Who Gets On in Tartu, for Goodness Sake!

The day we spent in Riga was mixed with emotion. We arrived at Latvia's capital a little before midday having passed through a litany of rural Lithuanian farmlands. We actually saw very little urbanization along the eleven-hour ride from  Warsaw--except perhaps for the undistinguished Lithuanian city of Kaunas, halfway to our destination. The night bus from Warsaw was jam packed to the hilt. The one we had to transfer in Kaunas to Riga had merely a handful of other passengers, and an impatient driver who looked my son and I over and said, "You must be Vissam and Karim" in a heavy Baltic accent that betrayed a "Where the khell khav you been? All my life I am vaiting for you!"

On we got and off we went for the remaining five hour bus ride. Karim immediately went back to sleep. I went back to being awake, my body utterly refusing the notion of going to sleep when it's still light outside. "It's non negotiable Wissam!" it said loud and clear. And I'm thinking, 'Must be my ancestral farming genes getting ready to till. But where the heck are the competing Mediterranean  party-all-night-and-sleep-all-day genes when you need them?!' Of course, the source of this great confusion is the sudden realization that this far north in the globe in summertime meant the sun almost never sets, even if it's four o'clock in the morning!

All would be forgotten upon our drowsy arrival at Riga's Central Station. Now Riga is situated right where the Daugava River meets the Gulf of Riga, which opens up to the Baltic Sea. A dramatically tall TV tower ride by the wide river bed welcomes the visitor, who by then is easily impresses having been numbingly bored to a near death experience with all the Lithuanian flatlands.

Once in Riga's no frill bus station station, we quickly stored the luggage and walked into town, which is a mere 800 meters away. Walking through the town, Riga appears like a quaint version of a typical northern European city such as a Prague or a Stockholm, offering a mix of history, culture, and entertainment. The downtown is where it's historical rubber hits a tourist's road with the usual milieu of cathedrals, palaces, Dutch looking town homes, and cobble-stoned streets filled with hat musicians.

Of note is Riga's roosters that sit atop several buildings, and which, if anything, are a proxy to its historic ups and downs. One particular structure, the St. Peter Cathedral, for instance, had its cupola's rooster blown to smithereens no less than six times over the past few hundred years. The latest culprits in the rooster-busting saga are the usual suspects of Nazis and Soviets and whose occupations appear to have left a deep mark on Riga's psyche as evidenced by the numerous museums and monuments. 

One structure which rises above the fray is a massive public library shaped slice a big triangular shape, which aside from representing an architectural marvel is a manifestation to education and the empowerment of people. A particular section titled the People's Stacks invites ordinary people to submit their favorite books to be safeguarded and shared. A nice touch. What better way to bury the past than to build a new future ...

For lunch as usual I outsourced the decision to Karim  whose culinary research often lands us in memorable places. He wouldn't disappoint this time either as he guided us through the city to a medieval restaurant that offered a taste of the 14th century. Skeptical at first and fearful  that the food would have been kept on storage since, I complained to my son, who steadily responded, "Don't worry Dad I've done the research." He was right. The venison and onion soups were delicious so was the sea trout filler smoked on wooden chips, which apparently. This last dish had tickled the fancy of non-other than Constance, King Louis of France's sister who is said to have been culinarily quite fastidious.

In the afternoon we went to see the games on a large TV in the center Square and what games they proved to be. In the first, we were seated next to an Argentinian contingent. What an emotional bunch. The lady next to us was giving Messi instructions the whole game; clearly he wasn't listening, which is precisely why Argentina ended up being ousted by France. Uruguay did better in the second game. I have been eyeing this team for a while now. If one team, could pull an upset, it would be Uruguay. They in turn ousted Ronaldo and Portugal.

Having seen all the charm that Riga had to offer, it was now time to move on again. This time to St. Petersburg in Russia to watch some live games. The bus ride started off great. Karim's quick wit got us two rows of seats on the Lux Bus, which was otherwise packed like sardines. I guess a lotta folks are heading north! This was great news considering it is to be a ten and a half hour drive from Riga to St. Petersburg in Russia crossing through Estonia. I stretched and slept. Alas my comfort did not last. Three hours in at around 3:30 in the morning, we stopped in the oddly named town of Tartu. Had no idea why, until a lady and a gentleman boarded ... and headed straight to my row (where else) saying the most dreaded six words I had ever heard at that ungodly hour:. "Khello. You khav our two seats."

...

'Who does that? I mean who gets on in Tartu, Estonia at 3:30 in the morning for goodness sake?!'

Vasrsavia Chopina

It's not often that I get touched by a city as I did by Warsaw.

My flight the previous day from Dublin to Munich ,in preparation to the trip to Poland, had been seamless. Germany, the heart of Europe, is pumping with all the force it could muster. On time arrival, punctual buses, and impeccable trains—all explicitly connected online for the world to see on a phone app. Simply pull out Google Maps, enter where you’d like to go, and Germany will get you there every step of the way and on time! There is little room for interpretation or implication in such a precise society. The brute truth is on display for everyone to see and to benefit from for everyone who conforms. Notwithstanding this brute force, Munich as a city is a pleasure in summer, made even more so with family and friends. Unfortunately, there is no time on this trip for parks science museums, political discussions, or schnitzel. Poland was beckoning—above all connecting with my son who had been backpacking Europe for close to a month. Couldn't think of a better mate to join me on this adventure on--always resourceful, knowledgeable, and eager to see and taste the world ...

Admittedly, I was quite skeptical of Poland in the beginning; and the bare-bone LOT Polish Airlines Embraer 170 plane didn't help much. But I started catching a glimpse of things to come when I noticed that the airport we were landing in is called the Warsaw Chopin Airport. So Warsaw had joined the “Axis of Music” joining the ranks of Salzburg's named after Mozart, New Orleans' named after Louis Armstrong, and the Liverpool's named after John Lennon. I thought. It says something when a city honors a musician above all else ... Hmmm …

"Dad do we have some Zlotys?' he asked after we had embraced and were on our way to catch a bus into the city.

"No, what are those?"

"It's the national currency. Poland is in the EU but not in the Euro zone.” 

"Why did I think they were part of the EU. OK let's get some."

As the bus headed into Warsaw, I noticed trees elegantly lining up the avenue leading us into the city. What appeared to be several universities with a lot of young people hopping on and off the public bus provided a sense of brightness. Young people are so awesome …

As we got closer to the city center things began to look a lot busier; and the avenues grew wider. The city was clearly modernizing with high towers being constructed. Their tallest tower, however, a brick building with a clock at the top remains a landmark of the city and visibly its highest point. At 237 meters it towered over everything else, and quite interestingly is titled the Tower of Science and Technology. Now that ladies and gentlemen tickles the heck out of my fancy, and bodes well for Warsaw.

Suddenly, as we got off the bus, a Polish man with a device in one hand and round spectacles on his eyes (could well have been just one) approached my son. I had noticed him eying my son suspiciously n the bus but made nothing of it.

“Ticket!” he said firmly.

I could see my son fumbling for his ticket in his backpack, his other tummy pouch, and a small bag.

“I just bought 2-day tickets with Zlatans,” I tried to assure the inspector, showing him mine, for which he didn’t seem to care. He was eyeing the cheater—no doubt the disheveled hair and thin beard, which he had carried along with his backpack. The more the inspector looked sternly, the more the more my son fumbled around … “

“Sorry, sorry, will find” said my son in his makeshift Polish accent to make the inspector understand his English. I guess it had gotten him this far in umpteen European countries with different languages, why not!  Interesting that, Europe’s ability to have integrated so well, while it’s people have such different languages and cultures. The funniest thing of all is to see European neighbors, like Germans and Poles, or Swedes and Fins talking to one another in English- to the chagrin of the French, I am sure.

“And voila!” said my son finally with a naughty grin for having overcome the bus inspector’s suspicions; sending him into the oblivion of travel stories never to have collected his hefty penalty.

“Next time have ready,” was all the inspector could muster.

Reminded me of the time we were driving through Italy and accumulating parking tickets in a rented German RV. Why one might ask? It’s just Italian parking signs are a lot more difficult to understand than Italian hand signs, particularly those you get after you pass their run down Fiat 500 on the highway! “Eh Jermany, youa goa to hell eh !!!”

Anyway, after a while, I got tired of the tickets, and began ditching them, figuring I would be travelling back to the US in a few days … Characteristically very un-me I admit, but I thought heck if someone is going to solve Italy’s ballooning debt problem, it ain’t gonna be me … But then I got to Genoa, where I decided to park close to a marina wanting to try some the local fish that I figured Christopher Columbus must have tried at some point as well. But of course! Upon my return there was a rather hefty carabinieri lady giving me a ticket. I started had gesturing with all the God-given muscles, trying to get out of it a-la-italiani and make her unwrite what she had written. She would not budge, until finally trying to be smart, I said, “But looka here office, Ia go back to da US tomorrow, eh! I don’t have timea to pay dis!”

“Ahhhh!” she looked at me. “You goa back to da US?”

“Yessss,” I said.

“Den you payyy now!” she said pulling out her wallet.

Turns out Italy is not so chaotic after all. I started getting all the other unpaid tickets sent to my home in the US. That darn Polish inspector must have been on the case !!!

“What do you think we should do, Dad, we have twelve hours to kill in Warsaw.”

"How do you feel about meeting Mr. Chopin?" I answered.

“The musician? Sure. Can we grab lunch first?”

“Find us a place close by then, will you? Polish perhaps …”

Nothing beats ethnic food when on the road. Doesn’t matter if it’s street food, fast food, home-made, or restaurant food. It will tickle a traveler’s taste buds one way or the other.

“There’s a Polish restaurant modeled after turn of the century Polish restaurants and it’s highly ranked and affordably priced. Only a few blocks from here.”

“Sound like a plan Stan.”

“Follow me this way, Sir.”

As Mr. Google guided us there, we began noticing several road blocks impeding our passage to the Polish food promise land. Unyielding, we wiggled our way until we finally found a sudden clearing. Unfortunately, it was filled with police and army all assembled and wearing ceremonial outfits.

“What’s going on Dad?”

“Beats me champ,” I answered smelling the scent of a story. Straddled with backpacks and all, we walked right up to the railing with no one stopping us. As it happens, the President of Poland was giving a speech marking the 100^th anniversary of some battle or another. We were less than 200 feet away.

“Poles are very trusting dad,” whispered my son.

“You can say that again, ” I answered looking at the backdrop, which was the Saski (Saxon) Palace, or what remains of it. It had been a rectagular U-shaped two-level palace with a facade full of columns, which had been destroyed in WW2, with only a dozen or so columns left standing. Turned into a monument, it now commemorates the Polish unknown soldier. The Poles have kept it in its current state with picture exhibits showcasing atrocities for all eyes to see, perhaps because they do not wish to forget; perhaps as a reminder to keep them on top of their plans to rebuild it in its original grandeur …

Once the President finished his speech and the crowds began clearing up, and we wiggled our way to the Saski Garden in the background of the old Palace. A beautifully landscaped park with water fountains and “WIFI Available Here” signs everywhere. Who said you can’t have serenity and internet hustle and bustle all at the same time.

The restaurant turned out to be just around the corner from the park. Its décor did not disappoint, transporting one back to the turn of the last century with frescoed walls, deep red carpet, and carved wooden tables and chairs with lusciously padded seats. The waiter was a helpful fellow offering some interesting suggestions in food as well as Polish geography, “Poland has really good fish; and a sea where you can swim. You would love it; it’s only 2 hours away from Varsovia.”

Funny, I had always thought Poland was landlocked. “Fish sounds great …” hmmm still feeling the guilt of the plant based, “How about this one instead?”

“Aubergine Schnitzel is one my favorites, if you would believe it,” he answered. “It comes stuffed with cheese and tomato on a bed of rocket and parmesan salad.”

Boy did it prove to be a dish to remember, as it also came with balsamic oil that brought out the best in all ingredients.

A few minutes later he came out with a plate, “On the house for you to try Polish fish tartar.”

Complementing him on the meal and thanking him for his tasty suggestions, the waiter was overjoyed, and said, one more gift before you leave. Disappearing for a few minutes he returned with two Polish shots, which my son and I assumed, based on the shape of the glass, to be some polish alcoholic beverage.

“What do we do now, Dad? How embarrassing! He’s such a nice guy.” Whispered my son all embarrassed since neither of us drinks.

With the choice of either becoming drunk due to alcoholic intolerance and risking soliciting the reappearance of that Polish inspector; or embarrassing the incredible generosity of the waiter, I whispered back, “Quick plant behind you before he comes back!”

Just as Karim was about to pour the glass, the waiter reappeared. Sensing the situation, I waved my hand, “One last favor, can I take a photograph of this wonderful place?!”

Whew! That was close.

We could tell the waiter was ecstatic when he noticed the glasses all dried up!

“Now that was absolutely delicious! Thanks and so long !!!”  

“Dad Bus #28 will get us to Chopin’s Museum. Gets here in 4 minutes and there in 26.”

I have been an avid Chopinite most of my adult life, having grown to appreciate his his music while still in college. It was after a music class in Freshman year, and my father had said, “Take an art and music history class at some point. You will enjoy them.”

He was right. All it took was a single less than two-minute listen to his Prelude #4 in E Minor … Somewhat serendipitously, as we entered the Muzeum Frederika Chopina, as it is called in Polish, the very piece was playing. Touching. Housed in a multi-level city Mansion, the museum brings together real-life artifacts (a replica of his hands showed them not to be large or particularly long, pointing to his innate virtuosity), musical scores, and multi-media to provide an experience transporting one to Chopin’s time. The coolest was a grand piano with several binders of some Chopin Etudes. Opening up the binder and placing it on the Piano’s music rack (desk), it automatically turns on the piano music, while showing hands playing the piece in the background. Quite the visual effect … All that was missing was Chopin himself! But one could feel him on his piano located on the upper level in the middle of a French salon. How awesome would it have been to listen to him in such proximity?

Warsaw’s musical scene is not limited to Chopin’s museum but in reality is pervasive everywhere in overground and underground Warsaw. The old town of Warsaw with its brick castles, serves as a wonderful backdrop for violin players playing tunes as varied as Vivaldi and Paul McCartney (I guess hauling a piano around is somewhat more difficult, hence the violins) easily raising the importance of Warsaw’s music scene to the likes of Salzburg and Vienna. As if all this were not enough, the Lazienki Park, which houses a beautiful sculpture honoring Chopin is surrounded by forests, lakes, and castles. The beauty of the parks is perhaps only outdone by the detailed attention to Chopin’s music, which can be played from marble benches at the press of a button, to the utter enjoyment of the patron.

As we departed Warsaw that evening, I reflected on this city, which I felt was like an innocent and pure maiden, surrounded by the harsh roughness of history. Warsaw is joy, beauty, atrocity, and melancholy all embodied in one, and it leaves one touched …

Dublin-- Fish & Chips By Hook or By Crook

The Irish poet, James Joyce, once wrote:

All day I hear the noise of waters

Making moan,

Sad as the sea-bird is when, going

Forth alone,

He hears the winds cry to the water's

Monotone.

The grey winds, the cold winds are blowing

Where I go.

I hear the noise of many waters

Far below.

All day, all night, I hear them flowing

To and fro.

Landing in Joyce's Dublin, Ireland after an uneventful 7-hour Atlantic crossing, I was surprised by a shining object I had rarely seen around these parts before—and which I am sure Joyce would have marveled at as well.

“Hasn’t happened since 1887,” said the taxi driver, a retired local whose opinions shone as brightly as the celestial object. Irish taxi cabs remind me of their Lebanese counterparts. Every time I’ve come to Ireland, they’ve seemed increasingly willing to engage in conversation; happily voicing their thoughts and opinions with little if any inhibition.

“What you mean sunshine?” I asked him, wondering by his mature age whether he was speaking of personal experience!

“Yes, it hasn’t rained here in well over three weeks. Not a cloud in the sky. The Irish farrrrmers are screaming bloody murderrrr. The Guinness Book of records has marrrked it down already.”

“Is that right? Why?”

“Ask bloody Trump! He doesn’t believe in climate change! But it’s now all washing up on his bloody Golf Course just down the road. Flooding and all.”

“Really? He owns a course here?”

“Oh yeah. Bought it for fifteen million during our 2010 downturn. It’s worth double that now. And guess else he’s doing with it?”

“Tell me.”

“Building a bloody wall around it to stop the sea water  flooding the greens. Can you believe it? What’s wrong with that man? Him and his bloody walls. ”

We were heading to the seaside town of Malahyde, some 15 miles away from Dublin airport. Famous for its castle, gardens and village. I figured it would beat sitting in an airport waiting for my connection to Munich later that evening. It would give me a chance to see parts unknown to me and above all a taste of fresh local fish and chips. Mind you, I was admittedly feeling a pinch of guilt for even the thought of all the battering and deep frying. My wife had us on plant-based nutrition the previous few weeks. After some initial adjusting, I had started feeling light and energetic. The whole exercise had made me think how far away humanity had gone from what it was designed to actually consume. Not sure evolution had planned for the extra intake of caffeine, salt, corn syrup gluten, GMO… —each addictive in their own way … Fascinating though is how quickly de-sensitization occurs when one puts their mind to it. It's as if when the mind purposefully decides “No More”, the body dutifully goes along beginning a detoxification process. And with what instant speed! All of a sudden salt, sugar, bread, caffeinated beverages all magically transform from being necessary to becoming superfluous elements that the body acquiesces forgoing. Somewhat paradoxically, as de-sensitization occurs, the senses become more and more acute, getting tickled with a mere whiff of what was needed before. Years of potential bad eating habit turn on a dime.

But hey! I’m in bloody Ireland and by God nothing is going to stand in the way of my fish and chips, not immigration, not customs, not taxis, buses, or plant-based diet! Karim had recommended “the best fish and chips in Dublin Dad” in Dublin. But my flight in had been delayed in arriving, which meant I did not have enough time to go all the way down to Dublin... A disappointment considering I had been hoping to drop by Trinity College’s library, one of the most distinguished in the world. Mentioning it to the driver, he goes:

“Guess who was at Trinity last week?”

“No idea. Obama perhaps?”

“Close, Hillary Clinton." he said adding, "She received an honorary PhD. Kennedy was the first President to ever visit Ireland with his wife Jackie; and since then every single American first lady has visited Trinity.”

“You don’t say …”

“Yep. Mind ye, I don’t think Melania Trump will be showing up. She doesn’t even know how to read!”

"Are you sure about that."

"Based on what I've heard her say, I've no doubt--"

“Nice roads you got here,” I said, admiring the nicely organized roads with a typical grey stone walls separating stone houses from the road. 

The drive from the airport to Malahyde wiggled through some upscale neighborhood, which were clear proof that over the past two decades, Ireland had been among the EU’s biggest beneficiary. The airport itself was modern and very busy; with many services readily available upon arrival—much more so than those back in the US. Even in a village as small as Malahyde, the roads and infrastructure were as good as it does in England or Germany. This bodes well for the EU, I thought, which unlike what some claim was a project meant to transfer wealth from the European South to the North. This said, economic productivity is a magnet for money... Has been and will always be in Europe, America, and everywhere else. If in the case of the European Union, the South is less productive than the North, an unintended consequence of the union would be a transfer. Perhaps that is the true essence of the dilemma that Europe is facing, as opposed to the migration smoke screen that supposedly is the source of all economic ills. Incidentally, the same applies in the US. Globalization has flattened the economic playing fields (at the behest of the West, ironically). It would be pretty disingenuous of the West to now claim the rules of global competition are unfair. 

Countries need to compete to survive. Ireland decided to compete and by the looks of it and the fact that they now enjoy among the highest per capita income in Europe, have done well for themselves. Google, Facebook, Apple and many other large IT companies have headquarters in Dublin, making it one of the most attractive places to live and work in the EU.

Wandering through Malahyde’s gardens and then savoring my gluten free fish and chips (don’t ask) on the village's seaside promenade, I reflected on Ireland’s journey of war, peace, and prosperity; and that of other countries such as the ones that I would be seeing on my upcoming trip, like Poland, Lithuania, and Latvia, all of which were previously Soviet satellite states.

My reflections were interrupted by tens of thousands of cricket fans who had suddenly descended upon the village for a cricket test of sorts. Most of them seemed of Indian heritage. ‘Can globalization ever be reversed as some politicians seem to huff and puff?’ I wondered to myself. Highly improbable and impractical, beyond populist sound bites. But if ever it did, it would go against the very nature of human being’s wish for freedom of movement, innovative enterprise, and borderless love. 

Borderless love, now that’s a thought! Isn’t that what the FIFA World Cup is all about? All kinds of cultures and people’s coming together from all over the world to celebrate the one thing they all love?

Can’t wait to join my fellow man (and woman) in arguably the world's largest love fest. But first off it’s a quick business sojourn in Munich, Germany and the excitement of re-connecting with my son in Warsaw, Poland. 

Visualizing the No-Tour Tout-Tout Itinerary

I remember having a math teacher who was somewhat obsessed with "Visualizing". Going through the itinerary prepared in a spreadsheet for the trip, I now understand why. I feel it needs something a bit more tangible ... Time to "Visualize". Fortunately, nothing that a digital Map tool can't solve. What's cool about it is not only does it allow for easy routing on a global map (one basically draws a line between from and to cities), but the tool automatically gives the mileage as well ... 

Why would one waste the energy with all, one might ask? For no particular reason except to try and understand the trek, I suppose. I mean when planning for such a trip, one tends to either overlook or "underlook" things. One way to avoid both is to actually look ahead. This is not to say that everything needs to be planned down to what gets eaten for breakfast on Day 4. The tingling elements of surprise have to be given a chance to manifest themselves, if only to avoid boring one's self to death with pre-planned tours and schedules that zap the soul of any adventure. 

Speaking of tours, the last one I believe I did was in 2008 in the Dominican Republic, of all places, where I had gullibly signed up the family for a tour to some water park somewhere on the island, without an inkling of much detail- a _brainless task by a brainless tourist--one whose price would be paid heftily at 3 am the next morning, when the tour operator zealously showed up at the hotel door. 

"You realize it's 3 am, right?" I said rubbing my eyes.

"Si senor."

"What on earth are you doing here?"

"Picking you up."

"Are you mad, hombre? What tour starts at freakin 3 am? I mean who does that?"

"Well senor, you signed up for it, remember?"

Oh I remember alright! Never again ... Never again. USA ... USA. No wait ... Mixing up chants ... and trips. Back to the Russia trip and the no-tour family policy itinerary!

So the trip is expected take a route starting in Washington, DC in the US, transiting through Dublin, Ireland, then Munich, Germany (a business sojourn that I begged the vacation God's forgiveness for), then onto Warsaw, Poland for a day trip, through Kaunas, Lithuania, and Riga, Latvia in the Baltics, then north up to St. Petersburg in Russia. Inside Russia, it will then take us to Moscow, Kazan, Nizhniy Novgorod, Sochi, back up to St. Petersburg, and finally Moscow again to catch a flight back through Vegas, and then finally back home to DC. The distance traveled will be approximately 18,500 miles within 26 days (a whopping average of 705 miles a day no doubt skewed by the long Atlantic crossings). The trip begins on June 26 at 10 pm and will end on July 22 at roughly the same time. As per map below, it will include planes rides (in red), trains (in pink), buses (in purple), and cars (in blue), ... and if we come across any mule, we will adjust accordingly. 

Trip Begins on June 26 in Washington DC, Dulles Airport with an outbound flight to Dublin Ireland 

Tiptoes Towards the Russian Bear

My dad used to say. Adventures are what you add to the venture that is life. He was certainly an adventurer. So was his father, my grandfather, who escaped Ottoman persecution to study in Boston at the dawn of the previous century. Not feeling far enough, he would eventually pack up in search of fortune in Mumbai India, of all places, managing to earn the accolade, King of Yarn (He was in textiles). His own father, my great grandfather, had been a sailor, running a shipping operation out of Mina in Tripoli, Lebanon. He was known as the Prince of the Seas. It is safe to assume then that my father's sense of adventurism was regally rooted. And so he would trot the globe from sea to shining sea absorbing cultures from Africa to Japan to North America, assembling quite the portfolio of stories and pictures. In one, which our family has grown to cherish, he is seen riding a horse in full Mexican army regalia, presumably going off to fight some revolutionary war of independence. He never did quite say whether the picture was real or not. It was senseless to ask anyway; no one was going to take away from his sense of adventure.

He would imbue this sense in us, his kids. "Kids, your mother and I are taking you on an adventure. We will be going off to Greece with no reservations except that of a car at the airport. The rest will all be left to our collective ingenuity and destiny." Now that seemed like a swell idea for a ten year old, until we found ourselves in the middle of a Peloponnesian nowhere at 2 am looking for a place to sleep the night! "It's all part of the plan," he would wink.

I would remember this episode many years later, when my own ten-year old son and I found ourselves in a somewhat similar situation lost in Kwazulu Natal in South Africa with no GPS. Karim's acute sense of foreboding took over as he ducked his head in the space below the passenger seat to save himself from whatever emerged out of the surrounding darkness. Miraculously, we did make it eventually to a bed and breakfast, which quite serendipitously ended up belonging to the King of the Zulu nation ... We never met the man, but appreciated the royal hospitality! Evidently, this episode while frightening the living daylights out of my son must have triggered the emergence of an adventurist spirit, as some eight years later, he would go, "Dad, we're going to Russia. Right?"

"Nope. I know nothing about Russia, and I don't know if I'd like to." I answered.

"It will be awesome, Dad. The cities, friendly people, history ..."

"How do you know all this?"

"It's all right here Dad. Read read all about it!"

"Oh so you're the Rusco-expert now?"

"Trust me Dad. It will be great. It's another World Cup adventure!" he winked like his grandfather would. 

"Okay I will consider, but you will have to handle the whole thing, as I don't have time," thinking (hoping) that would be the end of it.

"You got it dad."

Lo and behold, the kid not only managed to find World Cup game tickets, but airline tickets, trains, automobile rentals, hotels, and airbnb ... to cities I had never known even existed let alone could spell out. I had accidentally created a Godzilla adventurer (or maybe it was the genes) .

So off we go. Well actually not quite yet; as I am writing all this from Dublin ... Dublin, Virginia that is. A town in the southwest part of the state where my wife--another adventurer in her own right-- had suggested we go for a Master gardener conference. We end up staying in a 19th century manor in the valley below the Blue Ridge mountains. The manor had been constructed after the civil war with the original owner showing few signs of frugality in its construction, wanting instead to employ as many post-war unemployed as possible ... touching. The result is a beautiful southern-style plantation type mansion with stunning geometric wood floor designs, stucco ceilings, and sliding windows that convert to doors to allow for area breeze to flow through the house unencumbered ... Southern porch rocking chairs absolutely rock.

But I digress ...   

So while I am here in Dublin, Virginia; my mind is already in Russia trying to imagine what we will need on the trip. True adventures begin in the mind way before a single step is ever taken, I reckon (speaking southern lingo now, jeez ...). Anyway thoughts lead to planning, which lead to me remembering that my hiking pant zippers need mending. Nothing a quick pit-stop at the local Dublin Walmart cannot remedy.

Oh Walmart rural Walmart does causeth many a meandering, which of course I shared with my wife over a delicious veggie fajitas dinner at a highly recommended Mexican restaurant, inevitably named El Ranchero ...

"Dublin is a fairly small town," I said, "Couldn't be more than 5,000 people tops. Now does it really need this yuuuuge of a Walmart? And notice the town has no stores except Walmart, which probably means it wiped everyone else out. Of course, Walmart buys most of its goods from China, earning its shareholders quite the hefty margin, all the while paying employees fairly low wages. Clearly, rural america is being squeezed between Asia's infinite supply of labor and Wallstreet's equally infinite greed. Stiffed to the bone and to quite a visible degree! Of course, with the government unable to find a way to help all these folks out of their rut, something larger than life was needed. Much much larger and encompassing. Fortunately, Jesus stepped in! Yep! And the writing is on the wall(s)! Literally and quite ubiquitously ... 'Jesus is Here for You.'"

"What about that last minute Germany goal, eh?" came back the reply across the table.

But I digress again ... Where was I? Walmart, yes! Grabbing sturdy hiking clothing that can fit in a back pack. Comfy pants, breathable shirts, odorless socks for long train rides (I figure if my son and I won't be at each other's throats after thirty hours from Rostov On Don to St. Petersburg, last thing we would need is for undesired odors to do the asphyxiation! Speaking of packing, I have learned that the most difficult trick of these sort of trips is always in the packing. Over-packing is a common fatal mistake to be cursedly paid for ... if one is not extra careful. Interestingly, it is said that what differentiates humans from animals is our ability to think ahead. How come then, animals always travel light when they go on long treks, while us humans carry uselessly stuffed baggage? Stuff for thought ... But wait! I still need my stuff at Walmart, better snap out of my meandering and grab a bunch before the place closes ... 

Southern lady at the counter so friendly with an awesome drawl ... Wonder how the people in Russia will be. ..  Will there be smiles? Will there be pleasant hellos ... tearful goodbyes? Will they want to kick a ball or kick us out? One thing is for sure, there will be lots of memories. Isn't that what any adventure ultimately is about? Perhaps it's what my predecessors were searching for when they looked beyond their own horizons ... And while they could not have taught us what to search for, they did teach us to dare search, and perhaps to try and add some ventures to life ...

Off to Russia ...