Bubba Does Moscow

From 2007 visit to Russia:

I think I was approached by a prostitute in a big Russian mall. I’m not really sure.

I walked over to a mall and was in a soap shop, sniffing up all the good, clean smells. I felt this presence behind me to my right. I had my wallet zipped into my left side jacket pocket so I knew it was safe.

This voice said, “You look for soap, yes?” I turned and looked into the eyes of a young Sofia Loren, only with blonde hair. The woman was about 22-25, had on skin-tight black pants, a loose, open-necked white silky blouse and boots that stopped about 6mm below her knee. (I was in Russia and changing to metric seemed the right thing to do.)

I tried not to stare but did notice she had a 1.75 mm mole in the shape of the city outline of Riga just to the left center of her considerable, flawless cleavage; her lips were Julie Robertsish; her tongue was cuter than cute and slightly pointed; her fingernails were an off-fushia – sort of a Yoplait cherry yogurt color -- with a small, different celestial design on each one. Starting with the moon on the fingernail of her little finger of her left hand, she finished the original look with the nine planets – Mercury started on the ring finger of the left hand, then Venus, Earth, etc. (I didn’t have the heart to tell her Pluto was no longer a planet.)

I was proud of myself and didn’t stammer much at all. “Sah-soap. Looking at sah-soap, yes!”

“You don’t need soap. You smell good enough already.”

I think that was her. It could have been me.

She asked if I was American; I think I nodded. She asked if I needed a tour guide; I distinctly remember muttering something about having an appointment. I don’t think I asked her if she was going to be around the soap shop later. I also don’t think I extended my wedding ring finger for her viewing disappointment; you never know what gesture is considered impolite or crude in a foreign country.

I bought some soap for some reason and wandered off to get some ice cream. I suddenly needed something cold on my forehead. She finger-waved Jupiter, Neptune, Uranus and Pluto in my direction.

I made myself a promise to get out the telescope when I got back home.

Had dinner one night at what was touted to be the best Japanese restaurant in the city. It was awful. Ordered Kirin on draft … they were out. Settled on Sapporo. Ordered broth with seafood and tempura dish. The soup was as fishy (smelling and tasting) ad bait shop water. (I am just imagining how bait shop water would taste. I don’t know from experience, but have a couple of cousins that probably would know first-hand.)

They served it in a teapot and gave you a bowl the size of an eye-rinse cup that had a slice of lime in it.I figured out the lime was an attempt to cut the fish taste. It failed its assigned task.

In the tempura dish, there was one shrimp, 12 pieces of onions, two small tomatoes, about an acre of eggplant, and a single zucchini strip. The dip wasn’t bad.

Halfway through the meal, a couple walked in. They looked French. Haughty. Gold chains everywhere. They both held a Yorkie. I named them Craphead and Fluffnut. I don’t know what they French names were.

Seated at the table next to me, they ordered. The people, not the dogs. The dogs apparently approved. The woman kept fluffing her dog’s head. I wondered if dog dandruff would help the taste of the fish soup. The man let his dog slurp some soup directly from the bowl.

I mean, come the hell on! In the South, we might take our dogs to McDonald’s, but most folks leave them in the truck! We might let our dogs eat scraps under the table at home, but at Wendy’s, they stay outside!

Other observations:

Sofia Borovskaya, Moscow correspondent for the company newsletter, escorted me to Red Square at night. It is a fairyland and really, really big. It also, I believe, has more drunks per square foot of space than any southern honky tonk at closing time. The only thing dark at Red Square is Lenin’s Tomb, but a line starts each morning about 8 and there are usually a thousand or more in line by the viewing of the 80-year-old corpse.

Wonder if Disney World ever thought about doing that for Ol’ Walt? It’d be an easy way to introduce kids to the “death” thing. “Hey, let’s go see Walt Disney’s corpse and then take in Small, Small World!”

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The Radisson is an international hotel, for sure. The breakfast buffet is a clear indication of how international it is. Five stations for breakfast and some items are: Sushi, herring in mustard sauce, deli mystery meat, vegetable noodles (spaghetti), small hotdogs (called Hausburgher sausages. I tasted one; it wasn’t Ballpark brand) and “tomato beans” – pork and beans, slick-looking muesli … and the list goes on.

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I helped one of the Dimitri’s at work write the acceptance letter for his son to MIT. The kid is 16 and they are deferring the full scholarship for a year for him to mature and earn money. Is that strange or is it just me? There are really people that smart?

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Went to GUM Department Store. There’s more marble in that place than in the Taj Mahal. I went with the Dimitri with the smart kid and the entire family. Dimitri said, “Watch this.” He stopped at a vacated ice cream stand and we all gathered around and followed his lead by pointing and talking. Before long there was a line of people standing in line and crowding around.

As we left, Dimitri said he has done that same thing looking at a fire extinguisher in a glass case. (Sounds like something that would work at Wal-Mart late on Friday night, which I call Mutant Night.) Dimitri's family acted as embarrassed at him as mine does to me.