’s almost enough to turn me Republican.
* * *
Speaking of the end of the cold war…
I find it intrusting that one of the great bulwarks of that era, NATO, is in the news so much lately. A mutual defense pact created to protect Western Europe from an enemy that doesn’t exist anymore, has, instead of disintegrating, grown. And now it’s using its collective might, not defensively, but offensively. Now, I’m not saying I’m for or against bombing the Serbs, I really can’t make up my mind, I’m just waiting for all of the Balkans to become a NATO ‘protectorate’ ruled by an appointed administrator/dictator like Carlos Westendorp in Bosnia. After all, it seems that all the old rules no longer apply, which is what we were all hoping for with the end of the cold war, wasn’t it?
* * *
Every week, to get my Economist (a weekly British newsmagazine that has the best foreign affairs reporting anywhere) I have to go to the Hotel National across the street from the Kremlin. I get off the metro, and walk past the State Duma (parliament) building. Usually this is a non-event, but yesterday I finally saw my first anti-NATO protest. The protesters were lined up in front of the Duma building, in a specially cordoned off area reserved for them. There was the usual old pensioners waving their Soviet flags and holding up pictures of Stalin, that I had seen many times before. But this time there were caricatures of Clinton holding missiles, a map of the US made into a face, with dollar signs for eyes and bodies crushed between its teeth, and lots of anti-NATO banners. I walked by and heard ‘Americanskaya Fascisma!” Well, OK. I can dig that. On the way back I hid my English language magazine in my jacket and walked on the curb. No need to draw attention to myself.
I’m not really afraid of being jumped or anything like that. The US Embassy has sent out a memo telling people not to speak out loud and take precautions. But I still read my books and newspapers on the metro, with that English language held out for all to see. Can’t live your life in fear. And sure, they stare, but then they always have. Maybe in their minds they’re thinking different thoughts, but they have yet to manifest these thoughts to me. But then, I’ve been in the hospital most of the last few weeks. To deny a certain increase in paranoia on my part, though, would be a lie. Last night, someone overheard a couple of my British friends at a store and asked them if they were American. ‘Net, ya Avstraliets!’ (‘No, I’m Australian!’) They were left alone, after being told it was a good thing they weren’t in NATO. That sounded like a good idea. I think I’ll use it, if I have to. It’s not like they could tell the different accents. And it’s not as bad as saying I’m Canadian, is it?
* * *
I saw on the cover of ‘Expert’, a Russian newsmagazine, a picture of Swarzenegger, (who happens to be Austrian, a country that’s not in NATO), circa Terminator 2, pointing a big gun. The tag line – ‘USA Uber Alles’. I thought that was hella cool.
* * *
Like I said before, I don’t know if this bombing thing is good or not. It probably won’t solve anything, but then, what else was there to do? But I do know one thing that seems obvious, that the West has no other plans other than bombing. No back-up, no plan B. Just bomb bomb bomb. Ok, we’ve bombed this stuff, now we’ll bomb these things. They were expecting Milosevic to jump through their hoops, but he hasn’t, and it doesn’t seem like he will. To me, this whole thing is starting to reek of Iraq. How long have we been bombing that country? We still are to this day, but it’s such a humdrum occurrence now that its barely a blip in the news. And has anything changed there? It all shows once more the by-the-seat-of-my-pants foreign policy of Clinton. Bomb first, ask questions later.
* * *
No letters this week, I’ve droned on too long as it is. But next week I should have a bunch. Until next time…
