I've been to Russia several times. My first trip was a glorious, thrilling, nerve-wracking, and exciting experience, occasionally peppered with fears of being killed and my body dumped in the snow, not to be discovered until the spring thaw.
My translator met me at the Moscow Sheremetyevo International Airport, and quickly hailed a "taxi" to get us to the Kazinsky Train Station. By "taxi," I'm referring to a random passenger car with a grim-looking driver who wanted to earn some cash driving a foreigner around Moscow. For $40 US, he'd take us anywhere we wanted to go. I climbed into the back of his Lada and we pulled out of Sheremetyevo and headed toward Moscow proper. As we neared the city, there was a series of over-sized anti-tank obstacles - those large jack-shaped metal I-beams like you'd see on beaches in World War II movies. Our driver pointed at the obstacles and with grave seriousness mixed with bitter pride said something along the lines of, "Этот где мы остановили немцев. Они никогда не продвигались дальше." Without looking at me, my translator explained. "That is World War II memorial. He says, 'This is where we stopped the Germans. They never advanced further than this.'" It was my first real taste of Russia, and it made the hair on my neck stand up.
We arrived at Kazinsky Station, located our train among the dozen or so queued up for departure, and then my translator asked me to wait there - telling me she'd be right back. I obeyed.
While she was gone wherever she needed to go - bathroom? - I noticed two police coming toward me. I assume they were police, anyway - they were dressed in military camouflage and carried short machine-guns pointing business-end forward. They stopped about 10 feet from the train I was planning to board. While staring at the machine-guns while trying not to look like I was staring at the machine-guns, my translator returned. She led me a few steps away and said quietly, "Here is train ticket." And along with the ticket she handed me was a red-covered Russian passport. "And here is new passport. YOUR NAME IS NOW SERGEI. I save you money. Russian ticket is cheaper."
I swallowed a very large lump in my throat and opened the Russian passport. Inside was a picture of Sergei, who looked absolutely NOTHING LIKE ME - not to mention that I couldn't say much more than "please" and "thank you" in Russian. I looked again at the two police with their machine-guns. They were still standing ten feet from my train. I was going end up dead in the Russian snow. These guys were going to kill me. Right here. Right now.
"Пошли! Let's go!" said my translator, and somehow my feet were moving toward the train. There was a little old lady checking tickets by the door to the train. I kept my head down and handed her the passport and ticket. She looked them over closely, comparing the name on ticket to the one on the passport. She never looked up to match my face to the passport. I took the passport and ticket and boarded the train. We had private 4-passenger seating with two bench seats facing each other with a small table between, and a door for privacy. My translator closed the door. It was time to clarify a few things with her. "Next time, I'd like to pay for the more expensive ticket in my own name. Those guys with the machine-guns made me nervous." She looked at me like I was being ridiculous. "You don't need to worry about them. If they catch us, you pay them in American dollars and they let you go. But now you must be quiet, because there are no Americans on this train."
"Great - I'm smuggling myself across Russia." I thought to myself.
A few minutes before departure, our door opened and a well-dressed young man entered, carrying a paper sack with food. I noticed a large, delicious-looking salami sausage poking out of the top of the sack.
I should mention something very important about me at this point. I LOVE SAUSAGE. I grew up on a ranch in a VERY small town - less than 1000 people. My family has a ranch with cows, horses, and goats, and each winter we hunt whitetail deer. My father makes his own dried sausage using venison and pork. The sausage is somewhat spicy and garlicky, similar to Armenian Sudzuka. It gets as hard as a rock like old jerky when left out, and is therefore excellent travel food. And it so happened that I had brought several rings of that sausage with me to Russia.
As we got underway, this young Russian man pulled out a 6-pack of warm Baltika beer, cracked one open, then brought out that large salami sausage. He had a pocket-knife with him, and started slicing the sausage. It looked BEAUTIFUL. And it gave me an idea.
I pulled out my dried sausage, and got out my own pocket knife which I'd hidden in my checked luggage. I began slicing my sausage, while watching him out of the corner of my eye. I could see him eyeing my sausage, and I knew we were well on our way to a cultural sausage exchange. He spoke something to my translator that I couldn't catch, but readily guessed. "He wants trade." she said. I nodded agreement and we were happily exchanging sausage.
I greedily took a bite of his sausage and was immediately surprised at the flavor. It wasn't bad - it could be called tasty even - but something was clearly amiss. The flavor was good but terribly wrong. There was something strikingly familiar about it. A spice or something that I couldn't quite place. I KNEW IT - REMEMBERED IT, somehow - but it completely eluded me. In keeping with good manners, though, I kept eating it. I had several more slices to work through. But the more I chewed, no matter how tasty the sausage was, the more disturbed I became about it. It was DEFINITELY familiar. My spider-senses were tingling like mad, telling me to spit it out. I chewed and swallowed. Something... something just not quite right about this sausage. I took another bite. What was that spice? That taste? I KNEW IT. But I was at a complete loss. So I turned to my translator - "What kind of sausage is this?"
She asked him. The response was delivered with great pomp and grandeur. "Это - лучшая колбаса во всей России. Лучше нет ничего. Эта колбаса - лошадь."
My translator listened then turned to me. "He says this is best sausage in all of Russia. There is no sausage better. It is HORSE."
I blanched. And I knew immediately that he was telling no lie. It was horse alright. Because it tasted exactly the way a horse smells. All my years on the ranch working with horses came reeling back to me. That meat had the sweet smell of horse-sweat. Horses have a spicy, unique, pleasant odor. I could inhale the smell of horses all day and be quite happy. But I had become an unwitting cannibal. A cannibal because I rate horses about as high as people. I'd eat dog or cat long before I'd knowingly eat a horse. Horses are friends, not food. At least for a Texan like me. I put on my best poker face and replied, "It's very good."
He then of course had the same question, and turned to my translator, who asked the expected question. "What kind is yours?"
I answered without hesitation. "KANGAROO."
He looked at me for a second, then turned to stare at my translator. She was working on a translation... hmm... what is "Kangaroo" in Russian?
After several long seconds, she provided the translation in her heavy Russian accent: "Kangaroo."
His mouth dropped open in surprise. Apparently, I just needed a heavier accent. Perhaps he was hoping he'd heard me wrong. I started laughing, and admitted I was joking. And they laughed as well. I guess humor translates well into Russian.
"Deer and Pork, mixed." I said truthfully.
"It's very good." came the translated reply. I'm not sure if he meant it. But he ate the last piece I'd given him. And I worked very hard to eat the last piece of horse he'd given me... the last piece of horse I've ever eaten.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Thursday, October 20, 2011
The World's Worst Runner
I've been told that I'm the world's WORST runner. Ever. (Runners are those internish guys that pick up rock stars and celebrities at the airport, drive them around, take them to fun and interesting locations, buy them blow, etc.) And apparently, I'm the world's worst. Ever.
Some quick back-fill: In the mid-'90s I got the wild notion that I just might be able to make my living as a professional drummer. So I did what any drummer with stars in their eyes would do: I moved to Nashville. Although I quickly discovered that I was not well suited to a life of Ramen Noodles and sleeping on a bus seat jammed between Enduro Hard Cases and an unshowered bassist, I did manage to strike up some friendships with musicians who actually WERE successful. The friendships have long outlasted my stay in Nashville.
Shortly after moving to Dallas from Nashville, I got a call from one of those very successful musicians - we'll call him "Mark" (because that's his name). Mark was playing guitar for a band whose most recent album had just gone double-platinum, and they were making a stop through Dallas on their US tour. Mark thought it would be cool to get together, grab a bite to eat, and hit the nearest music store. It sounded like a good plan to me.
It was August. In Texas. The Dallas concrete would heat up like a furnace. Even camels would think it's too hot - which is why they don't live here. and I was driving a '74 Volkswagen Superbeetle. And it's important to know that a '74 VOLKSWAGEN SUPERBEETLE HAS NO AIR CONDITIONER. Instead, it has windows that can roll down.
Being new to Dallas, I drew a map that would get me to the coliseum. It was easy enough to find the place, and when I saw the opportunity to park in an underground garage, I felt EXTRA lucky - the car might actually have a chance to cool down to an almost tolerable temperature.
I was excited about seeing Mark again, and quickly rushed up an escalator from the garage and made my way into the arena (which at that early point in the day had no security whatsoever). I had to walk a bit around the circular arena to get to the stage, where I simply headed backstage and began asking where the dressing rooms were. In no time, I was standing in the room with Mark and the rest of the band.
After a friendly "hello" and hand-shake, Mark introduced me to the rest of the band. "Hey guys, this is Mortigan, we're headed to the music store. Do any of you want to go?" The band's other guitarist and drummer were in. "Let's go!" said Mark, and I led them out of the dressing room and out into the arena.
"So where did you park?" Mark asked. And I realized then that I hadn't bothered to make any sort of note about where I'd actually left the car. "In an underground parking lot... somewhere over... THERE." I said, waving my arms in pretty much the general area of the other half of the arena. "Somewhere... over there."
We started walking. I would peep down various hallways leading out of the arena, hoping to see something that looked vaguely familiar. I was at a complete loss. When I finally decided that I was about where I was when I'd come up into the arena, I lead the band down a random flight of stairs I'd found, and quickly got us lost in the tunnels beneath the arena. If you've ever watched a horror movie or James Bond movie, you'll know THESE TUNNELS. They're the endless, dark, winding tunnels with pipes and electrical conduit on the walls where heroes and bad guys shoot at each other, where killers chase their victims, and where apparently I can get people REALLY lost. We were wandering around in that rat-maze of steam tunnels for about half and hour when the drummer finally blew a gasket. "I QUIT! THIS IS SPINAL TAP!!! WE'RE IN SPINAL TAP!!!" I began laughing, because the reference was so exactly suited to our situation that I found it kind of cool. The drummer didn't find it funny or cool at all. He wanted me to take him back. But since I had no idea where we were, that was a bit difficult. After a few more minutes we found a door that led us out into the coliseum's dock area, where workers with forklifts and such were unloading food and whatnot for the various snack stands. From there, were were able to go outside, which gave me better perspective of where we were, and I finally located the garage again, where my Superbeetle was waiting.
"THAT'S OUR CAR?" Asked the other guitarist. "YOU COULDN'T BRING ANYTHING MORE ROOMY?" He had apparently mistaken me for a "my-other-car-is-roomy" sort of guy.
"This is my only car." I responded. Mark offered to sit in back with the angry drummer, giving Mr. Other Guitarist the relatively-comfortable front seat. "Try not to sit too hard in the seat," I called back to the drummer. "You're sitting over the battery and if you push down too hard, the seat coils will make contact with the battery posts and it will make sparks." I didn't look back to see his reaction.
As I drove up the freeway toward the music store, Other Guitarist and Angry Drummer had a lot of questions. Most of my answers were terse, as I was focusing on driving and surviving the unfamiliar freeway:
"So what Cymbals do you play?" the salesman asked me, while Angry Drummer stands nearby.
"Sabian!" I responded heartily. "I absolutely LOVE them."
"Oh, me too! I only use Sabian!" says the salesman. He and I are now buddies. "But I've got some Paistes on sale that I'm supposed to show off." and points toward a cymbal rack full of Paistes.
"Hell no." I say. "If you gave me that entire rack, I'd trade them all for a single Sabian. I can't stand Paiste. They're machine pressed, not rolled. Sound like pie plates. Come to think of it, I'd rather have pie plates."* The salesman laughed, but the Angry Drummer just flinched and stared at me.
We all got back in the Beetle, which had now heated up to 350 degrees or so - perfect for baking bread or brains. I turned us back onto the freeway toward the coliseum, and entered bumper-to-bumper non-moving gridlocked traffic. We sat there in the blistering sun for about an hour, slowly inching forward. We'd gone about half a mile. Other Guitarist and Angry Drummer were ready to mutiny. The guitarist was trying to keep his mouth shut, and Mark was trying to keep the peace, but the drummer just couldn't take it any longer.
"Do you realize that we won a GRAMMY? If you'd told me a few years ago that I'd win a grammy, then shortly thereafter be jammed into the back of a Volkswagen in this sweltering heat with no air conditioning, stuck in Dallas traffic going no where, and probably not going to ever make it to tonight's show, I'd have told you that YOU WERE OUT OF YOUR MIND."
I didn't really know what to say except, "Hey, I got the windows rolled down - what more can I do?!?"
Traffic finally gave us a break and we were able to exit into downtown. I had randomly exited onto one of the main downtown streets. The Other Guitarist was suddenly excited. "Hey, isn't this where Kennedy was assassinated?!" I looked around quickly - I'd never been there and wanted to see it myself.
"I don't know - is it?!"
The instant I said that, the Other Guitarist blew up... big-time:
All I could say was, "Whaa....? Fired? What are you talking about?"
At that point, Mark jumped in. "Oh my! This is my fault! I'm sorry, I didn't introduce you right. Guys - this is just a friend of mine. He's not from here. He's a buddy from Nashville. He was just going to help me find a music store and I asked if you guys wanted to come too."
Things got real quiet in the car. The Other Guitarist stared out the window for a minute while the information soaked in. "I'm sorry." He said. "I thought you were hired by our record label to take us around. Man, I feel stupid."
"Don't worry about it." I said, and started laughing. It certainly explained all the questions I was getting about various buildings and such. They had expected me to be their Dallas tour guide, and they got the Volkswagen Special instead. But angry drummer was still quiet.
We got back to the arena and I walked with them back toward the stage. The roadies were wrapping up, and I could see the drumkit all set up now. All set up with piles of shiny Paiste cymbals. Turns out, Angry Drummer was endorsed by Paiste. Pie plate Paiste. It was my turn to be embarrassed, and I worked hard to swallow the large foot that was in my mouth. I turned to apologize, but Angry Drummer had already stomped off somewhere. Oops. I guess I am the world's worst runner. Ever.
Mortigan the Runner
Some quick back-fill: In the mid-'90s I got the wild notion that I just might be able to make my living as a professional drummer. So I did what any drummer with stars in their eyes would do: I moved to Nashville. Although I quickly discovered that I was not well suited to a life of Ramen Noodles and sleeping on a bus seat jammed between Enduro Hard Cases and an unshowered bassist, I did manage to strike up some friendships with musicians who actually WERE successful. The friendships have long outlasted my stay in Nashville.
Shortly after moving to Dallas from Nashville, I got a call from one of those very successful musicians - we'll call him "Mark" (because that's his name). Mark was playing guitar for a band whose most recent album had just gone double-platinum, and they were making a stop through Dallas on their US tour. Mark thought it would be cool to get together, grab a bite to eat, and hit the nearest music store. It sounded like a good plan to me.
It was August. In Texas. The Dallas concrete would heat up like a furnace. Even camels would think it's too hot - which is why they don't live here. and I was driving a '74 Volkswagen Superbeetle. And it's important to know that a '74 VOLKSWAGEN SUPERBEETLE HAS NO AIR CONDITIONER. Instead, it has windows that can roll down.
Being new to Dallas, I drew a map that would get me to the coliseum. It was easy enough to find the place, and when I saw the opportunity to park in an underground garage, I felt EXTRA lucky - the car might actually have a chance to cool down to an almost tolerable temperature.
I was excited about seeing Mark again, and quickly rushed up an escalator from the garage and made my way into the arena (which at that early point in the day had no security whatsoever). I had to walk a bit around the circular arena to get to the stage, where I simply headed backstage and began asking where the dressing rooms were. In no time, I was standing in the room with Mark and the rest of the band.
After a friendly "hello" and hand-shake, Mark introduced me to the rest of the band. "Hey guys, this is Mortigan, we're headed to the music store. Do any of you want to go?" The band's other guitarist and drummer were in. "Let's go!" said Mark, and I led them out of the dressing room and out into the arena.
"So where did you park?" Mark asked. And I realized then that I hadn't bothered to make any sort of note about where I'd actually left the car. "In an underground parking lot... somewhere over... THERE." I said, waving my arms in pretty much the general area of the other half of the arena. "Somewhere... over there."
We started walking. I would peep down various hallways leading out of the arena, hoping to see something that looked vaguely familiar. I was at a complete loss. When I finally decided that I was about where I was when I'd come up into the arena, I lead the band down a random flight of stairs I'd found, and quickly got us lost in the tunnels beneath the arena. If you've ever watched a horror movie or James Bond movie, you'll know THESE TUNNELS. They're the endless, dark, winding tunnels with pipes and electrical conduit on the walls where heroes and bad guys shoot at each other, where killers chase their victims, and where apparently I can get people REALLY lost. We were wandering around in that rat-maze of steam tunnels for about half and hour when the drummer finally blew a gasket. "I QUIT! THIS IS SPINAL TAP!!! WE'RE IN SPINAL TAP!!!" I began laughing, because the reference was so exactly suited to our situation that I found it kind of cool. The drummer didn't find it funny or cool at all. He wanted me to take him back. But since I had no idea where we were, that was a bit difficult. After a few more minutes we found a door that led us out into the coliseum's dock area, where workers with forklifts and such were unloading food and whatnot for the various snack stands. From there, were were able to go outside, which gave me better perspective of where we were, and I finally located the garage again, where my Superbeetle was waiting.
"THAT'S OUR CAR?" Asked the other guitarist. "YOU COULDN'T BRING ANYTHING MORE ROOMY?" He had apparently mistaken me for a "my-other-car-is-roomy" sort of guy.
"This is my only car." I responded. Mark offered to sit in back with the angry drummer, giving Mr. Other Guitarist the relatively-comfortable front seat. "Try not to sit too hard in the seat," I called back to the drummer. "You're sitting over the battery and if you push down too hard, the seat coils will make contact with the battery posts and it will make sparks." I didn't look back to see his reaction.
As I drove up the freeway toward the music store, Other Guitarist and Angry Drummer had a lot of questions. Most of my answers were terse, as I was focusing on driving and surviving the unfamiliar freeway:
- "What's that big building over there?" - "Probably an office building."
- "What companies are in that tallest skyscraper there?" - "I don't know. Is there a sign on the top?"
- "What's the population of Dallas?" - "You guess is as good as mine. A couple million?"
- "Is it ALWAYS this hot?" - "YES."
A note to non-drummers: Choosing Cymbals is a deeply personal matter reflecting the style and taste of the drummer - and drummers are often FIERCELY loyal to their chosen brand.
"So what Cymbals do you play?" the salesman asked me, while Angry Drummer stands nearby.
"Sabian!" I responded heartily. "I absolutely LOVE them."
"Oh, me too! I only use Sabian!" says the salesman. He and I are now buddies. "But I've got some Paistes on sale that I'm supposed to show off." and points toward a cymbal rack full of Paistes.
"Hell no." I say. "If you gave me that entire rack, I'd trade them all for a single Sabian. I can't stand Paiste. They're machine pressed, not rolled. Sound like pie plates. Come to think of it, I'd rather have pie plates."* The salesman laughed, but the Angry Drummer just flinched and stared at me.
*Full Disclosure: these days I like a lot of what Paiste is putting out and I'd be happy to play them. I no longer stand by my pie plate statement, but this story is the full and honest truth, and I'm telling it the way it happened, warts and all.
We all got back in the Beetle, which had now heated up to 350 degrees or so - perfect for baking bread or brains. I turned us back onto the freeway toward the coliseum, and entered bumper-to-bumper non-moving gridlocked traffic. We sat there in the blistering sun for about an hour, slowly inching forward. We'd gone about half a mile. Other Guitarist and Angry Drummer were ready to mutiny. The guitarist was trying to keep his mouth shut, and Mark was trying to keep the peace, but the drummer just couldn't take it any longer.
"Do you realize that we won a GRAMMY? If you'd told me a few years ago that I'd win a grammy, then shortly thereafter be jammed into the back of a Volkswagen in this sweltering heat with no air conditioning, stuck in Dallas traffic going no where, and probably not going to ever make it to tonight's show, I'd have told you that YOU WERE OUT OF YOUR MIND."
I didn't really know what to say except, "Hey, I got the windows rolled down - what more can I do?!?"
Traffic finally gave us a break and we were able to exit into downtown. I had randomly exited onto one of the main downtown streets. The Other Guitarist was suddenly excited. "Hey, isn't this where Kennedy was assassinated?!" I looked around quickly - I'd never been there and wanted to see it myself.
"I don't know - is it?!"
The instant I said that, the Other Guitarist blew up... big-time:
"THAT'S IT! AS SOON AS WE GET BACK TO THE ARENA, YOU'RE FIRED!!! YOU ARE ABSOLUTELY THE WORLD'S WORST RUNNER! EVER! YOU DON'T KNOW ANYTHING, AND THIS CAR SUCKS!!!"
All I could say was, "Whaa....? Fired? What are you talking about?"
At that point, Mark jumped in. "Oh my! This is my fault! I'm sorry, I didn't introduce you right. Guys - this is just a friend of mine. He's not from here. He's a buddy from Nashville. He was just going to help me find a music store and I asked if you guys wanted to come too."
Things got real quiet in the car. The Other Guitarist stared out the window for a minute while the information soaked in. "I'm sorry." He said. "I thought you were hired by our record label to take us around. Man, I feel stupid."
"Don't worry about it." I said, and started laughing. It certainly explained all the questions I was getting about various buildings and such. They had expected me to be their Dallas tour guide, and they got the Volkswagen Special instead. But angry drummer was still quiet.
We got back to the arena and I walked with them back toward the stage. The roadies were wrapping up, and I could see the drumkit all set up now. All set up with piles of shiny Paiste cymbals. Turns out, Angry Drummer was endorsed by Paiste. Pie plate Paiste. It was my turn to be embarrassed, and I worked hard to swallow the large foot that was in my mouth. I turned to apologize, but Angry Drummer had already stomped off somewhere. Oops. I guess I am the world's worst runner. Ever.
Mortigan the Runner
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