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LJ Idol 6.27: Sometimes why...
May. 22nd, 2010 09:07 pmI sweated blood over the "welcome to the USSR" speech I gave to each new group of tourists arriving from the United States that bicentennial year. I polished it, and practiced its delivery, because it had to be quick and thorough, yet interesting enough to hold my audience's attention for the length of a long commercial television interruption back home. While delivering a generally upbeat and wholesome message (summarized by "we're going to have a great time!"), the principal point of my spiel was to convince my newly arrived charges to avoid striking out on their own: don't exchange currency on the street, don't buy item such as icons, samovars or antiques, and above all, refrain from associating with political dissidents.
As in any such endeavor, there will always be that 10% of the crowd that fails to absorb the message.
In my experience, membership in that last decile is not necessarily due to a lack of education or intelligence. In fact, my most memorable interaction with a member of this never-quite-up-to-speed group involved a university professor of economics. On the evening before his group's departure for home, said professor knocked on my door as I was getting ready to join the group for dinner, and asked me to come with him to his room.
"Is everything okay?" I asked.
"I don't know," he said. "I need some advice."
I followed the professor into his room. On the bed, half-buried in a mound of well-wrinkled newspaper, there was a samovar. It was old and grungy, and not in the best of condition, but it was an honest-to-goodness antique samovar, dated 1869, which doubtless had boiled countless gallons of water and brewed many, many kettles of tea over its lifetime.
"Where did you get the samovar?" I asked.
"I bought it at an antique shop," said the professor. "Isn't it a beauty? The reason I knocked on your door, though, is that now I'm hearing that I won't be able to take it out of the country. Is that true?"
"Well, you heard right," I said (mentally adding probably from me, back when you arrived). "Foreigners need to jump through a number of hoops and get proper appraisals and approvals before the authorities will let an antique like this out of the country."
"But it's not as if this is some kind of national treasure," protested the professor.
"I can only agree, but I don't make the rules," I said, and gave a little shrug.
"Isn't there anything that can be done?" he asked.
"I don't think so, but let me give the problem some thought," I said. "In the meantime, we're about to be late for dinner and we can't let that happen, can we? I'll see you downstairs, okay?"
I left the professor's room and took the elevator down to the second floor, then turned left, toward the main dining room. As I passed by the display window of the hotel's Beriozka shop – one of several state-run souvenir shops for foreigners situated strategically around Moscow – I saw a number of people from my group standing in line to exchange their foreign currency for all sorts of knick-knacks, including nesting dolls, lacquered boxes, and modern, electric stainless-steel versions of the samovar up in the professor's room. Business was good.
They have a strange saying in Russia: "If it's forbidden, but you want to very much, then it's permitted." I'm not saying I understood it very well, but the saying echoed in my mind as I mulled over the professor's predicament and made a decision. A little while later, I buttonholed the professor as he left the dining room.
"Professor, are you a risk-taker?" I asked.
"Well, yes. Sometimes," he said. "Why?"
We had a brief discussion about his immediate problem, which ended with the professor nodding agreement, whereupon I told him what I wanted him to do, and arranged to meet him in his room in half an hour. I went up to my room and fetched my multipurpose Swiss Army knife.
When I arrived at the professor's room, I saw that he had fulfilled my instructions to the letter. With the greatest of care, I used the various implements on my knife to undo the knot in the string that was tied around the package from the Beriozka shop. Then I laid the undamaged string to one side and carefully unwrapped the several layers of rough paper imprinted with the Beriozka logo that had been used to wrap the contents of the package.
Moving with care and deliberation, I replaced the utilitarian stainless steel samovar the professor had bought in the hotel's Beriozka shop with the purchased antique article, then I carefully rewrapped the samovar with the Beriozka paper and retied the string around the package. Unless the departure customs examination was particularly thorough, there was no reason to think the Beriozka package would attract a second glance while clearing customs the following day at the airport.
"So, what happens if I get caught doing this?" asked the professor as I admired my knot-tying skills.
"Well, as I mentioned in the dining room downstairs, if you get caught, I'm to be left out of it. I will disavow any knowledge of this, is that clear?"
"Yes," he said, "you have my word on that, but if I am caught, what can they do to me?"
"They may make you fill out a bunch of forms," I said, "but in the end, about the worst they can do to you is confiscate the samovar and kick you out of the country. Maybe fine you. The way things stand without this scheme, they'll still confiscate the samovar and you're leaving tomorrow anyway." The professor nodded.
"Okay, I understand, but why did you have me buy all this other stuff?" asked the professor, pointing at two bags of other souvenirs that I asked him to buy, including a set of nesting matrioshka dolls, some wooden spoons, and a mandolin-like balalaika.
"You want to give the impression that you're a harmless souvenir-hound that went crazy inside the Beriozka shop," I said. "Whatever you do, do not treat the samovar package as if it is your nearest and dearest possession." The professor nodded once more, and handed me the steel samovar as I left his room. "This is for you," he said.
By the time I got back to my room, it occurred to me the samovar I had been given was overly heavy for its size. I removed the cover, and discovered the professor had managed to stow a compact bottle of cranberry liqueur inside the samovar while I had fussed with the decoy package. Fair enough, I thought, and grinned.
The next day, I accompanied the group to the airport and watched as the group slowly percolated through the customs stations. When his turn came, the professor put the samovar on the ground so that he could give the customs official his passport and declaration, and then scooted it along the floor with his feet while carrying his other two bags of souvenirs through the gate to the check-in counter. Bravo, professor!
After the entire group had been processed, I turned to go claim a table in the airport's coffee shop while I waited for the new group arriving on the same plane taking the old group home. I pulled out my carefully worded welcome speech and a pen. The text needed a little more polish, I thought - a little more oomph! - to better get my message across.
As in any such endeavor, there will always be that 10% of the crowd that fails to absorb the message.
In my experience, membership in that last decile is not necessarily due to a lack of education or intelligence. In fact, my most memorable interaction with a member of this never-quite-up-to-speed group involved a university professor of economics. On the evening before his group's departure for home, said professor knocked on my door as I was getting ready to join the group for dinner, and asked me to come with him to his room.
"Is everything okay?" I asked.
"I don't know," he said. "I need some advice."
I followed the professor into his room. On the bed, half-buried in a mound of well-wrinkled newspaper, there was a samovar. It was old and grungy, and not in the best of condition, but it was an honest-to-goodness antique samovar, dated 1869, which doubtless had boiled countless gallons of water and brewed many, many kettles of tea over its lifetime.
"Where did you get the samovar?" I asked.
"I bought it at an antique shop," said the professor. "Isn't it a beauty? The reason I knocked on your door, though, is that now I'm hearing that I won't be able to take it out of the country. Is that true?"
"Well, you heard right," I said (mentally adding probably from me, back when you arrived). "Foreigners need to jump through a number of hoops and get proper appraisals and approvals before the authorities will let an antique like this out of the country."
"But it's not as if this is some kind of national treasure," protested the professor.
"I can only agree, but I don't make the rules," I said, and gave a little shrug.
"Isn't there anything that can be done?" he asked.
"I don't think so, but let me give the problem some thought," I said. "In the meantime, we're about to be late for dinner and we can't let that happen, can we? I'll see you downstairs, okay?"
I left the professor's room and took the elevator down to the second floor, then turned left, toward the main dining room. As I passed by the display window of the hotel's Beriozka shop – one of several state-run souvenir shops for foreigners situated strategically around Moscow – I saw a number of people from my group standing in line to exchange their foreign currency for all sorts of knick-knacks, including nesting dolls, lacquered boxes, and modern, electric stainless-steel versions of the samovar up in the professor's room. Business was good.
They have a strange saying in Russia: "If it's forbidden, but you want to very much, then it's permitted." I'm not saying I understood it very well, but the saying echoed in my mind as I mulled over the professor's predicament and made a decision. A little while later, I buttonholed the professor as he left the dining room.
"Professor, are you a risk-taker?" I asked.
"Well, yes. Sometimes," he said. "Why?"
We had a brief discussion about his immediate problem, which ended with the professor nodding agreement, whereupon I told him what I wanted him to do, and arranged to meet him in his room in half an hour. I went up to my room and fetched my multipurpose Swiss Army knife.
When I arrived at the professor's room, I saw that he had fulfilled my instructions to the letter. With the greatest of care, I used the various implements on my knife to undo the knot in the string that was tied around the package from the Beriozka shop. Then I laid the undamaged string to one side and carefully unwrapped the several layers of rough paper imprinted with the Beriozka logo that had been used to wrap the contents of the package.
Moving with care and deliberation, I replaced the utilitarian stainless steel samovar the professor had bought in the hotel's Beriozka shop with the purchased antique article, then I carefully rewrapped the samovar with the Beriozka paper and retied the string around the package. Unless the departure customs examination was particularly thorough, there was no reason to think the Beriozka package would attract a second glance while clearing customs the following day at the airport.
"So, what happens if I get caught doing this?" asked the professor as I admired my knot-tying skills.
"Well, as I mentioned in the dining room downstairs, if you get caught, I'm to be left out of it. I will disavow any knowledge of this, is that clear?"
"Yes," he said, "you have my word on that, but if I am caught, what can they do to me?"
"They may make you fill out a bunch of forms," I said, "but in the end, about the worst they can do to you is confiscate the samovar and kick you out of the country. Maybe fine you. The way things stand without this scheme, they'll still confiscate the samovar and you're leaving tomorrow anyway." The professor nodded.
"Okay, I understand, but why did you have me buy all this other stuff?" asked the professor, pointing at two bags of other souvenirs that I asked him to buy, including a set of nesting matrioshka dolls, some wooden spoons, and a mandolin-like balalaika.
"You want to give the impression that you're a harmless souvenir-hound that went crazy inside the Beriozka shop," I said. "Whatever you do, do not treat the samovar package as if it is your nearest and dearest possession." The professor nodded once more, and handed me the steel samovar as I left his room. "This is for you," he said.
By the time I got back to my room, it occurred to me the samovar I had been given was overly heavy for its size. I removed the cover, and discovered the professor had managed to stow a compact bottle of cranberry liqueur inside the samovar while I had fussed with the decoy package. Fair enough, I thought, and grinned.
The next day, I accompanied the group to the airport and watched as the group slowly percolated through the customs stations. When his turn came, the professor put the samovar on the ground so that he could give the customs official his passport and declaration, and then scooted it along the floor with his feet while carrying his other two bags of souvenirs through the gate to the check-in counter. Bravo, professor!
After the entire group had been processed, I turned to go claim a table in the airport's coffee shop while I waited for the new group arriving on the same plane taking the old group home. I pulled out my carefully worded welcome speech and a pen. The text needed a little more polish, I thought - a little more oomph! - to better get my message across.
