I think the French Foreign Legion has now turned down my long-standing application to be a legionnaire. My bombing idea didn't strike them well.

At any rate, I suppose now is the time to tell you all about the trip, as I promised. There are so many things I would like to share and so little space for explanations. It seems to me it would be the equivalent of trying to explain a Salvador Dali painting to someone who had never seen it, or any other Dali for that matter. Dali is the weird guy who painted the melting clocks. I didn't really know who he was until T.J. told me, but I thought I could mention his name and look smart. At least smarter than calling him that clock-painting guy like I did when I was talking to T.J.

But now is the time to talk about long journeys and trips. I left Charlotte Wednesday evening and arrived in London at 6 a.m. the next morning.

I can say that flying is like taking off in a 1970 Mustang with a supercharger and a nitrous bottle. I was amazed at the power of the plane pressing me back in the seat. Otherwise, flying is like riding a bus over mostly smooth roads. Every once in a while the plane would bob up and down a bit, but once you get used to it, it's no problem. The bathroom in a big jet (I was on a 777) works by allowing the pressurized air in the cabin force whatever is inside to the outside. I don't know where it goes after that, but I think it just goes out. Lord help the people who are down below. It's just bombs away, I guess.

The food on planes isn't all that bad, kind of like high-priced TV dinners. I think I was the only one on the plane that ate all of my food. Then I asked those around me, "Are you going to eat that fruit cocktail?"

In another way, a plane feels a whole lot like being on a really big elevator. The first time I was in a plane as it landed, I think my stomach landed long before the rest of me. By the end of my jaunts I had grown accustomed to it and now it doesn't even bother me.

As soon as they rustled me off the plane (much like sheep), complete with non-moving joints and terrible circulation, I went to the counter and rushed off to a bus. You see, I landed in Heathrow airport and had to ride to Gatwick airport. The second flight was scheduled to leave by 9:45 a.m. and the bus was jammed on a large highway in bumper-to-bumper little cars and trucks, all apparently on their way to work.

The bus was nearly full, but I found a seat about halfway down next to an Irish girl in her early 20s (I found out later). She had just gotten back from the U.S. after staying in Asheville - she had even been as close to Sparta as Boone. Needless to say, I was impressed to meet someone who had been so close to greater metropolitan Sparta.

We talked for awhile, with me asking generally stupid questions, like: "Why are there large walls with fencing wire on top of them next to the highway?" And, "Where are all the Buicks and Pontiacs?" I must admit that I was also peering out the window for Mr. Bean, but he also failed to appear. He must have been off somewhere having a party with Benny Hill.

Several things struck me about London. For one, there was a lady serving tea on the bus. I thought that was pretty neat, but since I only had enough hands to hold onto my carry-on bag, I didn't try it. I was also struck by the fact that there were little doors with steps leading down to this highway with six lanes on either side. I asked the lady why the doors were there, unless it was a clever ploy by realtors to re-sell houses over and over. I can hear it now, "Just step through this door to look at the lovely garden.... Brhhmmmm."

The advertisements along the highway were very similar to ours, I noticed. I suppose that advertising is a worldwide affliction.

The famous London weather didn't let me down, it was fairly dreary the entire time (like it was a long time) that I was there.

Also, I noticed that a door on the roof of the bus had a sign that said, "For emergency exit only." Like anyone would climb on top of the seat to reach a door about eight feet up if they could just walk out the front door of the bus. I learned that lew means bathroom, bonnet is car hood and barbie is barbecue. There are other pieces of slang I picked up, but that is what I remember now.

I got to the second airport with just enough time to get inside and find my area. I got on board just about 20 minutes before take-off. By now, I couldn't figure out how long it had been since I slept, but I knew it was a long time. According to my watch, I had been awake for well over a day. Of course, I was still living on Sparta time.

My connector flight to Moscow was on board an Aeroflot jet, which probably means airplane or air flight in Russian. I didn't learn that much of the language.

It was a much smaller plane from London to Moscow, I think it was a 737, but I wouldn't swear to it. On that flight I met a fellow from Harrisburg, Penn. He was a lawyer by trade, but I tried not to hold that against him.

He said he was doing a thesis on the Siberian tiger and was on his way to Vladivostok to study how Russian endangered species laws compare to ours here in America. "You shoot tigger, we shoot you," was what I was thinking. The Russian word for tiger sounds like tigger.

He was a fairly nice fellow and we had a nice long chat about agent-client relationships and commercial law. Actually, he had a nice chat and I kind of dozed my way through part of it with my eyes still open. The body shuts down after a while.

The plane landed in Sherimitoyovo II (or something like that), better known as SVO II, and I didn't know what to expect. As I walked into the Russian airport, I started thinking I had walked into some really cheap spy movie. The place was dark and the ceiling was decorated with what looked like pieces of copper pipe. I passed through Russian Customs, which was manned almost entirely by women - young women in really severe drab green outfits and old-lady shoes.

The woman behind the window took my passport and visa, talked with her friend and then let me pass through to the great unknown. I tried sharing a smile, but she wasn't in the mood. My Russian visa (you must have one to enter or leave the country) had my name on it in the Cyrillic alphabet. The Cyrillic alphabet utilizes more letters than our Roman counterpart. I couldn't even read my own name.

Later on, I visited one of the other Moscow airports - SVO 2. It was much more "modern-looking."

However, it only handles domestic flights. I don't know why that is. When I got into the airport proper, I was immediately greeted by calls of taxi-something-or-the-other. The only word in the sentence I could understand was taxi.

My interpreter, who is also now my friend, was nowhere to be seen. People were following me around and asking things like, "Where are you going?" And "Let me see your plane tickets and papers." I told them I wasn't interested and go away. It doesn't really work. One fellow wanted $80 to take me to town. That would be about like paying $50 to get a taxi from Sparta to Twin Oaks, but I didn't know it at the time. Everyone's out to make a buck, I guess.

After I had been there for more than an hour, my friend finally showed up. I was getting ready to give up. We left the airport and got into a "bus" outside, which was little more than an American mini-van made somewhere in Russia. However, the people were jammed in it like sardines. I found that to be true every time I took public transportation in Russia. People standing everywhere and stuff in the aisles and just a general feeling of congestion. The few times I got on a bus or subway with seats available, it was an unusual event. It wasn't something that happened very often.

As we rode to the hotel, which was called Academenskaya, I got a look at the countryside. As for the hotel, give me a break on the spelling, I can only give you the phonetic sounds. I can tell you what the name means: "For Scientists." I hope it was a hold-over from the time of the Soviets. Either that or someone was studying my sleeping habits. At least it was fairly cheap.

The entire place was like snow-land. I felt like I was on Hoth from The Empire Strikes Back. I have never seen so much snow as I saw in Russia. The temperatures were around 30 degrees the whole time I was there, with dips near 0 some nights. I think the temperature stayed around 18 one day with the wind blowing. Of course, they all use Celsius or Centigrade or whatever you call that stuff. The best way to figure it out is to take the Celsius temperature and multiply it by two and add 30 degrees. That will get you to Fahrenheit (the scale we use here). Every other country in the world uses the Celsius scale and metric measurements. I think only America (and maybe England) has pounds and ounces and such. Dare to be different, I suppose. That's all good and well until you find yourself in another country trying to figure it out.

Of course, it doesn't really matter if you can understand the weather forecast or not in Russia - they don't even bother with a weather channel. The forecast called for freezing temperatures with wind and snow with continued wind and snow and even colder temperatures at night.

I guess that's why they all wear the big fur hats and fur coats. It would be a bad place to be an animal rights activist. Of course, I think that animals have rights, too. Like the right to be made into coats and hats. I can tell you more about life in Russia next week. Right now, I am out of space and out of time.

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