We are all, in a way, schizophrenic. Perhaps not clinically diagnosable as such, but in the sense of being a little bit practical, a little bit spendthrift; a little bit serious, a little bit fun-loving; a little bit cautious, a little bit adventurous.

Earlier today I laid out the facts of my life as my family and friends know me, and as I said I should be remembered when I am no longer here to defend myself. But I have decided, upon re-reading my own words, that I should add a postscript to cover the other side of me — the less ordinary, less sensible, less . . . well, let’s call it what it is . . . the less boring side.

When I began this blog back in December of 2022, I introduced myself with a brief chapter entitled “This Is Me.” (Not grammatically correct, but I didn’t think anyone would be particularly eager to read something called “This Is I.”) So I charged ahead, and what resulted was not bad. And now, some nine months later, I’d like to add those same words to my proposed eulogy. Because, you see, those adventurous times — while only a relatively brief part of my life — really are the times that best define me. Given a choice, I would rather relive those few years of adventure than all the years of sensible.

So, once again, dear readers:

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This Is Me:

“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 friont 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.”

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For those of you who have not been with me from the start, and if (hopefully) I have whetted your appetite and you have some time to spare, feel free to go way, way, way back to Chapter 2 and work your way forward for all of the tantalizing details.

But more importantly, to the person(s) who will actually be writing my eulogy: Please be sure to include this part. Because life, in all its variety of good and bad times, for the most part really has been a blast. And it’s not over until that fat lady — whoever she may be — belts out her song.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/20/23