STOCKHOLM, SWEDEN, Aug. 15, 2003 -- Sweden wasn’t really high on my list of vacation spots.
But I had to go somewhere.
The Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs has put into effect new visa regulations. The tightening reins of the Putin Administration now require that we leave Russia, travel to some other country, go to a Russian consulate there, present our letter of invitation, get our new visa for the following year, and return to Russia.
I had to do this before my current visa expired Sept. 1.
Where to go? Someplace new and cheap would be good. One of my students had taken a bus tour of Scandinavia for 0. Aha! I’ve never been to Scandinavia!
I called an ex-gay roommate – or rather my gay ex-roomate -- who worked for a travel agency. He suggested a five-day tour from Moscow to St. Peterburg through Helsinki, then by ferry to Stockholm and back for 345 bucksi – the Russians have a charming way of turning English plurals into their own, thus doubling the plurals: jeans are jeansi; chips are cheepsi; business men are beezness meni; and bucks are bucksi.
It would cost me an extra 50 bucksi because, unfortunately, I’d be traveling alone and would need a single room in the hotel and cabin in the boat. We would be in Stockholm three days, including a Monday, so I’d have a full business day in which to get my visa.
I heard that alcohol is expensive in Finland and Sweden: a liter and up for vodka. So I bought two liters of Russian vodka at a pop and began fantasizing about how I’d be meeting beautiful, thirsty, blond boys on the ferry who would like to come to my cabin for some cheap authentic Russian vodka.
Better buy three!
Misha saw me off on the 8:10 p.m. train to St. Peterburg on Thursday evening. Friday morning our Aerostar tourbus pulled away from the sidewalk in front of St. Pete’s Oktyabrsky Hotel at the appointed hour of 6:30.
I suppose God and bureaucrats work in mysterious ways their wonders to perform, hence five stops and five queues at the Russo-Finnish border. Our reward was the Duty Free store:
I hadn’t expected this: Cutty Sark for a fifth. But with the three liters of vodka, I could only squeeze in one! Damn those blond boys!
Then on to Helsinki, which to my surprise turned out to be a first-class European city – fine shops, clean streets, beautiful parks replete with beautiful blond boys. Expensive cars, a lot of restored VW bugs and ancient Volvos like the old S44 that took four of us on Army leave from Frankfurt, Germany, to Venice and Rome in the summer of ’59.
Then another boring drive to Turku to board the massive Siljan Line cruise ship for Stockholm. Where were the wandering hordes of thirsty blond boys? The few who did straggle along the promenades were with their mothers or girlfriends. That night I made a slight dent – solo -- in Vodka Bottle No.1.
If I thought Helsinki was squeaky clean, it was because I hadn’t seen Stockholm. Refined civilization was something of a culture shock after six years in Moscow! Not only were there no beggars, there weren’t even any poor people! Everybody was wearing stylish clothes.
In my three days there I never saw a scrap of paper on the ground, much less a beer bottle or a piece of broken glass. At least three trash cans stood sentinel on every downtown block. In the place of vodka-powered drunks, I actually saw one couple in a downtown park toasting their bourdeaux wine from crystal goblets.
Everybody spoke English.
Bad news: exPENsive
Although we had been promised hotels “in the city center,” mine was 15 km out in the boondocks. I had wanted to sample the gay bars on Saturday night, the only free night I had. Six were listed in the tour guide. I would only have time for one, because I would have to leave it by 11 p.m. to be sure I got back to my hotel before the metro quit running at midnight.
One bar was lesbian; one was “mostly women”; one had “long queues”; and a fourth was gay on Sunday only. So I was faced with a choice of the “Stargayte,” described as “attracting party animals of all ages”; and the “Tip Top,” which doubled as a library and counseling center.
Okay, choice made. Furthermore, the Stargayte was on my metro line. I reached it easily by 10. As promised, two dance floors and an outside pavilion. With my early arrival, I was guaranteed my choice of spots to select from the incoming waves of blond boys. But the tidal wave never came – only gray haired old queens like me. I could have stayed home and looked in the mirror.
On Monday morning, our last day there, I woke up at 6 and carefully arranged everything. The bus would let me off near the embassy and they would continue for a day’s excursion to Gothenburg. I would leave my bag on the bus, and would carry everything with me that I needed: My letter of invitation from English Exchange, my employer, my AIDS-free certificate; passport; money….
After breakfast I sat in my room and tried to think of anything I’d missed. Would I need a photo? I went down to the desk and a very obliging receptionist said I didn’t need to worry – almost every metro station had a photomat.
I definitely didn’t want my probably tight consulate routine interrupted by an embarrassing call of nature. I tried to will one into being, but nothing was forthcoming.
But even before the bus started pulling away from the front of the hotel, the first nudges of peristaltic persuasion began sending signals through my large intestine: “You’ll be sorry.” Oh, shit, I unconsciously punned to myself.
When I arrived at the consulate just before 9 a.m., only one little old lady was already there. The sign on the gates said the consulate was open from 10 to 12 noon. So I had an hour's wait.
“Do you know if I’m going to be needing a photo for my visa?” I asked the little old lady. “Yes, you’ll need one.” Okay. I knew from my map that the nearest metro station was maybe 15 minutes away – time to walk there, get my photo, and walk back in time for the doors to open at 10.
“I heard there might be a long line,” the little old lady warned as I turned away.
With each bounding step, the pressure grew. “Oh, god! Let me at least get to the metro,” I pleaded to whoever might be listening..
My prayers were answered. I dashed slowly to the metro cashier. “Could you tell me if there’s a place to take photos here?” “Yes, there’s a photomat right around the corner. You’ll need four 10-kronar pieces.” In Sweden even metro cashiers speak English.
“And is there a toilet somewhere around?” I asked as nonchalantly as I could.
“Just outside on the sidewalk.”
First things first. I sat down in the photo booth and began searching. I found a slot and dropped in the four 10-kronar pieces. So far so good. Then I began searching for a button to push. I looked on the wall in front of me. There were explicit directions -- in perfect Swedish. I looked some more, pushing anything that looked like a button. Suddenly, FLASH! Oh, shit! What did I push? I hunted some more. FLASH! There go my four 10-kronar pieces. Now I began looking for the place where the aborted pictures would come out.
By now I was crossing and re-crossing my legs. Still, first things first. I went back to the metro cashier and got four more 10-kronar pieces and returned to the photomat at the head of the escalator. The first person to appear over the horizon was a 14-year-old school boy – not blond.
“Excuse me, do you speak English?”
“Yes.”
In Sweden even schoolboys speak English.
“Could you help me figure out how to work this thing?”
He followed me to the booth. As I was about to enter, I looked at the wall outside the door of the booth. There in a little crevice was the rolled up sheet of four perfect photos of the top of my head.
I sat down again. The cramps were intensifying. He pointed to the “taken-Sie-var-varig-photo” or some-such button. I dropped the four 10-kronar pieces in, pushed the button, and waited, smiling urgently. FLASH. I continued sitting silently, smiling frantically. FLASH.
“Thanks very much,” I said as the not-blond 14-year-old good Samaritan wandered off proudly.
I went outside the booth to wait…and wait…and wait. Time was getting crucial. Seconds could make the difference. After five minutes the photos popped out. Perfect!
I dashed outside to the space-age stainless steel structure on the sidewalk. Deposit one five-kronar piece. Thank god, I’ve got one! Clink. The door rolled noiselessly open. I entered and dropped trou as the door silently glided shut. Then I began looking around for a lock. No lock. Okay, I wasn’t raised on computer games. How was I supposed to know it had locked itself electronically! As my bowels started pouring, I continued looking for knobs to lock the door. I touched the door handle. The door began slowly to slide open. Oh Christ! I jammed my foot against the door.
Holding the door with my foot, I filled up the lovely push-button device and found the toilet paper. Whew! Fait accompli. I removed my foot. The door stayed shut. Then I began looking around for something to flush with. I looked at my watch. 9:30! I needed to start getting back. After pushing and pulling everything with a projection – including my own piska and the toilet seat -- I gave up on the flush, left my rude deposit, and hurried away as quickly as possible, hoping nobody would connect the two of us.
I’ll just go back the same way I came, I thought. But I looked around. Which way had I come? I’d been so intent on getting there I hadn’t bothered to notice how I was getting there.
A cab is the only solution. Can’t take a chance. I hailed a cab as it went by. It ignored me. Then I noticed the sign a block away: Taxi Zone. The next cab stopped. “The Russian Embassy,” I told the driver in English.” “It’s not far.” “I know, but I need to get there in a hurry.”
The meter said 60 kronar. I handed him two 100-kronar notes. “One is plenty,” he smiled. Seems I had just offered him for a cab ride. In Stockholm even the cab drivers are honest!
The queue at the consulate gate still consisted of the one little old lady. But literally seconds later, another dozen were suddenly behind us. Not a moment too soon.
At exactly 10 a.m. the gates swung open.
(Continuation of “Another Night in Stockholm” to be breathlessly awaited)
