Distrustful of one another

     I was going to Moscow, Russia on a 9-day vacation, the Spring of 1988.  My travel agency had arranged for sightseeing and a tour guide to accompany me during the first three days.  I figured it would take me that long to get acclimated.

     I took a flight out of San Francisco to New York, then on to Frankfurt, Germany.  The flight was uneventful until I was to change planes in Frankfurt, manually transferring my luggage from the United plan I just got off to an Aeroflot flight headed for Moscow.  I waited patiently at the baggage rotunda as everybody else's luggage was spotted and picked up except for mine.  I went to the United baggage counter and asked where my luggage was.  "I'm sorry but your luggage was not on the plane," a German girl explained.  "You cannot go on, until it is found!" she added indignantly.

     That would mean staying in the airport waiting room, heaven knows how long.  I knew the tour guide would be waiting for me in Moscow; and to alter all my plans would take some time--contact the travel agency in New York, re-schedule with Aeroflot, that didn't have a daily flight from Frankfurt, etc.  What a mess!  At that time, very few Americans visited Moscow.  Indeed, I may have been the only American scheduled for that flight.  It was somewhat difficult for Westerners to book to Russia in those days.

     With no baggage, I went to the Aeroflot ticket counter and confirmed my reservation with them--in two hours.  They could sent me the luggage in Moscow, whenever it turned up, I thought.  My flight was announced, and I was in line to board at the gate.  The clerk behind the gate's desk announced my name, "Mr. John Oastler, we will seat you now."  I thought t hat was a nice gesture, given that Aeroflot hadn't lost my baggage.  A flight attendant did indeed greet me, and I was escorted to my seat.  It was in the economy class to the rear of the plane.  She didn't comment about the fact that I had no baggage, just a carry-on bag.  I was glad they were permitting me to go on to Moscow, no questions asked.

     The flight from Germany to Russia was long.  About half way through the journey, a bunch of us passengers gathered by the attendants' area and got talking.  Most knew English.  I struck up a conversation with a woman who told me she was a governmental administrator in the Eastern provinces.  She explained she had bought a number of electronic gadgets in Europe, because they were unavailable in Russia.  I mentioned that this was my first trip to Russia.  "Are you scared?" she queried mysteriously.

     Now I thought that was a bit uncalled for.  Nevertheless, I said, "No, I don't think so...No, I'm not."  Thereupon she mentioned there's a detention center for unwanted foreigners to be shipped away just near the Moscow airport.  "Interesting," was my only reply.  Just because I was probably the only American on board didn't mean I would be personal non grata on entering!

     I thought the tour guide would be waiting for me at the Moscow terminal, holding up a sign "John Oastler."  Nobody waiting for me.  So I caught a taxi into the city, the German sector of town, where I would be staying. The desk clerk handed me my room key, took my passport for keeping temporarily, and stated that I'd get it back upon leaving.  I took the elevator to the third floor and proceeded to look for my room number.  It wasn't where I thought it should be, given the signs in  the hallways.  Entering my room, the door open before I got there, I discovered two workmen were drilling holes around the in-wall radio close to my single bed.  I thought that strange--could the hotel be tampering so to send gaseous fumes through the radio's speaker, if they thought I was a spy?  I was becoming fearful.

     The room was small but adequate.  Later that evening in the hotel bar, I was asked by a customer who also knew English how much I was paying for the room.  I told him; and he replied that for Russians it was a third cheaper!  Hmmm, some Russian hospitality to an unsuspecting American!

     My tour guide showed up the following morning and took me around.  I had asked her to take me where I could buy a pair of shoes--an errand I had planned to do in order to interact with Russians in the stores. As we went about, I noticed how Russians dressed in clothes to last virtually forever! In a shoe store, I tried on several pairs of shoes, after each time, my interpreter would explain to passer-by Russians what I thought of the quality: "He likes it.  He says their very practical and will last long!"  Finally, she shouted out for everyone hear when I was prepared to make a purchase, "He's bought them!  He's putting them on to wear now!"

     That same day, as my tour guide and I became more acquainted, she mentioned in a taxi that some Russian government officials wanted to speak with me.  Without asking for my consent, she directed the driver to an apparent government office building in downtown Moscow, not far from the American Embassy, which she dutifully pointed out as we drove by.  Alighting from the taxi, I hastily scanned the side of the building I could see, looking for bars on the windows.  No bars!  We went up to the fifth floor.  I had become nervous and fearful all over again.

     I was shown into an office with two men behind a singular desk.  they turned out to be cordial and friendly, asking what I had done in Moscow so far.  Thereupon, after noting I had made useful suggestions to the Brazilian government recently in my trips to Sao Paolo, Brazil, they wondered would I be wiling to help  them design a pending new constitution for what would become the Russian Federation of Independent States (the name now chosen at the time).  They said they represented President Mikhail Gorbachev.  I responded that I was very familiar with the American Constitution and knew their constitution currently in effect.  I'd do what I could to help them.

     At that moment my fears were all allayed!  Over the next few days, I met with them and others in detailed discussions about Russian commerce and industry and its culture.  Recorded in 8 hours of tape (I understand), nearly all my suggestions became adopted structurally.

     Oh, 5 days into the trip, I received my luggage delivered to my hotel room by Aeroflot.  The clothes inside were drenched but nonetheless usable for the remaining trip.  Was their water-logged condition a sign that some Russian didn't like my presence in Moscow?  I was too partied out to care!       

My first and last vision!

     They say that visions occur in the young--if you pay attention to them.  I had only one vision when I was ten years old.  My mom and dad had just divorced.  At the time we were living in a house on Elmwood near the downtown in Buffalo, New York.  There was, in addition to my parents, Ailene, who was about to marry a local guy, Sheila, age 16, who even at that age was sharing the raising of me, John,  once my father was out of the picture.

     With the money my mom received from the divorce settlement, she decided to move out of town.   She had been taking a degree at Buffalo State University; and she intended to pursue a law degree. She wanted to  get out of Buffalo, because I suffered from the cold and she was accepted at NYU's law graduate program, so to complete her legal education. Additionally, the stigma amongst her friends was aggravating to us all.  At school, the teachers treated me something like a homeless kid; hugging me and showing an unusual degree of compassion. There was one teacher, my second grade teacher, Ms. Keller, who would call me down to her office for consoling.

     So, it was decided by my mother and sister Sheila to journey to New York to  find an apartment.  While we all stayed in the same house, my dad, until it was sold, occupied the lower floor and the three of us took the top floor of the large two-story house.  He became known to us as "the man downstairs."  The house sold quickly, perhaps to one of my mom and dad's friends, named Cleveland, who then could have sold it later.

      Being a significant move in the lives of mom, Sheila and me, we planned a lot.  Then, I got my vision.  I told my mom and sis about it as we stood in a bedroom that had become our kitchen!  I reported that I could see an apartment building--in fact--I said I was standing at the front window, looking out.  There were trees across the street, a high school about a block to the left, and on the right a park.  The peculiar feature I mentioned was the apartment had a private entrance (I later learned it was a superintendent's apartment).  I said these things to assure them they would find something nice!  I was getting excited to live there.

     Armed with my vision in the back of their minds, they went to New York City for about a week to reconnoiter the place and locate an apartment.  They returned with good news.  They liked the city a lot.  Then Sheila blurted out, "We found your place and leased it!  Just where you said it would be!"

    When I viewed the place I confirmed that it was indeed very much like what I had envisioned it to be.

     How do you explain this vision (as I remember it) that occurred some 60 years ago?

     I think it explicable as an anticipatory experience that could take place as it did to my mother and sister, which, having that experience, could serve as a guiding force.  They laid claim to that experience and sought it out.  That is, once they saw tangibly what I described, they laid claim to the apartment.

     We lived in that apartment for some 10 years or so.  Incidentally, mom learned from our neighbors that the renting agency was overcharging.  Our place was under New York City rent control.  Evidently, the property management  thought we were country bumpkins.      

                   .

My Memoirs: Format

I'm taking a creative writing course at the El Paso Community College in the Fall, 2014.  My writing assignments in the course will dove-tail with my starting to write my memoirs.

I've noticed so far--a week of remembering--that my dates aren't going to be that accurate, nor can I count on my memory, the only resource I've essentially got, to remember in the order in which the events actually took place.  I've preserved on paper what I can  and though not totally accurate I claim that it's the best I can do, since my memory is my principal resource.

So, treat each episode as inspired by some personal, factual event, though the episode depicted cannot be authenticated.

I won't be writing items in chronological order, so I'll use a numbering system to retain a chronological order for the items in this series.

Aside from these provisos, here I go!

P.S.  The last item in the current My Memoirs series is 'The Roadster Spinner.'   If there's more interest in the series, I'd be delighted to continue it in some fashion!  12/2/14