I once climbed a mountain in Czechoslovakia.

Well, it was part of a mountain, anyway — more of a long, steep incline, really, to an historic castle inexplicably named Hluboka, which is Czech for “deep.” I’ve never understood why they chose to call it “deep” rather than “high” or “tall” — but no one consulted me about the name.

In Moscow, I spent countless hours strolling through the Kremlin, Red Square, Novodevichy Monastery, the Sparrow Hills, and numerous historic cemeteries. Moscow has no mountains, but it does have an over-abundance of cemeteries.

In Alaska, I took the easy way up the mountainside on the White Pass Railway; squeezed into a tiny float plane to glide over the incredibly beautiful, endless glaciers; and ate salmon roasted over an open fire in a clearing by a forest full of bears.

I also climbed the cobblestone steps numerous times to Hradcany, or Castle Hill, in Prague. Actually, what appears architecturally to be a castle on that hill turns out to be St. Vitus Cathedral, while the Presidential Palace nearby is a lovely but far more modest edifice. Very confusing — but that’s Prague for you.

In London, I dodged the advances of an amorous Russian Foreign Ministry official; in Budapest, I took a boat ride up the Danube to an artists’ village called Szentendre; I witnessed a drug bust in front of our hotel in Tbilisi, Georgia; played with a jellyfish in the Black Sea at Sochi; in Kiev, I visited a hospital for child victims of the Chernobyl nuclear disaster.

And in Helsinki, Copenhagen, Tallinn and Berlin, I racked up uncounted thousands of steps as a tourist, unfortunately without a pedometer to log them for me.

I’ve been nearly mugged in St. Petersburg (Russia, not Florida), ridden in the King’s Elevator in the Royal Palace at Stockholm, and been driven to Sheremetyevo Airport by the KGB as I left Moscow.

All of my grand adventures took place in the late 1980s, throughout the ‘90s, and into the early 2000s, until the years started to catch up with my bones. Now on the far side of 80, I no longer have the mobility or the energy to climb the cobblestone steps to Hradcany, or fold my legs into a little float plane. But I am forever grateful to have done all of those things when I was able, and to still have the joy of remembering the adventures and the people who lived them with me.

But having something of value — even of intrinsic value, like a happy memory — is not much good if you can’t share it. And since my family and old friends have heard the stories many times over and are sick to death of them, I’ve decided it’s time to make some new friends, and hopefully to amuse you with tales, in no particular order, of the places I’ve been, the people I’ve known, and the close calls I’ve had, and to show how all of my earlier experiences ultimately led me — innocently skipping like Dorothy along the yellow brick road — to Russia. Life can be endlessly amusing, if you overlook the bad stuff and hold on to the good.

I invite you to join me for Chapter 2, when I will introduce you to the person who most influenced the second half of my life (thus far), and how he in turn introduced me, at the height of the Cold War, to My First Commie.

In the meantime, Happy Holidays to all, and to all a good night, from Brendochka.