Happy Hare, the Promo Sapiens Part 4

(Click on at the bottom of this page for HH Parts 1, 2 and 3)

In the interests of time and space, click onto the Promo Sapiens series at the bottom of the page so I can efficiently resume my allegorical around the world trip in quest of the world record for a jet passenger without repeating myself. At Heathrow Airport I was met by a representative of the Lord Mayor of London. He was an elderly gentleman with a walrus mustache, dressed in a frock tail coat and pin stripe pants. who had been instructed to watch for a young man in an orange flight suit. He solemnly waved in recognition when I exited the plane.

I spoke first. “I am Harry Martin and I am grateful to you for going to the trouble of coming to meet me.” Then I proclaimed, “I am here to break the world record for an around the world record for a jet passenger.” And he said, without cracking a smile or extending his hand, ”Whatever For? (Whatevah Faw?) Not a good beginning.

When the two hour staring match mercifully ended he arose and beckoned me to follow him to the British European Airlines boarding area. Off the hook, he warmly shook hands with me and perfunctorily handed me a letter. “This is from the Lord Mayor welcoming you to London,” he said. I did not open it, but handed him a couple of bronze San Diego mission bells to give to the mayor. So much for London.

I fell into a deep sleep a few minutes after take-off on the five hour Moscow leg then lurched out of my sleep when the plane bounced and the wheels yipped on touchdown at Moscow’s Sheremetyevo Airport. I awoke to look into the amiable face of a formally dressed black man who had apparently been sitting at my side for the entire trip. His cheeks were etched, obviously African tribal markings. That wasn’t all He smiled revealing sharpened teeth, then he spoke. “Good morning,” he said in a resonant voice.” “I am David Kayanda..” He spoke with a British accent laced with an African clip.

I explained my mission and asked him about himself. “I am the Ambassador to Russia from Kenya,” He said without pretense.. “Is this your first trip to Russia?” He suspected the answer and regarded my orange apparel like a critical haberdasher.. “Your regalia will create a problem for you at the passport booth. I suggest you come with me. I will escort you through Customs without delay..” He meant the Diplomatic line., “Wow!,” I said with mature restraint, “Thank you, David.” I gave him a mission bell., and gave him my short San Diego pitch.

He led me to the VIP line and when we emerged, he was immediately flanked by four aides who grabbed his bags and stared wonderingly at me. while he explained my mission. I gave them each a mission bell.

Ambassador Kayanda was concerned. “You say you want to go to Red Square. I suggest you allow me to get your cab for you. I will instruct the driver to have you back here in four hours. This gives you two hours before leaving.. Alright?” Of course it was, He ordered an aide to hail a cab for me. The man ran off for the cab like he was on fire.

Mr. Kayanda already had a limo waiting. He shook my hand warmly and said, “Don’t look while I am talking, but a black car has just pulled up about 50 meters from us. They are KGB. They will watch you while you are here and follow you everywhere. When you give away your mission bells, handle them slowly and carefully. Allow the KGB men to see that you are not holding a grenade. Be careful Harry,” he said in a mixture of amusement and concern...“

He motioned subtly to the newly arrived cab driver. “He is probably KGB, also. One final thing:. If the KGB men approach you, they will ask you in English what you are doing. Tell them you are from Hollywood.. They don’t know San Diego. Everyone in the world knows Hollywood.” Then with a smile, he turned to face a phalanx of reporters standing in a roped off area a few yards away.

The cab driver sullenly drove me to Red Square and parked, signaling with his hands that he would wait for me. Then, I got out and turned to take in one of the most dazzling sights in the world. A seemingly boundless space surrounded by opulent buildings unlike any other. Thousands of milling people filled the Square. In contrast to the endless line of gray concrete buildings I saw on the way to the Square, These were massive intricately shaped red government brick and stone edifices. There was St Basil’s cathedral with its familiar onion shaped domes, built in the time of the Czars representing all that Marxism reviled, but untouchable by the ruling communists. A long line of people stood in a Disneyland-type zigzag outside of Lenin’s tomb. Soldiers were everywhere, guarding the Square, goose-stepping from one point to another, then slamming their rifles to the opposite shoulder and retracing their paths.

My KGB escorts parked their small black car about a block away from me, watching with eyes that never quite looked directly at me. .

I was too mesmerized by the vast setting to pay them much attention anyway and threw myself into my role as San Diego’s Ambassador of Good Will:. Like a horse senses the presence of a rattler, .they smelled the KGB men parked in the distance, and shrank away from me. .Some actually ran when I appeared to have them cornered with a menacing bronze bell.. This went on for two fruitless hours.

Angrily, I packed my mission bells and headed toward the cab, Then. halfway there, I stopped in my tracks and wheeled around to face my tormentors, the KGB guys. I walked to their car, leaned down and said, ”Obviously, you guys are going to follow me back to the airport. Why don’t you just give me a ride and save me some cab are.?” Angry at being “made”, one of them started to get out of the car to confront and maybe shoot me,. depriving me of the time to tell them I was from Hollywood. I held up my hands in mock surrender and retreated to my awaiting cab..

There was long slow line waiting to board the Aeroflot plane to Tokyo, a couple of hundred men, no women, evenly mixed between Japanese and Russians. Then, there was me, the lone American in my glowing orange coveralls

A Russian soldier armed with an automatic weapon sat in a tall booth, grimly checking our passports. Finally, my turn came. I held out my passport which he grabbed and painstakingly began comparing me with my picture.. He stared at me, etching my features in his mind, then slowly lowered his eyes to the passport and took a long drawn out. look. Then, back…back… back. to my face and then back…back….back down again to the picture. Finally, he raised his rubber stamp and brought it down with an explosive bang onto my passport. One of the worst perils in the world: a bureaucrat with an automatic weapon. Relieved, I left the airport building and trudged into the biting Russian evening cold.. There, in the distance on the tarmac, I saw the outline of a giant plane, shrouded like a ghost in the fluttering snow, the plane that I was to take to Tokyo, flying 40,000 feet over the frozen Siberian mountains for twelve hours. Remaining in Moscow seemed safer.