For 12 years I've dreamt of myself as a reporter in the Soviet Union. I worked two and three jobs at a time to put myself through journalism school. I followed the developments in Moscow, brushing up on my Russian as able. My first reporting job was as a volunteer at an Oregon Public Radio station. From there, I became a TV news reporter, then bureau chief, then a news director and anchor, all the while with an eye on Russia. Finally, after years of working and waiting, I am employed as executive producer for a Moscow-based TV news bureau.

My notes begin the evening before my departure. - SRVH

(Washington, DC) Good-byes to my US stateside television bureau co-workers before my Moscow-bound flight. Says Sergei, a Soviet: "Styopah" (the friendly diminutive of 'Steven' in Russian), "be sure to take some toilet paper." I reply, "I'm sure I don't need to." He says, "Styopah, there is some food to be found in Moscow. Take the toilet paper."

Saturday Morning, September 29, 1990

I feel Russia all about me as I approach the Aeroflot counter at Washington's Dulles International Airport. The long line of disheveled, forlorn, shoving Soviets reluctantly headed for home, clutching Walkmen, keyboards, blue jeans, western treasures in department store bags.

Communism ... a great ideal betrayed is more despised than a bad ideal employed.

Capitalism they seemed to like.

It is not so depressing as it is comical, like every bad parody of Russia I have ever seen: the rude, chubby stewardesses with their phlegmatic explanation of safety procedures, the tattered condition of the plane, their stoical pinched faces.

Sunday Morning, September 30, 1990

(Russia) Touchdown in Moscow after a final approach over a Russian birch tree forest. I could swear I heard church bells! A friendly exchange of gifts with my Soviet surgeon co-passenger (I brought some cheap Snoopy pencils, he has some cheap Soviet lapel pins), and a two hour wait at Sheremyetevo for my ride to show up.

A quick tour of Moscow: Red Square, the meat market which defies description, the Arbat Street sharks and pickpockets, my first of many Russian meals of raw salted fish.

Then my two-bedroom apartment with two balconies in the center of the city near the Kremlin (a prestigious home) -- and sleep.

* * *

"Every 10 years the Americans and the Soviets should switch countries. Americans are happiest when they are building something up, Russians are at their best breaking it down." -- Sergei Orlov

* * *

Monday, September 31, 1990

I walked down the streets near our office (three very comfortable though tiny well-equipped rooms with state-of-the-art computers and video gear, my personal office placed at the front as befitting the "American-side manager" of the joint venture -- the Russians pay high heed to such details). I stopped intrigued by a Soviet newsstand to look at the wide array of papers and pornography. Then one Russian stopped to see what I was looking at. Then another and another. Before long there was a crowd with puzzled faces wondering what was so special about a newsstand.

Later in the day, I'm stuck between floors in a phone booth-sized Soviet elevator with my co-workers Claudia and Cliff (running his ever-present betacam). Russians outside the door titter while we sing songs ("High Hopes"). They scurry for help which finally arrives one hour later. "Americans stuck in the elevator! Such an affair!" they say. I'm already longing for home.

* * *

"In Russia, this is the difference between an Optimist, a Pessimist, and a Realist: an Optimist learns English, a Pessimist learns Chinese, and a Realist learns to use a 
machine gun." -- Anon.

* * *

Wednesday, October 3, 1990

Three scenes have turned my stomach in somersaults since I've been here: the Russian meat market (half-heads and carcasses of unidentifiable creatures hang proudly on display while picked at by birds, bugs, and careful shoppers).

And the KGB Lubyanka prison just down the street from our office (home of the infamous torture chambers and midnight death wagons).

And the prissy Women's Journal publisher here to announce a Russian version of her magazine soon to be available on Soviet kiosks ...

Angry women surround her yelling the articles on high fashion and gourmet recipes are not welcome in a city where they can't afford to buy potatoes.

The magazine's dinner reception at the four-star Savoy reminds me of the scene in Doctor Zhivago where inside all was fine and festive, while beyond the warmth bedraggled Russians trudged along the street, hoping to survive the winter. I step outside, feeling more comfortable with them.

Friday, October 5, 1990

We toured the artsy Arbat Street with a New York Stock Exchange flack, a man definitely out of his element.

In contrast to the American criminals I worked with at the Department of Corrections, the Arbat gypsies, hustlers and pickpockets appear almost gentle. Their intent is not evil, in fact it feels rather noble -- doing what it takes to support the families they seem so devoted to.

Saturday, October 6, 1990

After two hungry days while I learned to find food, I think I'm adapting: with chunks of instant milk floating in my instant coffee beside my bowl of tepid instant oatmeal, life looks luxurious.

The military here is everywhere, on every corner, riding the trains and streetcars and metro, walking to work, living in regular apartments, not separated on bases apart from the civilians. It's hard to believe they would shoot on their own people, knowing them and their hardships as they do. "Oh yes, they would shoot," says Yelena, my cynical Soviet ladyfriend.

We interviewed Russian Tsarist Prince Andrei Golitsyn, who had brought out his finest rarities of crackers and chocolates and whiskey, an impoverished sad-faced man with ambitions of somehow regaining power. We snacked beneath the portraits of old Russia nobility, the subjects of a nostalgia resurgence in Moscow.

I said to CBS reporter Jan Chorlton-Petersen, "I feel a little guilty about having so much while so many Russians have so little." Her reply, "If you feel any guilt here you will never survive."

Wednesday, October 10, 1990

A ride in a motorcade! To tape Gorbachev in the Kremlin, only a few feet away! Such a palace! The art! The fine furniture! The efficient, watchful KGB guards! My intent interest made them especially wary.

We're covering John Phalen, the New York Stock Exchange CEO meeting with Soviet officials hoping to establish their own stock exchange. "A stock market is not the answer," says Phalen, "it is a mechanism to the answer." He adds, "Money comes from heaven, but we spend it on earth." I liked that.

"This is not a time to be bullish on the Russian bear," said one stock exchange official, befuddled by the overwhelming work ahead to bring about a free-market system. One reporter observed "most Russians are more concerned with stocking their markets, than marketing stocks."

Friday, October 12, 1990

I've been visiting Soviet offices we deal with to see how they work. My impression: they don't. Never have I seen so many people making so much noise while accomplishing absolutely nothing. Supports my hypothesis that the degree of results one achieves is inversely related to the amount of noise one makes while doing it.

* * *

"In Russia, they pretend to pay us, and we pretend to work." -- Anon.

"The Russians treat the customer here as an enemy -- someone who expects them to work." -- Cliff, my Moscow-wise cameraman

* * *

Friday, October 19, 1990

We picked up Victor (our joint-venture newspaper's Russian art director) at the airport on his return flight from visiting our printing facilities in America. His first visit there, his strongest impression was the row upon row of food products in the supermarkets.

I told him my strongest impression of Moscow was the row upon row of Russian faces pressed against crowded trolley bus windows, like food products in the market.

* * *

"Russian faces can cover a multitude of sins when you have no other video handy."-- CBS Reporter Jonathan Sanders to me during one of our shoots.

* * *

Thursday, October 25, 1990

Today we taped about 200 Pentacostals camped out at Sheremyetevo airport after, at the last minute, they were denied exit visas to the US by the Soviet government. Hand-washed clothes hung from rails and blockades. Mothers cried at us that their children were denied access to the bathrooms. Our camera followed one father and his daughter -- because of that the guards let them pass to the toilet.

(Russian toilets are designed differently than American. They cleverly avoid the large bowl of water with a small pool on a ledge inside the toilet to handle the business, then a surge of water whisks it all away.)

The Pentacostals (persecuted here, in part, because of their odd habit of speaking in tongues) clustered and prayed and refused to leave the building, afraid they wouldn't be allowed back in. Some had been waiting for 10 years to get out of the USSR. What became of them? I don't know. The "news" had moved on.

Also today at Sheremyetevo we covered a Hollywood/Soviet joint-venture movie being shot at an Aeroflot passenger jet on the end of the runway: "Icons," about smugglers in Moscow, starring Roman Polanski. A Russian played a Marine, an American played a Soviet soldier. The drabness of Moscow suddenly became theatrical, surreal. Art is much more palatable than life.

After snapping a shot of a Soviet fighter jet on the airport tarmac, and our easy access to the protesting Pentacostals, it strikes me as remarkable how far journalistic freedoms in Russia have advanced. Not so long ago Western reporters were centrally housed in special compounds and watched round the clock. On our way back to the office we debate Soviet motives in allowing us such mobility: a demonstration of the new openness? Their preoccupation with greater problems? Are we the pawns of a subtler propaganda?

Update February 2, 2014

Hello Mr. Steven R. Van Hook,

You did a report in Moscow on October 25, 1990 about some Russian Pentecostals being stuck at Sheremetyevo International Airport in Moscow. I was one of the children of the refugees and I remember that there were reporters from the States taking pictures and filming us. I also remember trying to speak to them in the little English that I knew such as the word “light” on the light post. It was a very traumatic experience for my family and I spending one and half months at the airport.  We have just celebrated 24 years in the States and we were reminiscing about the experience getting here. So I decided to Google and came upon your name as the reporter and found your reporter’s notebook on a website .... I was 8 years old at the time, I’m now 32, married with 2 wonderful boys. 25 years in America has been nothing but a wonderful blessing and would never go back ... We often talk about our journey with my parents and the hell we went through, although now as a parent myself I can’t even imagine what my parents went through. I appreciate the reporting that you did that day and shedding light on our plight, because of your reporting we didn’t end up in a Gulag or a prison in Siberia. Even though some people that were with us did indeed disappear and we never heard from them again. So thank you! - Jerry K.

Sunday, October 28, 1990

On a high, slow, single revolution of Gorky Park's giant Ferris wheel overlooking the city skyline and the Moscow River, I kissed the lovely Russian woman beside me at the top of our turn, telling her I'd remember the kiss each time I spied the wheel visible from many parts of the city. Such talk has little affect on the Spartan women here. She did glow, however, at the wedding ceremony in the Russian Orthodox cathedral, and the rich Italian ice cream with a shot of something alcoholic on it at the "Mezh" left her "truly contented -- a rare feeling in Moscow," she said.

Tuesday, October 30, 1990

During today's solemn memorial march, at a newly dedicated stone from one of the Stalinist prison camps, old and young Russian fingers held up pictures of the many thousands dead at the hands and guns of the Soviet Committee for State Security, the KGB.

"Lord forgive us. Lord forgive us," the choir sang.

A soothing, melancholy, amplified voice recited the names of the dead as thousands marched. A crush of people like a handshake squeezed the breath out of me. I was warned that in such a crowd one misstep, a trip, could mean a trampled death. Ahead of our surge (I was helpless to move any way but one) was a patch of weed-flowers. "Save those flowers!" a babushka yelled at me. I held up my boom mike as a spear and gently said "tsveti" ("flowers") to the oncoming flood of people. "Oh, tsveti," they replied, and parted around me. From behind, CBS Bureau Chief Barry Petersen commented I deserved the "Order of the Flowers" award. The Russians do love their flowers, one of the few products in abundance here.

Thursday, November 1, 1990

Everything in Moscow works just fast enough to keep you from turning murderous or revolutionary, but so slow as to keep you demoralized and lethargic. The lines, the phones, the bureaucrats. It all seems so intentional ... so insidiously planned.

* * *

There are four steps in the development of Soviet programs:
1. Noise
2. Chaos
3. Punishment of the innocent
4. Awards for the undeserving.
 -- Anon.

* * *

Friday, November 2, 1990

Moscow is a city that both thrills and breaks your heart in the same beat -- feeds and assaults your soul in the same glance. The most terrific and terrible of cities!

Sunday, November 4, 1990

My limited knowledge of Russian sometimes gets me into trouble. Like the time our cleaning lady was tearfully telling me her daughter (a ballerina) had either died, or had left for Iraq. I wasn't sure which. I fumbled for an appropriate response.

Or this evening. I was having dinner at my home with Natasha -- a young, beautiful, educated, witty, blue-eyed Russian who speaks very limited English. In my poor Russian, I was telling her a joke I'd heard: "A man goes into a market and asks the keeper if he has a scale. The keeper says, 'Yes ... do you have any food?'"

I didn't know the Russian word for "scale," so I pantomimed it.

She grinned, paused, and then asked to see my dollars. My face twisted in surprise. I repeated it to make sure I understood what she was asking. "Yes, please let me see your dollars." (Prostitution is rampant in Moscow. A recent survey revealed 70% of high school girls would consider prostitution for hard currency.) She knew my thoughts, "How could have I been so mistaken about this sweet, lovely lady?" and she laughed.

She took my dollar and pointed at the Treasury seal with the scales of justice -- the word I hadn't known in Russian. I blushed, excused myself for my horrible mistake, and excused myself outside for a cigarette (a filthy habit I've resumed in Moscow, mostly in self-defense. Everyone here smokes. You can't escape it).

Monday, November 5, 1990

Moscow is a little like South Africa. A privileged class from abroad with its hard currency, catered to by special shops, hotels, restaurants. Guards at the door ensure no Russians get by (unless it's one of the prostitutes who shares part of her take).

I feel dirty whenever I visit one of the beriozki (hard-currency only stores). One American Embassy worker told me at a party, "They created this awful system, why should we suffer?" Another American says, "Damn right I use the beriozka! Especially the ones that take only credit cards -- keeps the Russian mafia goons with their hard currency out." One Russian friend says, "Those who are guilty for our system feel no shame, why should you? You are not to blame." Says another Russian, "If it wasn't for Westerners, we'd have no such places ... fine examples for us to see and aspire to." My pessimistic Russian ladyfriend says, "I think we will never have such wonderful things for ourselves -- we just won't."

My surgeon friend, Yuri, tells me most Russians can afford to stand in line all day for state food products (low quality, low price). "If you had to do that, you'd never get any work done here."

Natasha, who resents hard-currency shops, consoles me, "What are you to do? Starve?" I wonder what rationalizations they use in South Africa.

Tuesday Night, November 6, 1990

The towering Foreign Ministry, Ukraine Hotel and Moscow University buildings, the Kremlin, Saint Basil's Cathedral, the church onion domes, the city streets -- all lit up so bright tonight on the eve of the Russian Revolution celebration. Such a beautiful city it can be! Such a shame every other night of the year it's kept so much in the dark.

Wednesday, November 7, 1990

It's October Revolution Day in Moscow (a change from the old Russian Orthodox calendar now places it in November). Thousands of people parade the streets in demonstrations and counter-demonstrations. Banners and slogans. So many sad Russian faces.

Beautiful Russian women are everywhere I turn; a dark, mysterious, mournful beauty that grips my heart. And they all want to go to America. Should I bring one home? Would she be happy? The Russians I've known in the U.S.A. are treated as curiosities, as the outsiders they are in a very alien land. They miss their homeland and families terribly. And it's difficult to transfer their Soviet education and skills to a stricter American standard. And there's the language problem. Russian accents sound funny, like the Bullwinkle archenemies Boris and Natasha. Many Americans snicker at that. I don't recall meeting many happy Russians in America, but I certainly meet very few here.

It does seem unfairly advantageous to find myself suddenly appealing to women simply by virtue of my American citizenship.

Thursday, November 8, 1990

At a cheap B-grade movie about the life of Jesus at a typically crowded Russian theater, my doe-eyed companion cries untypical tears, saying for 73 years God has been exiled from Moscow, but now He is welcomed back with such longing. This God forsaken land which forsook God may be turning its face heavenward once more.

Friday, November 9, 1990

"It's not over till the fat lady sings," my boss in Washington tells me. The Russians have not agreed to extend a new contract, and our corporate headquarters in El Paso is pushing us hard to either "sign it, sell it, or shut it down."

"The band is warming up, the fat lady is on stage, and she's clearing her throat," says my boss.

Saturday, November 10, 1990

Today we had an hour long interview for the BBC with Boris Yeltsin (President of the Russian Federation and perhaps the next leader of the Soviet Union) at the "White House," the Federation headquarters. I have a hard time fathoming why this buffoon is so adored in Russia, while Gorbachev is held in such low regard. I have a hard time fathoming Russians. Period.

Sunday, November 11, 1990

Russia has perfected the circus. All the performers and stage hands move in well-coordinated efficiency, a rare encounter in Moscow. Acrobats, lions and tigers and bears, barely-clad women, Cossack horsemen and endearing clowns perform under a live band and low-tech light show. Rather than a standing ovation, the Russian audience applauds in rhythmic unison. "Circuses and soda pop will mollify the masses," my Machiavellian friend in the States used to say.

Monday, November 12, 1990

The Russian ruble is basically worthless and somewhat bewildering. There are three exchange rates: the business rate at 54 U.S. cents to the ruble (the rate used on my American Express card, which I brandish only in the beriozka store for hard-to-find items like eggs and orange juice), the 6 ruble to 1 dollar tourist exchange rate, and the black market rate of 15 to 1 (my driver with "good connections" makes the exchange for us at the Ukraina Hotel -- home of the Moscow mafia).

A very large meal at McDonald's for two runs 50 rubles, or about $3.50 (that's 1/4 of the average Russian's monthly wage of 200 rubles, such as my surgeon friend makes). I try to be extra generous with my rubles (large tips for waiters and cab drivers and beggars) -- seems only fair and certainly not much of a sacrifice.

Doctors advise men to beware of radio-active rubles and kopeks from Chernobyl, and not to carry them in their front pockets.

* * *

"Better to have 100 friends than 100 rubles." -- Anon.
"Better to have a friend who gives you 100 rubles." -- Natasha

* * *

Tuesday, November 13, 1990

Russians find their pride wherever they can: fancy five-word titles, impressive rubberstamp seals, any piece of Western clothing.

"We were so happy and proud when our imported Cannon copier broke down -- all our Soviet machines don't work either!" says Natasha.

* * *

"You want to know my true beliefs about my country? I believe it will never change. Our system is spoiled at all levels. Leaders must be pure, honest, but they are not. We must change the mentality of our people, but how? Our children should think well of our country, but all they know is misery. Everything is ruined and corrupt!"
 -- Oleg, a young Russian

* * *

Wednesday, November 14, 1990

Moscow has the largest McDonald's in the world ("because we're a hungry country," says our bookkeeper Natalia); certainly the longest McDonald's line -- on a weekend the wait is 4 hours for a "fast food" meal. Lunch is like a trip to a distant world, where people are friendly and helpful, floors and tables are clean, food is identified as something other than "meat," life is bright and musical. My Soviet lunch partners eat mesmerized by the glamour. Russians don't care much for the food, but love the fantasy.

* * *

"Children," says the Soviet school teacher, "Where is the best education in the world?"
"In the Soviet Union!" they answer in unison.
"And children, where is the best medical care?"
"In the Soviet Union!" again in unison.
"And children, where are the best food and clothes to be found?"
"In the Soviet Union!"
"But Sasha, why are you crying?" asks the teacher.
"I want to live in the Soviet Union!"

* * *

Thursday, November 15, 1990

I suppose it's easy for me to remain hopeful about Russia's future. I have my American passport and visa for an escape of my choosing. I have a pocket full of hard currency -- my meal ticket for the food-starved winter ahead. How would I feel if I were stuck here for life, no hope of America's abundance ever again? Would I be one of the countless drunks pacing the streets at all hours and temperatures? Riding the crowded subway, I too despair.

* * *

"I hope Russia and America do go to war ... the very next day I would surrender!"
 -- Boris, our driver

* * *

Saturday, November 18, 1990

Natasha, do our hearts beat together in Russian? English? Ha! At last we understand!

* * *

Natasha: Do you have drunkards in America?
Me: Yes, but not so many as I see here.
Natasha: Oy! Again the Soviet Union is first!

* * *

Wednesday, November 21, 1990

At my neighborhood beriozka, a Soviet state-controlled TV (Gosteleradio) crew burst in to tape the wide assortment of products available to western shoppers with credit cards. One Russian clerk told them to get out. The Soviet producer snapped back, "We have permission ... don't forget your place!" and pointed the camera at me. This video ought to ruffle a few Russians. Nearby, a long line waited for sausages at a state food store.

Thursday, November 22, 1990

Thanksgiving Day: While Americans feasted on turkey, stuffing, candied yams, hot buttered rolls and pumpkin pie, I nibbled on an omelet and Natasha. Thankfully.

Friday, November 23, 1990

I frequently encounter the Soviet militsia ("milly-men" Americans here call them), the street cops who whistle, wave their batons and point you to the side of the road for whatever infraction you commit in the crazy Moscow traffic. Any offense is an immediate charge of ten rubles (five, if you don't ask for a receipt, so they can subsidize their paltry 200 ruble-a-month pay). They seem especially indulgent with American journalists, as is noted on our Volvo's license plate. I've so far avoided any fines with my good-natured ignorance and a few cigarettes. Natasha tells me I wouldn't find them so amusing if I had to live under their regime.

Saturday, November 24, 1990

Moscow is certainly the quietest and darkest of cities I have ever seen. Hard to believe so many millions of people live here. Even on the most thrilling rides at Gorky Park or watching a soccer game on TV, a stifled moan is the most the Russians emit. Cars drive at night with only their fog lights, and streetlights, when found, are dim. I wonder what lurks beneath the calm?

Sunday, November 25, 1990

Big problem: I think I'm falling in love with Natasha. Her sadness is beginning to seep into my psyche, such a pathetic life in Moscow. What to do? (The same question Lenin asked. I hope my answer works better.)

* * *

"Why do you want so much to improve our lives? Our own leaders don't care so much."  -- Natasha

* * *

Tuesday, November 27, 1990

Last night a thief broke into our Volvo parked just outside my door. He broke a window and was evidently chased off by the car alarm; there was nothing inside worth stealing. "I'm so sorry for my people," says Oleg. "You are a guest here. Our criminals are very cruel."

As I vacuum up the glass on the ground from the broken car window, Oleg comments a Russian would never clean up after himself like this. "That doesn't seem very socialist," I reply.

"Yes it is," says Oleg. "A Russian doesn't see it as 'his' mess, but as 'our' mess -- something he is not personally responsible for." Hmmph.

Thursday, November 28, 1990

I tried explaining the High School Prom to Natasha after American girls getting ready to go popped up on the home video we were watching. The rich bedroom, the beautiful white dresses, the stretch limo awaiting outside, the boys in tuxedos, the giggles and gaiety. I feel a horrible loss for Russian children who never know such frivolity. They surely know they are missing out. Their frustrated, hungry lives, their haunted eyes. What is to blame? Government? Russian docility? Natasha says she's lived but a few happy days.

Wednesday, December 5, 1990

Russians love intimate gatherings; friends and family huddled around a small table adorned with breads, meats, liquor, and the ubiquitous samovar (a large ornate pot of hot water -- an ancient symbol of hospitality). Conversation is cordial yet intense, usually covering the western taboo topics of politics, religion and love. Drinking is vigorous, it's considered bad manners not to drain your glass after one of the plentiful and poetical toasts.

This evening my Russian co-workers and I stood shoulder to shoulder around an office desk munching on bread, meat and chocolate, sipping cognac, celebrating the 50th birthday of our cleaning lady, Zoya. Our talk: how difficult it was for her to find these meager morsels. (Unlike the American custom, it is the duty of the Russian birthday celebrant to throw his or her own party.)

Friday, December 7, 1990

"The fat lady's on stage and she's bellowing her lungs out," says my boss in D.C. It's time to liquidate the bureau. Cliff and Claudia, avoiding the trauma of withdrawal, have headed home. Our Russian workers are running in circles to "save our very lives." It's up to me to arrange the pull-out.

Natasha, sensing my impending departure, has been clinging with a strong hand. She asked me to write her a love letter in English. I did, the usual slaver about eternal love, the illusions of space and time, and the sort. She pleaded to me to promise her it was all true. (Love letters are about love, not truth.) "Of course it is," I told her. She clutches the letter as if it was God's invitation to heaven ... I wish it were.

Sunday, December 9, 1990

Today I visited Lenin's Mausoleum. He looks just too real to be real. The head of Gosteleradio was fired when a guest on a talk show suggested Lenin be buried. Many Russians suggest it nowadays. Lenin along with communism.

Friday, December 14, 1990

Soviet leaders are appealing abroad to obtain food for their masses in the midst of severe winter shortages of everything. My Russian co-workers search many hours for the simplest of staples; one found some eggs, the others at the office gathered to admire her good fortune. Overwhelmed, I can do little to help. I took Oleg and Natalia to lunch at McDonalds -- Natalia ate her fries, then carefully wrapped her cheeseburger to "save for later." (She was saving it for her boy at home, I know.)

The amazing Russian patience is wearing thin. Many officials fear the people may soon take to the streets. (A mob of 10,000 here is considered a mere demonstration. "You will see millions," warns a Russian friend.)

They need billions of dollars worth of supplies. The U.S. has been reluctant to contribute in retaliation for Soviet policy restricting Jewish emigration.

The Germans, however, have responded with tons of food and other products. "We conquered them in the Great Patriotic War, and now we accept their charity. How bad can things get?" says one disgruntled Russian.

Interesting to note this was a record year in the USSR for crop harvests, which lay rotting in trains and trucks due to a decrepit transportation system and labor problems.

* * *

"The world owes our country much for demonstrating that communism doesn't work."
  -- Sasha Livshits, a Russian entrepeneur

* * *

Sunday, December 16, 1990

As I wrap it up in Moscow, Natasha tells me I'm like a dream: a brief sweetness, then you wake up to reality the next morning and it's gone. I tell her I believe dreams are closer to ultimate reality than life is, maybe that's why I like sleeping so much. She tells me she's afraid to dream, afraid to hope.

I tell her I will try to arrange a visit for her to America, a promise I hope to fulfill.

Monday, December 17, 1990

I've caught a bit of a cold, the thought of really getting sick here is a frightening prospect. Natasha worries about me, and my doctor friend Yuri says he will get whatever medicine I need. Fortunately, I have aspirin and multiple vitamins and orange juice. Without such simple remedies, even little colds hit the Russians hard and often. I suppose that explains their concern for me. The standard Russian cure for a cold is raspberry jam ("mahlina"), honey and lots of vodka. Natasha brought me the jam, Oleg brought me the honey. The vodka is yet another "defatseet" (these days I hear a lot of that word -- meaning "deficit").

When you sneeze in Moscow, a Russian response is "pravilnah" (which means "correctly"); it portends the next statement you make will be truthful.

A few other interesting Russian superstitions:

-- You should always sit for several moments before leaving on a trip, this ensures a safe return.
-- If a single woman sits at the corner of a table, she will never get married.
-- Never shake hands or kiss across a threshold.
-- Never refuse a drink as a guest (one rule rarely violated here).
-- Don't unlock a door right after you've locked it.
-- If you break a taboo, spin three times to the left, spit three times over your right shoulder, sit for a few seconds, then look at yourself in the mirror.

Friday, December 21, 1990

I visited with head officials at Gosteleradio today to discuss our plan to produce a Soviet perspective on the February summit between Bush and Gorbachev for distribution to American broadcasters. Gostel is the nationwide state television agency -- the equivalent of CBS, NBC, ABC, PBS and CNN combined. This may be a longshot chance for us to remain in Moscow. Regardless, Gostel was a thrill to tour.

Monday, December 24, 1990

This Christmas Eve (a non-holiday in Moscow) Natasha took me to the Kremlin Armory, a museum packed with old tsarist wealth; mostly relics of war, the foundation of all great histories, I suppose.

Tuesday, December 25, 1990

There is a mysterious, mystical side to Moscow though nonetheless irrefragably real: An inexplicable depth of an unnamed presence ... a pulse ... a most certain course of events amidst the chaos. What is it -- what moves us here? What is this that finally feels so familiar?

Sunday, December 30, 1990

The desperate food shortages in Moscow have intruded on my relative margin of comfort. The lines at the beriozka stores have grown long -- mostly Russian mafia and prostitutes with their ill-gotten "valyoota" ("hard-currency") buying up luxuries like liquor and chocolate. Even the checkout line at the "credit-card-only" beriozka wraps around the store. For 8 days I've been unable to find eggs and ice cream (my main staples).

Yet Zoya, our cleaning lady, gifted me a New Year's bottle of Hungarian champagne ... Lord knows how she found or afforded it.

* * *

"If we can't live like America, then let's make America live like us." -- Anon.

* * *

Tuesday, January 1, 1991

New Year's Eve and Day were spent with Natasha, watching American videos such as the Star Wars series and The Godfather. She loves the look at western lifestyles, and it helps my Russian translating the plot lines to her. She, in return, translates the Russian movies on Soviet television for me and explains the even more bewildering customs and folklore woven into the stories.

Thursday, January 3, 1991

Today I shot the raising of the flag at the new Israeli consulate, the first time the blue-and-white Star of David has flown in Moscow for 23 years. Since I was shooting for Israeli Television, they cleared the Consul General's office of the crowd of correspondents so I could have an exclusive interview. The look on the reporters' faces as they were ushered out was worth all of my hardships here. As the video was fed over the Gostel satellite uplink later in the evening, I could hear the Jerusalem control room workers cheering as the flag was raised and the Israel national anthem was sung. The new consulate expects to process 400,000 Jewish emigrants in 1991, likely draining yet more of the educated and skilled workers from Russia.

Saturday, January 5, 1991

As part of the move toward a market economy, the Soviets have stopped subsidizing "luxury items" like car parts, furs, and (gasp!) beriozka stores. The prices have doubled since the first of the year when the change took effect. A dozen eggs now costs me about four dollars.

Every night lately I've been having dreams of home, the same vivid dreams I used to have about Moscow.

Monday, January 7, 1991

It's officially Christmas Day in Moscow. Yeltsin proclaimed it so after he was petitioned by the Moscow Patriarch of the Russian Orthodox Church; Gorbachev followed suit and declared it a Christmas holiday in the Republics as well. It's the first Christmas in Russia since the Revolution. No one seems to know how to celebrate it, but everyone is enjoying the day off.

Thursday, January 10, 1991

Russians are an interesting combination of extremes: unrestrained greed and self-promotion, countered by expansive philosophical and soulful depths -- each trait bountifully real and straightforward. In comparison, Americans appear an in-between muddle, often frosted in bullshit.

I'm not sure if it is the Russian's self-centered side that has fostered this ineffective system, or the horrible Soviet system that has advanced the "get-out-of-my-way-and-give-me" attitude. I do know that a self-serving approach to life (so pervasive here) inevitably leads to mistakes as one misses the greater perspective available to a more transcending viewpoint ("enlightened selfishness" the new-agers call it). By looking out only for one's self, one misses the bigger picture of one cooperating within the context of all else; a necessary awareness, I believe, for true enduring success.

Fascinating how the national and individual personalities reflect each other.

* * *

"All we have is our hope, because our plans never work."
 -- Yuri Livshits, Russian Pediatric Laser Surgeon

* * *

Friday, January 11, 1991

Moscow is a free-for-all of capriciousness and graft and ever-changing "official policy" which keeps everyone guessing how to proceed. For example, a hotel room (invariably small and poorly serviced) can run $350 hard-currency per night, or only 15 rubles if you have the right connection or an appealing bribe (a pack of cigarettes or a five dollar bill go a long way).

* * *

"I've been covering Moscow for 20 years ... right now it's like the old Wild West; no rules, anything goes, whatever you can get away with."
 -- Ike Seamans, NBC Moscow Bureau Chief

* * *

Saturday, January 12, 1991

Traffic in Moscow is a jumble of horrendous drivers newly acquainted with the privilege of automobile ownership. (Bad drivers are called "chaineeki" -- "teapots" -- though no one can tell me exactly why.) Pedestrians wisely scramble clear of any approaching vehicle, suspiciously declining if you extend them the right of way. The wide streets rarely have lanes marked, and what lines there are often lead into a wall or oncoming traffic. You just form a lane wherever you choose. Total bedlam. Little direction. An apt metaphor for the times.

Update: March 10, 2016

Loved your notebook ... BTW, the drivers who are called chainiki are called that for a lot of good reasons that sort of make sense if you were the one driving a Volvo or a Mercedes in a sea of Ladas in the 1990's. It's not so much that they were bad, it's that they were driving Soviet vehicles in a very Soviet style, so all of the teapot comparisons apply. They are indecisive and take a long time to get going, they're slow (like the car runs on steam), when they do get up to speed they tend to just haul ass for a while, and when they break they're useless. Not long after you left, vehicle warning stickers with teapots on them became a point of pride for many Lada, Niva and Moskvitch drivers. - Greg Hunter

Monday, January 14, 1991

The Bush/Gorbachev summit will likely be postponed over U.S. pre-occupation with the Iraqi conflict (my boss in D.C. tells me the Pentagon has placed a rush order for 16,000 body bags). A mob of angry protesters amassed in Red Square and at the American Embassy yesterday in response to the Soviet Red Army slaughter of 13 unarmed demonstrators this weekend at the Lithuanian broadcast center. Yeltsin is urging Russian soldiers not to shoot at civilians even if ordered to do so by the Red Army, furthering the political rift between Russia and the Soviet Union.

Gosteleradio has canceled "Vzglyad" ("Viewpoint"), Soviet TV's radical and popular investigative parallel of "60 Minutes." The wretched "tent city" of hundreds camped out in front of the Rossia Hotel (drawing attention to Moscow's homeless and a plethora of other causes) for the past many months has been cleared in yet another example of a diminishing free speech. Tensions in the street are mounting as limited food supplies grow thinner. And our corporate chiefs are in Washington today to layoff who knows whom. Yikes!

Wednesday, January 16, 1991

This could well be my last Moscow entry as I pack up our gear and head for home. (Home. That word has never sounded so good.) Upon my return all Sun World Moscow employees including myself will be terminated. (Terminated. That word has never sounded good.) I've had a few job offers bringing me back to Moscow. Natasha painfully wonders what I will do. My only immediate goal is to spend a little time on a Southern California beach.

* * *

"You are now like a Russian ... it takes so little to make you happy."
 -- Natasha, noting my glee after a fine Mexican meal at the American Embassy

* * *

Thursday, January 17, 1991

My boss called at 3:00 this morning (Moscow time) to inform me the U.S.A. had just begun bombing Iraq. Today all streets around the American Embassy were closed off by a heavy Soviet police contingent and cement barricades. They fear a terrorist attack from the large Arabic community (especially Iraqi) in the USSR. As I left the compound today, the typically terse Embassy gate guard warned me to "be careful out there." The "American Correspondent" license plate on our Volvo (which up to now has been an advantage) now makes me very nervous.

Tuesday, January 22, 1991

My official Soviet press credential and multiple-entry visa, which have taken months to process, were suddenly delivered within hours after my boss sent a $200 bribe to a Foreign Ministry official (the press credential was handed to me just in time to allow me access to Gorbachev's press conference disavowing his role in the Lithuania killings).

Thursday, January 24, 1991

My departure has been delayed long enough for me to witness the collapse of Gorbachev's perestroika and glasnost.

New-found press freedoms have been restricted in response to critical coverage of the Baltics' repression. As of the first of February, Gorbachev will assign the military to patrol the streets of Moscow -- ostensibly to "protect the people from hooligans," but more likely to protect the Kremlin hooligans from the people.

In an alleged crackdown against black marketing, Gorbachev has recalled 50 and 100 ruble notes (about one-third of all Soviet currency in circulation). Citizens throughout the Union were given three days to turn their rubles in under very strict guidelines and KGB supervision. The new rules allow an exchange of up to 1,000 rubles of the large notes, but many people here have amassed savings of tens of thousands of rubles over decades, stashed under mattresses and hidden in dark corners, waiting for the day when there might be something worth buying. Stunned laborers, farmers, pensioners, family men and women stand in long bank lines, terror in their eyes as lifetimes of work and savings are snatched away.

Fury and frustration hang in the air as a flammable gas. I fear an igniting spark is imminent.

* * *

"When I was little I would cry over stories about the black people taken from their home to slave in America. Now I cry for myself, a slave in my own country!"
 -- Natasha

* * *

Sunday, February 3, 1991

(Annandale) Early this morning I was on Red Square shivering in 35-minus degree snow as the guards performed their hourly change at Lenin's Tomb.

This evening I am home in Virginia, sitting on my large backyard deck under a warm Indian Summer sky shimmering with stars.

How easy it was flying home, dining on Lufthansa's roast duckling, leaving the dreary Moscow life behind, one last quiet "pahka" to Natasha as she poked her head around her apartment corner for a final glance, my ransomed guitar in her hand, waiting for the day I might return.

America glistened under the bright sunlight on final approach, rich and warm like the gaudy jewel it is, the solid touchdown pounding my heart back home.

The stores here packed with products, the people preoccupied with banal problems beyond the easily met needs of daily survival. I, the American god in Moscow, feel alien in my native land.

Do we -- do I -- give up on the great Russian hope?

* * *

"Russia stinks of dirty bodies and evil Balkan tobacco and a disinfectant they must distribute by the tank car daily ... In the end, every little detail starts to get to you -- the overwhelming oppressiveness of the place, the plain god-awfulness of it."
 -- P.J. O'Rourke

"Everything in you is poor, straggling, and uncomfortable; no bold wonders of art, no cities with many-windowed tall palaces built upon rocks, no picturesque trees ... Everything in you is open, empty, flat; your lowly towns are stuck like dots upon the plains ... there is nothing to beguile and ravish the eye. But what is the incomprehensible, mysterious force that draws me to you? Why does your mournful song, carried along your whole length and breadth from sea to sea, echo and re-echo incessantly in my ears? What is there in it? What is there in that song? What is it that calls, and sobs, and clutches at my heart? ... Russia! What do you want of me? What is that mysterious hidden bond between us?" 
 -- Nikolai Gogol

* * *

(Natasha's Love Letter)

Steven Van Hook
Moscow, USSR
Winter, 1990

Dearest Natasha:

What is the language of the heart? Not English. Not Russian. Not any tongue, more meant to cloud than clarify the soul's intent.

When we lie together, quietly, after the passion is calmed, you must certainly feel my heart, my soul, whispering its message to yours. Do you hear it? Does it speak the words you understand? Do you believe there is more to be seen and heard, beyond the range of eyes and ears? I know it is true!

Listen, my love. Eternity also speaks in silence, enveloping the beloved in timeless truth. Do you hear it?

Time and place banished, their illusory limits eclipsed by the transcendent light and sound so afar from the frail and feeble senses. Here is where dreams come from. It is real! It is real!

You and I are one. Small waterdrops flowing beside in the universal sea of all creation. Apart, together; such words without meaning in the great ocean where all is one. Do you feel it?

Take no sorrow from our partings, only joy from our union. Long after our bodies are dust will I hold you in my heart, my enduring heart. You are a part of me, I a part of you, we a part of forever.

When I hold you, I hold all that is perfectly eternal. When I gaze into your soul, I see all that is gloriously true. My heart pounds in rapture! In you, I hear angels singing. Kissing you, I taste heaven's nectar. You are my crystalline window, through whom I may see God. Do you believe it?

Believe!

Please forgive my words, the foolish words from my breath, those from my hand. They are words that yearn for meaning in a hopeless quest. Listen, instead, to my heart, that dances over this page, between the letters while laughing at them, that feeds through your blue spangled eyes to the core of your soul.

Listen, my love, to my love; to love's language everywhere the heart turns its mystical ear. Do you believe it?

Believe!

Love,

Steven

(Look in my photo album for pictures)

Copyright © 1995 Steven R. Van Hook