Snowden in purgatory

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Right now, the number one thing for which I am most grateful:  I am not Edward Snowden.

I know whereof I speak.  I only just returned from a trip which involved a nine-hour layover at Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam.  Which, I’m betting, is rather nicer than Sheremetyevo in Moscow.  It is a very peculiar kind of torture.

Passenger Ricardo Schnibblevits, traveling to Tashkent, please report to Gate A9 for immediate boarding, or your baggage will be removed from the airplane, and your reservation cancelled.

The single most important thing that makes such an experience bearable is the knowledge that it is only temporary.  Snowden is utterly bereft of this consolation.  He may glance habitually at his watch, but it tells him nothing of interest.  How many times can he walk from one end of the transit area to the other before he has it memorized?  How many greasy shashliks can his stomach endure before he contemplates a hunger strike just for the novelty?

What is he using for money?  Will his Starbucks card be accepted at Double Coffee?  All the little irritants, horribly magnified.  Like the armrest on the chair where he’s trying to sleep becoming a permanent part of his anatomy, or (shudder) Russian toilet paper.

Sheremetyevo Airport reminds you not to leave your bags unattended.  Unattended bags will be immediately confiscated for security reasons.

What country in its right mind would grant asylum to Snowden, thereby holding him up as an example of sterling behavior to its citizens?  Does anyone really believe a place exists among the nations of Earth that is not at least as bad as, if not worse than, the United States, in terms of secrets, of spying on its citizens, or of any one of hundreds of infringements, large and small, on dignity, not to say liberty?  I’ll grant you, many are not as up to date technologically, but that would only make someone like Snowden all the more dangerous to them.

Hero or traitor, he’s in the land of the Undead for the foreseeable future.  We’re not necessarily talking about days, or even weeks, here.  The world record for this kind of thing is held by Mehran Karimi Nasseri, who endured the departure lounge at Charles de Gaulle for 18 years.  That’s right, 18 years.

Passenger Rickky Platz, please return to the security check-in zone to reclaim your passport.  Passenger Rickky Platz.

In the same clothes.  The same underpants that drove him nuts riding up on the flight from Hong Kong.  How many bags of stale peanuts can one man endure?  I believe I would be on the phone to the US consul sooner rather than later.  In prison, there is at least the exercise yard.

Passenger Edward Snowden, please make yourself as comfortable as you can.  It will be awhile.

The vampire’s confession

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Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.  Peccavi in extremis, I’m afraid.

It has been … ages since my last confession, a time beyond recall.  I must say I have been rather good, but for one irresistible indulgence.  How shall I say it?  Out with it, then.

Father, I am a vampire.

Yes, I heard that gasp, involuntary though it was, through this rather flimsy barrier.  Why bother, I wonder?  Is it to protect my delicate sensibility, or yours?

No matter.  The sins I have to confess surely blow through such refinements like a spring squall through a spider’s dewy web.

Where shall I begin?  The burgher’s rich, leathery Sangiovese, or the light Beaujolais of girls in the springtime?  Ah, the sublime innocence, with just a touch of peppery insouciance!  I confess to a weakness for the unpresumptuous, even coarse, at times.  A cheap Zinfandel, just this side of plonk, fills the bill more often than I’d like to admit.

There was a certain lawyer, officious, but charming in his utter unawareness, a Malbec, precisely sour, and his lovely Shiraz of a wife.  I dream of her still.

Don’t get me wrong.  I have a profound appreciation for the refined as well.  How can I neglect the rich Barolo of the bishop, or the tawny Port of the late monseigneur, aged to perfection?  Yes, that was me, I’m afraid.  But look at the bright side, we have you, as a result.  I saw you walking to the confessional, with your springy step, that optimistic, wide open demeanor that refuses to be daunted.

I believe I fancy a nice Grenache, on such a fine, sunny afternoon.

Correspondence from the dawn of time

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Archaeologists have uncovered a stone slab with what appears to be the earliest correspondence ever.  The hypothesis is that the slab was exchanged with each new entry.  Here is a transcript.

Not the slab, but stone like it.

Not the slab, but stone like it.

Hi

Why do you give me this?

No reason.  Just Hi.

What you want?

Nothing, just friend.  What wrong with that?

Here a small circle has been carved, with a curved line in the lower half, and two dots in the upper.

What this shit?

It’s like face, smiling.

OK, haha.

BTW, I have plenty hides, for you, cheap.

Here are just random chips, odd symbols, in a pattern suggesting anger.  There appears to be the figure of a man, decapitated.  The rest of the slab is blank.

____________________________________________________________________
Photo credit: http://www.newsgd.com/travel/routeofthemonth/200606080058_60340.jpg

Mail order bride

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On a long bus ride into the past, watching Riga Center slip by, I become aware of the two voices from the seat behind me. He speaks American English, slow, measured, clearly enunciated. She speaks language-school English, without undue inflection, practiced.

– Riga is a very nice city.
– Yes, very nice.
– I saw a sign somewhere, on the Maxima, I think. It said 00-24.
– Yes, it’s means it’s open 24/7.
– So, if it says 8-22…
– Yes, of course.

(pause)

– Once I walked 2 hours to buy a book. I will show you where; it’s on this line.
– You walked 2 hours?
– I wanted just to walk.
– I hope it was a good book.
– Look, there it is, the bookstore.

(pause)

– There’s a bus with a thing to connect to wires overhead.
– Yes, we call them trolley busses.
– In Paris and London, they have subways.
– They wanted to build a subway here…
– But the electricity is in the rails, not overhead, like here.
– But it was not popular.
– Oh, look, there’s one on rails. They stopped those in San Francisco. Too hard to maintain.
– Yes.
– My ex-wife wants 50% of everything. She will only get 25%.

(pause)

– Graffiti. That means it’s not a good place.
– Yes, outskirts, not so nice.
– Suburbs.
– No, outskirts.
– No. City, suburbs, then country.
– No. Outskirts.

(pause)

– Nothing to do out here, I guess.
– No, it’s nice.

My stop, time to get off. I can’t resist turning around. I see a grey man in his 50s, either fashionably unshaven, or just lazy, can’t tell. Beside him is a rather plump young girl, attractive, a determined look on her pleasant face. I hope it works out. I’m not very optimistic.

Riga party line

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If you doubt that Eastern Europe is very different, consider this comment I heard at a party in Riga:

“I can’t drink beer or wine; my doctor told me to stick to the hard stuff.”

Someone else, having been told the stuff he had just poured into his glass was wine, and not flavored hooch, recoiled with horror, poured it out, and went straight for the vodka, hoping, no doubt, it wasn’t just water.

And these are the sober types.

I told a story of my profligate grandfather, who drank a bottle of vodka every day, finally expiring at the age of 85. Well of course, they said. What pathogens could survive such an environment?

Of course, all that booze was accompanied by heroic amounts of food: pickled herring, lox, unidentifiable but delicious cured meats, olives, pickles, cheeses of every variety, salads composed of any and all imaginable vegetables, all accompanied with sour cream and dill. Copious dill, always. Someone brought a massive traditional klinger, a thing like a giant pretzel, filled with fruit compotes and dressed with fresh berries. To be eaten with shots of cognac or vodka interspersed. Moderation, you know. Of course, you could always go one-stop, and eat the heavenly en-booze-iated fruit salad. Did I mention that all of this was unspeakably delicious?

This was followed, as the evening grew long, by the actual meal: marinated pork kebabs grilled to perfection. And, had I tried the klinger? I really should, you know. Perhaps a bit of cognac, to settle things?

There was, all in all, approximately a week’s worth of eating and drinking in one sunsetless evening in late June Latvia. I begged off and left the party as twilight began its descent, a rather late and hesitant affair up here at the 57th parallel. My host was dismayed at my early departure, and asked if I was well.

Walking to the trolley stop afterwards, I passed reeling youth, shouting, singing, ignored by more sober pedestrians, treated like a late spring squall, alarming, but not serious. It all seemed oddly calm.