Looking West through the Curtain

Komrades,

I just finished my first bowl of good ol' Russian Borsh'ch, and boy am I feeling good and beety (and groggy as hell from the million hour train ride here to St. Petersburg). You know, when I emerged for the first time from the St. Petersburg Metro, and began strolling down Nevsky Prospekt, I felt something that I only recall feeling twice in my life.

The first time was when my plane touched down in London the first time I'd gone abroad. I don't recall the intensity, but it must have been great, albeit hampered by the discomfort and discombobulation of air travel. The second was waking up in Turkey and seeing mosques out the window of our slow-moving train. But the Bulgarian borek had gone to my stomach (and out in many other ways), and I was a bit too overcome to be properly moved.

But this time, O, O, O! The glory of it all went to my bones. That most intoxicating of liquors, that most heavy of narcotics, Travel has sunk its claws into me yet again. Not just any travel, mind you. Travel's a tank of gas or a bus ticket... I'm talking about that angels in the architecture, spinning in infinity type of Travel... Quiddity isn't about sex or death. It's about Travel.

That 500 meter walk down Nevsky was one of the most intense of my life. It was a combination of everything - the foreign buildings, the foreign script, the Russians strolling by, and the general naughtiness of it all (Haha, America, I'm in the former USSR. Ooooo, aren't I a bad boy?)

But, O my fingernail biting friends, fear not for me. Russia's not the scary place we were all told (at least not here). People smile here! There are parents strolling with their children! Bread is readily available, although the Russians prefer Pizza Hut these days! Neo-nazi graffiti is no more commonplace than in middle America (and much less so than in most of Europe). Even the bears here are cute and peaceful! I'm as hale and healthy (though pale and smelly) as can be, and I fully expect to return to the real world with a hundred tales of Russian hospitality, warmth, and Vodka. (Probably all in the same sentence)

I'd leave you with one more thought, if it do ya. I went to the Occupation Museum in Riga, Lativa a few days ago. It was all about the Soviet and Nazi expansion into Latvia, the horrors, the loss of national identity, and the Latvians' struggle to win back their freedom. And I wondered, O my equally inquisitive friends, what sort of museums will there be in Iraq about America in 50 years? In 100? Will Abu Ghraib be a popular tourist spot? Will they turn our military bases into open-air markets? Or will there be nothing left to rebel against? Will the cries become silence, and finally acceptance, in the manner of our Native American friends?

Forever following in the footsteps of the Tsars,

Aaron "Reed" Rotsinger

CIS... KGB!

Privet Comrades!

The Ka-tet has broken, and I've been left hiding behind a bookshelf in the back of a bar in the Baltics, bullets in my ears, waiting for my papers to come through. Oh, my friends, Romans, and countrymen, a time it was, and what a time it was! I have a photograph...

Prague was a dream, a great warbling dream. Sleepy days and restless nights. Rain and sunshine. Wine and water, water and wine. The only vocal approximation I could make of my time in the Czech Republic would be a string of fluid, ululating syllables - impossible to transpose, and too embarrassing to be heard on public radio. Decency, my dears.

Poland, where I birthdayed, drew us under its membranous, bat like wings; hid us from reality a while longer, though the wings were transparent, and shadows drew along our vision. Krakow was a languorous shoulder massage. Warsaw, a numbing shot in the arm.

Lithuania shocked us with it's brashness, and with it's Cili Pica. O Vilnius, you great comic-book villain, where are your charms? Your people? Your life? All I saw was Frank Zappa's head and a handful of dust. But O! Do you remember? When I blew that dust into the air, it glittered like the snowflakes in a shake-up Christmas globe, at least until the dream-charged dust settled back onto the tear-stained cobblestones. And you ask me how I can write about sand? You tell me I know nothing of it? Sand and dust are always at my belt - I blind myself with them. Tell me, have I never given you cause to rub your eyes?

And now, I'm sick. Lungs, head, nose, stomach. It's all there, they're just not working right. Balloon-headed, I'm bouncing about Riga, Lats in my pocket, whiskey (and Amarula! praise be to ye gods!) in my backpack, and a lot of time to kill. Should I head into the belly of the beast, the former CCCP? Or, ferry myself across the great Baltic sea into Sweden? Navigate the mass of trains and buses to Tallinn? Slowly creep back South into the Ukraine? I'm at a waystation, pardners. Lots of doors. Lots of paths. Got any suggestions?

Thomas, I'll be in Bulgaria in a bit. I'll let you know a few days in advance. Still up for the beach? Get ahold of Sidekick girl. She's going to help you sort the flat situation. Even if the one we discussed isn't kosher, see if you can't sort something out, eh? Tim, time is most definitely not on my side. There's little chance I can make it down anywhere near Greece during that window. I ran into an iron curtain. Still, anything can happen... Skopje at the end of your trip perhaps? To the rest of you, my brain's as full of words as ever, but there's a liter of snot plugging them in there, so I must bow (with a hanky poised to avoid the inevitable loss of charisma), and say goodday.

With a bullet, a bribe, and a back-up plan,

Aaron Rotsinger