Day 9

Welcome to London

My first memories of Russia include a certain unpleasantness.

We had been primed for customs when we landed in Moscow. Stand in line, papers in hand and in proper order. Keep your mouth shut. Certainly no joking or horsing around.

Border crossing in our time has become a exacting, tense experience. Even the US - Canadian border at the Peace Bridge in Buffalo, that used to be "Hi" and "U.S." to the citizenship question, now requires a passport and twenty no nonsense questions -- if you are lucky. If you very lucky, the Canadian customs agent will give you a smile too.

But in Russia it is all serious business, even though, I am told, things have lightened up considerably. Step up to the booth when the soldier inside signals. Hand him the passport, visa, and entry declarations. Know how much money you are carrying when he asks so you don't have to dig it out and count it. Smile if you can't help it -- they expect that from Americans -- but no jokes.

So we did that, one at a time, as summoned. The soldier turned out to look extremely young. He may have been a teenager, for all I know. But for any child of the cold war, as I am, the familiar Russian military uniform is sobering regardless of the person wearing it. The difference between Russian Federation and Soviet Union seems negligable as you stand there rigid with concentration. This was 2004, but it could have been 1964 for the residual fears that somehow bob to the surface. A few tense moments while he examines the paper and looks you in the face, then relief when he waves you through.

Once through, the first thing we wanted was a bathroom. Relief from all that tension comes in many forms. And we had a long ride ahead of us. We had heard the toilet stories and had been told to expect the worst.

The bathroom when we found it tucked in under a set of stairs reminded me of older sections of the New York City subway system. A whole lot better, all in all, than the-hole-in-the-floor stories we had been treated to; however dated, this was a good bathroom.

So, I had taken my turn and was waiting to wash my hands in the sink when an old man lurched through the door, staggered over to the lone sink, and vomited into it with great force and noise.

Stunned, we all stepped back as the old man, with his long white hair, long white beard, and dark clothes, layered and deeply soiled, straightened up and lurched back out the door.

So, my friends: Welcome to Russia.

I was reminded of that sobering experience Tuesday morning on the streets of London. I was returning from Heathrow, where my wife had just left for home to see a new grandchild into the world, and had decided to walk through center London to pick up a knife-sharpening steel at John Lewis.

Heading down Tottenham Court Road in the general though distant direction of Foyles, the landmark book store, I encountered twenty-five young people pulling large suitcases traveling slowly in the same direction and effectively obstructing the sidewalk. Feeling confident from my four weeks as a Londoner and, no doubt, a tad amused at that familiar initial suitcase hauling ordeal, I made my way to the front of the suitcase crowd by side-stepping and moving up into gaps.

I had just reached the front of the crowd, where an efficient sounding young woman was shouting directions toward the sluggish stragglers, when a tall young man coming toward us, suddenly bent over and vomited with great force and noise in the middle of the sidewalk.

He was almost upon us, I might add. I managed to avoid splatter by hopping to the side.

I turned quickly to gauge for myself if the young man was sick. He straightened himself, mostly, and staggered forward. I recognized on his face the same mask of drunkenness I had seen on the old drunk in Moscow, the same flushed skin, at once abnormally pink and colorless, the same concentration of the eyes that focus on nothing but the next step, the same set jaw and fixed mouth as if grim determination will get them through just this one more time. His sports jacket and slacks had the sheen and varigated staining of many nights on the ground.

Many things might be said here, but they've been said before. And those who need to hear them most aren't listening just now. The differences between the young drunk in London and the old drunk in Moscow -- or the ones I used to walk past sleeping in doorways in San Francisco -- are almost incidental compared with the damning similarities.

Oh, my young friends, no one starts out thinking he -- or she -- will end up a public drunk. But sure as you are reading this tale to its end, when you reach that point, the rest of us will have only one option -- to step aside and move away as quickly as possible.