Natasha-Part II

During this time Natasha and I were together every evening and night.   I was officially a resident at the Rossiya Hotel and had to be picked up there in the morning with the rest of the crew. So each morning I would depart from Natasha’s building by taking the elevator down.  To keep other residents from seeing me wait at the elevator and start to wonder who this man was, Natasha told me to either walk up a couple of flights or down a couple of flights before getting on the elevator.  Then I would walk across the street and catch a bus to the metro station.  It would still be dark and footsteps in the snow made a resounding crunch. Some days it was so cold that the bus door would not close all the way.  Everyone was supposed to drop a kopek or two into a box in the middle of the bus, but sometimes it was so crowded that the effort needed and the disruption caused was just now worth it. 

Upon arriving at the Metro station, 10 kopeks allowed me to descend a fast moving escalator, down about 70 meters and wait for the subway that allowed me to come within 2 blocks of the Rossiya Hotel.  I then had to show my room card to the semi-frozen door man to enter the hotel, take the elevator up to my floor, hand my card to the floor lady, who then gave me the key to my room.   I would shower in tepid or cold water, change clothes and meet everyone for breakfast.  The breakfast room was Spartan and dreary but had windows so we could see the sun hang low in the south.  By the end of January, the sun was visible for almost 8 hours. 

It was during this time that Natasha and I became close.  We were hampered by our language barrier, me with no Russian at all except one to three word essentials and Natasha’s limited English.  We bought English­-Russian, Russian-English dictionaries which helped some, but when it came to expressing complex thoughts or feelings, it became very difficult. Still we learned about our families.  She was divorced with a daughter who lived with her ex-husband.  Natasha saw her daughter often and she seemed to be a good terms with him.

To keep my foreign status less obvious we went to the Beriozka where I bought a red fox hat that suited my fantasy and with the long winter coat I had purchased in Austria, I looked like a “handsome Russian man,” according to Natasha.  We went to a variety of great restaurants she knew about and I learned how she cleverly bribed the doorman if we were denied entrance always with a smile as she looked straight at the person and shook hands as five Rubles was passed.

In Moscow, things really were not expensive.  It was the lack of goods and services that made life difficult.  I learned that in Russia, it was necessary to have a network of friends who could get things for you.  Hard currency could get you many things unavailable otherwise and within the black market one could get 3 or 4 Rubles for a dollar which was much better than the official exchange rate of which took $1.40 to get one Ruble. This was one of the things Natasha was able to do for me. I would give her $1 00 and she would give me at least 300 Rubles sometimes more. Suddenly I became a big spender when it came to dining out.  Having champagne and caviar at dinner was routine.

I never asked her what happened to the dollars as I didn’t want to know.  Once when I returned to the states, she asked me to buy her a boom box which I did and brought back to her. She paid me for it and it disappeared. During this time ABBA, the Swedish rockers were popular and they were heard often here and there.  But my favorite, Pink Floyd was an entirely new sound and I gave her some of my tapes of them along with a few others.

Once we were having lunch in the Rossiya Hotel and the waiter asked Natasha something and she translated.  “He asked if you would like to buy ½ a kilo of caviar for $25 U.S. dollars.”  I said yes of course and after paying for lunch, we met in the hall outside the restaurant and received a pound of caviar wrapped in a newspaper. I ate caviar every day until I could not eat anymore.

One thing hard currency couldn’t buy was a ticket to the Bolshoi. But Natasha got tickets through her friends.  The ticket price was very modest, but getting access to one took some maneuvering. 

I will never forget going to the Bolshoi with Natasha.  It was awesome enough just to be able to go inside and see the crimson, gold trimmed seats and the special second story balcony layout front and center that was built for the tsars.  But to watch Swan Lake performed in the Bolshoi with this beautiful Russian woman at my side, definitely will always be one of the highlights of my life.  At the end of the performance every single person rose to their feet in applause yelling “bravo” and those close to the stage throwing flowers.  Several curtain calls later, I was left speechless.  Did I mention that I will never, ever forget this night?  Chills run up my spine while I am writing this.  We also attended a performance of the Nutcracker Suite and that pretty special also.

 

The Russians were on to the fact that I had a girlfriend.  The time I returned with the boom box, the driver asked me, “how is Natasha?”  I am sure the floor lady in the Rossiya Hotel reported the fact that I never slept in my room, but to know specifically who I spent my time with, I can only chalk up to being spied upon.  I didn’t suspect Natasha as being involved even though I knew I could not be totally, 100% sure at that point. Anyway I knew they knew so I didn’t need to be coy about it.

She told me she had a plan before she met me on how to get out of Russia.  A Japanese man wanted to marry her and her plan was to marry him, go to Japan, divorce him and go to Paris to live.  She liked to talk about what she knew about Russia before the revolution and grandeur of life around the Tsar.  She considered the communists a bunch of thugs.  In that regard she certainly had a point.

She took the train down to Voronezh twice to visit me, which was all right, but staying with me we knew would be a problem.  So I would do in and stand in front of the lady at the desk blocking her view, while Natasha crept in behind and got in the elevator.  She then never went out of the building while I was at work. We got caught once though coming out of the elevator which I am sure got reported.

In Russia, being able to buy a round trip train ticket was not possible, so I went with her to the train station while she tried to buy a first class train ticket.  She was told there were no more spaces, which to her meant to bribe the ticket seller.  When that didn’t work, she came to me and said “fucking communists”.  Apparently the bribe was turned down based on ideology. 

I began to have thoughts of marriage even though it would be extremely difficult to accomplish, although not impossible.  One American I knew married one of our interpreters,  

In the end, I was asked to leave Russia due to Natasha.  Apparently we were star crossed lovers without realizing it.   She met me at Sheremetyevo Airport before my flight home and when I saw her I had to choke back tears.  She was all smiles and gave me three tins of caviar.  I was able to control my emotions then and smiled back.  I told her I loved her and she replied back with, “I love you, Davie”.

She called me a month later when I was home in Lancaster, urging me to come to Moscow, but I had to tell her it would be impossible for me.  I don’t know how she managed to accomplish this and before we were finished, we were cut off.  That was the last time I heard from her.  I often wonder if she married the Japanese man and somehow made it to Paris.

Natasha, I hope you are safe and happy and thank you for being in my life.

 

 

 

Natasha 1981-82-Part I

It all began when I stepped out of the Chaika limousine in front of the National Hotel, just steps away from Red Square.  It was November, 1981 about 6 PM, dark and cold. Two attractive women were walking by and on the spur of the moment, I tipped my western cowboy hat to them, and one of the women smiled in amusement, flashing flirtatious eyes, I was quick to note.

Once again I was with three other RCA men.

After getting settled in our hotel and having dinner together, the other three men retired to their rooms seeking jet lag relief.  I wanted to stay awake as long as possible until it was local bedtime. This was my second trip to Moscow and we stayed the first time at the Intourist Hotel just around the corner from the National Hotel.  I knew there was a ballroom there where a live combo played making dancing available to vodka and champagne drinking patrons.

So I took the short walk around the corner leaving my winter coat behind. I climbed the stairs to the second floor and entered the ballroom.  Scanning the room, to my delight, I spied the woman who rewarded my hat tip with a smile and she was sitting at a table with a couple empty seats. I approach her table with a reasonable amount of confidence and asked her to dance.  Fortunately she spoke a bit of English.  After the dance I escorted her back to the table and sat down.  She spoke to me mostly with her eyes and I could tell she was interested.  I informed her that my visit to Moscow was short but I was due to come back to Moscow soon.  She gave me her phone number and I promised I would call her upon my return. Her name was Natasha or Natalie, or Natalya all of which are appropriate to use depending on the context. 

I am sure we talked more but we did dance at least a couple of more times before I begged off and I needed to find my bed and get some sleep ready for tomorrow’s meeting.

As it turned out, plans were made for me to arrive before the end of the year due to some tax advantages that were available should I be a resident for an entire year. I left for my permanent assignment on December 29^th from Lancaster, PA, arrived in Frankfort, at 7:30 AM on the 30^th, and caught my plane to Moscow, arriving at 6:15 PM.  After waiting 45 minutes for my luggage to arrive, I cleared customs and was met by a driver who took me to the largest hotel in the world at the time, the Rossiya Hotel, just off Red Square where my greeting party helped check me into one of the 3200 rooms.

 

 

The next morning I called Natasha and we arranged to meet in at 3 PM in front of the Intourist Hotel.  She walked up wearing a beautiful fur hat and a coat whose trim matched her hat and mid-calf boots, a picture of elegance. After we met we tried to find a restaurant to sit and chat but they were all closed because it was New Year’s Eve day.  We trekked around the streets adjoining Red Square, for about 40 minutes before finally finding a small buffet.  We were getting along just fine and we wanted to be together that evening.  Natasha cancelled her plans, called a friend and he or she arranged to cram a small table at the edge of the ballroom at the Intourist where we celebrated the New Year.  By the time midnight came around, most people were loosened up with champagne and vodka and the place was rocking and true to form, the music turned to Russian gypsy music and good feelings were expressed for all comrades celebrating.

 

We caught a cab to Natasha’s building, took the elevator up and entered her flat. Her place consisted of one room with a small Pullman kitchen and bathroom.  Off in one corner was her single sized bed and we soon were sharing the intimacy of our bodies.  We woke about 11 AM and we took a short bus ride to a park next to the Metro station.  The beautiful park was called the Exhibition of Economic Achievement with a large futuristic obelisk as its center piece.  We had lunch there and later we went to a “camping hotel” where I met her musician cousin who was part of a rock band. 

 

I was to leave Moscow on the night of the 4^th taking an overnight train ride to Voronezh.   During the interval Natasha and I were together most the time enjoying each other in every way possible.  The night of the 2^nd she took me by way of the Metro, to the newest hotel and hot spot in Moscow, called the Mezdurodskaya.  It was quite modern, designed and built by a Swedish architect, with escalators, a high ceiling atrium, and indoor glass elevators. Even by today’s standards it would be an excellent place to stay.   We were entertained with a gypsy floor show and according to my notes, but I have no memory of it, probably because my mind was filled with what was happening to me.  And on the 3^rd, the evening was spent at the Suyez with another dramatic floor show followed with dancing.

On Monday January 4^th, Natasha got off work to meet me at 2 for lunch at the Baku restaurant on Gorky Street.  We went back to her flat and decided we would try to be together whenever possible.  We were two lovers, well matched intellectually and physically and full of adventure. Natasha was intoxicating, beautiful and oh so classy. The fact that the government would frown with our budding relationship, only made it more exciting.

I left for Voronezh that evening. 

During long overnight train ride, my mind was filled with whirlwind of feelings and thoughts about my experiences during the last few days. Was Natasha a KGB agent who job was to compromise foreigners?  Was her only intent to trap a foreign man into marrying her and providing a path to the West?  How much could I trust her?  And do I really want to pursue this exciting creature?  I had time to be wary.  Trust had to be earned.

How I feel when I am someone’s presence has always been a guideline to me.  But now I was separated from her and faced with new challenges in Voronezh and I needed to deal with them first and foremost.      

I was able to phone her and talk briefly wondering who might be listening in on our conversations. As it turned out the plant in Voronezh was mostly an assembly plant and some of the critical parts were to be made in Vilnius, Lithuania and in Moscow.  So toward the end of January I returned to Moscow to shepherd a technical team from RCA men to get the manufacturing process underway.  I was there for two weeks.

 



 



 

 

Soviet Union1981-82 -Part II

Alcohol

There are only two alcoholic drinks worth drinking in Russia, champagne and vodka.  By the way did you know that vodka translates as “little water”?  Champagne was available with 5 different sugar contents.  I liked the one in the middle and missed having it available when I came back to the states where Brut is the most popular.  Russians delight in popping champagne corks and if you look at any low hanging ceilings in restaurants to can see the damage corks have affected over the years.  Champagne is usually the drink of choice for the women leaving vodka to men to test their manhood.

A liter of vodka cost between 7 and 10 Rubles making it affordable but not cheap.  A liter bottle had no screw top or cork, just an aluminum tab, so when a bottle was opened, it pretty much had to be completely consumed.  There was no way to cap it again without danger of spillage.  A number of drunks could always be found on the ground, passed out even in the dead of winter or see men weaving and reeling down the street needing to prop themselves up every few yards.  I was not used to seeing drunks so completely out of it.

I had read that Russians men don’t really trust another man, unless they can drink vodka with them shot for shot.  Indeed, I had more than one chance to prove they could trust me and I discovered a previous unknown talent I had; being able to outdrink most Russians.  It was considered good manners to always propose a toast and while my toasts were never inspiring or particularly eloquent, I learned how to flatter my drinking company or relate my yearning that we all be comrades in search of truth and understanding.

At work I was always presented with papers to sign which were mostly designed to protect the Russians rear ends.  I suppose in a system where good work goes unrewarded and mistakes are punished, this was to be expected.  The people I dealt with on a daily basis were good communists in the sense that they were able to talk the ideology and were promoted because of it, but they were not the brightest bulb.  Once in a while, a technical person would be brought into a meeting and I found them to be very competent.

The average Russians knowledge about what was going on in the outside world was very limited which I expected but they were also ignorant about their own government actions and their not too distant history including anything about Stalin.  Government officials lived in style while the average citizen had to scurry and scrounge or just learn to live without.

I found I sympathized with them and identified with their desire for a better life.  Basically, I saw Soviet citizens as good people except for their willingness to spy on their fellow citizen.  When I went to a club where there was a large dance floor, as soon as the music started to play they were up and dancing, none of the hanging back at first.  And invariably towards midnight the music became more gypsy in feel, the Russian men would get out on the floor and dance by themselves, I would join in also letting my body respond to the music.

Toilet Paper

One of the things I wish had known about before my first arrival was the quality of toilet paper available or lack thereof.  The surface of some was similar to wax paper, others were very rough and sometimes full of wood chips.  I actually started a collection.  I am not exactly why it did so; perhaps it was to astound folks back home.  I am sure I showed it once or twice, but it’s not really a topic that comes up frequently in polite company.

One can never be assured that a toilet has any toilet paper at all, so everyone travels around with their pockets or purses stuffed with some sort of tissue just in case.  A supply of which surely qualifies as emergency rations.

As I have travelled to more places in the world by now, I have come to an epiphany that I want to share with the world. Here it is, “the degree of civilization of a country is directly proportional to the quality of its toilet paper.  You can call Herd’s law if you wish.

The Good Things

Ice cream tasted just like back home. I liked their black bread especially when butter and caviar were added.  In Moscow, the subway system is a thing of marvel, clean, cheap and efficient.  One day I spent the entire day riding the Metro, getting off each station and enjoying each station’s unique style and beauty.

And speaking of art, the museums, ballet theaters, and novels are things deeply ingrained in the Russian psyche.  Artists can be seen on the street selling their wares and much of it quite good.  The sweep and scope of Moscow, especially all of Red Square took my breathe away.  Lenin’s tomb, St Basil’s church, the Kremlin walls, and the spot-lighted hammer and cycle Red Flag waving within a Kremlin spire were all there.  The Gum department store rests to the side with the Rossiya Hotel looming in the near background. The flag is constantly waving with support of a small fan.  This is something America should consider for the Capitol Building and White House.  Who wants to see a limp flag?

The streets are very wide so traffic moves well and underground tunnels are provided for pedestrians to cross the street.  The streets and tunnels were always kept clean by a bevy of old women with their stiff bristled brooms and the tunnels were free of graffiti.

I owe this to a sort of a collective thought process by the citizens. They feel it is their duty to come up to you and tell you that it is cold enough to be wearing a hat should you be hatless.  Throwing something on the sidewalk or street might result in you being chastised and applying graffiti would surely get you arrested, something to really, really avoid as you might disappear forever.

I always felt safe on the streets late at night.  Once I rode in an unofficial taxi driven by a man who had 3 sons.  He was an Engineer, but was out offering rides to supplement his income.  We compared our lives and our daily living, possible because he spoke good English if somewhat limited. When I reminiscence, about Russia I always remember this moment and it is strangely one of my warmest moments.

On the outside of the wide street a lane is reserved for government cars the Chaika and the Zil.  We were always driven around in a Chaika and the Zil was for persons high up in the government.  Should an ordinary citizen wander is this lane of privilege and slow down one of these cars, they would be blasted with a loud horn and cursed at.  Okay, I know this is not really a good thing, except if you are riding in a Chaika on the way to Sheremetyevo.

All in all, I could not help but to like almost all the Russians I met, some of whom I shared some personal moments.  My experiences there colored by the times which have changed.  I fear not all the changes have been for the better. The culture of corruption has grown and the street may not be as safe but I am sure the spirit of the Russian people remains strong.

 

Soviet Union 1981-82 Part I

The first time I went to Moscow it was July 1981 when the sun shown until after midnight and total darkness finally fell about 1:30 AM and after a brief scurry around the top of the world, it re-emerged, producing its first ray of light again at 4:30.  This fact was one of many that signaled I was in for a view of the world quite a stretch from my small town upbringing in Council Bluffs, Iowa.

My very first impression was at Sheremetyevo International airport during my first trip to Moscow in 1981.  Four of us from RCA arrived via Swiss Air through Zurich. My boss and two others managers were there to meet with our Soviet counterparts to exchange pleasantries and discuss the implementation of the contract RCA signed to allow NBC (part of RCA back then) to televise the 1980 Olympics. If you recall, President Carter was incensed that the Soviets went into Afghanistan to set up a secular puppet government and the United States boycotting the whole affair.  The Soviets wanted RCA to supply them with machinery and technology to produce color picture tubes and our job was to iron out the details of how all the pieces should fall into place. For the past year, we had been shipping equipment to the three separate sites that were to produce the components and tubes.

After stepping out of the plane, we got on a bus that dumped us off at the almost disserted terminal and walked about half a mile to passport control with our footsteps producing echoes bouncing off the high ceiling.  The youngish officer proceeded to look at my passport, then me, then the passport, and then me several times, long enough for me to be able to pick up his rhythm.  After about 5 minutes he finally reluctantly stamped my passport, then looked away with distain when he returned it to me.  “Okay, I get it”, I thought, “out countries are still cold war enemies”.

Our luggage took about an hour after that to arrive.  I don’t know it the passport guys called the baggage department and warned them to that Americans had arrived so let them sweat. But I dismissed this thought as being too paranoid. Even so I was to learn that being paranoid in the Soviet Union served a purpose.  I was to go through this procedure 4 more times in the future and the only variation I experienced was a record setting 45 minute wait.

Finally a sliding door rose and our luggage slid down.  Custom Control was in the same room so our bags were in view every second as we passed them through a Phillips X-ray machine, then onto long tables. Every single item in our luggage was looked at and I was happy that all my underwear was still clean and that I had left my latest copy of Playboy home.  Still, I made the mistake of picking up a copy of Time Magazine at the Swiss Airline club room in Zurich and it was confiscated due to the fact it was an issue about the Soviet Union and its problems.

Another time when I flew in, I was in the process of reading the murder mystery “Gorky Park” and although there was nothing derogatory said about Moscow except to describe it, well okay maybe that was enough, they took it gave me a receipt and said I could have it when I left.  When I left I showed my receipt and the man went off and after 30 minutes he came back told me it was no longer there.  So I pulled out a business card I had gotten from the U.S. Embassy and showed it to him and he told me to wait and off he went again.  Two minutes later he handled me my book.

Then there was the time I came in with some food including a box of raison bran flakes and the attractive lady customs officer dressed smartly in full uniform opened the box, lifted the cellophane package out and felt the cereal.  I wanted to ask her if she thought I had a full cup of raisons included as Kellogg promised in their advertising, but I decided it was not the time to make smart ass remarks for I feared some of my body cavities would be probed. She proceeded to question the contents of my tooth paste also.   But I was not about to show any signs that I was put out by her ongoing. When I finally was allowed to zip things up and repack I gave her my best smile and thanked her.  I made a comment to the driver who always picked me up what was going on as he was able to witness the whole thing.  He replied that I choose a woman and she wanted to know everything she could about a foreign man.  I had chosen a woman because I thought she would be more lenient, but the driver was right.  A man would not be comfortable being that invasive with another man.

My first breakfast in Moscow was at the Intourist Hotel.  Four of us found the breakfast area and paid the cashier 1.5 rubles and she gave us a thin paper receipt.  Sitting six feet away was another woman who job was to collect the receipts.  I almost laughed out loud, as in “you can’t be serious”, but the countenance of the woman was so severe, I decided to withhold any reason to be seen as an ugly American.  The breakfast options were typically European; cold cuts, cheeses, and anything that could be canned like pickles and fish.  No juice or hot food was available with the exception of hot water held in a large Samovar for tea.  I had never seen a Samovar before so I approached it cautiously giving it much respect. It was an old Samovar probably pre-revolutionary, and I wonder what history it could tell me.  I wish I had been smart enough to try to buy one similar to it because it was quite elegant.

It didn’t take me long to learn what a failed system Soviet Communism was. Gross inefficiencies, indifference to any customer, paranoia to foreign ideas, and spying on citizens were all immediately evident.

Beriozkas

Rubles were Soviet currency and could be secured in the Soviet Union and spent there.  However, there was a vast black market at work where hard currency such as US dollars, British pounds, French francs, could be used to buy many items not available in any stores. By any international standards, the Soviet Union was a poor country and the government did all they could to obtain hard currency so they could use it to trade internationally.  The Beriozkas were special hard currency stores where foreigners could buy all kinds of things not available to the ordinary Russian citizen.  I bought two red fox fur hats for about $90 each which I still have.  I remember striking up a conversation with a dark skinned man once in a Beriozka while we were scanning selections of some red meats.  He asked me where I was from and I said “America” whereupon he announced he was from Libya and that our two countries were enemies. My impression was that he had to inform me because I might now there was a country called Libya let alone that we were not getting along.  I remember saying, “that is true for now but maybe the future will be different”.  I left thinking I had out maneuvered him by appearing wise beyond my years.

Russia citizens were not allowed in the Beriozkas so I received a few offers from Russians to buy something for them once inside the forbidden enterprise. I never did for a stranger though for fear I might get in trouble.

 I also had other young men come up to me at a restaurant or club and offer to buy the jeans I was wearing off me or my watch.  This also I avoided, not only because I would be embarrassed walking out of the toilet without pants, but because they were strangers and one of the things my girlfriend Natasha had pounded into my head was never to trust strangers. More about Natasha later.

Other goods

Purchasing goods in a retail store was always a hassle and another study of inefficiency.  First you have to wait in line, tell the clerk what you wanted (I usually had to point), then she gave you a piece of paper with the item and price written on it, then you went to the cashier line and paid and in return got your receipt stamped, then you went back to stand in line again to pick up your item.  These were not single file lines that Americans were familiar with, but more of a mob pushing and shoving within undefined social limits, where one kept ones elbows out and moved into a space as it developed, sometimes turning sideways to occupy it.  Body contact was expected.  It reminded me a basketball game where a rebound is up for grabs.

This of course was mild compared to riding the metro in the morning.  If the door opened and there appeared to be no room at all to step aboard, some comrade two people behind me would push until he was safely in.  The fact that I was somehow inside with all my limbs intact, I took as serendipity.

The clerks that worked in a store were anything but salespeople.  They put on their most dour and bored faces to make sure you understood that they didn’t want to acknowledge you if at all possible and they hated being there.

Once I made a bet that I could make one of them smile and the bet was accepted. I went up to this attractive enough young woman and grinned a broadly as I could.  Her eyes were downcast but once she sensed I had invaded her space she looked up and saw a tall handsome man with a maniacal grin on his face, and she smiled for at least a second but then immediately realizing she had slipped out of character returned to her role and refused to look at me again.  I admit I felt pretty cocky then because, dear readers, this was truly an accomplishment.

Corruption and inefficiency were ways of life from the black market to every day survival.  If word got out that a load of oranges were brought in from Georgia, people would sneak away from work and stand in long lines to get some.  Fresh fruit or vegetables other than root vegetables were difficult to acquire and one had to be aware that constipation was a real threat.  Russians complained that their shoes lasted only six months or less.  There were no replacement wind shield wipers available so car owners would remove theirs when they left their car so they would not be stolen, then reattach them.  Women were constantly on the prowl for hair dyes, make up, panty hose, and anything the least bit stylish.  To this day the red dye some women used to become a redhead stands out as the most dreadful color I have ever on top of a woman’s head.  If you saw this hair color in American you would find it on some young teen age girl or boy who dyed their hair choosing between blue, red, or green.. 

It is impossible to find a good cup of coffee anywhere as tea is the morning stimulant of choice.

Our Latest Trip to Indonesia

Our latest trip to Indonesia began with the required overnight stay in Singapore.  To try something new, we booked a night at the Marina Bay Sands hotel which has one of the world’s most distinctive profiles.  It looks like joined towers that support a big boat on top.  I think it looks gauche and architecturally a disaster. 

However, it has an infinity pool at the top and this was the reason we wanted to stay there.  We check in at 1 AM and are given an upgrade to a huge two room suite with awesome views of the city’s buildings, lights, and water surrounding this city nation.  We had 3 flat-screen TV’s, one for the bath room near the bath tub, a pool table and several over-stuffed chairs and couches and a wall of glass for the view.



 In general, I think Singapore is a bit sterile and this hotel seems to match this soul less aspect.  Because the hotel consists of three towers, the main lobby extends lengthwise to the third tower with the ceiling extending upwards, a good 10 floors with various works of arts hanging down.  Two breakfast areas are also there and we picked one after checking both out.  A wide variety of breakfast food was available and we mixed both western and Asian choices.

 



After breakfast we went to the boat on top and took some photos of the infinity pool and city views showing a bit of early morning sea mist that had yet to be burned away.  It was impressive.

  We left at noon for the Changi airport and caught an afternoon flight to Jakarta and then transferred to a flight to Denpasar, Bali arriving at the domestic terminal and avoiding the need to visit passport control that was accomplished in Jakarta. 

Again, seeking something new, we splurged and booked at the St. Regis.  I say we, but this is really Judith’s doing and of course I am happy to go along.  We are met at the airport by a driver who shepherds us to a van travelling to the Nusa Dua area and 30 minutes later we are checking in.

The St. Regis is 5 stars all the way and for the next 4 days we enjoy our room, the beach, the Mai Tais, and the food.



We travel twice to our favorite massage place where we are picked up and returned to the hotel.  And no trip to Nusa Dua is complete for us with going to Jimbaran where the sunset beach there is filled with sea food restaurants.  We had a wonderful seafood meal there and watched the sun disappear amid all the people activity.  This is always a treat for us. The beach is close to the airport and as the darkness descends, the airplanes are landing every 5 minutes.

 

Bali seems to be gaining more and more tourists although few Americans. Many more Japanese, Chinese, Russians, and Aussies can be seen and restaurants are printing menus with these languages added.

Upon checking out we are driven by the hotel to the airport and a hotel employee meets us, takes our bags and guides us to Garuda Airline check in.  As I say, the St. Regis is 5 stars all the way. Of interest is to see the airport at Denpasar is greatly expanding with construction of a new terminal, parking garage, and new roads in and out which are greatly needed.  

After a two hour flight back to Jakarta, we go immediately after landing to the Silver Bird taxi place to avoid the long wait in line.  The Blue Bird taxis are never a bad option as they are metered and both the Silver and Blue Birds are owned by the same company. But the Silver Bird usually provides a van with much more leg room  The typical time to our hotel,  the Grand Hyatt, is about 45 minutes but as with most large Asian cities, the traffic can be beyond belief at times. 

Motorcycles take up about one half of the vehicles and they dart in and out of traffic lanes.  The first few times I was subjected to this kind of traffic, I was constantly watching the traffic as if I was driving and knew that constant vigilance is required and I was tired after an hour or so.  But now, I just relax and rely on the driver to safely bring us to our destination. 

The Grand Hyatt is a hotel we stay at most of the time in Jakarta.  It is right in the heart of the city overlooking the Selamat Datang (which means welcome) traffic circle and fountain.  The hotel is connected with a huge shopping mall and across the street is another even larger mall that one can easily get lost in. 

But the main feature we like is the spa and open air swimming pool area.  Complete with palm trees and small waterfalls and a serpentine swimming area, one may think this area could easily be moved to a beach but its vista is a circle of high buildings including the hotel itself.  When Judith is off working somewhere, this is where I hang out, soaking up the sun, cooling off with a dip or two and at noon time sundering over to the restaurant of a light lunch and a drink.  I usually book a massage every other day coupled with some time spent in the exercise room.  

The massages are not all that expensive and I have always enjoyed this form of being pampered.

Another feature is the club room which we always book to have access to.  Due to the time difference, we watched the third U.S. presidential debate where having breakfast.  The cocktail hour starts about 5 o’clock and there are free drinks, wine, and snacks to enjoy.  A copy of the Jakarta Post and the Herald Tribune are available and provide up to date news in the this area of the world, which always different than reading the Chicago Tribune or catching the news on TV.  This alone provides me with a more balanced view of the world.

In a country that is heavily Muslim, I have been surprised that very few of the women wear the head scarf, especially the younger women. This is less true outside of Jakarta where women in burkas can be seen on occasion.  It is rarely seen in Bali of course because Bali is Hindu.  Urban living always seems to provide more diversity and acceptance of new things.  I am glad to see this because I like texture.  It is hard to think of a place that has more texture than Chicago and somehow I feel more alive in an atmosphere that provides it. My first trip to Jakarta did not leave me with a good impression, but I have come to enjoy it very much.  Great food and friendly people always have that effect on me.  

My Religious Journey-Part II

With our new born son, 3 months old, my wife and I loaded all our possessions into a small U-Haul trailer attached to our 1950 Mercury, and headed east to Dayton, Ohio immediately after the graduation ceremony where I was given my B.S.diploma in Ceramic Engineering.  The ceremony ended early afternoon, so I had previously called ahead to ask my father if we could stop along the way for an overnight in Peoria, Illinois.

My father’s new family by this time included one son from his new wife’s previous marriage, their toddler son, and twin infant girls.  So the nine of us occupied a small apartment for a night and after a short visit and breakfast off we went in time to arrive in Dayton before dark. We travelled around Indianapolis in order to avoid the Indianapolis 500 traffic and found a cheap motel before dark near the Frigidaire plant where I would soon be employed.

Our primary objective was to secure an apartment as soon as possible which we found in Kettering, a middle class suburb just south of Dayton. For the next two years we lived in Dayton Victory Apartments on the second floor.  We had a garage and 4 rooms with the rent at $95/mo. 

Being conditioned that Sunday morning was the time a family spent at church, I looked around for a church in the vicinity.  As luck would have it, there was a Unitarian Fellowship very close by and I remembered the article I had read on the English department’s bulletin board about Unitarianism.  So I went alone to check it out.

I soon learned that the Unitarian Fellowship was called a fellowship because there was no pastor who presided every Sunday and each Sunday service was organized by a committee of members who planned each service.  This feature alone gave much texture and variety which I came to enjoy.  The congregation was normally about 40-50 people and within such a small community, I stood out as a new comer and was warmly greeted at the social gathering which followed the main events, or service, if you will.  I remember being impressed immediately with the quality of the people there.  They were stimulating, attractive, and professional people, something I aspired to be.  

Unitarians are not beholden to any religious dogma, creed or tenet and everyone is free to decide for themselves what they establish as their religious beliefs.  And, as I found out, no one I ever talked to there, believed Jesus was part of a trinity, which is implied in the word Unitarian.  So most people I talked to labeled themselves as deists, agnostics, or atheists.  Jesus was treated as an historical figure that had some good things to say about how to conduct oneself.  The Old Testament was viewed as more of a history book of folk lore and attempts to explain the world and provide some laws and morality to a tribe of ancient people, most of which most certainly were not anything to be followed in today’s world. 

All this at first was quite a cultural shock to me.  I gradually let go of my childhood indoctrination to try to look at things objectively and not rely on a faith based thought process.  I threw off my Christian beliefs without much trouble.  I remember at one point however, that I knew what I no longer believed, but I could not define what I did believe.  I felt I was in a void and had some apprehension about my state of mind. 

What I learned from my state of mind then was to learn to be comfortable not knowing.  No matter how much anxiety of not knowing is caused, it is the human condition.  No one has proof there is a god or there isn’t, it’s unknown, just as it is unknown how or why life started.  Maybe, even, there is no why.

My life with the Unitarians went very well.  I became part of the community and participated in some programs.  One Sunday, the governor of Ohio, Michael DeSalle came to speak about his opposition to the death penalty. We frequently had a rabbi from the liberal Jewish wing come up from Cincinnati to speak to us.  His background was Judaism and most Unitarians had a Christian background, and yet we seemed to agree on most things spiritual.  We experimented with couple of Quaker services where we sat in silence, until someone felt the urge to say something.  Having never attended an actual Quaker service, I am not sure how close we became being more spiritual but I suspect Unitarians talked a lot more.  We had actors, professors, dancers, and occasional community leaders speak on Sunday.  

There were also about 12 of us about the same age that formed a friendship clique and held parties lasting into the wee hours followed by an afternoon pool party, weather permitting, to watch our kids, sun ourselves and to recover our bodies from any alcohol abuse experienced the night before.

All this stimulation and friendships came to an end when I became bored with my job and without any advancement in sight; I took a new job in a small conservative, slightly backward town in Indiana to work for the Picture Tube Division of RCA.  Gone was Unitarianism. The closest Unitarian church was about 45 miles away in Muncie, IN.

 

After a few years, my children came to me one day and express an interest in knowing more about religion. Our town had a huge community Easter Ceremony every year and most of their friends some kind of Christian church.  So I drove them to Muncie every Sunday for 2-3 months where they attended Sunday school, while I attended services in the main auditorium (to describe it as the sanctuary would not be accurate because there was nothing sacred going on).  We would talk about what they learned on the way home.  They seemed to gain some perspective they were seeking and their interest waned and we stopped going.

Since then, the only time I have been in a church was to attend a marriage or funeral service.  And even though I live reasonable close to a Unitarian Church, I have no interest in giving up my Sunday mornings, though I did attend the one in Oak Park, but only because it was built by Frank Lloyd Wright and I was curious to see inside.

My religious evolution did not stop however.  I proudly answer to being an atheist in spite of the social stigma that still exists.  No one ever asks me which is fine.  But I will speak up when someone tries to impose their beliefs on me.  Usually they falsely assume that I am one of them and therefore it’s okay.  I remain silent when in a group and someone calls for a prayer.  I might stand but I would never bow my head, instead I look around at the people who do. I learned to say the Pledge of Allegiance to the flag without the words, “under god” so I skip that part. I hate “God Bless America” because it basically is a prayer and promotes the idea that we Americans have God on our side.

What I am certain about is that the monotheistic personified god described in various holy books is the work of man trying to explain a world thought to be flat, where causes of disease were unknown, and the invention of a wheel barrel would have been astounding. I look at some of the passages in the Bible and Koran as outright immoral and note that most religious leaders are wont to mention them, preferring to remind us about the noble tales of conduct instead.

If we are completely honest intellectually, all of us are agnostics with no proof either way about the god question.     

I don’t see faith as a virtue and observe that religion seems to poison everything.  People use their religious beliefs to interfere with our sex lives, deny civil rights for everyone, threaten and sometimes kill those that disagree with a particular brand of religion, and even punishing free speech. 

I call myself a non-theist now, as were many of our founding fathers, but also answer to atheism without a care what others may think.  Faith is not a primer for being able to live a moral life; in fact it can be a hindrance.

Faith is an underlying belief that the process that produced this world and human life is best unveiled not by the scientific method but by the musings of iron age herdsmen or science fiction writers, or con artists whose theories are best judged by examining only assertions that cannot be falsified.

My loss of faith brought about discovering of myself.  There is peace in understanding that I only have one life, here and now, and I am responsible.

   

     

My Religious Upbringing

We became Presbyterians because the Grace Presbyterian church was only one block away from our house on 122 Grace Street.  My mother attended the Broadway Methodist church as a child which was only three blocks further away but she became disappointed in the pastor or the Sunday school experience for her children, I am not sure.  Later on, we changed to the Methodist church for a couple of years after we moved away from Grace Street.  Then we returned again to the Presbyterians.  I am under the opinion, that we changed depending on the pastor and whether my mother liked him or not.   

I remember one incidence during the first Presbyterian experience.  My sister, Jane, four years younger than me came home after Sunday school in tears, with a piece of paper which showed two hearts, one white and one black.  The white heart was the heart of Jesus and the black heart was hers.  My sister was in tears, both my parents were upset and even at my young age, I knew this was way out of line.  This incident has stayed with me, representing the evil done to the development of children in the name of religious indoctrination.

Still, this incident, while not forgotten, was ignored in terms of my being Christianized.  I attended church quite often with my mother getting absorbed into the rituals that helped people feel togetherness within the security of blue eyed Jesus watching us from the huge stain glass window that dominated the sanctuary.

 After my parents were divorced, mother embraced the social aspects of the church more and dragged my sister and me along with her.  I went to Sunday school for a while with 3 of my buddies and we tormented the poor man trying to instruct us about how Jesus would take care of us if we were good Christians and prayed and worshiped as we should.  When we tired of that we stopped going to Sunday school and instead when to a restaurant a block away and ordered soft drinks with our money given to us for the offering.  When Sunday school time was up I would leave and join my mother for service.  As far as I know, she never knew about my “sinful” conduct. 

Later on, the 4 of us when to church youth retreat for a week.  I am not sure how all four of our parents managed to make this happen.  This included a lot of group activities and praying.  What I hated the most was the 15 minutes after breakfast where we supposed to go off by ourselves and communicate with god, a connection I failed to make.  I could never get past the feeling that I was trying to fool myself into believing god and I were making a connection.  And I felt inadequate for failing to do so.  So eventually, the four of us would find each other and shoot the breeze until time was up.  It felt so much better than trying to manufacture a sacred cone filled with pure thoughts and deeds.  Not that I ever expected god to talk to me because that would have caused a new level on concern about my sanity.

Looking back at these moments, I think I realized even then, that I was talking to myself and wishing for things that defied the laws of physics or things that I had not earned.  My Midwestern upbringing honored hard work as the pathway to success and I accepted the adage that one can pray all you want but if you want something, get off your knees and make it happen. 

The only thing I disliked about church camp was religion.  I had a good time playing sports, joining in the group activities, and oh yes, there were girls there.  

The next time I remember religion in my life was during high school football.  One member of our team was quite religious and he gave a prayer as we gathered in a huddle before the game started.  I always wondered why this was necessary, but as a team member I kept quiet because did seem to bring us together as a unit, which is paramount for a team.  We had a good team so we won most of our games, but somehow we got ignored when we lost.  Maybe the other team had a better connection with the man in the sky.

In college I would occasionally attend church, but I really never felt I gained anything out of it and did nothing to ease the stresses of trying to attend to my grades, work for money, and participate in the track team. 

Outside the English Dept. was a bulletin board and I also stopped to see the New Yorker cartoons posted there along with other articles of interest.  I remember reading an article on the Unitarianism.  What I remember was that Unitarians had no creed and people were free to make their own decisions.  There were many things I was never exposed to due to where I grew up and this was certainly an eye opener. 

My last encounter with traditional religion was when I prayed out of desperation during a 2 ½ day period when my wife was labor with our first child.  This was after a full night and day in the waiting room listening to women announce their labor pains with loud and long screams.  I remember praying to keep my wife safe and have our child alive and normal.  I wanted to do something to help and this seemed to be the only option available.  After living a few years now, I have come to realize this is probably the main reason people pray, they are faced with something beyond their control and praying allows them to do something they hope with help. 

 

Times Past and Present

I got a phone call out of the blue from someone in Marion who is still connected to the Civic Theatre there, telling me he was again directing a Tennessee Williams play, “A Period of Adjustment” after 42 years passage of time.  I was in the original production, having one of the 3 leads.  George found my phone number after finding someone who knew my sister, Jane, and eventually I got a call from him, giving me the news above and inviting me to attend the current production. 

I was interested because I wanted to visit my sister and husband, who I hadn’t seen since our mother’s death, and to take a look at Marion and some of the places I used to live which totaled 6 different places.   In addition, of course, to bask in the past glory of my acting days and to visit with the other two leading actors in the original play. 

A group photo was taken of the past and present casts.



Marion Civic Theatre has a permanent home now, in the decaying town, built around the county court house, as so many Indiana towns first were established.  It is called the James Dean Theatre due to the fact that James Dean was born in Marion and is buried about 20 miles away.  Given the age of my readers here, it is with relief that I don’t have to educate anyone about who James Dean was.

I visited the first home I bought in Marion and I found it still looked really nice. When it was sold after my divorce, the front yard on 1/3 of an acre had no trees, a gravel drive way, and an unfinished patio.  I found so many trees on the lawn that the house was not visible to the road and I drove right past it.

To my dismay, the house the family lived in before we all left Marion is boarded up, as is the home next to it, both scheduled for removal.  The houses across the street are already gone.  I did note that the front door was still painted a bright red (my doing).  My sister says the neighborhood became unsafe and no one wanted to live there anymore.

I visited my deceased wife’s grave and took a few moments to reflect on my life with her and the mostly good times we shared together.  I loved her very much and her loss was devastating.  However, her death was the impetus for me to leave Marion which benefitted everyone in the family.  I still ponder the irony of this. 

Gone are the two best restaurants in town, Irma’s and Emily’s and the best fare is now found at Appleby’s where flat screen TV’s adorn the wall providing distracting noise and unless you find a booth, you sit on stools.  Jane and Bill travel to Fort Wayne to eat out a distance of 50 plus miles.  This fact reminded me of how I used to travel to Fort Wayne, Muncie, Kokomo, Huntington, Indianapolis without giving it much thought, putting about 15,000 miles a year on my car. 

How fortunate I am to live just off the edge of Chicago, two blocks from a lake beach, where I can take the el to Wrigley Field or Sox’s Park dine at the finest restaurants, etc. etc.

Judith and I leave in 6 days to attend Kristi and David’s wedding on top of a mountain vista near Boulder, CO.  As some of you may know, his name is David HeArd, and Kristi gave him the nickname of SV, which stands for superfluous vowel.  It is unknown at this time whether she will take the SV or not for her married name. 

The entire family will be there and it is with great anticipation that I look forward to this joyous event.