Samarkand, Uzbekistan, 1980s. Near the intersection of the streets Registon ko'chasi and Toshkentskaya is an expansive public square - The Registran. It has been a focal point of the city for 500 years. The square is flanked by the Ensemble, three magnificent Madrasahs. The oldest school Ulugh Beg dates from 1417 CE, the other two, Sher-Dor and Tilya-Kori from 1619 and 1646 CE.*
An Intourist bus disgorged 25 Hartwick College students many displaying the lethargy of those engaged in sightseeing. Slowly they spread out among other pedestrians over a wide expanse but moving toward the Tilya-Kori Madrasah. Also prowling the sunlit square were members of the Soviet Army, dark paladins in shining boots, brown greatcoats and fur hats. Eventually one soldier cautiously approached a Hartwick student and struggling, indicated he would like to take her picture. Kim, a bright faced young lady and not particularly shy, grabbed his arm and led him to a low concrete structure where they both sat down. Kim then took away his fur hat, put it on and proceeded to muss up his hair. Another soldier rushed over and started snapping their picture. Janet, also determined to improve Soviet American relations, seized another soldier by the arm and marched him to the site - he lost his hat while being vamped. I was now taking pictures - everyone was - except the soldier clicking a camera. He stopped, rushed over grabbing a comrade by the sleeve yanking him upright and then sitting down between Kim and Janet. It was his turn! Lots of laughter - young people meeting - an instant Cold War thaw. I turned slowly and drifted off to examine the beauty of Islamic architecture.
Kyoto, Japan, 1980s. I was determined to get the entire group into a public bath and massaged at least once. How could anyone visit Japan and not get a massage and haircut? (During this month long trip I would visit three barbershops.) The group consisted of 13 men and 12 women - the latter included the College President's wife Barbara, two professors and one administrator. Unless we were in an upscale hotel finding an acceptable masseuse service for the women would be I thought problematic. Barbara told me not to worry about it. One professor, Jean said she would help and look for such a service.
My first afternoon in the streets of Kyoto resulted in the identification of an attractive public bath three blocks from our residence, a youth hostel. The following day after selecting four muscular men to accompany me - I am a cautious fellow - we proceeded with a trial run of this establishment. It was an outstanding choice - reasonably priced and clean enough to host surgery. The shower heads were plentiful, each with a bucket, brush and stool while the soaking pool was hot enough to make lobster blush. In a pre-bath meeting with the group I warned that when Americans emerge from a shower convinced they are "clean" Japanese are preparing to repeatedly scrub and douse themselves with buckets of steaming water. THEN they soak in a pool! I implored them, "When you see skin peeling off your body scrub just once more! Don't embarrass America! And for God's sake don't create ripples in the pool!" The baths went well.
It is probably impossible for a person waiting for a massage not to engage in some erotic reverie. There are massages with different national identities; Japanese, Swedish, Turkish and generally many different kinds of massage. The three Japanese women that went to work pounding on hundreds of pounds of towel clad American males were happy,skilled and chattered like parakeets. Almost immediately the groans began as the masseuses pushed, pulled, pounded, elbowed, kneed and walked on their clients. The women responded with laughter and then pushed, pulled and twisted harder. At the end of fifty minutes you may feel like a rag doll or a puddle, but you are totally relaxed.
The following day I led a large group of the men to their bath and massage or as one described it "their mugging". This group included my one black student. I entered the establishment in front of him and en garde. But the proprietress welcomed me with multiple bows, smiles and warmth. After the formalities my charges were deposited with her and a most capable staff. Exiting the Bath I was partially satisfied with myself - I turned left and walked a narrow, crowded street. We were unable to find a similar opportunity for the women - a regret.
Moscow, Russia, 1980s. A bright wintry day - we walked the snow packed paths winding through Gorky Park.
John a pre-law student, was reading aloud from Martin Cruz-Smith's novel. In the USSR Gorky Park was an illegal book - "forbidden literature". Three other students and I absorbed every spoken word and searched - we passed the Ferris Wheel gently rotating on our right almost in time with scratchy music from the PA system. We sought the exact location where Inspector Akrady Renko first examined three murder victims exhumed from the snow - the face of each obliterated by a single gun shot. Ultimately is was impossible to be sure of the precise spot - but we thought that just maybe . . . ! Two hours later our Intourist guide asked me where I had been.
"We went to examine the scene of the murders in Gorky Park."
She seemed to get upset. "WHAT? There was no murder! How can you say that?"
"They occur in the novel Gorky Park."
"I know" she replied "but that is a slanderous story - how can you take students on such an outing?"
"I didn't - they took me."
Seemingly exasperated she dramatically whirled around and marched away.
* See Wikipedia; photos Wikimedia
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