1982

Greetings!

I failed to finish writing my Christmas cards last year(my apologies!!), but since there were no foreign travels to report, you didn’t miss a thing. This year, however, I managed to get a decent holiday, and covered quite a bit of ground. Since I’m late getting this written, and rushed, this may be pretty un-polished writing, so bear with me. (Not to mention very cramped typing, to get more onto each page.)

The main event was a 2-week tour with a small group of 13 people entitled “Russia of the Great Writers,” designed to track down places associated with the major 19th century Russian authors, Tolstoy, Chekhov, Turgenev, Lermontov and Pushkin. (No, the tour did not include Leningrad/St. Petersburg, hence no Dostoyevsky.) We had a guest lecturer (son of a former British Ambassador to Moscow) to give us talks on the various writers and their work as we went along,and some other members of the group contributed to the success of the trip with readings, translations and personal historical information (notably a retired British diplomat who writes poetry and has done fine translations of some of the Russian literature, whose wife (not with us) is a Georgian Princess; and a Russian Princess who had escaped the Bolshevik Revolution as a small child and now lives in Germany; our British courier was the daughter of the last Ambassador of the Tsars to England). Except for myself and one other “colonial” (New Zealander), the rest of the groups were British. Moscow was our starting and finishing point, and long bus rides as well as 3 domestic flights enabled us to cover vast distances and a considerable variety of landscape and sites in 2 weeks’ time (end May/early June).

Soget out your atlases, and here we go. The international political tensions vis-a-vis US/USSR give one slightly cold feet to start with. Then on arriving at MOSCOW AIRPORT, the blood runs cold as well when you find the  entire airport, immigration and customs formalities are in charge of the ARMY. (Technically, “frontier guards.”) Now you know you are in the grip of an arbitrary police state. This is it. This highly intimidating set-up takes on another aspect, however, when Russian inefficiency starts to show; the “London” aircraft luggage all comes off the “Belgrade” carrousel; a young soldier/immigration clerk is thrown into consternation when he finds one lady’s visa had not been signed at the point of origin; after consultation with another soldier, he carefully copies the signature from someone else’s visa onto the blank spot. We stumble round rather helplessly through all the proceedings - X-rays of selves, Xrays and searching of luggage, careful scrutiny of all books & papers. (My paperback edition of the film script of the 1930’s French film “La Grande Illusion” with Erich Von Stroheim in WWI German military uniform and moocole on the cover really threw them. But they let me keep it).

After several hours of this airport hassle and further confusion as to time and place of our own bus into town, we take off for the hotel. Passing some birch-forests and seeing some peasants languidly strolling or picnicking in meadows, we are relieved to see these innocuous reminders one expected from the old literature.

The HOTEL METROPOL is a large place with some vestiges of its pre-Revolutionary grandeur left but it was designed in a mish-mash of styles even then. Now it seems dismal with the Communists’ lack of grandeur. Exhausted by the long day of travelling and the unsettling airport scene, I seek out some tea, having read that Russian hotels have to provide you free tea on demand at any time of day or night, on each floor. (N.B. The first word I learn in any country is for “tea.”) I make my request to the “dragon-lady” on the landing (from whom one gets one’s key), and return to my room. Eventually a cheerful, warm-hearted old “babushka” type peasantry woman appears with an electric kettle of hot water in one hand, the cord dragging along the floor, a little jar of sugar and two drinking glasses containing tea leaves in the other. From this homely array she makes two glasses of inordinately sweet tea, which, along with her amiable and bumbling preparations like a scene from a Chekhov play, cheers me considerably.

My bathroom is also a source of amusement, like several others on the trip; with its coating of ceramic tiles extending about 6 feet up the sides of the walls, it is like standing in the deep end of an empty swimming pool. I am also cheered by the splendidly old-fashioned 1930’s array of real cotton hand towels, starched and ironed*. The Turkish towels, though, were not as thick and sumptuous as those in the West. (*For benefit of my overseas readers, not many Americans will iron a towel these days--all Turkish and fluffdried in an automatic drier.)

During a stroll around Red Square and the main part of town after dinner our lecturer pointed out some of the nonliterary sights such as Lubianka Prison where dissenters are “Dealt with,” the private chauffeured little black limousines for use of Communist Party/Govt. Hierarchy, and the medical clinics for exclusive use of each agency’s hierarchy.

Itineraries to the USSR always contain the warning “subject to change by Intourist” - the only way one can travel there is under the auspices of this State tourist agency - and to be sure, “changes” are one thing you definitely count on. However, when the Intourist guide assigned to accompany our entire tour (who fit the stereotype mold of the uptight Communist female one sees in comedy shows) announced that we could not see the Pushkin Museum because it was closed on Mondays, our distinguished lecturer phoned the museum director who opened it specically just for us (he knew our lecturer and the poet/translator member of the group and was thrilled to have us pay a visit). This put our guide’s nose out of joint and it was certain she would try to get her own back later on. The Pushkin Museum is not the poet’s own house, but it contains the country’s main collection of pictures and memorabilia, MSS, etc. Pushkin is just about universally loved in Russia today - in fact, they have a “Pushkin cult.” We also toured around the city to see sites associated with various writers, their statues, and a house which Tolstoy used as a model for the “Rostov house” in War and Peace, which is now used as the offices of the Writers’ Union.

An evening visit to the theatre to see Chekhov’s “The Three Sisters” was arranged, and having seen it twice before I was not concerned about the language barrier. However, a few minutes beforehand we discovered the program had been changed on short notice to a contemporary play called “The Thirteenth President.” The Russian audience arrived without even knowing the program had been changed - not pleased, but apparently accustomed to such arbitrary disappointments in life. Knowing no Russian, I could only try to absorb what was going on by observing facial expressions, emotions etc. of the actors. The play turned out to be a courtroom drama. The strange thing about it was that the defendant and all the witnesses (mixed bag of tpes) were presented as the sympathetic, lively, active, positive characters, while the judges and prosecutors were flat, expressionless, empty, devoid of any emotion - “dead.” All the audience response (including that of some Army officers sitting a few rows in front of us) of loud laughter, applause, approval etc. was for the defendant and his witnesses, throughout. The play ended with the judges leaving the stage, presumably to render a verdict against the defendant and one assumes he and maybe the others would go to jail. After the play was over our lecturer explained the thing to me: the defendant was the president of some collective industry who was on trial for making illegal arrangements for his workers’ holidays. All the witnesses were there on his behalf to say what a great manager he was and what a great production record they had achieved at the factory, etc. I wondered how the govt. could allow this sort of play to be shown, with the govt. side of things presented in such a non-favorable light. Lecturer said no doubt so that the govt. could say “look how liberal we are, allowing this kind of thing to be shown.”

A very long bus ride took us to the provincial city of OREL (pronounced “ariyoll” in Moscow but on the spot, as “oreyell.” The pronunciation of the word for “tea” changed on me, too! My one and only word, down the drain, transformed from something like “chai” to “chay” as I recall.) This is a pleasant sort of place with tree-lined streets and 19th century bldgs. & houses mostly in the shade of yellow found so much in East Germany, Austria etc. It had been quite a “literary town” in its day with a publishing house and various writers were born there or lived there at some time. Tolstoy visited the prison described in his Resurrection. Pushkin had come out of his way to visit General Yermolov, hero of the 1812 Napoleonic War. We visited the Turgenev Museum and looked at a house that may have been the model for the one in his A Nest of the Gentry. Our dull provincial hotel surprised us by providing a lovely dinner, and with flower and Union Jack flags decorating our table. We had little miniature creme puffs in the shape of swans for desert. I had not expected such niceties in a utilitarian State. (Things seemed to be better out in the country than in Moscow - further from the seat of Power.) Breakfast was especially nice here, too, which included our first sampling of “sour milk” (A sort of liquid version of yogurt, drunk from a glass) and blinis filled with apples.

Rain next morning, but we press on to SPASSKOYELUTOVINOVO, TURGENEV’S country estate. Only one wing left after a fire during his day, not rebuilt. Shuffle around in oversize “museum slippers” looking at interesting furniture, (some made of Russian birch in odd designs), pictures and memorabilia etc. Portrait of Turgenev’s father on the wall--extremely handsome man in his Napoleonic War uniform with medal from Battle of Borodino. He married wife for her money and vast estate (she owned 5,000 serfs to whom she was a cruel taskmaster; cruel also to her offspring; apparently a warped, neglected wife, since husband was noted for his various love-affairs with others). Tile furnaces, floor-to-ceiling height in the every room, which we also found in other houses we visited. We strolled through the grounds of the estate on winding paths through the lacy trees, the rain having given way to a fine mist, past a lovely lake - an idyllic poetic “Corot-like” setting. The raucous cawing of crows and chattering of other birds reminds us that Turgenev ought to be coming home for a bit of his favorite sport of shooting.

On to TOLSTOY’ s country estate, YASNAYA POLYANA (trans: “bright meadow”). But there seem to be more trees than meadows, and we approach by walking down a long lane of birch trees, then past a rather unkempt apple-orchard (has this been turned into a collective farm, I wonder?) and the houses where various of Tolstoy’s relatives had lived. His own house, further on, is of very simple design - just a white wooden “country house” with a covered verandah and apparently no door at the front - entry being from what seemed like the back. Among the various portraits and memorabilia, we see the green couch on which he was born.

Another walk along a curving wooded path leads us to Tolstoy’s grave. The house guide to us that he had wanted to be buried in “the place of the Greek Stick,” a spot on the property where according to legend a green stick was buried which held the secret of how to make people happy. (Owing to her accent I’m not sure if she said “old people” or “all people.”) At any rate this is the most beautiful spot in a small clearing under tall trees, with a curving hedge of small evergreens along the pathway. Instead of a stone the grave is marked with a sort of thicket-hedge trimmed in the shape of a coffin. Several large bouquets brought by the steady stream of visitors lie nearby. It is a great satisfaction to pay respects to the great writer stream of visitors lie nearby. It is a great satisfaction to pay respects to all the great writer stream of visitors lie nearby. It is a great satisfaction to pay respects to the great writer who had “grabbed me” at the romantic age of 18 with his Anna Karenina. All these years I’ve wanted to see the home of the man who could write such a book, and at last I’ve reached this place. And how marvelous that he has just about the most beautiful burial site I’ve seen.

Another long bus ride back to MOSCOW. (N.B. USSR has “concealed unemployment” -- several people to do the work of one man. We have two bus drivers, one for the outward journey, another who rides along and then drives us back while the first one just sits.) This time we’re lodged at the NATIONAL HOTEL. Full of Communist propaganda leaflets etc. displayed in all the rooms, lobbies, etc. This place has many smaller separate dining rooms, which is handy for segregating all the different foreign groups--Chinese, Africans, etc., as well as the actual Russians, who have an orchestra and singer in their dining room. I found an antique torch in one of the hallways that the Reds apparently failed to loot or destroy at the time of the Revolution, made of carved wood with handpainted porcelain Napoleonic War scene.

Next we leave cold Moscow for the sunny south,taking off from the domestic airport. Long wait, but VItreatment, VIP lounge, no one else there but us. This is merely because we are foreigners and they want us to get a good impression of the country, as well as to keep their own citizens away from us, and vice versa. We board first: then swarm of Russians surges round the loading ramp and ontothe plane (no such nonsense as standing in line). Fairlysmooth flight to the Crimea, despite horror stories I’d heard about Russian planes & pilots. Terribly ear-splitting music plays on takeoff & landing, though. Three hours, “no frills” (i.e. no food or drink but water).

Land at SIMFEROPOL**, admin. & industrial capital of the CRIMEA. Smallish airport. Luncheon in unprepossessinglooking cafe in town, 1930’s type booths. But voila, an astonishingly delicious meal. The soups are “real” everywhere, but this one is the best--very rich, full of vegetables, broth, and sour cream, and the meat course is equally delicious, the gravy being likewise laced with sour cream. In distant past the Crimean area was the Greek TAURIS, associated with various old friends such as Iphigenia, Orestes, & so on. We take a winding mountainous drive to the seacoast resort of YALTA through very dramatic scenery. Stay at huge YALTA HOTEL, a dreadful thing of about 2500 rooms, totally impersonal--I would describe it as a “guest factory,” filled with a horrendous babel of many nationalities, a not very fashionable collection, mostly from the Eastern Bloc, or budget-tour people from the West. This coast strikes one as a cross between Russia, Greece, and Mallorca, with its very sunny Mediterranean climate and plants such as cypress, pines, oleanders, etc., but still some of the Russian plants as well. Bright and sunny - like summer.

*Later I read that one of the places the USSR trains foreign terrorists is located in the Simferopol area--horrors! Obviously nowhere near the tourists.

Touring, we start off with the Nikitinsky Botanical Gardens (18th c.) and a drive to Gurzu village, passing a huge  road sign “USSR Bulwark of Peace” (!!) and a “Pioneer Camp.” “Pioneers” are the Communist equivalent of a sort of Hitler Youth group, who wear a uniform consisting of light blue short-shorts, white shirts and red neckerchiefs. A squad passed us shouting in unison “Good morning to all of you from all of us!” (In Russian, of course.) We climbed up the ruins of “Pushkin Grotto” (a place with great views from tower on a cliff something like that at Lindos on Rhodes (Greece). Russian speakers in our group chatted with some of the “Pioneer” kids, who said they were preparing a play on Pushkin. It seems that if you speak Russian and if you are a Pushkin fan, you have an instant link anywhere you go in this country.

Back to Yalta for luncheon at the old Tavrida Hotel(under renovation, not in use as hotel at the moment), where many famous writers, musicians etc. stayed in the old days, such as Chekov, Stanislavsky, Moussorgsky, RimskyKorsakov, et al. Luncheon was served in one of two lovely courtyards with a fountain in the center, palms, and the galleries of rooms ranging above--something like the courtyards in some New Orleans hotels, and probably for the same climatic reason. Very pleasant luncheon, peaceful, unlike the mob scenes in our dreadful modern Yalta Hotel.

We visit CHEKHOV’S HOUSE, where he wrote “The Cherry Orchard” and “The Lady with the Little dog,” the  quay here at Yalta being the setting of that story. Afternoon free, I inspect the “beach” just below our hotel, reached by an industrial-looking elevator and dark tunnel out on the cement, “promenade” where oiled, sunburning bodies bulge out of inadequate bathing suits on wooden grills, and bathers must pick their way across about a 16-ft. expanse of rocks and huge gravel to get to the water. UGH! Absolutely awful, at any rate from the point of view of a Californian accustomed to vast beaches of real sand with hardly any people on them.

After dinner we see a film show of Chekhov’s “The Hunting Accident.” Gorgeous actor in the leading role, with right touch of cynicism for the part; ask guide who he is - Oleg Jankowsky. Hotel also provides so-called Ukrainian dance entertainment in the dining room later, which is not very good, probably not real Ukrainians anyway, all female, and screeching.

Next day, another “one up” for our side over Intourist. Our British diplomat/poet/translator persuaded guide to arrange an unscheduled visit for us to what had once been the summer palace of his Georgian Princess wife’s uncle (!) (a Grand Duke). Now, as the result of the Revolution, it is a rest-home for the Soviet Army (!) Place built in pseudo-Turkish style on splendid cliff site overlooking the sea. All inmates had been cleared out for our visit, presumably went down cliff to the beach. Deputy Director, a military type but not in uniform, showed us around, rather proudly I would say, and our Russian Princess said that he was very well educated, well-spoken and easy to talk to, and that there was “no gap to bridge” when talking with him. He asked for an old pre-Revolutionary photo of the place. All the rooms were filled with small cot-type beds, something like a child’s boarding school dormitory, and with the sparsest furnishing--little room for possessions, which I presume they hadn’t much of anyway. I have subsequently read that the Soviets send their war-wounded (i.e. from places where they are fighting like Afghanistan) to the Crimean rest-homes for convalescence so that the people on the home front are more or less kept relatively unaware of their wars). Depressing to think of someone’s lovely private home being confiscated in a revolution and ending up being used like this. It looks all wrong. I daydream about how nice it would have been to have summer holidays in such a spot in its heyday.

Resuming our regular itinerary, we come to ALUPKA, summer palace of the 19th century Court Vorontsov, a very handsome man, judging from his portrait, and the richestman in all Russia in his day, owning 80,000 serfs as well as nearly all the Crimea. Positively puts the U.S. Southern slaveholders in the shade. His palace is built in pseudoScottish baronial style by an English architect. (Russians consistently deny anything having been done by foreigners, insisting on claiming credit for everything themselves.) Churchill stayed here at time of Yalta Conference. The Music Room has an usual wall treatment, blue background with white moulded plaster floral ornament “appliqué” all over the walls, like Wedgewood pottery. It is inf act called the “Wedgewood Room.” Haven’t run across anything quite like this in my travel before. The grounds have a park with pools, swans, peacocks etc. But the public “toilets” are just as vile as those everywhere else.

Then on to LIVADIA PALACE, the summer palace of the Tsars, now a sanatorium for treatment of lung & circulatory diseases. It was the scene of the Yalta Conference at end of WWII. Gorgeous location on cliff overlooking sea, stunning views, beautifully landscaped, particularly on the ocean side.

We wind up our Crimean stay with a visit (inland) to the remains of rock-hewn monastery in the side of a cliff and then the PALACE OF THE GREAT TARTAR KHAN at BAKSCHISERAI. This village sits in a low-slung valley situation and the palace is in a Turkish-Persian style with minarets, etc. which seems odd considering these were descendents of the Mongol invaders--the last descendent of Genghis Khan in fact. Inside it is much like places one sees in the Middle East. The outstanding thing here is a small exterior wall-fountain, the “Fountain of Tears,” designed by a Persian architect as a memorial to the Khan’s grief over the death of a favorite wife.

Another domestic flight from Simferopol to TBILISI (formerly Tiflis), capital of the “Republic” of GEORGIA. Large city

Resuming our regular itinerary, we come to ALUPKA, summer palace of the 19th century Count Vorontsov, a very handsome man, judging from his portrait, and the richest man in all Russia in his day, owning 80,000 serfs as well as nearly all the Crimea. Positively puts the U.S. Southern slaveholders in the shade. His palace is built in pseudoScottish baronial style by an English architect. (Russians consistently deny anything having been done by foreigners,insisting on claiming credit for everything themselves.) Churchill stayed here at time of Yalta Conference. Another domestic flight from Simferopol to TBILISI (formerly Tiflis), capital of the "Republic" of GEORGIA. Large city with river running through it and mountains all around. The old quarter of town with small houses having a variety of.interesting balconies & grille-work well worth a look. Sioni Church has frescoes of saints with serene, benign expressions, all Georgian facial types. The resemble their neighbors the Armenians in physiognomy). Astonished to find our uptight Communist courier is quietly lighting a candle in the church. We are baffled but say nothing. Have read that Christianity is making a comeback in USSR but since Intourist employees would have to new the govt. line *we don’t quite know what to make of this event. We see the outside of a house where Lermontov stayed, rather attractive, light blue with white grille-work balcony. (*i.e. atheistic govt.)

We win our battle against the local Tbilisi female guide who tries to prevent our seeing the Turkish Baths on pretext they are being renovated, closed, etc. We press on and find not only are they open, they are in use at this very moment, and we sail in, just interrupting some men about to go in for their baths. Pushkin had bathed here, so everyone had to see his bath. Everything all quite handsomely tiled inside and out. Princess tells young man bather that if he bathes in Pushkin’s bath he should be very popular. (Pushkin having been a great womanizer).

On top of one of the hills there is a huge armored female statue made of riveted-aluminum segment something like an aircraft body, holding a sword in one hand and a bowl of wine in the other. This we are told is to symbolize how Georgia greets its enemies and friends simultaneously. Stroll round some shops in town with a chap from our group. We experience a bit of enthusiastic Georgian hospitality when some young women students hearing us speak English come over to practice their English, helping us with our postcard selection and then buying some for us as presents.

The Art Museum has a fantastic collection of medieval church art—icons, crosses, etc. with lovely expressive figures and some particularly fine enamel work, much more colorful than that found in Greece. I particularly liked St. George spearing a "dragon of many colors," with each scale a different color. This museum is in a building which was formerly the monastery where Stalin studied for the priesthood (!!) The History Museum has sane interesting pre-Christian gold jewelry and artifacts, their "granular" technique being noteworthy.

We attended a ballet in the handsome old opera house. Not many people in audience, so ushers indicate we can just wander around and sit anywhere there is a seat, regardless or what price category of tickets we've bought! I take this to be a bit of casual indifference and inefficiency on the part or the ushers but it seems to be standard practice. Ballet is third-rate with several really clumsy performers, but most of them are at least enthusiastic and trying hard.

Leaving Tbilisi, we start off on the GEORGIAN MILITARY HIGHWAY, built early 19th c. as part of Russian conquest and "pacification" of the fierce mountain tribes in the Caucasus. It is apparently the only road to Tbilisi. We visit the CATHEDRAL OF SVETI-TSKHOVELI in MTSKHETA ancient capital of Georgia) where we find graves of former ruling family including father-in law of our diplomat/poet/translator. Also visit ruins of Ananuri Church overlooking riven Luncheon is in a rustic garden grape-arbor setting at PASANAURI, several tables; happen to be this time with New Zealand chap, Moscow courier, Tbilisi guide & driver, who buys us wine. Knowing Georgians detest Russians, I offer toast "To Georgia!" which pleases him.* He shows picture of little blonde, blue-eyed fair-skinned daughter. Guide says that used to be typical Georgian coloring. Apparently the inroads of Persians, Turks, etc. resulted in different ethnic mix. (*Georgians get very angry if you call them "Russian." They're very proud of their own nation. Their language and alphabet are their own and I'm not

sure if they relate to any other. The Tbilisi road signs would no doubt throw any Russian driver into a tailspin not knowing which way to turn; I wondered if they did that on purpose.)

As we proceed along the Highway into the CAUCASUS MOUNTAINS we encounter more and more flocks of overwhelmingly woolly sheep which swamp us each time, but our driver ploughs right through them, blowing the  horn madly. The Highway gets more and more dramatic as we ascend higher and higher. Prometheus was bound on one of these mountains. They're mostly capped with snow and we feel the cold. Sheep increasing on us. Shepherds wear splendid shaggy sheepskin hats, Driver blows horn more and more furiously. Each flock presents just another challenge to his determination. MOUNT KAZBEK (5333 metres elev.) is in clouds, can't see the top. Stop at small museum, formerly house of a local Prince and of the Turkish Bey of Kazbek. Place called "Kazbagi." In addition to historic-type exhibits we see local fauna such as enormous stuffed eagle, wolves, huge owl, misc. cats, boar, ibex, etc. which live in the mountains.

Entering the DARIALI GORGE, driver plunges us into an impossible traffic jam, bus face-to- face with a truck, and a thousand sheep and shepherds milling around trying to get by, all on the edge of a narrow road hanging on the side of a huge mountain. Your basic Macho scene, everyone yelling angrily, blowing horns, and each driver trying to make the other back up. We could all fall over the cliff but we must preserve face and tough it out. Eventually we get through this ridiculous mess and pass the site of "Tamara's Rock" featured in a Lermontov poem. Reaching the end of the Gorge, we now enter the OSSETIAN REPUBLIC. Another ethnic group here. Driver halted by police for-some traffic violation as we come into the town of ORDZHONIKIDZE He makes a bit of a scene, yelling "Damned Osset!" (Georgians & Ossetians apparently hate each other.)

As an aside on the subject of ethnic groups and dissidents, I should mention that a local Communist official who cadged a ride on our bus in the mountains, sat next to Princess and told her about how a couple of local tribes which had been exiled to Siberia during the Stalin era had been allowed to come home during the 1960’s. However, one of those tribes refused to settle into the Communist collective farm mold, being determined to maintain its own traditional way of life and farming. He said "So we dealt with than." She said "How?" He said "We dampened than down." She asked "With what?" Answer: "With flame throwers." End of tribe.

ORDZHONIKIDZE (formerly VLADIKAVKAZ, "Mistress of the Caucasus" but renamed after some prominent Communist) is our overnight stop, not a bad little town, hotel modern and relatively pleasant. Loud rock band and singers—American-type music—drown out dinner conversation, but we have a nicely-decorated table and a delicious little beef & potato stew affair in sort of a miniature bean-pot, with a pastry lid. Princess asks what it's called. "Stew with a pastry top." Not very imaginative name, but we jot down ingredients for future reference.

On to PYATAGORSK ("Five Mountains"), stay in old pre-Revolutionary hotel, handsome and probably gradious in its day; Communist furnishings dreary & ill-coordinated. English flag on dinner table again. I wonder if other foreign groups get their national flags, or are we special. Much of Lermontov's Hero of Our Time takes place in this area, and he himself was killed in a stupid duel nearby. We visit cottage which was his military quarters, another house where the argument precipitating the duel took place, and the duel site itself, which now has a monument to him. One or the military cottages is now a Lermontov museum, has portraits of the "duelling seconds," one of whom was our Princess' great uncle. She says.they were not actually "seconds" but just friends who were all trying to talk the two quarrelling men out of duelling. This news was surprise to Museum Director.

Pyatagorsk is a spa town, with many mineral springs and baths, used for health purposes. It had been the headquarters for the Russian military in the 19th c. as base of operations and also for "rest & recreation" during their long warfare against the mountain tribes of the Caucasus. It was then fashionable for mamas to bring young daughters they wished to try and marry off to suitable young officers. Today, under the Communist regime, we see dejected, glum-looking peasants and factory workers roaming aimlessly or sitting around, looking thoroughly miserable, having been sent to this vacation spot for "medical" treatment in the mineral baths, in order to make them work better when they get home again. 200,000 people are sent here yearly for treatment.

I strolled around the town in the afternoon and climbed up a hillside with one of the people from our group.We go a better view of the town, and also a bout of fright when we saw two policemen climbing up behind us.  CLUTCH! What have we done? Was this view worth going to the Gulag? No. Whew, they pass right by, ignoring us. Apparently just out on a routine patrol. Great sighs of relief.We attend a concert in the evening given by a group from the Northern Fleet of the Soviet Navy (!) Scrubbed and polished, energetic young men sing various set pieces which I understand from Russian speakers in our group were standard propaganda-type numbers against their enemies (guess who). Then they launch into livelier traditional peasant songs and dances with great vigor and enthusiasm. Various members of audience take bouquets of flowers to the performers at the end of the show.

Strolling around a bit after the concert, I hear trilling, singing noises coming from one of the ornamental pool areas near the hotel; go back to hotel for flashlight to investigate. No birds anywhere in sight. Singing stops when I get close to pool. Examine pool with flashlight and find two large frogs in it who must be the songsters. Hope spies are following me; this would drive than crazy. Don't see any spies. Too bad.

On our excursion to KISLOVODSK, another pleasant spa town not far away, we stop en route to climb up a sort of sandy cliff to some caves, where the character Pechorin took Princess Mary in Lermontov's Hero of Our Time "Princess Mary" story. But in the town, we are at last foiled by Intourist—they have eliminated our scheduled excursion to the country site of a duel in that story, and they make us visit the Yaroshenko Art Museum instead. The painter Yaroshenko with a few other late 19th c. artists broke with academic painting to paint "common people" etc. This gives them some cachet with the current regime, even though it just reflected an art trend that took place in other countries at the time too. At any rate, the Museum Director was obviously pleased to have an English group come to visit, and I'm glad we saw the place.

Our lecturer got into a big row with the Intourist guides in trying to continue to the site we had intended to see. They used all sorts of phoney arguments about why we could not do so. He topped all their arguments with facts, but nevertheless we lost this round. After several feeble excuses their "ultimate argument" was "It is forbidden to foreigners to go there!" "No it is not, I was there myself 10 years ago! There is nothing there but Nature!" "Well if it is just Nature, you can see Nature all around you and you don't have to go there!". Finally, they insisted the bus driver had to be back by a certain hour so therefore we couldn't possibly go to the site.

We didn't get tg see a famous stud farm in this area either, although since it was not on our program in the first place at least we did ret have that element of frustration, and the reason "They are too busy preparing for the horse auctions" was at least logical, whereas arguments regarding the fictional duel site were patently absurd. A stud in Corraumst parlance is a "horse factory." We did get a glimpse of it off in the distance; it once belonged to the Stroganoff family estates. Princess takes long-distance photo for book she is writing on Stroganoffs.

The morning of our departure from Pyatagorsk we had to turn in our keys early so that bags could be taken down (why don't they have extra keys themselves for this purpose?). I then retrieved my key in order to go back and brush my teeth. Door would not open, and it was the right key. Baffled, and suspecting something sinister, I at least decided to try and get the maid to open the door. Maid knocked and called out to someone inside the room. (Heavens, what's going on here?) Then someone opened the door from inside, and a very embarrassed and scared looking young girl rushed out with a towel on her head and arms full of toilet articles. She was apparently a hotel employee in.there taking a bath and washing her hair in this "luxurious" bathroom with hot water. Realizing the low standard of living and probable shortage of such amenities for the population one could hardly blame the girl for her efforts at cleanliness.

Later, while we were assembling outside and gettingonto the bus, two young girl students came along, and hearing us speak. English, asked if they could ride out to the carport with us on the bus in order to practice their English, which they did. (WHY are people studying English in this country, if they are never allowed to travel abroad and use it, and their access to foreign publications is controlled?!)

We depart from Mineraliyevody Airport (refers to the mineral-water spas of the area) & return to the National Hotel at MOSCOW. I try to find picture of movie actor at shops on Gorky St. with no luck. Investigate grocery store, find less variety and quantity of foods in the capital city of this socalled “Great Power" than in sleazy small shops in poor districts of any American city. (The situation was the same in a grocery store I visited in Tbilisi, also a largencity.) After dinner, stroll thru Red Square with one of my fellowpassengers and sit chatting on a park bench near the Kremlin for awhile. (I can't believe this. "What am I doing here?!") Is the man next to us holding his head in his hands really stoned out of his mind in a total drunken stupor, or is he spying on us? One is constantly paranoid about being watched and eavesdropped on, which of course gives a sharper edge or excitement and enjoyment to the whole trip: cryptic and veiled conversations on sensitive topics, especially in places assumed to be bugged such as these major hotels, etc. Well, if this drunk is spying, he will be bored with our touristic-type conversation. However, I think he really was just a drunk, especially since we read so much about the regime trying to combat drunkenness in the population these days.

On our last morning we wind up the tour with a drive round Moscow seeing a few more writers' statues, such as Gribqyedoff's  with characters from his novel sculpted all around the base (as were those on Gogol's statue seen previously). We visit Tolstoy's town house now, which is a very ordinary "bourgeois" wooden house, ugly brown on the outside, but homey in a Victorian sort of way inside, furnished just as if they were still living in it. He was keen on "simplicity" as a matter of principle and deliberately sought a country-ish type of house rather than the grander sort of place a man of his noble rank would usually have had. All sorts of memorabilia here, bearskin rug which he had shot, also stuffed bear on stair landing, holding an ashtray! There are shoes he himself had made, and the bicycle he learned to ride in his old age, etc. All these Russian houses have a dining table and chairs in what we could call the "living room" or "sitting room." On inquiring why, I was told that they have them for drinking tea with guests.

On leaving for the Airport we passed crowds gathered round the Pushkin statue, where they had came to bring flowers and read poems on the poet's birthday.

Our last Airport scene is not unlike our entry—military set-up, many hurdles to get through (currency exchange at two-thirds loss, ergo, change only the smallest amounts of currency each time as you go along, and spend it all before you leave, since you'll lose most of what you have left at the airport); exit-customs form, baggage inspection, passport control and interrogation (icy, baleful stare; studying passport—"—Is this your picture?" "What is your name?" etc.) Endless waiting, delays. One never feels one will ever really escape from this country until the plane is (a) off the ground, and (b) no longer over Soviet soil. Finally get aboard British Airways plane, where cool, level-headed, staff's voices soothethe nerves, an, tons of.free British newspapers help bring us up to date with the outside world. Heave great sigh of relief. On

arrival back in a FREE COUNTRY/ (England) one would like to flop down and kiss the ground. However, at airports there isn't any "soil" and anyway one is too busy trying to get out of the airport and back to one's hotel etc.

I should mention a few miscellaneous items of interest about the trip not described above. Abacuses are used almost everywhere instead of adding machines except the big hotels. The hotels have real tablecloths and napkins. The women's clothing is somewhat old-fashioned looking and very modest. We learned that more fashionable items and other soughtafter consumer goods are available only to certain categories of people in the regime, including Intourist staff, in special shops— which gives something of an incentive, but we never saw anyone "smart" or "stylish"- in the western sense. Food was in general monotonous (I have only commented on the more interesting surprise items we encountered) -"meat and potatoes',' soup, heavy (lard?) pastries, lots of cucumbers, but practically NO fruit or greens other than sprigs of a parsleytype plant. One develops a terrific craving for fruit and lettuces. There is lots of bread which is quite good. American wheat (I’m sure their citizens don't know that), baked to Russian recipes. The two grocery stores I visited in major cities had very little in both quantity and quality of foods, and judging from the paucity and shabbiness of the vegetables, and the scarcity of meat, I deduced we were being much better fed in the hotels than the local citizens in their homes, particularly as to quantity of meat.

The "dragon lady" on each floor of a hotel from whom you must get your key and turn it in each time you go out (surveillance as well as convenience) is called a "Dezhumaya" (not sure of Russian spelling, but it derives from the preRevolutionary days, from the French "du jour" - person on duty for the day, or as one would say in the military, '"officer of the day" etc. This is annoying since they all look more like police surveillance types than helpful servants, but since this is the place to order your tea any time of day or night, the system has at least one advantage in your favor. Usually the tea is from a samovar kept going all the time, but sometimes it is made up to order. These women are thrown into, embarrassed consternation if you happen to get up before dawn and catch them ASLEEP on their sofas in the hall.

There is another surveillance feature in the lobbies - usually a man or men standing around watching everybody - mostly to keep Russians from caning in, I think, but they generally look more like idle loafers than proper security staff. Phones in the hotel rooms never seem to work; one assumes this is to force you to go downstairs to some other phone that they can monitor. On the other hand it may just be one more thing that doesn't really work properly in this country. Our retired British diplomat managed to make calls to the British Embassy in Moscow regularly to find out what was happening in the outside world, such as the course of the Falklands.

The hotel bathrooms were more or less European in nature although a bit shabby looking and there was usually something that didn’t work properly. Public toilets, on the other hand, were unbelievably ghastly. In theory they were the “Eastern”: stand-up type, hole-in-the-ground with some sort of cement base to stand on. But since the hole was small and nobody seemed to care about either hygiene or aesthetics, one had to walk in a mass of excrement. This is the worst I have encountered in my travels, even worse than North Africa and Middle East. My apologies for bringing up a distasteful matter, but if anyone is thinking of a trip to the USSR they can at least go with a realistic idea of what one must contend with.

Directors and other functionaries of the little museums we visited were obviously thrilled and honored to be visited by our distinguished little British group, and they were all dressed stiffly and starchily in their best suits, looking a little old-fashioned and frayed around the edges, giving us a very warm welcome. Our diplomat/poet/translator presented them with volumes of his translations, which delighted them.

Since I could not speak the language, as I mentioned, I was particularly watching expressions and emotions. In a couple of places we arrived at, our own (British) courier would introduce us to the new local guides, indicating where we were from. They would beam with pleasure on hearing “England” but when I was introduced as from “America,” their faces would cloud over immediately with mixed distaste and, I believe, fear. I am sure they are fed a steady diet of propaganda about how terrible the U.S. is, and it may be their public thinks we will attack them any minute. Since their country has a long history of being invaded by various other countries, most recently and devastatingly the Germans (now designated the “Fascists” instead of “Germans” for political purposes), the regime can play upon any national paranoia with its propaganda quite well. Since the Soviet govt. can freely pour everything into building up a vast military machine for international political ends, -- and the U.S. govt has an endless struggle trying to convince its legislature and public of the need to maintain some sort of parity, it is probably just as well if the Russians are afraid of us.

Along these lines, the various inefficiencies one observes (nothing seems to work right, nothing is on time, everything is slow and a bit bumbling) are perhaps somewhat reassuring. You wonder -- maybe if they make a war they will mess it up. Or on the other hand, is that an even worse prospect???!!! But even if higher echelon officers are intelligent, they have to depend on some rather “klutzy” people to do the work. Then again one must not underestimate the innate toughness and endurance of these  people. They are hard, and they lie with no compunctions whatever. And Power is for the sake of Power.

The whole economy is run bureaucratically, by and for the State. The political/economic system allows no real free enterprise other than minor things like selling surplus backyard vegetables etc. The country needs what they frankly call “hard currency” (admitting their own is not!) and they have “hard currency shops” and “hard currency bars” in hotels, where they sell only to foreigners. But it doesn’t occur to them to produce much that foreigners would really want, such as lots of good quality picture postcards. There are very few of those & of poor quality. They could make heaps of money on that alone if they used their heads. Most of the souvenir items are not worth bothering with.

In sum, it was a fascinating trip, we saw many wonderful things from the standpoint of history, art and literature, from the past, but it is NOT a pleasant country to visit -- not “fun” -- because you are constantly aware of the arbitrary regime, where people can be locked up with no redress, & you must be constantly on guard as to what you say. In short, you are not FREE. We take our freedom for granted in the West, but an experience like this gives a real appreciation of how fortunate we are.

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At the end of this trip I spent a few days in  WEST BERLIN (which I'd seen only very briefly a few years ago) and enjoyed all the wonderful museums, elegant restaurants, charming cafes and smart boutiques immensely. A defiant outpost of freedom and free enterprise, surrounded by the Communist East German wall, it is nevertheless a relaxed and enjoyable place to visit. The 1 1/2-hr. long protest parade against President Reagan's visit cast a sour note (assorted leftwingers, anti-American, anti-Defense, anti-Nuclear. types, etc, with misc. Iranians, Turks and PLO thrown in), but the disapproving looks and blase attitude of the rest of the public (who continued eating their ice creams and cakes in the sidewalk cafes which line the main street) kept things in perspective. Demonstrators thick in numbers, but not very energetic looking. Next day we saw a spirited petite elderly lady angrily shaking her fist telling off some scuffling demonstrators in the street.

I also had a bit of time in  LONDON, seeing a few friends and a few plays, but was quite frustrated in not having enough time to see EVERYONE. The major highlight was getting in to see Churchill’s wartime bunker at the end of its ‘"open" period (since it was shortly thereafter closed down for a year of "renovation" into a public museum). It was a real thrill to clamber around the grubby cement underground rooms full of pipes, debris, etc and odds and ends of furnishings left from WWII, the war maps and reconnaissance photos, Churchill's bed, and the table where the cabinet meetings took place; we were allowed to sit in their seats (each place had a cabinet member's name on the table). Everyone wanted to sit in Churchill's chair after we'd sat for the explanatory talk. It turned out that nearly everyone in the small group I toured the place with was from a U.S. Air Force base out in the country, and that made this tour the more realistic somehow, since their mission in England is much the same as that of all the historic materials were looking, at, and they could appreciate all the technical matters involved.

The guide, an enthusiastic ex-Royal Navy officer (WWII), gave a marvelous tour; he said 90% of all the visitors they had had over the years were American. The British people were unaware that it could be visited (it had not been publicised in England). Americans knew about it from travel articles or word of mouth. I was most fortunate to get in because they were fully booked up and I got a “cancellation.” The place won't be quite the same when glass walls are put in and it gets cleaned up.

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Not much to report from the home front other than an occasional trip to Santa Barbara or Carmel & Monterey, and doing the splendid San Francisco Opera season this fall. We have a new director and he’s doing wonders for the pace, artistically and financially. (Fund raising for the endowment.) If you haven't gone completely blind trying to read this squashed-up typing, MERRY CHRISTMAS AND HAPPY NEW YEAR!