Live Right and Find Happiness (Although Beer is Much Faster)

by Dave Barry

Tuesday

  Our first event today is a talk to undergraduate students at Maxim Gorky Literature Institute, which is named for Maxim Gorky, who, as you are surely aware, is a famous Russian literature person, as far as I know. The Literary Institute is an entire university of students who want to be writers or translators. It is also the birthplace of the writer Alexander Herzen, who, it goes without saying, is also very famous; there’s a statue of him on the grounds. In fact there are statues of writers all around Moscow. Ridley and I are impressed by this. We try to recall if there are any statues of writers in the U.S. The only one I can come up with offhand is the statue of Rocky, who, granted, was a boxer, but he was played in the movie by Sylvester Stallone, who wrote the screenplay.

  The undergraduates, who look basically like American college students, are great. They listen attentively, laugh at the jokes, ask questions. I’m beginning to really like Russian audiences.

  After our talk we have lunch and see some more of Moscow. We pass by Pushkin Square, named for Alexander Pushkin, who is a more famous writer in Russia than Maxim Gorky, Alexander Herzen and Sylvester Stallone combined. Pushkin Square is the site of the first McDonald’s built in the Soviet Union, a massive restaurant that on its opening day in 1990 served 30,000 customers, a McDonald’s record for an opening day.

  At the moment, however, it is closed. It was recently shut down, along with a bunch of other McDonald’s restaurants in Russia, by the Rospotrebnadzor, or Federal Service for Surveillance on Consumer Rights Protection and Human Well-Being. (Really.) The closings were obviously ordered in retaliation for the U.S. economic sanctions against Russia, but the Rospotrebnadzor claims it was because of sanitary violations. The Moscow Times quotes a Russian lawmaker as saying: “I am pleased that Rospotrebnadzor has taken an interest in this important problem. In the future, we similarly will not allow our citizens to be poisoned.”

  You will be interested to know the identity of this lawmaker who’s so concerned about protecting Russian citizens from being poisoned by McDonald’s. It’s none other than Roman Khudyakov, the same guy who wants to protect the youth of Russia from exposure to Apollo’s penis. He’s a vigilant dude, Roman is. Maybe when he has eliminated the Big Mac and penis menaces, he can do something about the chimichangas at La Cantina.

  We speak that afternoon to Russian literature students and faculty of the Russian State University for the Humanities. This is our scariest audience yet: These are all serious students and professors of literature.

  Our talk does not begin well. When I show the Wienermobile slide, which has been a proven crowd-pleaser in our other talks, nobody even cracks a smile. The students look at the photo—me driving an enormous hot dog—with an expression of mild puzzlement that says, “I enrolled in the Russian State University for the Humanities for this?”

  But gradually they warm up, and by the end they’re asking a lot of questions. Some of these questions suggest that they take our writing more seriously than we do. One professor asks about the major themes in our writing. Ridley and I give each other a look, because we don’t really have major themes in our writing. We generally focus our writing efforts on technical plot issues such as how we can end a certain scene with a flying camel pooping on the evil king’s head. But we come up with an answer about themes, and the danger passes.

  As the Q & A is winding down I ask the students about stereotypes—how they think Americans stereotype them, and how they stereotype us. They say we think they’re all drunk on vodka all the time and play balalaikas while bears wander around. Also somebody says “gangsters.”

  I agree that the vodka stereotype is widely believed in the U.S. (All the Russians I talked to about this claimed it’s exaggerated.) I press the students on how Russians see Americans. After some hesitation a young man says Americans are viewed as being self-centered, sitting home and watching their big-screen TVs and not caring about the rest of the world.

  Ha-ha! Those crazy Russians, with their stereotypes.

  Our final event today is a reception/discussion at the U.S. embassy with various writers, artists and professors. It’s very nice, and there is plenty o’ wine. Good night.

  Wednesday

  We do two presentations for students at the Slavic-Anglo-American School “Marina,” where Russian students learn English as a second language. They’re totally fluent and get all the jokes. While we’re packing up, some boys gather around to talk some more. I ask them what they think Americans think of Russians.

  “Drinking vodka,” they say. “Bears playing balalaikas.”

  “And what do you think of Americans?” I say.

  “Cowboys eating at McDonald’s,” they say, laughing.

  “That is totally accurate,” I say.

  After our talk the principal gives Ridley and me a brief tour of the school, during which she opens the doors to several classrooms so we can peek inside. Each time, all the children immediately rise to their feet and face us. The principal tells us this gesture of respect to visitors is common in Russian schools. We assure her that it is also common in American schools. Then we laugh.

  Our big event today is a meeting with the new U.S. Ambassador to Russia, John Tefft. He was called out of retirement for this appointment and quickly confirmed by the U.S. Senate, which is something of a miracle; in the current bitterly partisan Washington climate, it would be difficult to get the Senate to confirm that the sun is hot. But Tefft is a respected Foreign Service veteran—he speaks Russian, French, Hebrew, Hungarian, Italian and Lithuanian—and he has served as ambassador to Lithuania, Georgia and Ukraine. The consensus is that we need a shrewd and steady hand like him in Moscow. The Russians don’t love him, but they respect him.

  We meet him at his official residence, a grand mansion called “Spaso House.” He tells us he’s still moving in, and we’re his first visitors. He shows us around the downstairs part of the residence, which is impressive and huge. I think the NBA could play in the dining room.

  During our tour Tefft’s wife, Mariella, arrives. She’s been out walking their dog, Lui, a veteran diplomat dog who is very outgoing, the kind of dog who sincerely loves all of humanity and wants to prove that love by jumping up on all available humans and if possible licking their faces. Ambassador Tefft repeatedly orders Lui to get down, but Lui disregards him. Lui’s attitude is, You may be the highest-ranking American official in Russia, but this human NEEDS TO BE LICKED.

  PHOTO OF RIDLEY, TEFFT AND DAVE © 2014 BY WENDY KOLLS

  We settle in one of the smaller rooms (by “smaller” I mean “big”) for refreshments and a chat, during which Lui continues to make it clear, despite repeated scoldings from the ambassador, that he thinks we are just about the most delicious humans he has ever tasted.

  The Teffts look like grandparents from Wisconsin, which in fact they are. But they’re also savvy, sophisticated players in the world of high-stakes international diplomacy; they have served in some difficult postings, and they’re embarking on their trickiest yet. So it’s not surprising that the topic of conversation quickly turns to: The Milwaukee Brewers. Tefft is a big sports fan, still fiercely loyal to his Wisconsin teams.

  From sports we move to a variety of other topics, including Ukraine, and the current state of relations between us and Russia, which is—and here I will again summarize—crappy. It’s an interesting and pleasant hour. As Ridley and I say good-bye to the Teffts—two Wisconsinites and one dog, living in a vast mansion in Moscow, carrying the flag for our team—we sincerely wish them luck.

  After we leave, Ridley and I talk about how down-to-earth and genuinely nice the Teffts are. It occurs to me that maybe all this tension between the U.S. and Russia could be eased by some old-fashioned Wisconsin hospitality. Why not? The Teffts could invite Putin over to Spaso House; they could eat some brats, down a few brewskis, maybe catch a Packers game on satellite TV, everybody just chilling on the sofa, with Lui
taking advantage of any openings to show Putin some love. It might work! Or it might get Lui strangled. So never mind.

  From Spaso House we head to Moscow’s Leningradskaya Station to catch the 7:25 p.m. high-speed Sapsan train to St. Petersburg, where we will spend the rest of our time in Russia. The trip takes four hours, and the train gets up to 250 kilometers per hour, which is the equivalent of 387 degrees Fahrenheit. Before the sun sets, we get a chance to admire the Russian scenery, which consists of seventeen billion hillion jillion trees.

  I like the idea of riding the train. It feels kind of Cloak-and-Daggerish. Night Train to St. Petersburg. The only thing preventing me from imagining that I’m in a James Bond movie, hurtling through the night in an atmosphere of intrigue, danger and romance, is the fact that I have developed a case of global thermonuclear diarrhea. So I will not describe the train trip, other than to offer this sincere and heartfelt:

  Statement of apology to any Russian passengers who may have used the train toilet that night after I did: .*

  We arrive in St. Petersburg shortly before midnight and take a taxi to our hotel. I tell Ridley not to expect me at breakfast and sprint to my room. I experience an action-packed night, during which—not to get graphic—I violently expel everything I have eaten in Russia dating back to the chimichanga.

  Q. Are you blaming the chimichanga?

  A. That would be stereotyping.

  Thursday

  Feeling weaker but a little better—also much lighter—I join Ridley and our excellent State Department handler in St. Petersburg, Elena Smirnova, in the hotel’s rooftop restaurant for our first event, an interview with a print journalist. Afterward Ridley quietly informs me that his computer was again attacked, and that he noticed small microphones discreetly mounted on one of the columns in the restaurant. We speculate on whether there might be microphones in our hotel rooms. If there are, whoever was listening to me last night is going to need years of psychotherapy.

  After the interview we depart from the hotel by car, which gives us a chance to see some of St. Petersburg. It is, as everyone has told us, a beautiful city—sort of a cross between Amsterdam and Paris, with a network of rivers, canals and lovely streets lined by mile after mile of graceful buildings, large and small. It has many shops, bars, coffeehouses and restaurants, and a lively sidewalk scene on this sunny, warm day.

  Our next event is a talk at St. Petersburg University of Economics and Finance. We of course know nothing about economics or finance, but fortunately our audience consists of students and professors of literature and translation. The talk is in English, without an interpreter, and it goes well. I know I keep noting that Russian audiences are polite and attentive, but it really is remarkable, especially if you’ve ever talked to a group of American college students who wouldn’t look away from their iPhones if the speaker was on fire.

  Before our talk we meet with some school officials to have tea with cookies and chocolates. This has been true of almost every talk we’ve given; it’s a tradition in Russia to serve tea to visitors, always with something sweet. I am struck by the fact that the Russians love sweets, but almost none of them are fat; whereas we Americans are always on diets, and we’re a herd of manatees.

  We have an opening in the afternoon schedule, so Ridley and I decide to visit the Hermitage, one of the largest and most famous art museums in the world. It’s a collection of priceless works, and it’s vast. It is said—we hear this several times in St. Petersburg—that if you were to pause for one minute at each item on exhibit in the Hermitage, it would take you eight years to see them all. Even if you didn’t see everything, you could easily spend weeks, if not months, appreciating all the timeless masterpieces on display.

  Ridley and I do the Hermitage in one hour.

  Really. And this hour includes stops in a snack bar and a gift shop.

  In our defense, our time is limited. But also we are—this should be clear by now—guys. We like to move fast and get the job done. When we are not encumbered by our families—especially our wives, who always want to stop and look at things—Ridley and I can cover a lot of ground quickly. We once (I am not making this up) toured the Tower of London in thirty-five minutes. Our wives wouldn’t get a third of the way through the gift shop in that time.

  So we move through the Hermitage at a brisk pace, at times breaking into a trot. We are able to mentally process vast quantities of art in mere seconds, using our Guy Vision, which enables us to rapidly scan a large museum sector and summarize its contents:

  Portraits of portly unattractive men in comical soldier outfits. Check!

  Vases. Check!

  Statues of naked people standing around expressing the artistic concept “We’re stark naked and we don’t care!” Check!

  And so on. I’m not saying we fully experience the entire Hermitage in an hour; to do that, we would probably need at least another forty-five minutes. But we have to get back to the hotel to depart for our last event of the day, a presentation to the public at the Mayakovskaya Library, which as you are surely aware is named for the famous Russian writer Vladimir Library. In addition to the usual polite and attentive Russians, our audience includes a cat—Russians love cats—which repeatedly attacks a small patch of sunlight on the floor. Eventually the sunlight disappears, and the cat stalks off, victorious.

  Afterward Ridley heads for dinner and I head for my hotel room, hoping that the Russian medicine Elena of the State Department has procured for me will bring peace to the deeply unstable world trouble spot that is my intestinal tract.

  Friday

  Give it up for Russian medicine: I’m feeling somewhat better today. This is good, because we start by giving four talks, including one for parents, at the Anglo-American School, which is mainly for English-speaking children of embassy employees and businesspeople. It’s hectic, but we enjoy it; it’s all in English, and the school is a bright, happy place with (thank God) excellent bathroom facilities.

  Next up is one of the most serious, and interesting, events of our trip: A meeting with three members of the St. Petersburg branch of the Union of Russian Writers, which was once the Union of Soviet Writers. We meet in their building (they have a building) gathered around a small table, with them on one side and Ridley, me and Elena (as interpreter) on the other. On the table between us are tea and chocolates.

  We begin with a lengthy and at times confusing (for me, anyway) discussion of what the union does. To the best of my understanding, it acts as sort of a middleman, distributing money from the government to publishers so that they will publish books deemed worthy by the union. This is of course very different from the American system, in which publishers decide what gets published based mainly on what they think will sell. There’s an undercurrent of disagreement in our discussion. Everything is worded politely, but it’s fairly clear that they think our system results in a lot of books getting published that are crap (which, OK, is true); whereas we think their system results in the publication of politically acceptable books that most actual humans don’t want to read.

  We do agree on some topics:

  These kids today!

  This Internet thing!

  A few times we even manage to laugh together. But hovering around our conversation is an awareness of the current hostility between our countries. At one point I mention some positive impressions I’ve had of Russia. One of the Russians, Vladimir Malyshev, responds that I won’t be allowed to write anything good about Russia when I get back to the United States. I tell him that he’s wrong, that I can write whatever I want. He shakes his head, clearly not believing me.

  Eventually Ukraine comes up. The Union of Russian Writers officially weighed in on this earlier in the year, issuing a statement strongly supporting Putin’s actions in Crimea and Ukraine, blaming the problems there on “Western politicians” who want to bring back fascism, and attacking the economic sanctions against Russia.


  Ridley and I have no intention of broaching this subject; we’re supposed to be having a discussion about writing. But Ukraine and the sanctions come up anyway when I ask what I intend to be an innocent question concerning St. Petersburg’s past. For nearly nine hundred days, from 1941 to 1944, the city—then known as Leningrad—was largely surrounded by the German army in what became known as the Siege of Leningrad. It was horrific, the most devastating and deadly siege in world history: Hundreds of thousands of civilians—more than were killed in Hiroshima and Nagasaki combined—died of cold and starvation. In those desperate days, the residents of the city resorted to eating anything they could—birds, rats, pets, sawdust, anything. Some resorted to cannibalism.

  This is what I want to ask about. My question is, Does the siege still resonate in the city? Do people still think about it?

  Malyshev, answering in halting English, says the siege is still very much part of the city’s consciousness. He says both of his parents lived through the siege, and spoke of it often for the rest of their lives. He says the collective memory of the siege remains strong.

  Then, suddenly, he connects the siege with the current economic sanctions. His point is that they won’t work, because Russians have survived much worse.

  “Nine hundred days,” he says, his voice rising. “And now we are speaking about sanctions? Sanctions? For Russians? NINE HUNDRED DAYS!”

  Malyshev then picks up the box of chocolates and holds it toward me, as if offering it.

  “We give you these chocolates,” he says.

  Then he yanks the box away.

  “Sanctions!” he says.

  And then, one last time: “NINE HUNDRED DAYS!”

  So he is not impressed by the sanctions.

  Our meeting ends with handshakes; we all agree it has been interesting. But I don’t think anybody has convinced anybody of anything.