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After Travis asked for a few journalism yarns, I thought about it and what popped into my mind was the time I lost all my clothes in Europe.  Or to be specific, I was traveling with Clinton and we’d touched down in Rome about midday. Clinton, who’d already learned not to go jogging in tight running shorts in the Eternal City, something he did exactly once to general hilarity over his chicken breast white thighs, proceeded through a brief and restrained arrival ceremony leaving the press corps to wander the streets on a summer evening.   

As they say, nothing could fin-ah back in Carolin-ah than a chance to walk past the coliseum at twilight. Since we were flying to Paris the next day amid repetitive and lame jokes about staying in the Paris, Hilton, I left my suitcase down with military guys who did logistics. Yes, I had it all planned out how I was going to gin up a modest charge and present the bill to my bureau chief with the deadpan explanation that I need to be reimbursed for drinks in Paris, Hilton. The idea was to mumble the “in” part so it sounded like “with.” However, the surprise came in Orly airport when the military guys, after much scratching of their heads and searching the baggage carts, announced apologetically that my clothes had been sent back the U.S. along with certain other things like soap, toothbrush and what not. Which is how went through the next several  days wearing cheap t-shirts featuring the Eiffel tower and the image of Le Chat Noir I picked up from a street vendor over increasingly grungy pants. Naturally, I took some ribbing for this but my main worry was there wouldn’t be a press conference.

All right, so that story was only partially interesting. I can see that. The problem was the destinations, Rome, Paris and various other cities where things happen as you more or less expect them to happen.  If you want a good yarn, first you have to go some place where life is, by definition, always weird and most of the people are drunk or insane or both. Which brings to mind Moscow.

Yes, Boris Yeltsin had faced down the Communist counter-revolution, shoved aside Gorbachev, and we were all flying in to see the world’s latest experiment in liberal democracy capitalism. But, once on the ground, it became fairly clear while somethings had changed, others hadn’t. Taking a walk from the National Hotel, the place where decades of communist leaders had hosted foreign dignitaries, I saw a bum or a drunk or maybe just a run of the mill Russian, it was hard to differentiate at the time, fast asleep on a granite stone bench when a Russian police van screeched to a halt. A squad of four or five policemen spilled out with batons drawn and proceeded to beat the poor bastard bloody. Knocked out cold, or perhaps never even waking up, they threw him in the back of the van and roared off. This was their way of preparing for state visit and was my first hint that the idea of liberal democracy capitalism Russian style still had some rough edges.

Retreating back to National and still jet lagged, I dodged an invitation to go to what was then the roaring Moscow night club, the Hungry Duck. Why the name? Beats me. But something spelled out trouble in my mind in capital letters. Instead, I sat in the upper atrium of the National’s bar and spent a leisurely evening with a couple of other hacks counting the prostitutes who were catching the eye of the German business men. Now, for the record, Russian women are very attractive and whatever defenses the German business men had were overrun as pretty effectively as the Red Army overran Berlin. One by one, they wandered off escorted to the elevators.

Which, in my opinion, was sort of ballsy, so to speak. I mean we all knew the rooms were still bugged. But maybe the Germans just didn’t care what the security folks overheard. Probably the security types had heard it before, anyway.

The next morning, those of my comrades who had dipped their beaks into the drinks trough at the Hungry Duck were a bleary bunch to be sure. Several were the finest shades of green. There is no better or more evil satisfaction than acting really bright-eyed and bushy tailed when you’re at a table full of people who look like there is nothing they would rather do than die once and for all on the spot.  But one fellow lurched up, let’s call him Network James, with the stupidest expression I’ve seen in a long time. He was wearing what was clearly a new shirt just fresh out of the box with the folded starch lines still visible. Then I noticed his pants also had the precise crease you only get hot off the shelf.

James proceeded to regale us with his exploits of the previous night and how he’d picked up not one, but two, of Russia’s beauties. Charmed them right off their feet, he said. Then he’d wink, strike a pose which was supposed to show us how handsome he was. Now, I’ve met vain when it comes to what the TV crew disparage as the talent, but even by network standards, this was off the rails. Around the table, eyebrows began to rise and people began shooting each other quizzical looks.

“But when we got back to the room, I just don’t remember anything. I woke up this morning, and all my stuff was gone. Wallet, passport, clothes, goddamn everything.” James looked offended as only an incredibly naïve and dim person can. Later, I heard him wandering around telling other people his tale of woe, looking for sympathy. I shook my head in puzzlement. It’s one thing to do something really dumb, but generally, I don’t try to make sure everyone knows how idiotic I am. I let them figure it out for themselves.

But thoughts of Network James and his travails passed quickly from mind. As I recall, we had a press conference to cover in the morning and then a bit of work late in afternoon.  During the press conference, Clinton and Yeltsin both made news which meant flash headlines onto the wire which doubly meant the story had to be written immediately afterward, as fast as humanly possible. On these sorts of things, I worked in our temporary press center and listened to conference on a live feed. Speed was the key issue, but no sooner than the two presidents walked off stage,  but who bursts into the press center but six buxom platinum blondes wearing what must have amounted to enough material to make two standard -sized dinner napkins between all of them. Behind them strode in Uncle Sam. Or what some Russian thought Uncle Sam looked like. And two waiters with huge trays of vodka glasses and bottles. The Uncle Sam character proceeded to announce in loud, heavily accented English that he was here to show us the world’s finest vodka. And, of course, we would write stories about it because everyone would “hef a goodt time!”

Now writing a story under immediate deadline is usually a challenge, but when you have a buxom blonde strategically leaning over the top of your laptop giggling and trying to get you to down what looked like a Big Gulp glass of vodka, it gets pretty distracting. Then they cranked up the boom box with pop Russian tunes.  A lot of the off duty tv crew guys began to dance with some of the girls and, being the sort they are, there was some whooping and pointed comments which they assumed the girls didn’t understand.  Which they didn’t. But the girls did understand a finger pointed at their breasts, so they obliged and flashed.  Somebody had apparently told the Russians that sex sells and they took the idea to heart. And, naturally, it’s at this precise moment that my phone rang. From New York. The Editor. With… A… Couple… Of... Questions.

So with the blondes giggling, the napkins being tossed up and down, the crew guys whooping and cheering,  and some Leningrad heart throb crooning breathy Russian love songs, I did my best to go over the ins and outs of the newly announced nuclear weapons cuts and some arcane trade issue. At the end, my editor casually asked me if I was in the press center. I told him I was. I could tell he didn’t believe. Later, when I got back to DC, I explained it again. He still didn’t believe me but he took it like a man because the copy was good.      

The party in the press center was still going strong when I fled. I had a few hours before the next event and wanted to see Moscow. A bus with a minder waited outside to take anyone who wanted to a famous flea market, the name escapes me right now. Along with me was a woman reporter who, while she could appreciate the enthusiasm of the tv crews, also said she needed a break.  We spent a couple of hours looking at more hand carved wooden birch boxes and nesting dolls than I knew existed on the planet and walking the surrounding streets. Then we realized we had only fifteen minutes to get back to the National. We tracked down the minder and explained that not only us, but all the reporters needed to go back.

“Nyet, bus leaves in one hour,” the minder announced to the growing mob of frustrated journalists.

“Fuck this,” I hissed to my friend. “Let’s get a cab!” I mean there is nothing worse in journalism than missing the news. Sort of what we are there for.

She nodded but we both knew we had no idea how to hail a cab in Moscow. Hell, we didn’t even know what a Russian cab looks like. We made it out to one of Moscow’s eight lane boulevards and stared dumbfounded at a huge roar of traffic going by. Not knowing anything better to do, I raised a hand as if I were in DC or New York. Immediately, a guy pulls over in some rattle trap car built by the Volga Auto Factory number 42.

“Taxi?” I asked.

“Da!  Taxi!”

No sign on top. No lettering on the side. My friend said it didn’t look like a taxi. I agreed. But we now had ten minutes and the clock was ticking. I sat down in the front seat. The guy grinned at me with his stainless steel teeth and four days of beard. Stainless steel teeth were another communist idea that sounds better on paper. My friend got in also.

“Hotel National,” I say.

“Da! Hotel National.” The driver grins some more. “Rubles!”

How much do you pay a Russian to drive you across town, I wondered. I figured ten bucks would do it and told him whatever the amount was in rubles.

The driver breaks out in a stream of fast Russian, leans over and yanks my door shut. He pops the clutch in a whiplash take off and careens back into traffic without bothering to check. He drives like a maniac, both hands with white knuckles gripping the steering wheel while spouting a constant stream of the Russian equivalent of “bastard” as he cuts people off right and left. I look down and see the pavement speeding past through a hole in the floor.

Well, we made it on time. The guy gave me the double clutch hand shake when I handed over the rubles and laughs loudly as he counts the money. With the Russian economy in free fall back then, it was probably a lot. Back inside the temporary press center, the platinum blondes were gone and the tv crew guys were sprawled out snoring.

Oh yeah, network James was never heard from again after that trip. I guess he told one too many people his own story.