We’ve all seen and heard the horror stories in recent years about people’s terrifying experiences on various airlines: endless lines at the airport; luggage searches; delays in boarding or take-off; cramped seating; screaming babies; angry — even violent — passengers; stressed-out flight attendants. And at the end of the trip, lost luggage.

I haven’t flown lately, but I did a lot of traveling during the 1990s and early 2000s. And while things were considerably easier before 9/11, my travels were not without incident — some of them funny as hell, and others . . . well . . . just plain hell. But let’s stay with the more amusing ones, and leave out the details of the missing bags in Moscow and Prague; the security search in Rome; the lost reservation from Rome to Malta; the broken escalators in Milan; and the cigarette smoke, collapsing seats, and flying luggage on Aeroflot. Actually, that last one was pretty funny, but I’ve already covered it in another chapter.

In April of 1990, I was part of a team from a law firm that was one of the sponsors of a conference being held in London on doing business in Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union. Some of our advance group were already there, so I flew alone — my first solo overseas trip. (An earlier excursion, in 1988, had been with a guided tour group to the Soviet Union.)

The flight from Washington to London was not full, and I was able to score a triple seat to myself, where I put up the arm rests, grabbed a pillow and a blanket, and stretched out after dinner for a good night’s sleep. But the return trip five days later was a whole different story. I was flying home with one of our other team members, and we were in the center row of four seats — she was on the right aisle, I was in the second seat, there was an empty seat to my left, and a man who buried his nose in a book and remained silent throughout the flight was in the aisle seat next to that.

The conference, combined with a bit of sightseeing and partying, had been hectic and tiring, and about halfway across the Atlantic, I began to feel sleepy. So I put up the armrest between my seat and the empty one, slipped off my shoes, turned sideways, and curled up for a little nap. And when I awoke, I realized that my right leg had stretched out a bit, and my shoeless foot was resting comfortably . . . on the stranger’s thigh. And since he had continued reading and wasn’t moving, I could only assume that he didn’t know how to react, or perhaps was actually enjoying a little human contact. In either case, since he had been so unfriendly from the beginning of the trip, I didn’t want to deal with him. So I pretended to still be asleep, shifted position — gently removing my foot from his leg — and kept my eyes closed for a few more minutes. Then I “woke up.” And he never looked up from his book. His loss.

*. *. *

Later that same year — in the blazing heat of July — I traveled to Texas with two Washington lawyers, a Soviet diplomat, and the diplomat’s wife, to visit the Confederate Air Force at Harlingen. (That was a fascinating story in itself, and is the subject of its own blog post of February 16, 2023, appropriately titled “The Confederate Air Force.” Check it out if you’re interested.)

Anyway, on the packed flight home, I ran into one of those screaming baby situations. I was seated next to a pleasant young woman with an adorable but very upset year-old boy on her lap. I don’t know whether he was frightened, feeling the change in air pressure, or just tired; but he simply wouldn’t stop crying. The mother was becoming very embarrassed and frustrated; and to be perfectly honest, I wasn’t enjoying it much either. I took my key chain from my purse and shook it in front of the little boy, and it distracted him enough to stop his crying for a moment. So I suggested to the woman that she might want to get up and stretch her legs, and that I would be glad to hold her baby for a few minutes. Well, we were on a plane, up in the air, so she knew I couldn’t run off with him, and she gladly agreed. And as soon as that little boy landed in my lap, he turned off the faucet of tears, grabbed my keys, and rewarded me with the biggest, most beautiful smile. All he needed was a distraction.

If there’s a moral to the story, I guess it’s this: If you find yourself in an unpleasant situation, and you think there might be something you can do about it, then do it — don’t just sit there being miserable. It won’t always work, but it might. That little boy would be around 34 now, and I’m sure he doesn’t remember the incident; but I’ll bet his mother does.

*. *. *

And speaking of unpleasant situations. . .

On one of my trips to Russia, I was booked on Lufthansa with a change of planes in Frankfort, Germany. And it was quite an experience. To begin with, German efficiency was apparent everywhere. The flight left on time; the plane was spotless; the service was excellent and the food delicious; the flight arrived on time; and the airport at Frankfort was scrubbed to a shiny clean finish. And I’ve never been so happy to get off of a flight in my life, before or since.

“Why?” — you ask. “It sounds perfect.” Well, let me tell you. The couple seated next to me were beyond annoying — in fact, they were the worst seat mates ever. Now, I am not a violent person; but after a little while I really wanted to smack them silly — or better yet, send them to sit in the cargo hold for the rest of the trip.

Actually, it had all started out well enough. They were an attractive couple: a man and wife, both well-educated and pleasantly chatty, who had been on their first visit to the U.S. for a professional conference in New York, followed by a few days in Washington. So as we were getting acquainted, I asked the obvious question: what were their impressions of the two cities, and of the United States in general?

Big mistake. Huge! Because they immediately launched into a diatribe on the many faults of my beloved country, and everything they had hated: the architecture, the traffic, the crime rates, the educational systems (he was a teacher), the TV programming, litter in the streets, the way the young people dressed, the food . . . In fact, there didn’t seem to be a single thing they did like. And I listened quietly, seething inside, until they both seemed to run out of insults. And then I spoke.

“Well,” said I, “you have made some valid points. We do have a crime problem in our large cities; but that’s all you saw, and you weren’t in any of our lovely small towns or rural areas. And our inner-city schools are often in need of improvement; but each jurisdiction is independent, and most of them are just fine. I do agree with you that there’s a lot of trash on TV. We’re not perfect . . . but, on the other hand, we’ve never started a World War.”

Oops!

Even over the roar of the plane’s engines, you could have heard the proverbial pin drop. Those two people sat up straight, as though someone had shoved poles up their self-righteous asses, and they never uttered another word throughout the flight. Nor did I. I would have asked to change seats, but the flight was full. So instead, I buried my nose in a book . . . quite satisfied with myself for having thought of the perfect comeback at just the right moment.

A word of advice: you do not — ever — trash my country to my face. In fact, you don’t do that to anyone. Would you go into someone’s home and start criticizing the decor, the kids, the nice dinner they prepared for you? I should hope not. And I would not ordinarily dream of saying such a thing to anyone from any country; but they asked for it, and I merely gave them a taste of their own medicine. Now, please understand — these were just two individuals out of a whole country, most of whose inhabitants I have found to be perfectly lovely people. I just happened to be the unlucky one to have had those two as seat mates.

*. *. *

But the flight eventually ended, and things got funnier in Frankfort. As I mentioned, I was en route to Moscow, at a time when there was a serious shortage in Russia of hard currency and you couldn’t always get travelers’ checks cashed. So I had prepaid my air fare and my hotel reservation, and brought with me $3,000 in cash (the equivalent of more than $6,000 today), rolled up and stashed in a small cross-body bag that I wore under my jacket.

Going through security in the Frankfort airport, I placed my carry-on bag and my jacket on the conveyor belt and began to walk through, when the inspector said I also needed to remove my little cross-body bag — the one with the money in it. I had a rather silly mental image of the long strap possibly getting caught in the machinery and my $3,000 being chewed into confetti, so I asked if I could keep it on and just let him look inside the bag. He wasn’t sure what to do, so he called his supervisor over.

I have no idea how to say “Humpty Dumpty” in German, but that’s who the supervisor reminded me of. He was a round, jolly-faced gentleman, with a happy personality — the total opposite of what one would expect of a security officer.

He had me step aside and asked (in English) what the problem was. I assured him there was no problem, and explained about the money, the long strap, and again offered to show him the contents of the purse. When he looked inside and saw the $3,000 bankroll, he asked where I was going; and when I said I was headed to Moscow, he understood the issue, nodded and said, “Oh, okay. No problem.” And as I gathered my belongings, said “Danke schoen,” and began to walk away, I distinctly felt his chubby little hand patting my backside in farewell.

Now, I am an independent, liberated, American woman, who doesn’t put up with that kind of crap. My first instinct was to turn around and deck him with my carry-on bag. But I was also an American woman, alone in a foreign country, with $3,000 in her possession, headed for Russia. And the last thing I needed was to be arrested for assaulting a federal officer. So — for one of the few times in my life — I shut my mouth and walked away. And then I laughed . . . and laughed . . . and laughed. That jolly little man was actually pretty cute, and I decided it was best to be flattered that he thought my behind was worth patting. No harm done, and it made a good story to tell my friends when I arrived in Moscow.

*. *. *

I’ve gone on long enough now. And I’ve devoted whole chapters in the past to other travel adventures. Those were all before the disaster of 9/11. Travel since that date has never again been as much fun, and sadly, it probably never will be. But at least I have my memories of better days.

See you tomorrow, I hope, when we check out some people you probably didn’t know were so old . . . or still alive.

TTFN,
Brendochka
8/15/23

When I became a Mom for the first time, I promised myself and my beautiful baby boy — who obviously couldn’t have cared less at that point — that I would always keep up with the changing times, and not be one of those old fuddy-duddies who couldn’t let go of the past. And for many years I kept that promise.

But no one ever warned me that the world was going to change at warp speed, or that technology was going to evolve at a pace, and to a level, that my brain simply wasn’t capable of matching. My children’s school lessons lost me at something called New Math. And while I once spent Christmas Eve, after the kids were asleep, putting together my son’s first two-wheeler for Santa to deliver, I am immensely grateful that I never had to top that performance with a multi-speed bike complete with cardio-tracking.

So now, sad to say, I am that old fuddy-duddy. Oh, I learned how to use an eight-track, a cassette player, a CD player, a VCR, a DVD player, a computer, and an iPhone, all right — at least well enough to survive. I’ve even pumped my own gas, and I can change the ink cartridge in my laser printer. But that doesn’t mean I love doing it. I have kept up, to the limit of my abilities; but I fear I will never be able to follow the wave of the future any farther. Artificial Intelligence terrifies me. Hell, I can’t even understand the objective of Dungeons & Dragons!

I’m still baffled by some of the household devices that are already or nearly obsolete. I want to know how my iPad and iPhone know what I’m going to type before I’ve even made up my own mind. And those cute little drone things flying above our heads? Scary as s**t!

There are, of course, many modern developments I wouldn’t trade for anything: medical advances, on-the-spot news reporting, real-time weather forecasting, GPS, UPS, and Amazon, to name just a few.

But do you know what I really miss from the not-so-distant past? Clocks with hands. Stoves with on/off knobs. Home phones with long cords and real buttons instead of touch pads. Full-service gas stations. Full-service anything! Having my phone calls answered by live people instead of machines. Jeans that aren’t ripped. Slow-cooked food. Sit-down family dinners. Elegant clothes. Airlines that get you there safely, on time, and with your luggage. Common courtesy, concern, and consideration.

So call me old-fashioned; call me anything you like. There’s a reason for the popularity of “retro” — some things are just worth keeping or bringing back. And simply because you have a wonderful new toy, you shouldn’t feel compelled to get rid of your favorite old one. Your past is what made you who you are today. Don’t be stuck in it; but remember it, cherish it, and honor it. And if your kids think you’re an old fuddy-duddy, so what? Just remind them that tempus fugit, and they’ll be fuddy-duddies too, before they know it. Paybacks are hell.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/14/23

As reported yesterday by Business Insider: According to investigative journalist Christo Grozev of Bellingcat, within six months Yevgeny Prigozhin will stage a second coup attempt against the Kremlin, or he will be dead.

I’m setting my clock now.

First of all, we should keep in mind that this is Mr. Grozev’s stated opinion. He reminds us that he previously told the Financial Times: “I said last January that Prigozhin would turn on Putin within six months — and it just fit within my timeframe.” He said this was based on “suspicions [that] were sparked by the fact that there was an increase in telephone traffic between Russia’s senior military, per data acquired by Bellingcat.”

He continues: “Putin went on TV and called Prigozhin a traitor. Everyone knows what they do with ‘traitors,’ and Putin hasn’t done that. He wants to see him dead. He can’t do that yet. In six months, Prigozhin will either be dead, or there will be a second coup. I’m agnostic between the two, but I can’t see neither of these happening.”

In other words, he forecasts the inevitability of either a coup or the elimination of Prigozhin, with no other reasonable option. But Mr. Grozev fails to explain why he believes that Putin can’t do away with Prigozhin just yet. And he goes on to cite “rumors circulating that hundreds of Wagner troops are leaving Belarus to return to Russia, and are ready to ‘activate’ at the end of August . . .” — citing the Institute for the Study of War (ISW). And further: “A Russian insider source and a Wagner-affiliated source speculated that this might be because [Belarusian President] Lukashenko refused to finance Wagner as he had expected Russia would be responsible for them.”

Mr. Grozev then acknowledges that the ISW noted that “the validity of these claims are unclear at this time, and it remains to be seen how the Wagner Group will proceed and how Putin might respond.”

So, once more, this is all the analysis of one journalist, based in large part on rumors and speculation. Of course, with Yevgeny Prigozhin, that’s pretty much all we ever have to work with. He remains an enigma; Putin never reveals what he’s really thinking; and Lukashenko is a wild card. And we — the rest of the world — can only wait to see what happens next.

Stayed tuned.

Brendochka
8/13/23

We’ve all been in that awkward situation — whether in a large group or just among a few friends — when the conversation lags, drags, and finally comes to a screeching halt. And suddenly, no one is able to come up with a topic that seems even mildly interesting. So what do you do to save the day?

Trivia. It works every time. And if you don’t have a steel-trap memory where you can keep three or four of these little bits of useless but fascinating information handy for instant recall, I suggest 3×5 cards (or the smart-phone equivalent, Notes). And you lead off with, “Did you know . . . ?” immediately capturing everyone’s attention because they’re all desperate to be rescued from the looming silence.

And guess what. I’m here to throw a few of these lifesavers out for your use in case of emergency . . . or whenever you simply feel like sounding smart to your co-workers, your kids, or the mailman. They are not copyrighted, so feel free to take credit as you wish. Let us begin with . . .

Did you know . . . that Venus is the hottest planet?

Did you know . . . that ozone has three molecules of oxygen?

Did you know . . . that Marie Curie was the first woman to win a Nobel Prize (in 1903)?

Did you know . . . that Superman’s birth name was Kal-El?

Did you know . . . that Sean Connery played James Bond in seven films?

Did you know . . . that rats love to play, and they laugh when you tickle them? (Did you even want to know that?)

Did you know . . . that Phantom of the Opera is the longest-running Broadway show to date? Or that The Lion King is the highest-grossing?

Did you know . . . that Audi, Porsche, Bugatti, Lamborghini, and Ducati are all owned by Volkswagen?

Did you know . . . that the average car has 30,000 parts, including screws and bolts?

Did you know . . . that the adult human body has 206 bones?

Did you know . . . that the largest organ of your body is your skin?

Did you know . . . that the smallest country in the world is Vatican City?

Did you know . . . that the Middle Ages lasted about 1,000 years?

Did you know . . . that Ralph Lauren’s real name was Ralph Lifshitz? (And can you blame him for changing it?)

Did you know . . . that serial killer Ted Bundy confessed to having committed 30 homicides? Or that the “Unabomber,” Ted Kaczynski, was a former graduate of Harvard? (Maybe you shouldn’t name your sons “Ted.”)

Did you know . . . that the gestation period of an African elephant is 22 months? (Ouch.)

Did you know . . . that an octopus has three hearts? Or that sea sponges have none?

And did you know . . . that this could go on practically forever? But I think we’re off to a good start here. If you need more, or if you’re just hooked on trivia now, you can do what I did: Google “trivia.”

You could also turn these pearls of wisdom around into a Q&A game, sort of a miniature Trivial Pursuit. Which, along with Scrabble, happens to be a favorite of mine. Or it used to be, before my short-term memory got shorter and I had to start using 3×5 cards.

Now, remind me again . . . which way is home?

TTFN,
Brendochka
8/13/23

Have we been ghosted?

Russia has been in the news a lot lately — way too much, actually — and we really shouldn’t be surprised if we’re left with more questions than answers from that land of mystery. Included on that list of questions are a few about some people, and one very large piece of hardware, that appeared in the news . . . and then seemed to vanish. They weren’t wearing white sheets, but their quick entry onto, and exit from, the news scene makes me wonder if we haven’t indeed been ghosted.

First, of course, would be the infamous Yevgeny Prigozhin, who keeps popping in and out of sight. “There he is!” “Where? I don’t see him.” “Oh, never mind — he’s gone now.” And throughout all the mystery surrounding his failed attempt to overthrow the Russian military (or whatever the hell he was trying to do), the question inevitably arose: “In his absence, who’s going to take over as head of the Wagner Group?” And a name was put forward: that of one Andrei Troshev, a former Russian Army artillery colonel, mentioned by Vladimir Putin himself to The Telegraph back in July.

But that’s it. He showed up, and he faded into the background again. What happened? Is he now out of the running? Or is he just waiting in the shadows until someone decides what to do with Prigozhin? As always when dealing with Russia, we can only wait and see if and when these two spooks manifest themselves again.

*. *. *

Ghost #3: This one should be harder to hide. It’s a Russian warship that made an appearance on July 12th in the harbor at Havana, Cuba. The story was that she and her crew were there for a four-day “visit,” and that Cuban citizens were even going to be allowed aboard. Then what? Again, nothing. No news reports, no official (or unofficial) statements, no ship. Poof! Can we help being a little bit curious?

*. *. *

Ghost #4: Paul Whelan is a former U.S. Marine with multiple citizenships (U.S., U.K., Canada and Ireland) and a rather complex personal and professional background. In December of 2018, he was arrested in Moscow on charges of spying for the United States, on the basis of evidence allegedly found on his person — charges that he has consistently denied. The U.S. Government has made attempts to include him in prisoner exchanges over the past few years, but Russia has so far refused to release him. As with the other prisoners in Russia’s maximum-security prisons, there has been little or no access to him for family or U.S. officials, and no mention of his name except at the time of another failed exchange attempt.

Ghost #5: And most recently, there is Evan Gershkovich, American-born journalist for the Wall Street Journal, whose parents fled the Soviet Union and emigrated to the United States in 1979. While on assignment in Russia in March of this year, he was arrested on charges of espionage — vehemently denied — and has been imprisoned since that time. His arrest made headlines for some time, but now . . . there is only silence.

But in the cases of Ghosts 4 and 5, I believe there may be good reason for the long periods of silence. It is well known that behind-the-scenes efforts have been underway to resolve their cases; and revealing the details of those efforts could be counter-productive, perhaps even a dangerous breach of national security. So, in these instances, let us continue to hope for the best, as we . . .

. . . switch gears, and look at a few people that I’m actually thrilled to note are appearing less and less frequently in the headlines.

*. *. *

I have to begin with every single member of the Kardashian-Jenner family. As far as I know, they are alive and kicking, and I certainly do not wish them any bad luck. But I am so glad to be seeing less of them in the news, and hope for their continued absence. They have made more than enough money to live in luxury for the rest of their lives. So please, all of you Kardashians . . . take your inflated egos (and various other inflated body parts) and enjoy a nice, long retirement, out of the public eye. Bye-bye.

Then there’s Sarah Palin, who single-handedly did more to lose the 2008 election for John McCain than anything he might ever have said or done himself. Alaska is a beautiful state. Stay there, Sarah, with your “Bridge to Nowhere” and the view of Russia from your front porch. Get a job — any job not in the political arena. And preferably something you’re actually qualified for.

And there are some other celebrities who have had their 15 minutes of fame (and earned small fortunes in the process), but whose “talent” has always escaped me. Remember “Octomom,” whose one claim to fame was her ability to procreate? And the same for that whole bizarre Duggar clan. Or that rude, nasty little “Honey Boo Boo”? (I’d rather confront the Honey Badger!) What were we thinking when we tuned in to watch them?!!

*. *. *

So here’s what I’d like to have happen: I would wish for all those so-called celebrities to be wiped from my memory. And then I’d wish for the right people to wake up and remember the ones who deserve our attention, starting with those people wasting away in Russian prisons.

And finally, I’d really like to know what happened to that Russian warship. My theory is that it’s on a round-the-world cruise with just one famous passenger, Yevgeny Prigozhin, standing on the bridge and laughing his ass off. It is, indeed, a mad, mad, mad, mad world.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/12/23

As is my custom, I’m writing this a few days ahead of publication date. It’s August 8th as I write, and I’ve just finished looking at today’s news headlines. Not surprisingly, they’re pretty grim, but let’s go through some of them anyway.

The item that immediately caught my eye has to do with the ongoing political and social turmoil in Russia, where all indications are of a rapidly accelerating return to a Stalinist regime and the elimination of any semblance of rule of law. Today’s article focused on a statement by the official Kremlin spokesman, Dmitry Peskov, that an alleged “unified coalition” around President Putin “makes democratic elections unnecessary and irrelevant.” As if that weren’t enough to make me sit up straight, he went on to say that democratic elections have become a “costly bureaucracy” that serve no purpose. And continuing: “Elections are what a democracy demands and Putin himself decided to hold them, but theoretically, they don’t even have to be held . . . Because it’s clear that Putin will be elected. That’s completely my personal opinion.” (Does anyone honestly believe that he is allowed to have a “personal opinion” on political matters? Seriously?)

Furthermore, these statements were supposedly intended to clarify an earlier comment by Peskov, made to the New York Times and appearing in an article published on August 6th, that “Our presidential election is not really democracy. It is costly bureaucracy . . . Mr. Putin will be re-elected next year with more than 90 percent of the vote.” I don’t know about you, but to me that sounds more like a foregone conclusion than a personal opinion.

And by the way, this is the same Dmitry Peskov who has repeatedly refused to rule out the use of nuclear weapons.

If you’ve been following the recent news out of Russia, Ukraine and Belarus, this item shouldn’t come as a huge surprise. But it is still cause for concern, to put it mildly. It appears to be a case of history repeating itself — and, as usual, it’s bad . . . really bad . . . history. Happy August 8th.

*. *. *

Next, there was a revelation that a Ukrainian woman had been arrested as an informant in connection with a Russian plot to assassinate Ukrainian President Zelensky. On the up-side, the plot was foiled; on the down-side, of course, is that it existed at all. Good news / bad news.

*. *. *

And on a whole different level: Another celebrity — this time, “Let’s Make a Deal” host Wayne Brady — has come out today with an announcement of his sexual identity. And I say: “Who the hell cares?” Isn’t that — or shouldn’t it be — a personal thing? No need to hide it; but why do so many people suddenly feel this neurotic compulsion to advertise it? Let me repeat: I DON’T GIVE A DAMN! You’re a beautiful person, Wayne. Go . . . enjoy your life . . . be happy. I will never judge you. But if you keep broadcasting the most intimate aspects of your life, lots of other people will. Not good news, not bad news. Shouldn’t be news at all. Just sayin’ . . .

*. *. *

That’s enough news items from this one day. Sadly, it’s been a fairly typical day in the year 2023. But the 20th Century wasn’t all sweetness and light either. For example:

On August 8, 1945, the US, USSR, UK and France signed the London Agreement, authorizing the now-famous Nurnberg Trials of former Nazi leaders accused of committing unspeakable crimes against humanity for the six long years of World War II. Good news about the end of something that was horrible news for so long.

Just two days earlier, on August 6th, upon the authorization of President Harry S Truman, an atomic bomb had been dropped on the Japanese city of Hiroshima, followed by a second one on August 9th on the city of Nagasaki, thus bringing about the surrender of Japan and an end to the War in the Pacific six days later, on August 15th. Which crime was worse — the War itself, or the way it was finished? That debate has never ended, and President Truman wrestled with his conscience on that question for the remainder of his life.

*. *. *

August 8th was memorable in other years as well. On that date in 1974, U.S. President Richard M. Nixon resigned on the heels of the Watergate scandal, thus avoiding the looming threat of impeachment.

*. *. *

But there’s good stuff too. For reasons that remain totally mysterious to me, astrologers consider 8/8 to be a lucky day. And sometimes they’re right. Going all the way back to this date in 1899, the refrigerator was patented. And what would we do without that? Good news, indeed.

Also, on August 8, 1945 — the same day the London Agreement was signed — the United Nations Charter was signed by President Truman. Two good things. But remember — it was also just two days after Hiroshima had been wiped out by that American atomic bomb. Hmm . . . I wonder what the astrologers would have to say about that confluence of events? Well, regardless . . . all in all, it was certainly a busy week for Harry Truman.

*. *. *

Though I’m writing this on August 8th as I said at the beginning, you’re actually reading it on August 11th — which, as it turns out, is a date with a bit of a history of its own. On that date in 1965, race riots began in the Watts neighborhood of Los Angeles. The flash point seemed to have been a traffic stop of a Black driver by a White police officer, resulting in a confrontation that exploded into five days of uncontrolled violence, including rioting, looting, assault, arson, protests, firefights, and major property damage. At the end, 34 people were dead, another 1,032 injured, and 3,438 arrested.

But to close on a happier note, August 11, 1929 saw the immortal Babe Ruth hit his 500th home run, making baseball history. Good work, Babe.

*. *. *

History is an endlessly fascinating subject. But trying to relate past events to today’s world is futile — too much has changed. And putting excessive stock in numerology, I think, can just muddy an issue. So enjoy today, ignore the date (unless it’s your birthday), and tune in again tomorrow for more of my ramblings, when I try to figure out whatever happened to . . . well, you’ll see.

TTFN,
Brendochka
8/11/23

I was privileged to do a good bit of traveling in the 21 years between my first overseas trip (to the Soviet Union) in 1988 and my last overseas adventure — a Baltic cruise — in 2009; and I’ve written about many of those times in my earlier blog chapters. I’ve also been able to see a good bit of the United States, coast-to-coast. And I would be hard-pressed, if you were to ask me, to pick a favorite place or favorite trip. But there are a few places, right here in the U.S. of A., that stand out in memory, either because of a sentimental attachment or because I once made an absolute fool of myself there. Either way, they’re unforgettable. As, for example . . .

1. Lincoln Woods Beach, Rhode Island. As children, my sister and I were not allowed to go to public swimming pools, movie theaters, or other closely-packed places in the summertime because of the looming threat of the annual polio epidemic, in a time before Dr. Jonas Salk’s life-saving vaccine came to be. But there was a place our parents did take us, because it was outdoors and spread out: the beach on a cold-water, spring-fed lake at Lincoln Woods in Lincoln, Rhode Island, just a half hour or so from our home.

The water there was still and calm, shallow for quite a distance from shore, and — when you swam or waded over one of the many springs — it was ice-cold. And we loved it. On one of our first excursions, my sister Merna and I were just wading in the shallow water when she felt something hard underfoot. It turned out to be a large, flat, smooth-surfaced rock, big enough for both of us stand on. And we soon found that the water was shallow enough at that point that we could even sit on the rock without drowning. We dubbed it “our rock,” and it was the first thing we looked for on every visit to the lake, year after year. It’s a silly thing, but it has probably stuck in my mind because it was one of those shared moments between two sisters who usually fought over everything, at least until we were both in our forties. I know the lake is still there, and I sometimes wonder whether the rock is. I hope so, and I hope some other siblings or best friends have found it and claimed it as their own.

*. *. *

2. Montpelier, Vermont — where I was kicked out of the public swimming pool. I was about 18 or 19 years old, living in Washington, D.C., when I went back to my former home of Manchester, N.H. to visit my old school friends. One friend, Marlene, had relatives in Montpelier, and we decided one day to drive up and visit them, and to include in our itinerary an hour or two at the pool. Marlene had been there before, but I hadn’t; and for whatever reason, she neglected to tell me about the most important rule: every hour, the pool was cleared for 15 minutes to give everyone a rest.

This was an unusual pool in that it wasn’t rectangular; it was round, and the high-diving board was at the top of a tower in the center of the watery circle. Now, I’ve always been just an adequate swimmer, and never learned to dive at all. But on a dare from Marlene, I found myself at the top of the tower, prepared to jump from that considerable height into the pool. What I didn’t realize, as I stood there trying to screw up the courage to take the plunge, was that the pool had just been cleared. When I heard the lifeguard’s whistle repeating and repeating, I looked around and found that I was the center of attention: the only person still in the pool, standing like a statue on the diving board in my one-piece, green-and-blue bathing suit (yes, I still remember that too), about to make my jump in front of dozens of laughing onlookers.

Looking back from today’s perspective, I probably should have frozen, forcing the lifeguard to climb up and rescue me — that would have been even funnier. But I didn’t. Instead, I waved at the obviously annoyed lifeguard, walked to the edge of the diving board, yelled “Geronimo!” . . . and jumped. It seemed an eternity until I surfaced, and then swam — still with my faithful audience watching — to the edge of the pool and climbed ungracefully out of the water. Six decades later, Marlene and I — friends to the bitter end — still laugh about that day. Oh, to be 18 again!

*. *. *

3. Costin’s Sirloin Room, Washington, D.C.: It was my 30th birthday, and for some reason I no longer understand, I was having a hard time accepting the fact that I was so “old.” As was our tradition, my sister Merna was taking me out to dinner that night, along with a friend who was visiting her from out of town. So, knowing that I was going to have a big meal at our favorite, very elegant restaurant — famous for its freshly baked bread and special blend of cheeses, huge slabs of prime rib, and rum pie — I had skipped lunch. But my boss had bought a bottle of champagne to celebrate, which we cracked open at the end of the afternoon and polished off — just the two of us. And then I went home, prepared dinner for my two small children, left them in the care of my mother, and headed out to dinner, feeling perfectly fine.

People drank less wine and more cocktails in those days, and I recall having just one whisky sour at the restaurant. I then proceeded to down a meal that would probably kill me today: bread and cheese, a small salad, a gigantic hunk of medium-rare beef, and a baked potato that looked like it was on steroids and slathered with butter and sour cream. And about three-fourths of the way through, I began to feel ill. I mean, room-spinning, ready-to-up-chuck, sick as a dog. I said something to Merna, and she took one look at me, grabbed me by the arm, and headed back toward the ladies’ room. But we never quite made it. Somewhere in the middle of the dining room there was a post. I made a grab for it, missed, and slid, in what felt like slow motion, toward the floor. And passed out cold.

Let me give you a little background here. This was the era of the miniskirt and go-go boots, Twiggy, and the “British Invasion” of the Beatles and other English heart-throbs. I wasn’t wearing go-go boots that night, but I was clad in a silk dress whose hem ended about mid-thigh. So when I came to after just a few seconds, there was a waiter behind me with his hands under my armpits, trying to lift me off the floor. But I wasn’t fully conscious, so I was dead weight. And as he lifted, so did my dress. When he pulled up, I grabbed the skirt of the dress and pulled down; he pulled up, I pulled down; he pulled up, I pulled down; and so on, until finally I was vertical. The poor waiter, not knowing what else to do with me, then plopped me onto the nearest chair, which happened to be at a table with two men who had been engaged in a business discussion while trying to ignore the farce taking place in front of them. I looked at them, muttered “I’m not drunk, really” . . . and everything went dark again, as my head hit the table with a thud.

The rest is really anti-climactic. I came to again in just a few seconds, and was completely awake this time. I muttered some sort of real apology, and Merna and I headed — with as much dignity as possible — for the ladies’ room, where I splashed cold water on my face and straightened my twisted dress. Then we walked back to our table, where her rather bemused friend had been waiting for us. I actually finished my dinner, and topped it off with my favorite rum pie. And I was able to drive home afterward, perfectly sober. I guess it had been just too much rich food, and a little too much champagne, on an otherwise empty stomach, because I had no further ill effects.

But I was never able to show my face at Costin’s again. And how I missed that rum pie!

*. *. *

And finally:

4. Provincetown (Cape Cod), Massachusetts. You have not lived until you’ve experienced the annual Provincetown Carnival Parade at the end of summer. My sister and I stumbled on it one year when we were vacationing farther up the Cape and decided to drive to P’town for the day. What a hoot!

I’m straight, and so was Merna; but in that enclave famous for its gay (now LGBTQ+) population, we were assumed to be a couple that weekend, which was fine with us. After all, when you’re with a crowd of people in full celebration mode, it would be a waste not to join in the fun. And what a great bunch they were, openly enjoying life at a time when they couldn’t always live openly. Somewhere, I have a photo of myself, standing with three guys in full drag, arms around each other and me, while my sister played photographer. I wish I knew where to find that picture now, but it was taken at a time before digital, and the print is packed away somewhere. But the memory lives on; the good ones always do.

*. *. *

You know, come to think of it, if you were to ask me now to name my favorite place in the whole world, it probably would be Cape Cod. It’s where I felt totally relaxed, forgot the workaday world back in Washington, and immersed myself in the artist colonies, the seafood restaurants, the summer theaters, the quaint little shops, and the madcap vibe of Provincetown, if only for a week. My sister summed it up best on our first trip there, when we were driving through the stop-and-go tourist traffic in Hyannis and she said, “You know, I’ve noticed something. The whole time we’ve been here, you haven’t honked your horn once.” And she was right; there’s no need for a horn when life is perfect.

TTFN,
Brendochka
8/10/23

It’s a blessing . . . and a curse. I’m that person who not only dreams every single night — and even when I doze off during the day — but who frequently remembers each and every agonizing detail of many of those dreams. It’s no wonder I wake up exhausted.

Most of the dreams are not frightening, though an occasional nightmare will slip in here and there. There are a couple of recurring dreams from my childhood that I still remember clearly, and a few repetitious themes from recent years. When I relate some of these dreams to friends and family members, the most common reaction is this well-meaning bit of advice: “You really need to see a shrink.” And these are the people who love me! I’ve been thinking recently that they may be right, so I’m going to put this out there for a general consensus while I research whether Medicare pays for psychiatric evaluation . . .

But in the meantime, let’s start with the other night, when I died. Or at least I was being told that I was dead, and I refused to accept it. In my dream, it seems that I had just undergone some sort of minor surgery, and I was walking around the hospital trying to find my way back to my room. I was lost, and walked into a large room where several people, all wearing blue surgical scrubs and caps, were attending to a lot of corpses lying on metal tables and covered with sheets — clearly the morgue or the autopsy room.

When the attendants saw me, they were startled and frightened, and kept telling me I wasn’t supposed to be there. Someone shouted to call for the doctor. Just then, my surgeon (a former doctor from my real life) walked in, and was equally shocked to see me. He said I couldn’t possibly be there, and when I told him I was just trying to find my way back to my room, he held me by both shoulders and said, “But you don’t understand. You’re dead. You died on the operating table. You really can’t be here!”

Well, that’s not what I wanted to hear! I kept arguing with him, saying that I couldn’t die because my mother (actually deceased), my sister (ditto), and my babies (in real life, full-grown adults) would be terribly upset. How’s that for understatement? Anyway, that’s when I woke up. As you can imagine, it took me quite a while to get back to sleep. I’m reasonably certain that this was not a message from the Great Beyond; but if you don’t hear from me tomorrow . . .

*. *. *

Some dreams actually make sense, based on something currently going on in your life or in the world. One such dream recurred over and over during my early childhood — which also happened to be toward the end of World War II, when the movie newsreels were filled with scenes of the War in the Pacific, and focused mostly on the Japanese military. This was heavy stuff for a little kid, and I found myself having the same nightmare, over and over again: I was asleep in bed (my parents’ bed, not my own) when a Japanese soldier climbed through the open window. To escape, I jumped out of the bed on the side farthest from the door (not the brightest move), crawled under the bed, and ran out through the doorway on the other side. That was all there was to the dream, but I always woke up with my heart pounding. It took two atomic bombs — one each on Hiroshima and Nagasaki — to finally end the war and erase that dream from my little psyche. Then, of course, I started having nightmares about bombs.

I do still occasionally have dreams about being pursued, but nowadays it’s either by criminals or Nazis. Go figure. There are also dreams about shopping, driving or riding in a car and being lost (I seem to get lost a lot), not being able to find my car in a parking garage, searching for an unoccupied bathroom (that’s an easy one to analyze), attending the theater, or wandering through room after room of other people’s homes.

What? You were expecting something erotic? Sorry, folks; I’ll be keeping those to myself.

But my all-time favorite dream is a happy one from my childhood, and I would often go to sleep at night hoping that I would dream it yet again. The house we lived in had a dark, musty old cellar, mostly unused except for a room in which my grandmother stored her home-canned fruits and vegetables. In my dream, I opened the door to that room and found, instead of jars of pickles, a long, brightly-lit corridor lined on each side with more doors. And behind each of those doors was an answer to a child’s fondest wish: toys, sweet treats, beautiful clothes, flowers, or puppies and kittens and ponies (oh, my!) — all in full technicolor. I can still see myself in that dream, skipping from room to room, playing with the toys, smelling the flowers, hugging the puppies. The wondrous innocence of childhood, all wrapped up in a single dream.

*. *. *

Eliza Doolittle dreamt about a warm room and a box of chocolates; little Mary Lennox had her Secret Garden; and I . . . I had my cellar full of goodies. And in my memory, I still do. “Oh, wouldn’t it be loverly . . . ?”

Sweet dreams,
Brendochka
8/9/23

There are many jobs in this world that I wouldn’t want to do under any circumstances (though obviously someone does them, and we should be grateful for that). Just think, for example, about being a construction worker balanced on a girder outside the 78th floor of a Manhattan skyscraper. Or, to the opposite extreme, part of a team cleaning out a clogged underground sewer. Or the guy flying the refueling plane for Air Force One, trying to make that connection at 30,000 feet. All necessary, honorable jobs. But — call me chicken — they’re not for me at any price, thank you.

But there are also some fabulous opportunities that seem too good to be true . . . and sometimes, in my opinion at least, they probably are. One that comes to mind would be winning a free vacation on the Black Sea coast in Crimea.

I’ve never been to Crimea, though I understand it’s quite beautiful. I have, however, been close (in 1988), at Sochi, an equally beautiful Russian resort just 283 nautical miles across the Black Sea from Yalta on the Crimean coast — and I loved it. Judging from photographs of Crimea such as the one below, it seems like an ideal vacation spot, doesn’t it? But have you been following the news of Russia’s war — excuse me, “Special Military Operation” — against Ukraine, and Ukraine’s attempts to win back its territory on the Crimean Peninsula? Tragically, that whole area is now — actively or potentially — a war zone. So, probably not something I’d recommend as a vacation choice this year, even for free. Pass. Give it to the runner-up, with my blessing.

*. *. *

Next: Buying the Brady Bunch house. It’s presently on the market for $5.5 Million — in a residential neighborhood that has a median property value listing of $1.9 Million. Are you sure you want to own the costliest property on the block — nearly three times the price of the next most expensive? Of course, this is a very special house; it’s a TV star. And, once HGTV entered the picture in 2018 and, together with the owners, restored the house to replicate exactly what it had looked like on the TV show, then added some 2,000 square feet giving it a total living area of over 5,000 square feet — well, that’s a whole new ballgame, right?

But wait . . . there’s more. There’s that orange-and-turquoise kitchen, complete with actual 1970s appliances. No smart-oven-with-air-fryer there. And the kids’ rooms — the girls’ room boasting lots of Barbie pink, including the floral wallpaper; and the boys’ room — you guessed it — in nautical blue, with paneled walls and bunk beds. And some fireplaces, appliances and fixtures throughout the house that are for show only, and not functional. And it’s all included in the sale, as is.

But even setting all of that aside, there are three things that are telling me to run for the hills. First, I don’t have $5.5 Million; I don’t have the downpayment on $5.5 Million; and I couldn’t make the monthly payments on the mortgage for a $5.5-Million-dollar house. Second, it’s in California and I’m an east-coast person. And finally . . . I really, really hate mid-century modern. So, put that “for sale” sign back up; I’ll pass on this one too.

*. *. *

Next: Doing this to my body — not that I ever could. Simone Biles is, in a single word, amazing. But even if I had the ability, would I also have the stamina, the perseverance, the sheer grit to accomplish what this young woman has? Not a chance! Most people wouldn’t . . . which is what makes her accomplishments all the more phenomenal. You go, girl . . . you’re a true champion. But if I had three wishes, I’m afraid that being an Olympic athlete would not be one of them. Pass.

*. *. *

And finally: Being President of the United States. At an annual salary of $400,000 — or even ten times that amount — I’m not masochistic enough, power-hungry enough, or two-faced enough to take on what is arguably the worst job in the world. I know that I would be unable to put on a happy face in the presence of murderous tyrants such as Vladimir Putin, Kim Jong Un, or Mohammed bin Salman; to sit through never-ending state dinners in formal attire with a roomful of people who have no use for me beyond what I might be able to do for them; to watch every word I utter, publicly or privately, because some scumbag (yes, words like that) is going to twist what I say beyond recognition and then use it against me; or to live constantly surrounded by a Secret Service escort, with never a moment’s privacy. Nope — not for all the money in the world. So I hereby announce to the people of the United States and to the world at large, formally and unequivocally, that I am not a candidate for the presidency of the United States in 2024 or any other year. Too bad, really; I think I could have been a good one. But . . . pass.

No, my goals are much more attainable, and rather mundane. I’d just like to make it through my remaining years without breaking any bones, being mugged, or needing major surgery. And I’d really like to get my book — still a work in progress — published one day. I don’t think that’s asking too much.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/8/23

Who hasn’t, at one time or another — maybe while watching a bunch of kids running around the playground, or standing over our own children sleeping the peaceful sleep of the innocent in their beds at night — wished we could leave the cares and the turmoil of this world behind and be that age again? Be honest, now . . . you have, haven’t you? And you’ve thought how great that would be!

Or would it? A lot depends on whether you’d rather go back to the decades of your own childhood, or be a child of today. So let’s compare, using my early years way back in the 1940s as a frame of reference.

*. *. *

1945: Me: “Mommy, can I go outside and play?” Mom: “Okay, but stay in the yard; dinner will be ready soon. And don’t forget your sweater.”

2023: Me: “Mommy, I’m bored. Can I have a play date with Brianna?” Mom: “Not now, dear; there’s no time to schedule it. And dinner will be ready soon. Why don’t you play your new Dungeons and Dragons game until then.”

*. *. *

1945: Me: “Mommy, can I have a party for my birthday next week?” Mom: “Of course, honey. We’ll have cake and ice cream, and play tag, and hide-and-seek, and pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey.”

2023: Me: “Mommy, can I have a party for my birthday next week?” Mom: “I’m way ahead of you, kiddo. I’ve already booked the big party room at the club, hired the D.J., and gone over the menu with the caterer.”

*. *. *

1945: Me: “Mommy, I want to listen to some of my music.” Mom: “Okay, I’ll put this record on the Victrola and wind it up for you.”

2023: Me: “Mommy, I’m bored with all my music.” Mom: “Well, why don’t you just download some more.”

*. *. *

1945: Me: “Mommy, my tummy hurts and I just threw up.” Mom: “Oh, that’s not good. Let’s get you into bed and call Dr. Jones to come to the house right away.”

2023: Me: “Mommy, my tummy hurts and I just threw up.” Mom: “Oh, crap! Another trip to the E.R.”

*. *. *

1945: Me: “Mommy, can you help me with my arithmetic?” Mom: “Sure, honey. Let’s work on your “eights” table. Eight plus two equals what?”

2023: Me: “Mommy, can you help me with my math?” Mom: “You’re kidding, right? I have no idea of how to do that. Ask your Dad.”

*. *. *

1945: Me: “Mommy, my teacher smacked my hand with a ruler today because I talked out of turn.” Mom: “Well, I’m sure you won’t be doing that again, will you?”

2023: Me: “Mommy, my teacher told me to sit down and be quiet today.” Mom: “Oh, really? What right does she have to treat you like that? She’ll be lucky to have a job when I finish with her.”

*. *. *

1945: Me: “Mommy, I don’t like meat loaf.” Mom: “Sorry, baby, but that’s what I made for dinner. Eat up now, and we’ll have something different tomorrow.”

2023: Me: “Mommy, I don’t like meat loaf.” Mom: “Fine, I’ve got some Ramen noodles you can have instead.”

*. *. *

1945: Me: “Mommy, guess what — a nice man smiled at me and said hello when I was outside.” Mom: “That’s nice, dear. Did you smile back at him?”

2023: Me: “Mommy! Mommy! Stranger danger! A man just smiled at me outside!” Mom: “Omigod! Lock the doors, and I’ll call the police. What did the pervert look like?”

*. *. *

1945: Me: “Mommy, Billy threw mud at me.” Mom: “Well, did you do something to make him angry?”

2023: Me: “Mommy, Derek threw mud at me.” Mom: “Oh, he did, did he? Well, I’ll call our lawyer tomorrow and sue the little bast**d’s parents for every cent they’re worth!”

*. *. *

1945: Me: “Mommy, I have a new penpal in Russia! Isn’t that exciting?” Mom: “Yes, it is. Now you can learn all about another culture.”

2023: Me: “Mommy, this guy called “Best Buddy” wants to friend me on Facebook.” Mom: “Oh, no . . . he’s blocked. What have I told you about that?!!”

*. *. *

1945: Me: “Mommy, can we go see the new Disney movie?” Mom: “We’ll have to do that on Saturday; it’s only in the theater for one week, you know.”

2023: Me: “Mommy, I’ve seen every movie that’s streaming on Netflix. What do I do now?” Mom (finally running out of patience): “Have you ever thought about reading a book, you little s**t?”

*. *. *

1945: Me: “Mommy, I’ve read all the books we got from the library.” Mom: “Good girl. We’ll go back tomorrow to return them and get some new ones.”

2023: Me: “Read a book? Seriously?” Mom: “Well, excuse me! I must have been out of my mind to even suggest it.”

*. *. *

1945: Me: “Mommy, what language do they speak in Brazil?” Mom: “Here’s the World Book Encyclopedia. Let me show you how to look that up.”

2023: Me: “Mommy, what language do they speak in Brazil?” Mom: “Your teacher says you need to do your own research. Ask Siri.”

*. *. *

1945: Me: “Mommy, are you sure the war is really over?” Mom: “Yes, absolutely sure. Now you sleep tight, and have sweet dreams. We’re all perfectly safe.” Me: “Good night, Mommy. I love you.” Mom: “I love you too, sweetheart.”

2023: Me: “Mommy, the teacher said something scary today about global warming. Do you know about that?” Mom: “Yes, and it’s just another urban legend. Nothing for you to worry about. Go to sleep now.” Me: “But, Mommy . . .” Mom: “That’s enough talk about that. Good night. I love you.”

*. *. *

1945: Mom (to Dad, later that evening): “Let me tell you the cute things the kids did today.”

2023: Mom (to Dad, later that evening): “What a day! Thank God the kids are finally asleep! Where the hell did you hide the vodka?”

*. *. *

Most of you probably don’t go back as far as the ‘40s, but I think you can relate. I wouldn’t mind revisiting those years, but to be a kid in today’s world . . . not for me, thank you. New math, stranger danger, climate change, cyber-stalking . . . It’s not easy, for the kids or the parents. I wish you patience, understanding, and lots of luck and love. Meanwhile, I’ll keep reminiscing.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/7/23