More journal entries from long ago....aka Stories from the Land of Broken Toys...
It was early '63 and I was traveling the 'government approved' road about 20 miles outside Moscow. Party officials stressed ad nauseum that I was not to stop, that I was to average 50 miles per hour, and under no circumstances was I to talk to anybody. My knowledge of Russian was only passing anyway; I was much more fluent in Moldovian. I felt for the huge pack of rubles in my pocket, and examined the pale and wan visages of the evil empire, the red sycthe against a blood-red field which signified the determination of the Russian empire to harvest her own people. The long road to Siberia was not paved with many good intentions - the struggling peasants looked bovine and desperate, a combination I'd scarce imagined. Every cow I'd ever seen looked satisfied and not in the least desperate.
My assignment was simple, albeit fraught with complications. I was to marry a young Russian woman, an 18-year old with hairy armpits and vodka-spiked breath. She was a vocal critic of Kruschev, even to the point of organizing rallys at the local grocery mart complaining about the fact that they only had one choice of peanut butter. She said she would die to choose Jif, but officials chose a third option - Siberia. However, before her re-education could begin at the gulag, a defense minister was passed a note in between saunas that explained he had a illegitimate daughter from an indiscretion many years ago...just over eighteen to be exact..