Ralph Winnie Jr., Contributing Editor's Article "Endless Summer" in the Washington Post

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I was recently invited to lecture at Georgetown University on U.S.-Russia relations. As a group of
young students in their L.L. Bean and designer backpacks spoke about their upcoming trip to
Russia, I felt a rush of memories — of my own experiences in Russia as a twentyish legal exchange student from Hawaii in the summer of 1997.


I attended Moscow State University’s intensive summer law and Russian
language program. This University’s reputation of excellence goes well
beyond Russia’s border and draws hundreds of international scholars
each year to attend its language and interdisciplinary programs.
It all began at Moscow’s formidable Sheremetyevo Airport. When I haltingly
explained that I would attend Moscow State University, the rather stern
indifference of the security and customs officials changed to welcoming
smiles and pats on the shoulder. My boxes of macadamia nuts, panty
hose, chewing gum and blue jeans, (my trade goods) which I so carefully
packed, were never scrutinized and generated a wink and a nod—those
were the days.

When I arrived in Moscow during the summer of 1997, the year before the
collapse of the Russian monetary system, my expectations were still
predicated on the existence of a Marxist-Stalinist police state, which is still
the prevailing popular thinking in some American intellectual circles.
Instead, I found Russia to be a society in transition, sometimes violent,
lurching towards a form of democratic capitalism.

My first day at the university included a cafeteria breakfast of dry bread,
dated salami and a suspicious looking gruel (Okroshka). I met with my
professor, Tatiana, half expecting a reincarnation of one of the Press
sisters, perhaps the shot putter from the 1960s.

Instead, my teacher was a fair approximation of a Playboy pin up. I can
never recall dozing off in Ms. Tatiana’s class. As I would learn throughout
my three-month stay, Russians are very direct—when they like or don’t
like someone they will tell you. Tatiana demanded complete focus and
dedication, but my thoughts wandered towards exploration and possible
adventures in my new metropolis.

Already, I considered myself to be a shrewd businessman. One of my first
objectives was to take my stock of trading goods to the notorious Moscow
flea market where I expected the vendors and small traders would be
“easy pickings.” As soon as I entered the market, I was astonished by the
size and sopce of the place.

Within half an hour of frantic trading, I realized that I was a mere novice
and had traded away almost all my stock of goods for some old Russian
army belt buckles and dented samovars (imitation bronze) along with a
ceramic bust of Lenin. The woman lamented loudly in Russian that she
could not believe that she was trading this invaluable bust of Lenin for
Hawaiian chocolate and a pair of panty hose
.
When I came to class the next morning, I attempted to give my full
attention to Tatiana’s lecture, but instead I began to plot my infamous
“Train Ride,” an adventure that truly introduced me to Russian hospitality.

The evening of our trip to St. Petersburg, my compartment consisted of a
Russian minstrel singer of dubious talent who sang with great enthusiasm,
a babushka, who was eventually reduced to praying, and a middle-aged
Russian bear of a man called Leonid who had served for many years in
the Russian military. After several shots of vodka, I invited Leonid to come
to Hawaii for a visit. Beaming with delight, he produced a bottle of vintage
vodka which he passed around. Over the course of the next five hours, he
and I alternated between drinking two bottles of vodka and impromptu
Greco Roman wrestling to the fascination of the crowded club car. I had
boasted repeatedly about my wrestling prowess so Leonid proceeded to
clamp a headlock on me, reminiscent of the best of Alexander Karelin.
Towards the end of the last bottle a draw was declared, much to the
approval of the assembled passengers and my fellow colleagues. The
next eight hours remained a blank and I remember being helped off the
train in St. Petersburg. Thankfully, damage had been minimal and a few
rubles saw us on our way.

When I returned to Moscow, I fell into a new career as a translator and
business negotiator for my fellow students. Since I understood, at best,
less than half of what I was negotiating, it was probably fortunate that I left
Moscow within ninety days. My most demanding area of business was
interceding with the gornichnayas (house keeper and student monitors)
who were hanging up on all international callers who did not speak fluent
Moscow Russian, much to the anguish of my fellow students who were
trying to call home for money. My percentage was small, but steady. One
side benefit was an unforgettable relationship with a lovely Italian student
named Chiara who spoke no English and extremely bad Russian, but we
managed somehow.

I miss the camaraderie of those vodka parties, even though my back has
never been the same after several tumbles attempting Russian balalaika
dancing on the head table at the infamous Hungry Duck.
But more powerful for my young mind was a performance by the poet
Yevtushenko, who read his poem Babi Yar, as well as the beautiful but
haunted dacha home of Boris Pasternak. This is still the unchanging face
of Russia for me.

Finally, even leaving Russia turned out to be an adventure of sorts. I was
detained and almost arrested on a suspected weapons possession
charge until closer examination by a cadre of security officials and an xray
scan determined it was a cigarette lighter in the shape of an antique
firearm. Smiles and handshakes. Do svidaniya to Russia.