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Damned
Gypsies
Dave Francis Hello everyone, Hitler had a nice thought.... He was trying to do away with the gypsies when
he was killing the sons of Israel. He damn near wiped em out. Damn near....
Apparently some of the supergypsies (I call them that since I assume they survived
Hitler’s planned massacre, thereby causing an accelerated natural selection....)
have decided that a fat man and his wallet are soon parted. Poor fools. Just
exactly what do they think they will do with MY credit cards? HAHAHHAHAHAHAHA!
If they could really tell the future, they would have hit someone with a better
credit rating. Oh well. My wallet has gone, and rather than assuming I misplaced
it, I have decided to blame it on the hordes of decrepit souls who flock to
tourists like so many flies on an Africans lip on a National Geographic special.
Damned gypsies, tramps and thieves. Well, we went out today to get my visa extended, and the much-vaunted Russian
bureaucracy was going against the champ from the USA, Dave! Undefeated in many
battles with government agencies, dept. store return clerks, and long distance
companies reluctant to give credit for calls that 'somehow appeared on my bill.'
That's right, Dave, the American Dream was going against the backbone of the
Evil Empire, the Russian Apparatchiki! The designers of the never-ending line
were going to face the master of cynicism and sarcasm in a mano-a-bureaucraso
battle for supremacy. The Russkies tried to fake me out, hiding the office in an building off a side
street, inside a courtyard, and up three flights of stairs, with no elevator
working. Those of you who know me assume at this point that the stairs were
the deciding factor, and that I lost. Not so fast! I asked a couple of guys
on the street for directions, they replied something with NYET interspersed
liberally in their sentence. I, being the consummate traveler, understood them
to be telling me it wasn’t there. I found an archway, entered a courtyard, and
said, "Gdei Imigrazi?" to a couple of ladies who appeared to be East German
weightlifters. (I assumed they were coming from the office....) They pointed
to a door, and then up toward the trees like there was a bird I should see.
I assumed this was a reference to the stairs. I got in the door, stumbled through the dark, and saw, to my chagrin, stairs.
I looked vainly for an elevator, but there was none to be found. The corridor
was dark, the beat of dripping water in a distant corner the only sound besides
the pounding of my (still sick!) heart, frightened at the thought of facing
the stairs alone. My guide had abandoned me earlier with some lame excuse about
needing to go to work, or some such truck, so I was all alone against this stairway.
To me, this stairway represented a painful tower of Babel. To climb it was to
struggle into a world of guttural sounds and strange stares. Hands flying in
frustration, and me breathing hard with not a pretty lady in sight to blame
it on. I could turn back, but no. Not Dave! I had to go forward. For me, for
God, for America! I would not be stopped! My hand firmly grasped the banister, and I began my ascent. I felt something
slimy on my hand, so I quickly wiped it off, (Dammit, not your pants!) but continued
my upward climb undeterred. For those of you who don’t know, stairs are evil,
unfeeling creatures. They zap the strength in your legs while bringing you forward
with a Svengali like promise that the next turn could be the last. I make it
to the end of the first set, turn, and another set stairs me in the face. Jaw
set, brow furrowed; sweat pouring like a Gatorade commercial, I trudge onward,
upward. I reach the next landing, and consider this as a good spot for a base
camp. I am wishing I had brought along shurpers at this point, and am amazed
that I have gotten this far. (Remember, this is without oxygen tanks.) Grimly,
I go forward. Beyond the candy wrappers, over the dirt clods, pulling myself
up to another landing, where I turn to see, you guessed it. More stairs. Now,
I am in the danger zone. Any misstep here could be fatal. I take a step, then
breathe for 10 minutes, then labor to lift my foot again up to the next step.
My legs ache to sit down, beg for just a few hours rest, but I know I am on
a tight schedule. The office closes in 7 hours, and I need to get to that door.
I know if I rest now, I may not be able to go on. One leg is bad, almost useless.
I am going forward on pure instinct now. Through teary eyes, I recognize the
end of the banister on my right, on my left, I see a dim light. It is light
coming through a glass door. A glass OFFICE door! I have made it to the third
floor! The famous Russian Red Tape Monster is on the other side of that door,
and I am going in. Without even a Russian/English dictionary, I am running on
adrenaline and cock-sure attitude now. I straighten my collar, pull myself to
my full 68 inches, and reach for the door. It opens inside, revealing a small
wooden desk with a pleasant looking lady of about 60 years behind it. She looks
so nice, so friendly. God these commies are clever. "Hi," I said, with an air of confidence not reflecting anything other than bravado.
"Do you speak English?" "A little bit." replied the lady, with a nicely clipped British accent and an
incredibly disarming smile. Worried now, I took a seat and explained that I needed to extend my visa, and
had brought the necessary papers, but I didn’t know which were which. She took
my folder of papers, looked through them, pulled out a stamp, hit one of the
pages a good whack, and said,” There you go. Hope you enjoy your stay." I smiled, picked up my things, complimented the lady on her English and slunk
out of the office. A hollow victory. Dave |