Regularly people ask me - what is life like over there? When I first came I sent out a series of massive missives - but then life got busy and I got less reflective and I took part more and watched less. A god child of mine recently wanted to do a report for school and sent me a bunch of questions, and I dashed off some answers. No great reflection or editing or auditing. But having done that, I thought I’d share them. Don’t expect profundity but a slice of how I quickly responded. Funny, no one ever seems to want to come to visit.
Love to all
John S
Okay - this is going to be down and dirty, unreflected, just lived. The observations of one fuzzy guy who has been here for about eight years. I’ll follow your list of questions, just for ease and convenience.
1. Are the tensions and the violence in your neighborhood politically motivated? -if so, can you elaborate?
1. Nope - most of the violence and tension here is economic - armed robbers and poor people out for whatever they can get. Or people strained and suffering because there is no work, no money, high overcrowding and eventually they blow up. People are fighting back - but that’s more violence. Vigilante groups are on the rise, people are forming neighborhood associations hire guards, put up gates and fences and restrict access. Necklacing is on the increase - a group catches a robber and kills him on the spot. They take old tires, put the man inside, douse it all with gasoline and light him up. Two days ago a crowd caught two men accused of trying to steal a motorcyle, and they couldn’t find a tire so they doused them and lit them. Both died. Now one could say the economic deterioration is political - the politicians have been stealing the money - but the biggest tensions here are economically based.
2. Are there still many Ibo tribe (Biafran?) nationalists speaking out against the Nigerian government?
2. Yup. But also Yoruba and Hausa and Ijaw and Bini - there are over 400 tribes in Nigeria, and depending on the issue, most don’t like the government. The Ogoni feel the government is keeping from them their share of oil rights and profits. The Hausa feel the Yoruba President is unfair to the north. The Igbo have never forgiven the Yoruba for what they see as the betrayal of the war. And so on. No one, however, is seriously suggesting a separate country, a la Biafra. More individual states to cater to the needs and desires of tribal groups, but within the confederation. Right now, only one state (Lagos) is economically viable. All the others depend on the federal government for funding support, which comes from the oil. If the country splits, who gets the oil? That’s the key that holds things together - greed.
3. Is there a certain tribal group that holds the majority of government positions?
3. Hard to say - used to be (in the federal government) that the bulk of top positions went to the Hausa. May not be true. Also used to be that most of the #2 spots were Igbo - and that is probably still true. State and local government are heavily biased toward the local indigenous, and within that, to the tribal group of the governor or local head. We take care of our own first, so if I get a job, I hire my family, then my tribe. Probably more Igbo in higher level spots.
4. As a missionary, do you feel responsible for helping to maintain peace in Lagos and the greater Nigerian community?
4. Nope. In fact, some times I think the job of the expatriate missionary is to stir things up. Nigerians have a great capacity for bearing suffering - I think that may go back to the war and the suffering people saw there - I have never seen a people who can take so much abuse without exploding, without fighting back, even passively. Part of it is the exaggerated respect that elders get in this culture, which extends to people in office, even if they obtained the office at the point of a gun. To a Westerner it looks like ass-kissing (you’ll have to re-phrase that for your teacher) but it is more the respect you owe to the man on the throne. (And I don’t mean toilet.) So when Abacha was dictator, I made fun of him from the pulpit. Highlighted his crimes, preached against accepting what was being dealt out. Peace at any price is too expensive.
5. Is your congregation diverse tribally? Are there certain ethnicities that are mostly Christian today?
5. First of all, remember I don’t have a congregation. I’m an administrator. (You don’t think they’d trust ME with a church, do you?) Igbo are mostly Catholic. Christianity in the east is mostly Catholic. In the south and middle belt there are varieties of Christian groups, but Catholics are the largest Christian group. In the North, Muslims dominate, but there is a Christian and a Catholic presence, and larger than the Muslims want to admit. Lagos is a special case - we are to Nigeria what New York is to the US - large and not reflective of the country because there are so many people (somewhere between 12 and 16 million in Lagos and that there is a 4 million spread in the estimates gives you some idea of what trying to do a statistical survey here is like) fromall over the country and the world.
6. Are there very many universities in the country today? Do the most scholarly students still travel the England for their education?
6. There are some universities but the state of education in the country has fallen to appalling levels. Besides the strike and shut-downs, which means it routinely takes six years to complete a 4 year program, the libraries don’t have books in them (literally). You can get a degree in computer science without ever (EVER!) having put your hands on a computer. Students in music classes are given a large sheet of paper on which they keys of the piano have been drawn and they practice on those, since most can’t gain access to a piano. Bribery is rampant - you pay for good test results to get it, teachers sell students notes which are needed to pass the exams, and if you can’t produce an original set of notes, you don’t even get into take the exam, but you can also bribe the teacher for good grades. If the teacher is honest, then you bribe the administrator. Or you bribe someone to take the exam for you. Since the secondary schools are awful, you can imagine the level of education of the students who get in, and then bribe their way through. Not true for all, but corrupts the system to a point where it is hard to see anything working. Anyone who can get out does, but it’s expensive and unless you have gone to a private school, you can’t gain admission at any reputable school outside the country anyway.
7. Is there one tribal group that is, in general, better educated than the others? I've read that the Ibo people usually were.
7. Hard to say - Igbo are ambitious and pushy and kept the traditions and standards of the church schools even after the government took over all the schools. Muslims are the worst educated and the schools in the north are a disgrace. Yoruba tend to be literary. If one had to pick, Igbo. But Tiv are very smart when they get the chance... too many choices.
8. Is the city of Lagos very diverse tribally and racially? Are there many Caucasians in the city?
8. See above. For many years Lagos was the capital and still is the home of most embassies, although the government is exerting heavy pressure to get people to move to Abuja, the new capital. Lagos remains the economic capital, and so the oil companies, their subsidiaries and support companies and other still focus here. Lebanese are the largest expatriates - many Indians in trade, Italians, Americans tend to be oil-related. Great Chinese and oriental restaurants, Indian, Italian - it’s an energetic and exciting (and dangerous) place to live.
9. In your experience, does it seem that Great Britain has any control over the country? Do they still rely greatly on England for aid?
9. Very little influence - aid comes from many sources now, including Muslim organizations who want to influence Nigeria to become a Muslim State. There are economic forces in the country tied to Britain, and remnants of English culture that have become absorbed. I almost always wear Nigerian dress. When I was in the Lagos Rotary, most of the members wore suits and ties. This is a climate hot and humid, where air conditioning breaks down more than it works. It is not a sensible mode of dress, but that’s how they were taught when the Brits were here. Much of the public ceremony is very formal, judges wear wigs - there are strange hearkening backs to the British, but no direct connections. Nigeria is a member of the Commonwealth, but enjoys only some of the privileges.
10. What kinds of precautions has your compound taken to keep its inhabitants safe? Why are these precautions so necessary?
10. Pray and live dangerously. We have two German shepherds who have been trained tobe actively hostile to black people. Not racist, just that if there is an armed robber, chances are about 99.9% he’s going to be Black. We have high gates and a watchman at the gate 24 hours a day night and day. We hate it - until recently we had low gates and the gates were open all day long, and the symbolism of the open gate was a very important image for me. But the reality of changing times persuaded me that since I was responsible for the lives of others, it was foolish not to take elementary precautions. What is true for our house is true for virtually all - all the windows have bars, we have spikes on top of the walls, we have an alarm system and bright night lights, we are cautious about admitting strangers, our residence has a steel security door on the interior staircase.
11. I know that you have witnessed a fair amount of violence since you've lived in Lagos. Could you tell me about some of your experiences?
11. In 93 when the election was annulled, the crowds rioted and took over the streets. Police and soldiers disappeared and the crowds ruled Lagos. Toward the end of the week, when it seemed clear that Abiola was not going to announce and nothing was happening, the soldiers started to return, and their method of crowd control was to shoot randomly into the crowd. During that week I went for a walk in our neighborhood and found six bodies- they had tried to rob a local store and the owner had a gun. I watched soldiers shoot into a crowd killing 11 - an incident that the government denied ever happened. I’ve seen necklacing and of course was lying next to the policeman when the assassins shot him, his blood and brains were on my trousers when I stood up. I could go on, but you get the idea. It is possible to live in your compound and never see any violence, but if you go out and travel around....
12. Do you believe that Nigeria is a more unified nation than it was in the late 1960s and 1970s? Have you noticed significant improvement since you've been there?
12. No and no. The civil war created rifts in the national fabric that have never healed, and the discovery of oil hastened the widening gaps in the country. Since I’ve been here, the deterioration in many sectors has been striking. When I came the naira was 23 to a dollar. Today it is 105. Roads fall apart, corruption continues, the school system is a joke, phones, electricity is a national scandal, no house or business can exist without a generator - there are neighborhoods that have not had electricity for six and eight months, where they have not had water for three years. We tried for seven years to get a digital phone. The problem? As a matter of policy we refused to pay the bribes. Nope, things are not getting better.
13. Is religion a source of conflict among the Nigerian people?
13. Yup, big time. Islam in Nigeria is aggressive, and so the Muslims are constantly pushing for their own states, their own laws - witness the recent riots over the attempts to install Sharia law in the north - There have been several attempts to put Nigeria into the camp of Muslim states, which the Christians have fought. On the other side, militants claim that Christianity is the religion of the colonialists and some argue for a return to native religions. Fundamentalist groups have made great headway - charismatic presentations, simple (simplistic) belief structure, reliance on miracles, and damnation of anyone who doesn’t agree with you. Religion here is big business and there are thousands of storefront churches - except they are more often in a front yard. Three benches, a loudspeaker and a banner and you’ve got yourself a church. Sometimes the conflict is real basic - a neighbor who objects to an all-night vigil run through the loudspeaker at the highest setting. Sometimes it is economic - the Muslims in the north fight the Christians -but the muslims are hausa and the Christians are Igbo - and the Muslims are envious of the higher paying jobs the Igbos get. Now - is that a religious conflict, or a tribal conflict, or an economic conflict? Yes. To all three.
14. As a priest, are you and your colleagues an important force in keeping peace in your community? How?
14. See above. Some are. The Church provides an avenue for coming together, it provides hope in a hopeless situation, it provides essentially free entertainment seven nights a week, it provides food and support, especially in a large city setting where the usual family and tribal supports don’t always work. This helps to keep the peace. We provide education, and the more poorly educated, the easier to be manipulated.
15. What are the living conditions like for most people there? Are they rather livable?
15. Average annual wage in Nigeria is under $230. Now, bear in mind much of Nigeria is rural, farms and villages and subsistence existence and money doesn’t play a major role. Still.... here in Lagos, mountains of garbage throughout the city. No lights on the streets, many areas without water and electricity. Some live in small houses without windows - so thieves can’t break in. When NEPA fails, they sleep outside because it is too hot inside. Malaria kills thousands without it ever being noted. Local medicine and healers kill thousands more. No one can get an accurate AIDS estimate because it is too often undiagnosed, treated by a local healer as a case of someone putting on a curse, and in the Muslim tradition, bodies have to be buried within 24 hours after death, so autopsies are few and far between and the results suspect. Four years ago, the British Council did a lot of work and estimated that 90% of the street prostitutes were infected. In some places, a street prostitute goes for 50 naira - 50 cents. Condoms are usually not an option, since they cost more than that. Agencies give them away but the hookers usually re-sell them, or at the least, re-use them. Small children - 2 and 3 years old - run in between the cars in the traffic jams begging for money, or distracting you so an older child can steal something. Older children are in the same streets selling.
Those with jobs don’t always get paid - we had someone over for dinner last night who is an accountant. He has received no salary for 14 months. Teachers get paid (when they get paid) less than $50 a month. Transport is poor, dangerous, expensive and always overcrowded. Where I live, ifi you work in Lagos, you leave two hours ahead of time to get to work. My secretary commutes almost 5 hours a day, coming and going. She’s delighted - she’s got a good job, is paid well and on time and is advancing herself. The commute? What you have to do to live. Cholera kills a lot - tb is prevalent here, polio has not been eradicated and many of the beggars on the street are polio victims. It is very hot and always humid. Two seasons - rainy and dry.
16. Is there anything else you can tell me that could give insight into what life is like for you and other people there?
The hardest thing to explain to people who have never lived here is the whole notion of culture - these are people who see things differently, who have a whole different set of values. Westerners wonder why they can’t do something simple like make stairs where the risers are all the same height, or steps that are level. Why painters spill paint everywhere? It’s not that they don’t care, they literally don’t see that. They see the paint on the wall, and they don’t see the paint on the floor. Human values are important - there is always time to talk, if a guest comes, you drop everything and stay with them as long as it takes. In business, this means a deadline has no meaning, because there is always an excuse - sometimes no NEPA, sometimes no worker - but the real reason is it’s just not important. In this culture, if I have a goat, I invite all the neighbors and we all eat goat. Now, there may be no goat left for tomorrow - but who cares? Tomorrow someone else may have a goat. This translates to what Westerners see as theft - if I (a white guy) have something and a Nigerian needs it, he does not hesitate to take it. Because in his mind, if he had something and I needed it, I could take it from him. The fact that I do have things and he doesn’t, to his mind simply proves the point. Lying? No such thing. You always tell the master what he wants to hear. What you think he wants to hear. That’s the job of a servant. (That another relic from the colonial times, everyone is Master.) If you ask a Nigerian if he can do something, the answer is yes. Can you fix this camera? Ah Master, no problem. Now this man has never held a camera in his life and may well try a hammer and chisel, but he is absolutely confident in his ability to do anything. Education and experience? Ah, white man’s words.
Do what you can with all this rambling. Sorry it’s not more organized or coherent, but you know me, coherence has never been a strong point. Ask if there is anything that needs further clarification..
There is a web site for the Guardian newspaper, probably the best of the Nigerian papers - probably something like - www. Guardian.ng - there is also a Nigeria web page, government sponsored so take that with more than a grain of salt.
Good luck
John s
Saturday, July 16, 2005
# 15 - Fr. John and God in Wales
REFLECTIONS DURING RETREAT
This is for friends who wonder, “WHAT is Sheehan doing now?” Admittedly, a 30-day retreat is not normal, even for people in the religion business. While much of what goes on is between me and God and you'll forgive me if I don't go into all the gruesome details, it strikes me that some of what happens over the next month, both the exterior and some of the interior, might be of interest. This may have a slightly different tone than the trip to Russia or even giving the retreat to the Carmelite Sisters - or maybe not. At this point, I could not begin to predict what may or may not happen. But as it does I will keep a record here, separate from my own spiritual diary (which will probably be promptly thrown away when I die) and then I will do some judicious editing, and my return to “the world” will be heralded by yet another overflowing message in your mailboxes. As always, there will NOT be a quiz, and you are free to use your Delete button without apology or explanation.
I arrived on August 1st at St Beuno's (Pronounced Buy-no - a Welsh saint) - sharing the train all the way from London with around 40 orthodox Jewish kids, in matching outfits, the boys with hats and locks - quite an expedition. Some very young, some speaking in English, others in Yiddish (not Hebrew, I do know the difference) - I have no idea where they were from or where going but thank heaven for the British civilized custom of reserving seats on a train! Trains in Europe are still delightful - polite conductors, classy and comfortable seats, schedules that mean something. OK, occasionally they do have these crashes but safer than the roads and cheaper than the planes and you do get to go through some very nice country, unlike the American trains that have been relegated to the back of businesses and corridors so that no one knows a train is going by. They've got good snack bars, electronic signs and announcements for each station, good storage space for luggage and bicycles - all in all, a well-done operation.
By the way - if you have not been paying attention to the unification of Europe, you should. There is a great deal going on over her, bringing countries together, the single monetary system, increased trade agreements, the Nice treaty - and there are lots of layers and concerns and points of view. It will have great impact on the United States, and if you're not spending some time learning about all of this, you really should. Some of it sounds more than a little scarey to this observer and some of the personal stories about the new system make the guy who wrote 1984 (whose name escapes me at the moment) seem less a prophet and more a nitpicker. Don't say you weren't warned.
St Beuno's was built by the Jesuits in 1842 as a theologate and is on the side of a large hill or small mountain in Wales, near Rhyll (also spelled Rhyl) for those of you with a minor map fetish - if you go east from Holyhead along the top of the coast line you will find Rhyll, then go south and we're in there, near St Asaph's. There are 22 of us making the 30-day retreat - one woman who lived in Ibadan, Nigeria for 15 years, a Jesuit from my own Province who is working in Guam and who had worked in Zambia, a couple of Swedes, one sister from Germany and an older sister from Ireland who is already uncomfortable with the freedom, women preaching - she's a lovely lady but the informality of religion is not her cup of tea. She is somewhere is her 80's, so a little slack must be given. There are religious brothers and married and single - a real mixed bag. We have spent the first three days - well, up to the 3rd - settling in, which means a relaxed style, we are still talking, no schedule or formal prayer, just whatever anyone feels like doing. I have been sleeping extraordinary amounts and cleaning up odd little bits, putting things away, so to speak. The retreat formally begins this evening - silence begins after the evening Mass. I've stopped shaving, so by the end of the month there should be something on top of my head again, and a chance to re-shape the beard. Everything is hill around here, so walking involves climbing, whether coming or going or both. Weather has been gorgeous and August is usually a pretty stable month, insofar as that means anything in this context. I have made arrangements to sing for an hour a day, since I am going to be recording in September; on the break day, whenever it comes, assuming no downpour, I'll be off to one of the local courses for a round of golf, hoping it will not undo whatever good has been done up to then.
The house is built on the side of a hill, so it is possible to come in from a walk and be on one of three different floors. I am almost at the top of the building, so the view is tremendous. (I will try to enclose a picture with this.) The little corridor is called the Priests' Gallery, and the passageway at one point is about five feet high. They have painted “Watch your head” (actually since this is Britain, they have said “Mind your head” - I automatically gave you the translation) on the wall - I know at least one time I am going to cause myself serious damage. I admit it, I don't get out and around very much, but I'd never seen these windows before - they open sideways, like doors, but you can close them, change the position of the handle, and they tilt in from the top for ventilation. Very clever, and useful. Double-glazed, so in the winter they provide warmth. I'm impressed.
The side of the house where most of the rooms are do not have the best view. I was wondering about this and realized they have a southern exposure - more sun for more of the day - and in the days before central heating, this is no small consideration. The walls are something over two feet thick - they truly do not build them like THAT any more. Some rooms are quite small - mine is more than adequate, with a bed (now raised up on bricks so I am once again sleeping on a slant) and a desk and chair, an easy chair and lamp, a bureau, a cupboard for hanging clothes and a sink. There's a little night stand next to the bed with a lamp, several pictures filling up wall space, a small kneeler (for those might want to kneel when praying - I use it for a foot rest) - carpet on the floor, and a radiator in front of the double window, with a generous sill (there's that thick wall business). Home away from home.
The first days are days of preparation - we are not on silence, there are a couple of sessions to help get us started, a tour of the house, even a wine and munchie reception to welcome us all. Retreat formally begins on Friday night after Mass - silence descends.
The chapel has been nicely re-done, from a very traditional English 19th century to a modern and very comfortable design, keeping the pillars and carved roof. They raised the floor by about three feet, and draped long pieces of fabric, forming a tent which is focused over the altar and stretches to include virtually the whole center section of the church. The altar is made of pieces of stone, piled into a pyramid, with a round stone slab on top, and is very much a sacrificial altar, under the tent of meeting. Flexible lighting means you can re-design the focus as needed. The side of the church, where there was separate set of seats and an altar, has been walled by glass, providing two additional prayer spaces. Heavily carpeted throughout, the old stained glass has been kept, it's really quite nice. Unfortunately, the people doing the liturgy have no sense of how to use the space, or what liturgy ought to be about, so with a space that invites participation and intimacy, they use a lot of recorded music and have developed a celebration style where everyone sits down most of the time, effectively distancing everyone from what is happening. I could go on for pages - but I won't. (Maybe that is one of the early graces of the retreat.) There is a daily Mass in what I am calling the nature chapel - a former parlor, turned into a lovely chapel with a great window and a couple of small trees brought inside. Very nice. I may abandon the group liturgy for this, if things keep up.
Saturday, August 4 - First day of the retreat. I had set my clock for 5:30 (the sun is already up at that time) but I was awakened about ten minutes before that by gunshots. Made me feel right at home. Of course, these were hunters, not burglars, but for a minute... I'm on the 3rd floor, at the end of the corridor, they'd have to kill a lot of people before they got to me. Weather is again gorgeous and everyone is settling down into the work of the retreat. Which is what I will do, and will come and jot things here occasionally, as they happen or occur to me. One of the early sessions, though, was a reflection on moments in my life, and one of the fruits of that was the recurring realization of what a wonderful set of friends I have. Who will be prayed for regularly throughout the month. (Yes, that means you.)
Note for the file - if you have the choice, a self-winding wristwatch is NOT the choice for a retreat. I have a very nice watch that was given to me by a good friend on my last birthday - but it doesn't have a very long capacity, and every morning when I awake, it has stopped - and takes several minutes agitation to get it going. When one is spending much of the day in prayer - ie, not moving - the self-winding thingy doesn't get enough exercise, and I'm not the only thing in the room getting extra rest.
Normal daily routine - up around 5:30, shower, cup of hot bouillon, prayer. I meet with my director at 8:30, and the rest of the morning is another prayer session, a walk, perhaps some reading, pray the rosary. Mass at 12 (I have abandoned the group liturgy for a smaller and simpler and less controversial gathering), and immediately after Mass I go out into one of the outer houses and sing. Everyone else is at lunch, with music playing in the dining room, so if I keep my windows closed, the disturbance is almost nothing. After singing, another cup of hot bouillon, prayer, maybe a nap or if the weather is nice, a walk out. Prayer again in the early evening, usually in the wood chapel - everyone else is at supper so there is plenty of quiet. Gentling down for the night and a final prayer session as dark is falling. Later in the retreat I will give up one of the late afternoon sessions and do what is called “Interrupted Sleep” - you sleep for three hours, then get up and pray for an hour and then go back to bed. The eagle-eyed among you may have noticed a lack of mention of meals in that schedule. I usually fast during retreat, and while a 30-day fast is not impossible - I used to know a woman who did that - I will probably end up eating twice a week. It's early days and I'm still finding the rhythm of the day and the prayer.
Prayer - each session is an hour, except it's really a little more than that. You spend an hour in prayer and then another ten or fifteen reviewing what happened during the prayer time. As you know, prayer does not mean broadcasting, as in saying prayers, as much as it does listening. Lots of different techniques for approaching prayer, but the bottom line for all is the same, to be open enough to hear God however he is talking to you. You can pray any place - and in a spot like this, there are many choices, but inside the house and out. So there are five hours of prayer, Mass, plus reading the Office each day, the daily examen (twice a day, about ten minutes each time) and I usually say the Rosary each day. Fills the time, especially when you add my singing, some sleep, the occasional ablutions - like that. As always, one of the joys of leaving Nigeria is a hot shower with pressure. We had an Italian company do the work on our house, and they built the bathroom where I am - and somehow, the best they can do is a dribble. I get wet and clean, but I miss the whoosh of a real shower. The shower here, I am happy to report, whooshes nicely. (Fascinating - the spell checker accepts whoosh as a word, without a moment's hesitation.)
This is the house where Gerard Manley Hopkins wrote some of his best poetry and where he was happiest during his Jesuit life. (Yes, GMH was a Jesuit priest and he was here for his theology studies.) They used to have his room as a sort of shrine - here is how it was when he was here - but they have turned it into a conference room. If you're not familiar with his work, take a look. Best read aloud - and more than once. Great stuff. Last May I passed around to the Mass group a copy of one of his poems. I usually manage to get off at least one poem of my own during a retreat - I wonder what the hills of Wales will inspire. I do NOT inflict my poetry on other people, so no need to start practicing being polite.
August 10 - Finally some sustained sunshine (we've had several days of rain and dark clouds and chilly weather- that's not just Nigerian blood talking, others had asked for the heat to be turned on), so I went for a walk in the hills of Wales today. Sounds poetic, eh? It was more wonderful than mere words can describe - this place ought to inspire poetry in anyone. We can see the ocean from the hill, and I went walking - through some sheep, then some cows - watched a bull trying to propagate the species, but the lady cow (after what seemed to this casual observer to have been a certain amount of encouragement) was NOT cooperating, so I left him to his frustration. Birds and rabbits and assorted critters I can't identify and wind and sunshine and blue, blue, blue sky and some white clouds and landscape spread out below me to beat the band (and new and therefore very comfortable walking shoes, purchased especially for this retreat) - and I had breakfast today so I was full of energy. All in all, a truly lovely day. Not exactly the Jesus in the desert kind of prayer but if you want to start something with the grandeur of God in it, this would be the spot. Since the days of the Normans (that's 11th century for you non-history types), Wales has always been a people set apart, and when you spend a little time in these hills you can start to understand a little bit of why and how come.
August 14 - I must be doing something right - yesterday my director suggested that today should be a break day. Well, that's my word - they call it a “Day of Repose.” Schedule is suspended, you're on your own. The idea is that you try and deepen what has been happening with the retreat, but you can talk with any others who are on break, or go away - whatever. I wanted to play golf - I've never really played on a course with greens (in Nigeria we have “browns,” a petroleum sludge product that tries to approximate a putting surface, and is, actually, brown.) And I thought this would be fun. Well, the weather report was rain and when I checked the Internet, the nearby courses were reported as being closed on Monday. (I later discovered this is the winter schedule and things were, in fact open. Sigh.) So I went into Rhyll, the nearby town, just to walk around, buy some things I needed, like batteries, and be away.
Rhyll went through a period of prosperity as a poor man's resort area, and there are still the kinds of gaming parlors, souvenir shops, fast food places you'd see at an older Atlantic City. There is a very good aquarium, an 8-theatre movie complex, a fairly extensive children's village, and several blocks of downtown have been turned into shopping mall. It is right on the ocean, so there is a large stretch of beach as well, and fishing charters from one end. (Although they mostly fish for shark, which is not a very exciting fish to catch. Good eating, but rather like pulling in a tire.) But it is a grey city, and it does not take too discerning an eye to see that the days of great prosperity are over. Many former guest hostels are being turned into city housing units and there is a slightly tacky, seedy air about the seafront stretch - which I, of course, just loved.
I walked around for a bit, getting the sense of the city. Had an egg mcmuffin (I know, I should put that in caps, because it was a real one) and coffee - great coffee, by the way, should you ever be in Rhyll and in need of a caffeine fix. I took my portable breakfast and went out and sat on the sea wall. My luck was holding - I had had poetic thoughts of praying at the ocean side - but the tide was seriously out, and the ocean was some distance away. Still nice time, God does not come and go with the tide, and I was successful in staying with the mood and rhythm of the retreat.
I did some shopping (even bought a book on how to play better golf - or in my case, play golf at all), was fascinated by people, and walked for miles and miles. About mid-day I boarded a train and took off for Chester, an ancient Roman fortification now a town, about a 45 minute ride. The ride provided some more quiet time for prayer, and when I arrived I discovered a free bus from the station into the center of town, just show your train ticket. Away I went.
The center of Chester has been preserved and is reminiscent of the medieval village it was, at the same time providing a delightful environment for a wide range of very contemporary shops and shopping malls. I headed off to the Chester Cathedral and spent some very rich quiet time there. I won't give you a lot of history but its origins go back to the 7th century - which is pretty far back - and the current cathedral is both a nice place to visit and a good place to pray. Walked about some more - did some more shopping, although not buying - it's the kind of place where there were at least six different musicians on the street (do accordionists count as musicians?) Including one trio of 2 flutes and an oboe - took a 30-minute cruise on the river, and then headed back to Rhyll.
Almost.
I was standing on the platform waiting for the 16:19 to Rhyll on track 6. Train comes in around 16:17. No announcement made but all sorts of people get on including yours truly. As we pull away I notice a lot of people standing on the platform who did NOT get on the train. At which point, the conductor makes an announcement, “Welcome to the delayed 16:35 train to Birmingham, stopping at...” and he proceeds to name a number of stations, none of which is Rhyll. I am going in the wrong direction.
Fortunately my accent gives me away (Accent? What accent?) and the conductor is most understanding (and perhaps a little too amused) and says I should get off and change at Crewe. Sigh, grumble, fratsis. So I do and in a couple of minutes there is a shuttle to Chester, and I have to go through the same explanation all over again. Bless the Welsh. No charge for my ride in either direction. Carefully checking all the indicators, this time I get on the right train, and am shortly back in Rhyll. I had scouted out a Kentucky Fried Chicken (What can I tell you, I have simple and plebeian tastes) and bought myself a picnic and got a cab back to the retreat house.
Understand - this may not have sounded like a much of a much to you, but it was a wonderful and rich day. Chester is worthy of another visit - I never got to the castle, or took the tour of the town on the open-air bus, and there were dozens of shops I did not get into - and it all happened within the context of the retreat. There is an old hymn, “I'll Walk with God,” (to be heard sung by Father John on his soon to be released album, “Father John Sings Sacred Songs”) and that's what the day was, walking with God, even in McDonald's. You'd think he could have alerted me about the train, but I probably wasn't paying enough attention.
So back to the day to day business of praying. Learning new things. For instance, in Wales, the shepherds move their sheep with motorcycles. I mean, the sheep aren't on the motorcycles, the shepherds are, yelling and zooming about - I'd certainly move alone with those guys coming at me. Rather disturbs the peaceful image of grazing sheep on the green hills of Wales, not the sort of thing you want to put on the promotional brochures, but I can testify, it does get the job done. The sheep moved along in quick time.
Praying doesn't necessarily make you smart. (Stop snickering, I didn't mean me.) I was going past the laundry room today, where they have three washing machines, a spin dryer and a tumble dryer, a couple of irons and hanging racks all over for drying clothes. (This place is very politically correct and the laundry room is full of signs encouraging us to save energy and hang our clothes inside or out instead of using the dryer. When I did my wash, I used the dryer. I am getting to that early crotchety stage in life when I make a point of NOT being politically correct. I still smoke a pipe, too. So there.) I noticed a new sign on the tumble dryer - in big letters on bright green paper pasted on the front door is says, “Tumble Dryer.” My guess is that one of my fellow retreatants thought it was a washing machine and.... ever tried getting soap powder out of a dryer? Kind of spoils your morning.
August 16 - Today is the 21st anniversary of my entering the Society of Jesus. My mother and father and sister all came with me to Syracuse - rather like taking your boy to camp for the first time - and we met other parents and they got to see my room, and there was a Mass and a huge dinner (if this is poverty, I can hardly wait for chastity) - then we had a meeting while our parents had a meeting with the Novice Master, then they drove away into the sunset (literally) and we settled in for our first night as Novices. I suppose it's a sign of age how clear that was, while I would be hard pressed to tell you what I did last week. The next day, Sunday, we had the afternoon free and several of the second-year men took several of us new guys to Green Pond, a nearby swimming area - we packed a bag of food from the kitchen and off we went. I remember being in the water, people all around, thinking - if this is religious life, I can do this. Little did I imagine that Nigeria would be in my future. I wonder what new surprises God has in store? (Who said India?)
It is also, coincidentally, the anniversary of the beginning of the Nigerian Mission - in 1962, Fr Joe Schuh arrived in Lagos on this day to begin the work of the Society there. He was to be a member of the faculty of the University of Lagos as it was opening. And further coincidence, it is also the anniversary of the suppression of the Society. In 1773 the bull Dominus ac Redemptor was published which essentially closed our doors. A landmark day - big landmarks and little landmarks.
And while I am rambling on about things inconsequential, and this is roughly the mid-point of the retreat, it is probably not an inappropriate time to stick in a hair update. I am using this time away in the hills of Wales to re-grow my hair. (Now if that sentence makes no sense to you - unlike so many of my other sentences - just before leaving Nigeria I shaved my head and yes, pictures are available. Why? Something I had always wanted to do, curiosity about what I looked like without head hair - I did not shave the beard, I tried that about 15 years ago and the memory still causes involuntary shudders to run through my body.) Two things that are fascinating me as the hair returns - one is that there was a tonsure spot in the middle of my head, a small bald patch. Seems as though hair is growing there. Now maybe it will give up and go away but it feels just like the rest of my head - fuzzy. And the other thing is how much grey there is! Funny, I don't remember that much grey. The line between forehead and hair also seems to start somewhat farther back on the head than it used to but that just may be my imagination and the result of long hours of prayer and fasting.
I'm also letting the beard grow back in full, and then at some point I can re-shape it. I was looking at myself in the mirror today (lost in wonder and admiration) and I suddenly realized that at the moment I look rather like Lon Chaney halfway through the transformation. Certainly if I were my neighbor, I would lock the door on full moon nights and beg the kitchen for a little wolfsbane. (And in this part of Wales, I would suspect the kitchen might well have a little, tucked away for an odd emergency. No, garlic is for vampires.)
My belt is also two notches in from when I started. That's not the reason for the fasting, but it's not a bad side effect. Of course, living on the top floor doesn't hurt either - up and down, up and down. Which pretty well describes the outside as well.
On my break day I had one quick phone conversation with an old friend and her husband who were in London. When I asked why they were there, seems they were leaving the next day on a one-week Baltic cruise. They had been inspired by my trip to Russia and they were off sailing. (If for some reason you did not get a copy of “Father John's Trip to Russia” and would like one, so you have a complete set of massive missives, just ask. Ditto for “Father John and the Talking Clock” which came out shortly afterwards.) I suggested that when she received this letter she might then be inspired to try a retreat. She said she thought not, although I did try to make clear that there are shorter versions than the 30-day model - retreats come in affordable 8-day styles and even a compact weekend version. (See your local dealer for complete details.) But I also found myself wondering if my influence extended such that I would shortly be receiving a spate of pictures from friends with their own head shaven. Shaved. Bald. Which led me down the path of wondering what some of you would look like smooth-domed. The mind boggles.
God calls. Back to work.
+ + + + + + + Interval + + + + +
OK - I try not to preach to my friends - not that you don't need it, but it's a little like a lawyer going to a cocktail party and talking about his cases. But it occurs to me, in this merry rambling, that I have not really talked about prayer, and what it is, and what I actually do during these 30 days. Now if this is a subject that makes you nervous and you would just as soon skip it, or you are well familiar with it, or you just don't care, move rapidly on to the next set of little plus signs and the normal ramblings will resume down there. The rest of this section will be about prayer.
When most folk talk about prayer, they are usually talking about prayers of petition (where we ask for something) or of thanksgiving (where we say thank you for something) or just the memorized prayer that we run through when inspiration fails us, or as a comfortable ritual. Those are all great. But the classic definition of prayer is “A conversation with God,” and in conversation, both parties ought to get the chance to talk. So prayer - ought to be on a daily basis but especially when we go away on retreat - is giving God the chance to talk back.
This is the point where it can start sounding weird - stay with me. I am NOT talking about going into trances or “hearing the voice of God” like Joan of Arc. This does not involve ingesting foreign substances (you look disappointed) or prolonged periods of fasting or self-abuse (now you look relieved). It does involve a certain use of your imagination and a willingness to trust - in yourself, in a process that has been handed down for several thousand years in one variation or another, and ultimately, in God.
Rationale: God wants to “talk”” to us, to share with us guidance, comfort, ideas. There were, apparently, people who could hear God directly - Moses, Elijah, there's a list. But for whatever reasons, most of us don't have that ability. How, then, does God talk to us? Actually in several different ways, once we are open to hearing them. Let's start with the simplest - our imagination. When this prayer technique is presented, some people say, “But I'm just talking to myself. That's just my imagination at work.” Well, yes. But do you deny God - who created the whole universe and everything in it - the power to make use of your imagination? (Add my name to the list of people you're supposed to trust - see above.) Until you have been at prayer, and had the experience of God taking over, it's a hard concept to grasp. Once it happens, you start to understand something about praying. Trust me.
Technique: Find a place where you won't be interrupted, and where there is a semblance of quiet, free from distractions. I do not find the hills outside very helpful for my own prayer for instance, because they are so gorgeous I get watching the clouds and admiring the scenery and I forget about the praying part. Pick a passage of Scripture to pray with. Something not too long, one of Jesus' parables, for instance. Read through it several times, so you're familiar with it, and then put it away. Then sit, and listen to the silence. At first you'll hear noises - birds or traffic or children, whatever - listen through the noises to the silence. After a while, you may start to get the sense that there's something behind the silence. That's the presence of God - when you've reached that, you're ready to begin.
Remember that parable you were going to pray with? Imagine the scene. Make it come alive in your mind. What do the people look like, how are they dressed, what's the weather like, what sounds do you hear in the scene, what smells do you smell? Be free and relaxed and whatever comes up is right. Don't worry about being historically or politically correct, don't fret about anachronisms - so what if the prodigal son is wearing a watch or the forgiving father is wearing glasses. Whatever happens is correct. Then watch the parable unfolding, and, as St Ignatius says, see what profit you can derive from it. Feel free to replay the scene. Are you in the scene yourself, or simply a spectator? If the latter, who are you, why are you there? At this point, there are no rules, just let it unfold.
One thing that sometimes happens is that the scene takes on a life of its own and goes off in directions not in the Scriptures. That's fine - see where it goes and what happens, especially if you are in it. It has happened more than once to me that in a Gospel scene, Jesus has turned and started talking to me. That's one of those moments where you are no longer in control, and it can be a tad unnerving at first. No, you are not going crazy, go with it and see what develops.
The normal suggested time for prayer is one hour. That may seem a long time, and you may want to start with shorter periods and build it up - but one reason for the time is that, especially at the beginning but also when you are busy and hassled and there is more life than time or energy - you sit down to pray (remind to say a word about posture at prayer) and it takes a while to settle down and find the silence. I gave myself a week in London to unwind after leaving Lagos before coming here, and we spent the first two days here “in repose,” not seriously praying, just relaxing and settling in. The same thing is true for daily prayer - it is difficult to simply drop out of the day and turn yourself over to God. There have been times when I have spent the better part of the hour just settling down. That's why many people pray at the very beginning of the day (before the children are awake - although I remember one mother telling me that her time was right after everyone left in the morning, because there was instantly a sense of quiet and peace and before it dissipated, she would use that as her entry to prayer. Whatever works.)
When you have finished - and however long you have given yourself, stay with it, even if nothing is happening - take another ten or fifteen minutes to review the prayer. Not just what happened, although many times you will discover things you missed the first time through. But how did you feel during the prayer? Were there moments of comfort, of unease or disturbance? What did you learn, or see or realize or imagine? When people keep a spiritual journal, this is a good spot to jot down what went on.
Speaking of a good spot - I mentioned finding a place to pray. Once you find the place, also find a comfortable position. Prayer does not have to take place on the knees. I have separated tendons in each knee, so kneeling is not an option. Some pray lying down - I tend to fall asleep. Whatever works for you is good. There are some who can pray while walking. I find too many distractions, although occasionally that works for me. And what works today or for a while may not - find a new position, a new place, a new way to pray. What I have suggested above is one way - later on I'll throw a couple of others at you, so your ammunition bag will have several choices.
So each day, five different times, with my subject for prayer in my hot little fist, I find my place, settle down, and proceed as described above. So far on this retreat, for much of the time, I have been graced, and “finding God” has not been difficult. (Probably a sign I need so much help God isn't going to waste any time. Or that I need so much help I am open and ready. Whatever.) There have been times when the prayer has taken off on its own direction, and I ended up not praying about what I thought I would. That's okay. Ignatius has a program of exercises (Hence the term “Spiritual Exercises”) and with my director I have been more or less following those, in terms of sequence.
Director? Didn't I mention him? During retreat, you normally have a spiritual director, whose job is to listen to how the prayer is going and make suggestions about topics for prayer, or help you come to understand what may have been happening in prayer. My director is Fr Tom McGuiness (although a spiritual director doesn't have to be a priest or a nun or a religious - there are wonderful directors who are lay people). Often he has seen patterns or connections in things that I would otherwise have missed. A director is a good idea, both for retreat but in daily life as well, someone you can meet with on a regular basis and talk about your prayer, your spiritual life, whatever you want to talk about. He (or she) is not a “counselor” in the therapeutic sense, but a spiritual director, and since as a species we have become inordinately talented at fooling ourselves, he or she can provide a really good reality check.
I have to go and pray now, so it's time for that little series of plus signs (or crosses, if you're feeling pious). I hope this hasn't been too wearisome - but it's what I'm doing, so it seemed appropriate to talk about it a little.
+ + + + + + +
I am in pain. I went for a walk today (today being the 17th), over to Asaph to see the Cathedral. Nice cathedral, talky guide who seemed determined not to let anybody pray (God forbid!) in this elegant tourist attraction, but a nice visit. And being from Mars, like others of my gender, I don't like to go back the way I come, or (heaven forbid!) ask directions, so I struck off on what I was assured was the road to Tremeirchion and then to St Beuno's. On the way I found a driving range and a 9-hole course, which I take as a sign that God wants me to play golf. (Another grace of the retreat. It is hard to spot golf courses around here because most of the country looks like a golf course.) At that point my little feet were starting to complain - I had walked perhaps 5 or 6 miles at that point, and in all honesty, that was enough. I had had it. But deep in the countryside there are no buses and no taxis and my only prayer was that it was closer to keep going than to turn back. Now I have been told to go to Tremeirchion and go left. But there is a road going left and a sign that says Rhualt, which is the little burglet nearest Beuno's. AHA, says I, and off I go. (By the way, the Welsh pronunciation of that name is rather like the noise you make if you try to say Ralt while biting into a very sour pickle and suddenly discovering something nasty on the end that isn't in your mouth yet. I have yet to master it. Where was I? Oh yes, about to follow that sign.) Serious mistake. About two miles down (and I'm not kidding, I mean a good two miles down) I come to a wide open space and I can see Beuno's off in the distance. And I can see, with sudden and appalling clarity, what I have done. Instead of going on and turning left, I am now walking parallel to the road I should be on, and I am going to have to walk as far as I have come along this road before turning right and making my way back. (Did I mention the last mile or so is all uphill? And the last half mile is seriously uphill? And there are more uphills before the last mile?)
I was ready to cry. Maybe a car will come along and give me a lift? Maybe a taxi will come down the road? Yeah, and maybe pigs will grow wings. Off we go, suffering is supposed to be good for the soul, ignore the pain and the blister beginning to form on the right toe and smartly now, forward harch.
Well, I forward harched about another three miles until I came to the White House Hotel. My grandmother, God rest her, was full of pithy advice about life - things like always wear clean underwear because you never know when you might be hit by a truck, and always have a clean white handkerchief, because you never know when a beautiful woman is going to burst into tears on your shoulder. (That one actually did happen, and I did have a clean handkerchief, and my estimation of my grandmother's words of wisdom rose drastically on that day.) One of her bits of traveling sagacity was to always have a dime with you. Now she was thinking more in terms of pay toilets, but in this case, it let me call for a cab. In addition to the dime (local translation, ten pence) I also had several pounds, and I have never paid a taxi so gladly in all my days. A hot shower, a long drink of water (remember, I'm still fasting - which for the curious has worked out to a piece of bread with peanut butter and a glass of milk on Tuesday morning and a cooked breakfast - two slices of bacon, a grilled tomato and an egg, with coffee and some toast - on Friday morning. An occasional cup of bouillon and lots of water and I'm doing fine.) and I spent the rest of the evening apologizing to my feet.
See? It's not all prayer and fasting, there are the odd adventures. The walk itself was fascinating - besides the usual sheep and cows, of which there are multitudes around here, there was an abattoir (slaughterhouse, for the uninitiated) and a breath-taking country house, and I counted six wedding cars - three Rolls Royces, thank you - I guess Friday is a good day to get married. The scenery ranges from breath-taking to heart-stopping and the oxygen content in the air is probably at hospital tank level, what with all the trees and grass and other miscellaneous green stuff. Next time I will go directly to the driving range and take the portable phone with the number of the cab company. Walk out, ride back. Not exactly an episcopal motto but not a bad rule of life either.
Break Day - August 22nd - it may read as though all I do is take break days but there has been a lot of praying in the mean time. When my director suggested Wednesday, since it was my mother's 90th birthday, it seemed a good choice - but I said I would reserve judgment until I saw the weather. It was lovely, so off I went. I got a ride down to the golf course, my new golf shoes tied over my shoulder. Hit two buckets of ball at the driving range to warm up. Good theory and perhaps it got some errors out of the system, but I don't think it helped much. Collected my rental clubs and off I went. This is a nine-hole, short yardage, although three par 4's. Not terribly challenging but fun. By the second hole I had caught up with another guy playing single and we went around together and we were joined at the 4th by another single, so we played the last bit as a threesome. Both of these guys were on medical disability, so the levels of play were not sharply separate. We finished the first nine, they went off and I went around again. Trimmed 13 strokes of my score the second time. Learned something about follow-through; we'll see if I remember next time out.
Tied my golf shoes back over my shoulder and caught a bus in to Rhyll - had a wonderful time eavesdropping on two old women sitting behind me, talking about how they liked their shandy (a mix of beer and seven-up) and another woman with whom they were finding fault - delightful. The sun was out in Rhyll and the tide was in and the place was full of people, especially wheelchairs. Dozens of them (with people in them, of course). Between the wheelchair crowd and the kids on the rides at the Children's Village and playing on the beach, more than enough material for reflection and just enjoyment. I walked around, had something to eat, and was back at the retreat homestead by early evening. Grateful I wasn't in one of those wheelchairs, although when the inevitable stiffness set in the next day, I wasn't so sure.
Turns out I was ahead of the pack, and most of the retreat group had their break day on Thursday, so Thursday was very quiet and empty around here, which was also nice. I had done laundry before I left, so break day was both fun and productive. Back to praying.
August 27 - An eight-day retreat is ending tomorrow, and so today there was a sign on the board asking if anyone wanted a packed lunch to take with them, and one woman signed up and put after her name (Vegetarian). Below her a man had signed up - John Curran (Carnivore). I don't know who he is, but he's my kind of guy. I laughed out loud. I've got to check the board later and see if there are further developments.
What a wonderful day! I went out into a beautiful afternoon just to sit on a bench in the sun and revel - not even necessarily to pray, although I wasn't opposed to it if it happened. (Sometimes, you know, it does just happen - forget all that planning and preparation I talked about earlier - like running into an old friend unexpectedly on the street, God just shows up, and there you are.) I was sitting up on the hillside, looking out over the valley, and no one else was around. Suddenly, flying fairly low, a helicopter buzzes over. I watch it as it flies out into the valley, and at once point it does a tight 360 on the same level, and then continues on its way. Suddenly, it gains a little altitude and does a full loop (backwards - backwards loops are easier because you get to see the ground sooner and you're not accelerating as you come out of the turn.) Now in the US, acrobatics over residential areas are strictly a no-no, and I admit, I had never see a copter do a loop before. It was terrific! I laughed out loud (again) and quietly applauded. Today was a bank holiday, so there might have been someone giving rides or an air show - or maybe just somebody decided to celebrate a gorgeous afternoon. It was grand.
And walking back, I detoured out by the front gate. In the field across the way are several (5?) large horses. I mean, by horse standards, these are large. Not quite Clydesdales, but working horses, with large hooves, very impressive. As I walked out of the side gate, I saw one of them heading under a large tree, and thought, Aha, sun getting a bit much for you, eh? Then he sidled up to the tree and starting moving slightly back and forth. He was scratching an itch! Once again, I laughed out loud.
I mentioned earlier that usually a retreat brings forth at least one poem. Well, this afternoon was the day. I promised I wouldn't share it, and I won't - not a “significant” poem, just about me and a rabbit and God sharing the hillside. Still needs some massaging but at least THAT has emerged.
We're in the last week, and with a detailed analysis, I would have to say God has been pretty good to me so far. No major life-shaking revelations or decisions, but I'm a lot happier coming out than I was going in.
August 29 - For the last eight days we've had a group of retreatants doing the 8-day retreat (now there is a redundant sentence!) and one was John Humphreys, a Jesuit from the Irish Province, who was Rector (Head Honcho) at Milltown Park in Dublin when I was there for one year of philosophy (about a million years ago). He has since been Socius (Assistant to the Provincial) done some other things and has just been tapped to return as Socius. (The man who had the job had a heart attack.) I didn't get a chance to talk with him before he started but he was finishing this morning, so we had a long chat and caught up. It's a small world, and you run into people all the time.
Then I went out to the driving range and hit a couple of buckets and balls and found that what I had discovered when I played before about follow through still works, and I was whacking them suckers out at the 175 yard marker with some regularity. (They don't have drivers at this range, so this is with a 3-iron.) I can hardly wait to see if it works with my own clubs! I walked home, about an hour and a half, and mostly uphill, so I got my exercise for the day.
The last several days have been just wonderful - spiritually, emotionally, the weather has been great. Retreat doesn't end until September 2, and there is always the danger of anticipating the closing. We have two days of reflection after the official ending, which helps, and then I'm off to Belfast to review the whole thing with my spiritual director.
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Those little warning crosses indicate a section you are free to skip. This one is personal - something that has been happening in my own prayer. If that makes you uncomfortable, just move smartly along until the next little row of crosses and pick it up there.
At the end of the retreat, Ignatius sticks in a prayer called the Suscipe, begins “Take, Lord, Receive.” I'll put a copy at the end of this section. It's a tough prayer. When I did the long retreat as a Novice, there was a Jesuit in the room next to me name Fr. Anthony Paone. He had been a writer and a couple of his books had sold millions of copies. Very well-known in his day, radio talk shows, magazine articles, the whole thing. He had prayed this prayer. One day he woke up and something had happened - I never found out if it was a stroke or what - but he functioned for the rest of his life somewhere between a 3 and 5 year old. Gentle, quiet - but I would often find him in the hallway, lost. He could find the bathroom, but could seldom get back to his room. They pinned his name and the address of the retreat house to his sweater, in case he wandered off the property.
When it came time to pray the Suscipe, with the image of Fr Paone fresh in my mind, it was not easy. I confess, I told my director at the time that the best I could do was to want to want to pray that prayer. I could not pray it and mean it. And that held true for a number of years. As my mother developed Alzheimer's, and other people I knew went through similar periods, it made the reality of that prayer even sharper. It's one thing to blithely say, “Oh, I'll turn it over to God.” It's quite another when it starts to get specific.
Well, for the last several days I have been coming back to that prayer, and meaning it. I mention this only because if some day God takes me up on it - and I don't want anybody to panic or worry, I am not operating out of some premonition or dream warning or anything like that - but I don't want people blaming God or getting upset. I have, in essence, given God a blank cheque, date and amount to be filled in at his pleasure. (We are all in that situation, of course, whether we like it or not, but I have volunteered it.) If he cashes it in, you should remember that in August of 2001 I made the offer. Here's the prayer itself -
Take, Lord, receive all my liberty
My mind, my memory, my entire will
all that I have and possess.
You have given it all to me, now I return it to you.
All is yours - dispose of it wholly according to your will.
Give me only your love and your grace,
for this is enough for me.
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Saturday, September 1 - The light at the end of the tunnel is NOT an oncoming train. In fact, it hasn't been a tunnel, more like an extraordinary visit with a favorite relative. God has been very good to me these past weeks, and I am refreshed in all sorts of ways. But the end is in sight. The retreat formally end tomorrow night, and then we have two days for reflection and Wednesday we trundle back into the “real” world. I'm going back gently, starting with a ferry ride over to Dublin. But last night my Director had said to feel free at this point, depending on how I felt, to go “off campus,” sort a preliminary reflection day. So this morning, the weather being promising, I betook myself to Chester, where I had had such a lovely afternoon the first break day.
Well, it was Race Day. There is a large grassy area that used to be the Roman docking area, but at some point the river changed course, and left this vast expanse of grass, which the locals used for racing their horses. The idea caught on, and several times during the year, Chester has Race Day. (Note the caps.) This is a MAJOR event and other events are built around it, so the town was a fun place to be. The Army Cadets were letting people rappel down the front of the Cathedral, to raise money for the renovation fund, and a training centre brass band was playing in front of the Town Hall, which is right across from the Cathedral, and inside the Town Hall there was a Craft Show, and further down and around the corner was a Fuschia show and the Chester Market was open, sort of a cross between a Farmer's Market and a Flea Market and the normal street musicians, including one guy with an electric violin, who was raking it in. (I got talking to him, and chided him that he was playing everything in first position, so he asked if I wanted to try it - I haven't touched a fiddle in a long time, but did an opening section of a czardas from Fledermaus, which has some double-stop work at the beginning which always sounds impressive - and then he ripped off a Bach piece that was fun. It was that kind of a day.) And a guy making free balloon hats for the kids.
But the biggest show in town was still the Race and the people going to it. Let me tell you, this is Chester's answer to Ascot, and I haven't seen hats like this since the 1950's. Extravagant, huge, feathers and lace and crepe and straw and outfits to match. At one point I stood on a corner for a good 20 minutes just to watch the fashion show of people marching off to the races. I assume these elegantly dressed toffs were going to be watching from inside fancy boxes and elegant promenades with tea and assorted munchies discreetly served. I say assume, because in my walking shoes and army fatigue jacket, I wasn't exactly dressed for the County Promenade (at 25 pounds the ticket). But it added great class to the streets of Chester for a bit and a feast for eyes that have been mostly looking at the inside of a chapel and the Welsh countryside.
So back home and in the non-prayer-filled moments, time to start thinking about coordinating laundry with the schedule, checking the emails ready to go out, confirming the immediate travel arrangements and preparing to look back on the 30 days and see if I discover anything about the time and the prayer and what all was going on. That's where the director can be a tremendous help, because he's been part of this whole trip, and is often in a better position to see trends or recurring insights than the person who has been undergoing. Certainly true for this person - I am the first to admit I am particularly dense at that sort of thing, at least where I am concerned.
I would guess one or two more entries and I'll try to get this off either just before or just after Ireland. I might do a postscript on the recording sessions and the three day meeting in Boston. Once I get back to Lagos the amount of work I have to do before I take off again for Rome (on the 20th of October) staggers even me. So if I don't get this finished and out before, there will be along hiatus before I can do anything more.
You continue to be prayed for, individually and en masse. God knows the difference.
Which reminds me - time for one last section of those little crosses - same rules apply.
+ + + + + + +
OK - I had said in the first section that I would make sure your prayer ammunition bag had some options. One way of prayer I described above. Two things to add to that. When you begin your prayer - or rather, just before you begin - or as you starting to begin - right at the beginning - ask God specifically for what you are seeking - for what grace, for what insight, for what disposition. It sounds simple but it's important - as you begin this time with God, what are you asking for?
And at the end, before you step aside from the prayer and review it, spend a moment with God - with Jesus - with the Blessed Virgin - and talk with them directly as you would with an old friend. Something may have come up in the prayer that prompts the conversation - ask again what you were asking at the beginning, or respond to something from the prayer. Ignatius suggested standing on front of the crucified Christ and asking the three questions - What have I done for Christ? What am I doing for Christ? What will I do for Christ?
Tony DeMello was an Indian Jesuit who spent much of his life trying to bring eastern prayer techniques to Western Christians. One of his suggestions was simply to sit in a chair, and put an empty chair next to you, imagine Jesus sitting there, and have a chat. See what happens.
I said above that there were be times when prayer doesn't “work” - change. Change your schedule, change your place, change the way you pray. One approach - pick a passage of Scripture and read through it slowly. Very slowly. Maybe out loud. If something strikes you, stop and stay with it - see what happens. What thoughts, what reactions - emotional as well as intellectual. If it makes you uncomfortable, why? If it brings you peace, stay with the peaceful feeling. If the feeling or the thought ends, then move on. When you get to the end of the passage, pause and then go back to the beginning and start again. Do that for the full hour.
Take a prayer that you know well, like the Lord's Prayer. Take the first word, and meditate on that as long as you find profit. It does not say “my” father - it's a plural Where does that lead me? In today's society, the word “Father” carries its own baggage and you might find yourself spending a lot of time there. And so on. As long as one word is providing content for reflection, stay with it. You probably won't finish the prayer in the time allotted. Fine. It's not a race or a contest.
The important thing is to build a time into your day and give it over to God. Sometimes you may want to spent the hour raging at God - fair enough, but you should also give Him some time to respond. There may be times when God seems to have left and has not even turned on his answering machine so you can leave a message. Call back. Don't give up. Enough. Back to Wales.
+ + + + + + +
Monday, 3rd September - The retreat is officially over, and today is the repose day for most of the others. Although there is a set of exercises and a “map” so to speak, each retreat is different, and where I have had a wonderful month, some may have had a tougher time, moved through sections at their own pace - so some in our group may be “ahead” and other “behind,” insofar as either of those words have any meaning in this context. I have started the process of reflection, which will continue for another week in Belfast - I am very fortunate in that. But I think I will get this off to the waiting multitudes - especially those of you who don't realize you are waiting - before I leave here.
One of the interesting things is the amount of poetry that has emerged. Not particularly planned, little bits and longer pieces and nothing that is going to shake earth anywhere, but a sign of my being more open to see and respond to moments and feeling. Neat. The hair has continued to grow - for those who had trouble opening the pictures (or whose systems simply refused to accept them, which included a whole bunch of hotmail addresses) I will be re-sending smaller bmp files. Not enough on top to comb or even grab onto if I were drowning, but I no longer look like a skinhead between rallies. I did trim the beard a little but haven't touched the new growth. (One of my dreams last night was that I had shaved. I wonder what THAT means?)
Today is dark and cloudy, so I am not tempted to go forth and golf. I'll sing at mid-day - usually I have been using my walkman, with the earpiece stuck in one ear so I can hear the accompaniment but I can still hear me. Today I'm borrowing a portable boom box thingy, so I can hear the music in the space. Since others are away I can work a little longer, if the voice is up to it. My director this morning said he might come and listen - see, even retreat directors need to do penance from time to time. And laundry. It feels like things are ending, although I will do a stretch today of further reflection.
(Later in the day.) I had a lovely singing time today. The voice opened up nicely and the chance to hear the music was delightful. My director came for a bit, and another woman on the staff came, and the cleaning lady (whose schedule I have been disrupting) was also invited in, so I had a bit of an audience - and you know how I hate that!! Hehehe. It was fun and I got some good work done - if the high b-natural at the end of Nessun Dorma comes out like today's on the recording, I will be a happy tenor.
Others in the group went off today for a day in Rhyll and back to start the reflection process with their own directors - tonight it's kind of fun, they're a little like children at camp, walking around the halls whispering to each other, trying not to disturb the 8-day retreatants, but excited to be finished with the retreat. There was a group coffee this morning (which I almost missed - I hadn't read the bulletin board and just happened to wander in for a cup of coffee about a half an hour after it had started) with everyone happily nattering away. I hope people aren't going to start exchanging addresses and expecting Christmas cards. It's a strange sort of shared and yet not shared experience.
So that's it from the hills of Wales. If there are momentous developments today, I'll add a PS. And on Tuesday, off this goes. If there are things worth telling in Belfast, or London, or Boston, or on the way back, I'll send a separate note. (I have started to read through emails, and someone asked me if I would be able to walk around in Belfast. It occurred to me - and it really hadn't up to that point - that it's been a month with no news, radio, papers. For all I know there could be civil war going on. I have absolutely no idea of anything that has happened in the world since July 31. I assume if the Queen had died or something of that nature, someone would have prayed about it at Mass. All the same, when I get to the train station I better buy a paper.)
In theory I should be back on the SJLagos3 address as of September 28 but so far I have been unable to access that account - maybe they've gone out of business. Maybe I'VE gone out of business. I will be in Rome from October 20 or 21 until November 15th, and during those days will be back on this AOL address.
One final note - I mentioned a couple of times that you were being prayed for during this retreat. That's not a news item. It goes on as a regular item of my life - sometimes generally, sometimes specifically, as a birthday or an anniversary comes up, or just as you arise in my mind. I don't often tell you - but God knows all about it. In one sense, I end this retreat as I began it, thankful for my friends and aware that they are - you are - probably the greatest of God's many blessings in my life.
Love and prayers and stuff like that
John Sheehan, SJ
The Wandering Jesuit
leaving Wales for Belfast
This is for friends who wonder, “WHAT is Sheehan doing now?” Admittedly, a 30-day retreat is not normal, even for people in the religion business. While much of what goes on is between me and God and you'll forgive me if I don't go into all the gruesome details, it strikes me that some of what happens over the next month, both the exterior and some of the interior, might be of interest. This may have a slightly different tone than the trip to Russia or even giving the retreat to the Carmelite Sisters - or maybe not. At this point, I could not begin to predict what may or may not happen. But as it does I will keep a record here, separate from my own spiritual diary (which will probably be promptly thrown away when I die) and then I will do some judicious editing, and my return to “the world” will be heralded by yet another overflowing message in your mailboxes. As always, there will NOT be a quiz, and you are free to use your Delete button without apology or explanation.
I arrived on August 1st at St Beuno's (Pronounced Buy-no - a Welsh saint) - sharing the train all the way from London with around 40 orthodox Jewish kids, in matching outfits, the boys with hats and locks - quite an expedition. Some very young, some speaking in English, others in Yiddish (not Hebrew, I do know the difference) - I have no idea where they were from or where going but thank heaven for the British civilized custom of reserving seats on a train! Trains in Europe are still delightful - polite conductors, classy and comfortable seats, schedules that mean something. OK, occasionally they do have these crashes but safer than the roads and cheaper than the planes and you do get to go through some very nice country, unlike the American trains that have been relegated to the back of businesses and corridors so that no one knows a train is going by. They've got good snack bars, electronic signs and announcements for each station, good storage space for luggage and bicycles - all in all, a well-done operation.
By the way - if you have not been paying attention to the unification of Europe, you should. There is a great deal going on over her, bringing countries together, the single monetary system, increased trade agreements, the Nice treaty - and there are lots of layers and concerns and points of view. It will have great impact on the United States, and if you're not spending some time learning about all of this, you really should. Some of it sounds more than a little scarey to this observer and some of the personal stories about the new system make the guy who wrote 1984 (whose name escapes me at the moment) seem less a prophet and more a nitpicker. Don't say you weren't warned.
St Beuno's was built by the Jesuits in 1842 as a theologate and is on the side of a large hill or small mountain in Wales, near Rhyll (also spelled Rhyl) for those of you with a minor map fetish - if you go east from Holyhead along the top of the coast line you will find Rhyll, then go south and we're in there, near St Asaph's. There are 22 of us making the 30-day retreat - one woman who lived in Ibadan, Nigeria for 15 years, a Jesuit from my own Province who is working in Guam and who had worked in Zambia, a couple of Swedes, one sister from Germany and an older sister from Ireland who is already uncomfortable with the freedom, women preaching - she's a lovely lady but the informality of religion is not her cup of tea. She is somewhere is her 80's, so a little slack must be given. There are religious brothers and married and single - a real mixed bag. We have spent the first three days - well, up to the 3rd - settling in, which means a relaxed style, we are still talking, no schedule or formal prayer, just whatever anyone feels like doing. I have been sleeping extraordinary amounts and cleaning up odd little bits, putting things away, so to speak. The retreat formally begins this evening - silence begins after the evening Mass. I've stopped shaving, so by the end of the month there should be something on top of my head again, and a chance to re-shape the beard. Everything is hill around here, so walking involves climbing, whether coming or going or both. Weather has been gorgeous and August is usually a pretty stable month, insofar as that means anything in this context. I have made arrangements to sing for an hour a day, since I am going to be recording in September; on the break day, whenever it comes, assuming no downpour, I'll be off to one of the local courses for a round of golf, hoping it will not undo whatever good has been done up to then.
The house is built on the side of a hill, so it is possible to come in from a walk and be on one of three different floors. I am almost at the top of the building, so the view is tremendous. (I will try to enclose a picture with this.) The little corridor is called the Priests' Gallery, and the passageway at one point is about five feet high. They have painted “Watch your head” (actually since this is Britain, they have said “Mind your head” - I automatically gave you the translation) on the wall - I know at least one time I am going to cause myself serious damage. I admit it, I don't get out and around very much, but I'd never seen these windows before - they open sideways, like doors, but you can close them, change the position of the handle, and they tilt in from the top for ventilation. Very clever, and useful. Double-glazed, so in the winter they provide warmth. I'm impressed.
The side of the house where most of the rooms are do not have the best view. I was wondering about this and realized they have a southern exposure - more sun for more of the day - and in the days before central heating, this is no small consideration. The walls are something over two feet thick - they truly do not build them like THAT any more. Some rooms are quite small - mine is more than adequate, with a bed (now raised up on bricks so I am once again sleeping on a slant) and a desk and chair, an easy chair and lamp, a bureau, a cupboard for hanging clothes and a sink. There's a little night stand next to the bed with a lamp, several pictures filling up wall space, a small kneeler (for those might want to kneel when praying - I use it for a foot rest) - carpet on the floor, and a radiator in front of the double window, with a generous sill (there's that thick wall business). Home away from home.
The first days are days of preparation - we are not on silence, there are a couple of sessions to help get us started, a tour of the house, even a wine and munchie reception to welcome us all. Retreat formally begins on Friday night after Mass - silence descends.
The chapel has been nicely re-done, from a very traditional English 19th century to a modern and very comfortable design, keeping the pillars and carved roof. They raised the floor by about three feet, and draped long pieces of fabric, forming a tent which is focused over the altar and stretches to include virtually the whole center section of the church. The altar is made of pieces of stone, piled into a pyramid, with a round stone slab on top, and is very much a sacrificial altar, under the tent of meeting. Flexible lighting means you can re-design the focus as needed. The side of the church, where there was separate set of seats and an altar, has been walled by glass, providing two additional prayer spaces. Heavily carpeted throughout, the old stained glass has been kept, it's really quite nice. Unfortunately, the people doing the liturgy have no sense of how to use the space, or what liturgy ought to be about, so with a space that invites participation and intimacy, they use a lot of recorded music and have developed a celebration style where everyone sits down most of the time, effectively distancing everyone from what is happening. I could go on for pages - but I won't. (Maybe that is one of the early graces of the retreat.) There is a daily Mass in what I am calling the nature chapel - a former parlor, turned into a lovely chapel with a great window and a couple of small trees brought inside. Very nice. I may abandon the group liturgy for this, if things keep up.
Saturday, August 4 - First day of the retreat. I had set my clock for 5:30 (the sun is already up at that time) but I was awakened about ten minutes before that by gunshots. Made me feel right at home. Of course, these were hunters, not burglars, but for a minute... I'm on the 3rd floor, at the end of the corridor, they'd have to kill a lot of people before they got to me. Weather is again gorgeous and everyone is settling down into the work of the retreat. Which is what I will do, and will come and jot things here occasionally, as they happen or occur to me. One of the early sessions, though, was a reflection on moments in my life, and one of the fruits of that was the recurring realization of what a wonderful set of friends I have. Who will be prayed for regularly throughout the month. (Yes, that means you.)
Note for the file - if you have the choice, a self-winding wristwatch is NOT the choice for a retreat. I have a very nice watch that was given to me by a good friend on my last birthday - but it doesn't have a very long capacity, and every morning when I awake, it has stopped - and takes several minutes agitation to get it going. When one is spending much of the day in prayer - ie, not moving - the self-winding thingy doesn't get enough exercise, and I'm not the only thing in the room getting extra rest.
Normal daily routine - up around 5:30, shower, cup of hot bouillon, prayer. I meet with my director at 8:30, and the rest of the morning is another prayer session, a walk, perhaps some reading, pray the rosary. Mass at 12 (I have abandoned the group liturgy for a smaller and simpler and less controversial gathering), and immediately after Mass I go out into one of the outer houses and sing. Everyone else is at lunch, with music playing in the dining room, so if I keep my windows closed, the disturbance is almost nothing. After singing, another cup of hot bouillon, prayer, maybe a nap or if the weather is nice, a walk out. Prayer again in the early evening, usually in the wood chapel - everyone else is at supper so there is plenty of quiet. Gentling down for the night and a final prayer session as dark is falling. Later in the retreat I will give up one of the late afternoon sessions and do what is called “Interrupted Sleep” - you sleep for three hours, then get up and pray for an hour and then go back to bed. The eagle-eyed among you may have noticed a lack of mention of meals in that schedule. I usually fast during retreat, and while a 30-day fast is not impossible - I used to know a woman who did that - I will probably end up eating twice a week. It's early days and I'm still finding the rhythm of the day and the prayer.
Prayer - each session is an hour, except it's really a little more than that. You spend an hour in prayer and then another ten or fifteen reviewing what happened during the prayer time. As you know, prayer does not mean broadcasting, as in saying prayers, as much as it does listening. Lots of different techniques for approaching prayer, but the bottom line for all is the same, to be open enough to hear God however he is talking to you. You can pray any place - and in a spot like this, there are many choices, but inside the house and out. So there are five hours of prayer, Mass, plus reading the Office each day, the daily examen (twice a day, about ten minutes each time) and I usually say the Rosary each day. Fills the time, especially when you add my singing, some sleep, the occasional ablutions - like that. As always, one of the joys of leaving Nigeria is a hot shower with pressure. We had an Italian company do the work on our house, and they built the bathroom where I am - and somehow, the best they can do is a dribble. I get wet and clean, but I miss the whoosh of a real shower. The shower here, I am happy to report, whooshes nicely. (Fascinating - the spell checker accepts whoosh as a word, without a moment's hesitation.)
This is the house where Gerard Manley Hopkins wrote some of his best poetry and where he was happiest during his Jesuit life. (Yes, GMH was a Jesuit priest and he was here for his theology studies.) They used to have his room as a sort of shrine - here is how it was when he was here - but they have turned it into a conference room. If you're not familiar with his work, take a look. Best read aloud - and more than once. Great stuff. Last May I passed around to the Mass group a copy of one of his poems. I usually manage to get off at least one poem of my own during a retreat - I wonder what the hills of Wales will inspire. I do NOT inflict my poetry on other people, so no need to start practicing being polite.
August 10 - Finally some sustained sunshine (we've had several days of rain and dark clouds and chilly weather- that's not just Nigerian blood talking, others had asked for the heat to be turned on), so I went for a walk in the hills of Wales today. Sounds poetic, eh? It was more wonderful than mere words can describe - this place ought to inspire poetry in anyone. We can see the ocean from the hill, and I went walking - through some sheep, then some cows - watched a bull trying to propagate the species, but the lady cow (after what seemed to this casual observer to have been a certain amount of encouragement) was NOT cooperating, so I left him to his frustration. Birds and rabbits and assorted critters I can't identify and wind and sunshine and blue, blue, blue sky and some white clouds and landscape spread out below me to beat the band (and new and therefore very comfortable walking shoes, purchased especially for this retreat) - and I had breakfast today so I was full of energy. All in all, a truly lovely day. Not exactly the Jesus in the desert kind of prayer but if you want to start something with the grandeur of God in it, this would be the spot. Since the days of the Normans (that's 11th century for you non-history types), Wales has always been a people set apart, and when you spend a little time in these hills you can start to understand a little bit of why and how come.
August 14 - I must be doing something right - yesterday my director suggested that today should be a break day. Well, that's my word - they call it a “Day of Repose.” Schedule is suspended, you're on your own. The idea is that you try and deepen what has been happening with the retreat, but you can talk with any others who are on break, or go away - whatever. I wanted to play golf - I've never really played on a course with greens (in Nigeria we have “browns,” a petroleum sludge product that tries to approximate a putting surface, and is, actually, brown.) And I thought this would be fun. Well, the weather report was rain and when I checked the Internet, the nearby courses were reported as being closed on Monday. (I later discovered this is the winter schedule and things were, in fact open. Sigh.) So I went into Rhyll, the nearby town, just to walk around, buy some things I needed, like batteries, and be away.
Rhyll went through a period of prosperity as a poor man's resort area, and there are still the kinds of gaming parlors, souvenir shops, fast food places you'd see at an older Atlantic City. There is a very good aquarium, an 8-theatre movie complex, a fairly extensive children's village, and several blocks of downtown have been turned into shopping mall. It is right on the ocean, so there is a large stretch of beach as well, and fishing charters from one end. (Although they mostly fish for shark, which is not a very exciting fish to catch. Good eating, but rather like pulling in a tire.) But it is a grey city, and it does not take too discerning an eye to see that the days of great prosperity are over. Many former guest hostels are being turned into city housing units and there is a slightly tacky, seedy air about the seafront stretch - which I, of course, just loved.
I walked around for a bit, getting the sense of the city. Had an egg mcmuffin (I know, I should put that in caps, because it was a real one) and coffee - great coffee, by the way, should you ever be in Rhyll and in need of a caffeine fix. I took my portable breakfast and went out and sat on the sea wall. My luck was holding - I had had poetic thoughts of praying at the ocean side - but the tide was seriously out, and the ocean was some distance away. Still nice time, God does not come and go with the tide, and I was successful in staying with the mood and rhythm of the retreat.
I did some shopping (even bought a book on how to play better golf - or in my case, play golf at all), was fascinated by people, and walked for miles and miles. About mid-day I boarded a train and took off for Chester, an ancient Roman fortification now a town, about a 45 minute ride. The ride provided some more quiet time for prayer, and when I arrived I discovered a free bus from the station into the center of town, just show your train ticket. Away I went.
The center of Chester has been preserved and is reminiscent of the medieval village it was, at the same time providing a delightful environment for a wide range of very contemporary shops and shopping malls. I headed off to the Chester Cathedral and spent some very rich quiet time there. I won't give you a lot of history but its origins go back to the 7th century - which is pretty far back - and the current cathedral is both a nice place to visit and a good place to pray. Walked about some more - did some more shopping, although not buying - it's the kind of place where there were at least six different musicians on the street (do accordionists count as musicians?) Including one trio of 2 flutes and an oboe - took a 30-minute cruise on the river, and then headed back to Rhyll.
Almost.
I was standing on the platform waiting for the 16:19 to Rhyll on track 6. Train comes in around 16:17. No announcement made but all sorts of people get on including yours truly. As we pull away I notice a lot of people standing on the platform who did NOT get on the train. At which point, the conductor makes an announcement, “Welcome to the delayed 16:35 train to Birmingham, stopping at...” and he proceeds to name a number of stations, none of which is Rhyll. I am going in the wrong direction.
Fortunately my accent gives me away (Accent? What accent?) and the conductor is most understanding (and perhaps a little too amused) and says I should get off and change at Crewe. Sigh, grumble, fratsis. So I do and in a couple of minutes there is a shuttle to Chester, and I have to go through the same explanation all over again. Bless the Welsh. No charge for my ride in either direction. Carefully checking all the indicators, this time I get on the right train, and am shortly back in Rhyll. I had scouted out a Kentucky Fried Chicken (What can I tell you, I have simple and plebeian tastes) and bought myself a picnic and got a cab back to the retreat house.
Understand - this may not have sounded like a much of a much to you, but it was a wonderful and rich day. Chester is worthy of another visit - I never got to the castle, or took the tour of the town on the open-air bus, and there were dozens of shops I did not get into - and it all happened within the context of the retreat. There is an old hymn, “I'll Walk with God,” (to be heard sung by Father John on his soon to be released album, “Father John Sings Sacred Songs”) and that's what the day was, walking with God, even in McDonald's. You'd think he could have alerted me about the train, but I probably wasn't paying enough attention.
So back to the day to day business of praying. Learning new things. For instance, in Wales, the shepherds move their sheep with motorcycles. I mean, the sheep aren't on the motorcycles, the shepherds are, yelling and zooming about - I'd certainly move alone with those guys coming at me. Rather disturbs the peaceful image of grazing sheep on the green hills of Wales, not the sort of thing you want to put on the promotional brochures, but I can testify, it does get the job done. The sheep moved along in quick time.
Praying doesn't necessarily make you smart. (Stop snickering, I didn't mean me.) I was going past the laundry room today, where they have three washing machines, a spin dryer and a tumble dryer, a couple of irons and hanging racks all over for drying clothes. (This place is very politically correct and the laundry room is full of signs encouraging us to save energy and hang our clothes inside or out instead of using the dryer. When I did my wash, I used the dryer. I am getting to that early crotchety stage in life when I make a point of NOT being politically correct. I still smoke a pipe, too. So there.) I noticed a new sign on the tumble dryer - in big letters on bright green paper pasted on the front door is says, “Tumble Dryer.” My guess is that one of my fellow retreatants thought it was a washing machine and.... ever tried getting soap powder out of a dryer? Kind of spoils your morning.
August 16 - Today is the 21st anniversary of my entering the Society of Jesus. My mother and father and sister all came with me to Syracuse - rather like taking your boy to camp for the first time - and we met other parents and they got to see my room, and there was a Mass and a huge dinner (if this is poverty, I can hardly wait for chastity) - then we had a meeting while our parents had a meeting with the Novice Master, then they drove away into the sunset (literally) and we settled in for our first night as Novices. I suppose it's a sign of age how clear that was, while I would be hard pressed to tell you what I did last week. The next day, Sunday, we had the afternoon free and several of the second-year men took several of us new guys to Green Pond, a nearby swimming area - we packed a bag of food from the kitchen and off we went. I remember being in the water, people all around, thinking - if this is religious life, I can do this. Little did I imagine that Nigeria would be in my future. I wonder what new surprises God has in store? (Who said India?)
It is also, coincidentally, the anniversary of the beginning of the Nigerian Mission - in 1962, Fr Joe Schuh arrived in Lagos on this day to begin the work of the Society there. He was to be a member of the faculty of the University of Lagos as it was opening. And further coincidence, it is also the anniversary of the suppression of the Society. In 1773 the bull Dominus ac Redemptor was published which essentially closed our doors. A landmark day - big landmarks and little landmarks.
And while I am rambling on about things inconsequential, and this is roughly the mid-point of the retreat, it is probably not an inappropriate time to stick in a hair update. I am using this time away in the hills of Wales to re-grow my hair. (Now if that sentence makes no sense to you - unlike so many of my other sentences - just before leaving Nigeria I shaved my head and yes, pictures are available. Why? Something I had always wanted to do, curiosity about what I looked like without head hair - I did not shave the beard, I tried that about 15 years ago and the memory still causes involuntary shudders to run through my body.) Two things that are fascinating me as the hair returns - one is that there was a tonsure spot in the middle of my head, a small bald patch. Seems as though hair is growing there. Now maybe it will give up and go away but it feels just like the rest of my head - fuzzy. And the other thing is how much grey there is! Funny, I don't remember that much grey. The line between forehead and hair also seems to start somewhat farther back on the head than it used to but that just may be my imagination and the result of long hours of prayer and fasting.
I'm also letting the beard grow back in full, and then at some point I can re-shape it. I was looking at myself in the mirror today (lost in wonder and admiration) and I suddenly realized that at the moment I look rather like Lon Chaney halfway through the transformation. Certainly if I were my neighbor, I would lock the door on full moon nights and beg the kitchen for a little wolfsbane. (And in this part of Wales, I would suspect the kitchen might well have a little, tucked away for an odd emergency. No, garlic is for vampires.)
My belt is also two notches in from when I started. That's not the reason for the fasting, but it's not a bad side effect. Of course, living on the top floor doesn't hurt either - up and down, up and down. Which pretty well describes the outside as well.
On my break day I had one quick phone conversation with an old friend and her husband who were in London. When I asked why they were there, seems they were leaving the next day on a one-week Baltic cruise. They had been inspired by my trip to Russia and they were off sailing. (If for some reason you did not get a copy of “Father John's Trip to Russia” and would like one, so you have a complete set of massive missives, just ask. Ditto for “Father John and the Talking Clock” which came out shortly afterwards.) I suggested that when she received this letter she might then be inspired to try a retreat. She said she thought not, although I did try to make clear that there are shorter versions than the 30-day model - retreats come in affordable 8-day styles and even a compact weekend version. (See your local dealer for complete details.) But I also found myself wondering if my influence extended such that I would shortly be receiving a spate of pictures from friends with their own head shaven. Shaved. Bald. Which led me down the path of wondering what some of you would look like smooth-domed. The mind boggles.
God calls. Back to work.
+ + + + + + + Interval + + + + +
OK - I try not to preach to my friends - not that you don't need it, but it's a little like a lawyer going to a cocktail party and talking about his cases. But it occurs to me, in this merry rambling, that I have not really talked about prayer, and what it is, and what I actually do during these 30 days. Now if this is a subject that makes you nervous and you would just as soon skip it, or you are well familiar with it, or you just don't care, move rapidly on to the next set of little plus signs and the normal ramblings will resume down there. The rest of this section will be about prayer.
When most folk talk about prayer, they are usually talking about prayers of petition (where we ask for something) or of thanksgiving (where we say thank you for something) or just the memorized prayer that we run through when inspiration fails us, or as a comfortable ritual. Those are all great. But the classic definition of prayer is “A conversation with God,” and in conversation, both parties ought to get the chance to talk. So prayer - ought to be on a daily basis but especially when we go away on retreat - is giving God the chance to talk back.
This is the point where it can start sounding weird - stay with me. I am NOT talking about going into trances or “hearing the voice of God” like Joan of Arc. This does not involve ingesting foreign substances (you look disappointed) or prolonged periods of fasting or self-abuse (now you look relieved). It does involve a certain use of your imagination and a willingness to trust - in yourself, in a process that has been handed down for several thousand years in one variation or another, and ultimately, in God.
Rationale: God wants to “talk”” to us, to share with us guidance, comfort, ideas. There were, apparently, people who could hear God directly - Moses, Elijah, there's a list. But for whatever reasons, most of us don't have that ability. How, then, does God talk to us? Actually in several different ways, once we are open to hearing them. Let's start with the simplest - our imagination. When this prayer technique is presented, some people say, “But I'm just talking to myself. That's just my imagination at work.” Well, yes. But do you deny God - who created the whole universe and everything in it - the power to make use of your imagination? (Add my name to the list of people you're supposed to trust - see above.) Until you have been at prayer, and had the experience of God taking over, it's a hard concept to grasp. Once it happens, you start to understand something about praying. Trust me.
Technique: Find a place where you won't be interrupted, and where there is a semblance of quiet, free from distractions. I do not find the hills outside very helpful for my own prayer for instance, because they are so gorgeous I get watching the clouds and admiring the scenery and I forget about the praying part. Pick a passage of Scripture to pray with. Something not too long, one of Jesus' parables, for instance. Read through it several times, so you're familiar with it, and then put it away. Then sit, and listen to the silence. At first you'll hear noises - birds or traffic or children, whatever - listen through the noises to the silence. After a while, you may start to get the sense that there's something behind the silence. That's the presence of God - when you've reached that, you're ready to begin.
Remember that parable you were going to pray with? Imagine the scene. Make it come alive in your mind. What do the people look like, how are they dressed, what's the weather like, what sounds do you hear in the scene, what smells do you smell? Be free and relaxed and whatever comes up is right. Don't worry about being historically or politically correct, don't fret about anachronisms - so what if the prodigal son is wearing a watch or the forgiving father is wearing glasses. Whatever happens is correct. Then watch the parable unfolding, and, as St Ignatius says, see what profit you can derive from it. Feel free to replay the scene. Are you in the scene yourself, or simply a spectator? If the latter, who are you, why are you there? At this point, there are no rules, just let it unfold.
One thing that sometimes happens is that the scene takes on a life of its own and goes off in directions not in the Scriptures. That's fine - see where it goes and what happens, especially if you are in it. It has happened more than once to me that in a Gospel scene, Jesus has turned and started talking to me. That's one of those moments where you are no longer in control, and it can be a tad unnerving at first. No, you are not going crazy, go with it and see what develops.
The normal suggested time for prayer is one hour. That may seem a long time, and you may want to start with shorter periods and build it up - but one reason for the time is that, especially at the beginning but also when you are busy and hassled and there is more life than time or energy - you sit down to pray (remind to say a word about posture at prayer) and it takes a while to settle down and find the silence. I gave myself a week in London to unwind after leaving Lagos before coming here, and we spent the first two days here “in repose,” not seriously praying, just relaxing and settling in. The same thing is true for daily prayer - it is difficult to simply drop out of the day and turn yourself over to God. There have been times when I have spent the better part of the hour just settling down. That's why many people pray at the very beginning of the day (before the children are awake - although I remember one mother telling me that her time was right after everyone left in the morning, because there was instantly a sense of quiet and peace and before it dissipated, she would use that as her entry to prayer. Whatever works.)
When you have finished - and however long you have given yourself, stay with it, even if nothing is happening - take another ten or fifteen minutes to review the prayer. Not just what happened, although many times you will discover things you missed the first time through. But how did you feel during the prayer? Were there moments of comfort, of unease or disturbance? What did you learn, or see or realize or imagine? When people keep a spiritual journal, this is a good spot to jot down what went on.
Speaking of a good spot - I mentioned finding a place to pray. Once you find the place, also find a comfortable position. Prayer does not have to take place on the knees. I have separated tendons in each knee, so kneeling is not an option. Some pray lying down - I tend to fall asleep. Whatever works for you is good. There are some who can pray while walking. I find too many distractions, although occasionally that works for me. And what works today or for a while may not - find a new position, a new place, a new way to pray. What I have suggested above is one way - later on I'll throw a couple of others at you, so your ammunition bag will have several choices.
So each day, five different times, with my subject for prayer in my hot little fist, I find my place, settle down, and proceed as described above. So far on this retreat, for much of the time, I have been graced, and “finding God” has not been difficult. (Probably a sign I need so much help God isn't going to waste any time. Or that I need so much help I am open and ready. Whatever.) There have been times when the prayer has taken off on its own direction, and I ended up not praying about what I thought I would. That's okay. Ignatius has a program of exercises (Hence the term “Spiritual Exercises”) and with my director I have been more or less following those, in terms of sequence.
Director? Didn't I mention him? During retreat, you normally have a spiritual director, whose job is to listen to how the prayer is going and make suggestions about topics for prayer, or help you come to understand what may have been happening in prayer. My director is Fr Tom McGuiness (although a spiritual director doesn't have to be a priest or a nun or a religious - there are wonderful directors who are lay people). Often he has seen patterns or connections in things that I would otherwise have missed. A director is a good idea, both for retreat but in daily life as well, someone you can meet with on a regular basis and talk about your prayer, your spiritual life, whatever you want to talk about. He (or she) is not a “counselor” in the therapeutic sense, but a spiritual director, and since as a species we have become inordinately talented at fooling ourselves, he or she can provide a really good reality check.
I have to go and pray now, so it's time for that little series of plus signs (or crosses, if you're feeling pious). I hope this hasn't been too wearisome - but it's what I'm doing, so it seemed appropriate to talk about it a little.
+ + + + + + +
I am in pain. I went for a walk today (today being the 17th), over to Asaph to see the Cathedral. Nice cathedral, talky guide who seemed determined not to let anybody pray (God forbid!) in this elegant tourist attraction, but a nice visit. And being from Mars, like others of my gender, I don't like to go back the way I come, or (heaven forbid!) ask directions, so I struck off on what I was assured was the road to Tremeirchion and then to St Beuno's. On the way I found a driving range and a 9-hole course, which I take as a sign that God wants me to play golf. (Another grace of the retreat. It is hard to spot golf courses around here because most of the country looks like a golf course.) At that point my little feet were starting to complain - I had walked perhaps 5 or 6 miles at that point, and in all honesty, that was enough. I had had it. But deep in the countryside there are no buses and no taxis and my only prayer was that it was closer to keep going than to turn back. Now I have been told to go to Tremeirchion and go left. But there is a road going left and a sign that says Rhualt, which is the little burglet nearest Beuno's. AHA, says I, and off I go. (By the way, the Welsh pronunciation of that name is rather like the noise you make if you try to say Ralt while biting into a very sour pickle and suddenly discovering something nasty on the end that isn't in your mouth yet. I have yet to master it. Where was I? Oh yes, about to follow that sign.) Serious mistake. About two miles down (and I'm not kidding, I mean a good two miles down) I come to a wide open space and I can see Beuno's off in the distance. And I can see, with sudden and appalling clarity, what I have done. Instead of going on and turning left, I am now walking parallel to the road I should be on, and I am going to have to walk as far as I have come along this road before turning right and making my way back. (Did I mention the last mile or so is all uphill? And the last half mile is seriously uphill? And there are more uphills before the last mile?)
I was ready to cry. Maybe a car will come along and give me a lift? Maybe a taxi will come down the road? Yeah, and maybe pigs will grow wings. Off we go, suffering is supposed to be good for the soul, ignore the pain and the blister beginning to form on the right toe and smartly now, forward harch.
Well, I forward harched about another three miles until I came to the White House Hotel. My grandmother, God rest her, was full of pithy advice about life - things like always wear clean underwear because you never know when you might be hit by a truck, and always have a clean white handkerchief, because you never know when a beautiful woman is going to burst into tears on your shoulder. (That one actually did happen, and I did have a clean handkerchief, and my estimation of my grandmother's words of wisdom rose drastically on that day.) One of her bits of traveling sagacity was to always have a dime with you. Now she was thinking more in terms of pay toilets, but in this case, it let me call for a cab. In addition to the dime (local translation, ten pence) I also had several pounds, and I have never paid a taxi so gladly in all my days. A hot shower, a long drink of water (remember, I'm still fasting - which for the curious has worked out to a piece of bread with peanut butter and a glass of milk on Tuesday morning and a cooked breakfast - two slices of bacon, a grilled tomato and an egg, with coffee and some toast - on Friday morning. An occasional cup of bouillon and lots of water and I'm doing fine.) and I spent the rest of the evening apologizing to my feet.
See? It's not all prayer and fasting, there are the odd adventures. The walk itself was fascinating - besides the usual sheep and cows, of which there are multitudes around here, there was an abattoir (slaughterhouse, for the uninitiated) and a breath-taking country house, and I counted six wedding cars - three Rolls Royces, thank you - I guess Friday is a good day to get married. The scenery ranges from breath-taking to heart-stopping and the oxygen content in the air is probably at hospital tank level, what with all the trees and grass and other miscellaneous green stuff. Next time I will go directly to the driving range and take the portable phone with the number of the cab company. Walk out, ride back. Not exactly an episcopal motto but not a bad rule of life either.
Break Day - August 22nd - it may read as though all I do is take break days but there has been a lot of praying in the mean time. When my director suggested Wednesday, since it was my mother's 90th birthday, it seemed a good choice - but I said I would reserve judgment until I saw the weather. It was lovely, so off I went. I got a ride down to the golf course, my new golf shoes tied over my shoulder. Hit two buckets of ball at the driving range to warm up. Good theory and perhaps it got some errors out of the system, but I don't think it helped much. Collected my rental clubs and off I went. This is a nine-hole, short yardage, although three par 4's. Not terribly challenging but fun. By the second hole I had caught up with another guy playing single and we went around together and we were joined at the 4th by another single, so we played the last bit as a threesome. Both of these guys were on medical disability, so the levels of play were not sharply separate. We finished the first nine, they went off and I went around again. Trimmed 13 strokes of my score the second time. Learned something about follow-through; we'll see if I remember next time out.
Tied my golf shoes back over my shoulder and caught a bus in to Rhyll - had a wonderful time eavesdropping on two old women sitting behind me, talking about how they liked their shandy (a mix of beer and seven-up) and another woman with whom they were finding fault - delightful. The sun was out in Rhyll and the tide was in and the place was full of people, especially wheelchairs. Dozens of them (with people in them, of course). Between the wheelchair crowd and the kids on the rides at the Children's Village and playing on the beach, more than enough material for reflection and just enjoyment. I walked around, had something to eat, and was back at the retreat homestead by early evening. Grateful I wasn't in one of those wheelchairs, although when the inevitable stiffness set in the next day, I wasn't so sure.
Turns out I was ahead of the pack, and most of the retreat group had their break day on Thursday, so Thursday was very quiet and empty around here, which was also nice. I had done laundry before I left, so break day was both fun and productive. Back to praying.
August 27 - An eight-day retreat is ending tomorrow, and so today there was a sign on the board asking if anyone wanted a packed lunch to take with them, and one woman signed up and put after her name (Vegetarian). Below her a man had signed up - John Curran (Carnivore). I don't know who he is, but he's my kind of guy. I laughed out loud. I've got to check the board later and see if there are further developments.
What a wonderful day! I went out into a beautiful afternoon just to sit on a bench in the sun and revel - not even necessarily to pray, although I wasn't opposed to it if it happened. (Sometimes, you know, it does just happen - forget all that planning and preparation I talked about earlier - like running into an old friend unexpectedly on the street, God just shows up, and there you are.) I was sitting up on the hillside, looking out over the valley, and no one else was around. Suddenly, flying fairly low, a helicopter buzzes over. I watch it as it flies out into the valley, and at once point it does a tight 360 on the same level, and then continues on its way. Suddenly, it gains a little altitude and does a full loop (backwards - backwards loops are easier because you get to see the ground sooner and you're not accelerating as you come out of the turn.) Now in the US, acrobatics over residential areas are strictly a no-no, and I admit, I had never see a copter do a loop before. It was terrific! I laughed out loud (again) and quietly applauded. Today was a bank holiday, so there might have been someone giving rides or an air show - or maybe just somebody decided to celebrate a gorgeous afternoon. It was grand.
And walking back, I detoured out by the front gate. In the field across the way are several (5?) large horses. I mean, by horse standards, these are large. Not quite Clydesdales, but working horses, with large hooves, very impressive. As I walked out of the side gate, I saw one of them heading under a large tree, and thought, Aha, sun getting a bit much for you, eh? Then he sidled up to the tree and starting moving slightly back and forth. He was scratching an itch! Once again, I laughed out loud.
I mentioned earlier that usually a retreat brings forth at least one poem. Well, this afternoon was the day. I promised I wouldn't share it, and I won't - not a “significant” poem, just about me and a rabbit and God sharing the hillside. Still needs some massaging but at least THAT has emerged.
We're in the last week, and with a detailed analysis, I would have to say God has been pretty good to me so far. No major life-shaking revelations or decisions, but I'm a lot happier coming out than I was going in.
August 29 - For the last eight days we've had a group of retreatants doing the 8-day retreat (now there is a redundant sentence!) and one was John Humphreys, a Jesuit from the Irish Province, who was Rector (Head Honcho) at Milltown Park in Dublin when I was there for one year of philosophy (about a million years ago). He has since been Socius (Assistant to the Provincial) done some other things and has just been tapped to return as Socius. (The man who had the job had a heart attack.) I didn't get a chance to talk with him before he started but he was finishing this morning, so we had a long chat and caught up. It's a small world, and you run into people all the time.
Then I went out to the driving range and hit a couple of buckets and balls and found that what I had discovered when I played before about follow through still works, and I was whacking them suckers out at the 175 yard marker with some regularity. (They don't have drivers at this range, so this is with a 3-iron.) I can hardly wait to see if it works with my own clubs! I walked home, about an hour and a half, and mostly uphill, so I got my exercise for the day.
The last several days have been just wonderful - spiritually, emotionally, the weather has been great. Retreat doesn't end until September 2, and there is always the danger of anticipating the closing. We have two days of reflection after the official ending, which helps, and then I'm off to Belfast to review the whole thing with my spiritual director.
+ + + + + + + + + +
Those little warning crosses indicate a section you are free to skip. This one is personal - something that has been happening in my own prayer. If that makes you uncomfortable, just move smartly along until the next little row of crosses and pick it up there.
At the end of the retreat, Ignatius sticks in a prayer called the Suscipe, begins “Take, Lord, Receive.” I'll put a copy at the end of this section. It's a tough prayer. When I did the long retreat as a Novice, there was a Jesuit in the room next to me name Fr. Anthony Paone. He had been a writer and a couple of his books had sold millions of copies. Very well-known in his day, radio talk shows, magazine articles, the whole thing. He had prayed this prayer. One day he woke up and something had happened - I never found out if it was a stroke or what - but he functioned for the rest of his life somewhere between a 3 and 5 year old. Gentle, quiet - but I would often find him in the hallway, lost. He could find the bathroom, but could seldom get back to his room. They pinned his name and the address of the retreat house to his sweater, in case he wandered off the property.
When it came time to pray the Suscipe, with the image of Fr Paone fresh in my mind, it was not easy. I confess, I told my director at the time that the best I could do was to want to want to pray that prayer. I could not pray it and mean it. And that held true for a number of years. As my mother developed Alzheimer's, and other people I knew went through similar periods, it made the reality of that prayer even sharper. It's one thing to blithely say, “Oh, I'll turn it over to God.” It's quite another when it starts to get specific.
Well, for the last several days I have been coming back to that prayer, and meaning it. I mention this only because if some day God takes me up on it - and I don't want anybody to panic or worry, I am not operating out of some premonition or dream warning or anything like that - but I don't want people blaming God or getting upset. I have, in essence, given God a blank cheque, date and amount to be filled in at his pleasure. (We are all in that situation, of course, whether we like it or not, but I have volunteered it.) If he cashes it in, you should remember that in August of 2001 I made the offer. Here's the prayer itself -
Take, Lord, receive all my liberty
My mind, my memory, my entire will
all that I have and possess.
You have given it all to me, now I return it to you.
All is yours - dispose of it wholly according to your will.
Give me only your love and your grace,
for this is enough for me.
+ + + + + + + + + +
Saturday, September 1 - The light at the end of the tunnel is NOT an oncoming train. In fact, it hasn't been a tunnel, more like an extraordinary visit with a favorite relative. God has been very good to me these past weeks, and I am refreshed in all sorts of ways. But the end is in sight. The retreat formally end tomorrow night, and then we have two days for reflection and Wednesday we trundle back into the “real” world. I'm going back gently, starting with a ferry ride over to Dublin. But last night my Director had said to feel free at this point, depending on how I felt, to go “off campus,” sort a preliminary reflection day. So this morning, the weather being promising, I betook myself to Chester, where I had had such a lovely afternoon the first break day.
Well, it was Race Day. There is a large grassy area that used to be the Roman docking area, but at some point the river changed course, and left this vast expanse of grass, which the locals used for racing their horses. The idea caught on, and several times during the year, Chester has Race Day. (Note the caps.) This is a MAJOR event and other events are built around it, so the town was a fun place to be. The Army Cadets were letting people rappel down the front of the Cathedral, to raise money for the renovation fund, and a training centre brass band was playing in front of the Town Hall, which is right across from the Cathedral, and inside the Town Hall there was a Craft Show, and further down and around the corner was a Fuschia show and the Chester Market was open, sort of a cross between a Farmer's Market and a Flea Market and the normal street musicians, including one guy with an electric violin, who was raking it in. (I got talking to him, and chided him that he was playing everything in first position, so he asked if I wanted to try it - I haven't touched a fiddle in a long time, but did an opening section of a czardas from Fledermaus, which has some double-stop work at the beginning which always sounds impressive - and then he ripped off a Bach piece that was fun. It was that kind of a day.) And a guy making free balloon hats for the kids.
But the biggest show in town was still the Race and the people going to it. Let me tell you, this is Chester's answer to Ascot, and I haven't seen hats like this since the 1950's. Extravagant, huge, feathers and lace and crepe and straw and outfits to match. At one point I stood on a corner for a good 20 minutes just to watch the fashion show of people marching off to the races. I assume these elegantly dressed toffs were going to be watching from inside fancy boxes and elegant promenades with tea and assorted munchies discreetly served. I say assume, because in my walking shoes and army fatigue jacket, I wasn't exactly dressed for the County Promenade (at 25 pounds the ticket). But it added great class to the streets of Chester for a bit and a feast for eyes that have been mostly looking at the inside of a chapel and the Welsh countryside.
So back home and in the non-prayer-filled moments, time to start thinking about coordinating laundry with the schedule, checking the emails ready to go out, confirming the immediate travel arrangements and preparing to look back on the 30 days and see if I discover anything about the time and the prayer and what all was going on. That's where the director can be a tremendous help, because he's been part of this whole trip, and is often in a better position to see trends or recurring insights than the person who has been undergoing. Certainly true for this person - I am the first to admit I am particularly dense at that sort of thing, at least where I am concerned.
I would guess one or two more entries and I'll try to get this off either just before or just after Ireland. I might do a postscript on the recording sessions and the three day meeting in Boston. Once I get back to Lagos the amount of work I have to do before I take off again for Rome (on the 20th of October) staggers even me. So if I don't get this finished and out before, there will be along hiatus before I can do anything more.
You continue to be prayed for, individually and en masse. God knows the difference.
Which reminds me - time for one last section of those little crosses - same rules apply.
+ + + + + + +
OK - I had said in the first section that I would make sure your prayer ammunition bag had some options. One way of prayer I described above. Two things to add to that. When you begin your prayer - or rather, just before you begin - or as you starting to begin - right at the beginning - ask God specifically for what you are seeking - for what grace, for what insight, for what disposition. It sounds simple but it's important - as you begin this time with God, what are you asking for?
And at the end, before you step aside from the prayer and review it, spend a moment with God - with Jesus - with the Blessed Virgin - and talk with them directly as you would with an old friend. Something may have come up in the prayer that prompts the conversation - ask again what you were asking at the beginning, or respond to something from the prayer. Ignatius suggested standing on front of the crucified Christ and asking the three questions - What have I done for Christ? What am I doing for Christ? What will I do for Christ?
Tony DeMello was an Indian Jesuit who spent much of his life trying to bring eastern prayer techniques to Western Christians. One of his suggestions was simply to sit in a chair, and put an empty chair next to you, imagine Jesus sitting there, and have a chat. See what happens.
I said above that there were be times when prayer doesn't “work” - change. Change your schedule, change your place, change the way you pray. One approach - pick a passage of Scripture and read through it slowly. Very slowly. Maybe out loud. If something strikes you, stop and stay with it - see what happens. What thoughts, what reactions - emotional as well as intellectual. If it makes you uncomfortable, why? If it brings you peace, stay with the peaceful feeling. If the feeling or the thought ends, then move on. When you get to the end of the passage, pause and then go back to the beginning and start again. Do that for the full hour.
Take a prayer that you know well, like the Lord's Prayer. Take the first word, and meditate on that as long as you find profit. It does not say “my” father - it's a plural Where does that lead me? In today's society, the word “Father” carries its own baggage and you might find yourself spending a lot of time there. And so on. As long as one word is providing content for reflection, stay with it. You probably won't finish the prayer in the time allotted. Fine. It's not a race or a contest.
The important thing is to build a time into your day and give it over to God. Sometimes you may want to spent the hour raging at God - fair enough, but you should also give Him some time to respond. There may be times when God seems to have left and has not even turned on his answering machine so you can leave a message. Call back. Don't give up. Enough. Back to Wales.
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Monday, 3rd September - The retreat is officially over, and today is the repose day for most of the others. Although there is a set of exercises and a “map” so to speak, each retreat is different, and where I have had a wonderful month, some may have had a tougher time, moved through sections at their own pace - so some in our group may be “ahead” and other “behind,” insofar as either of those words have any meaning in this context. I have started the process of reflection, which will continue for another week in Belfast - I am very fortunate in that. But I think I will get this off to the waiting multitudes - especially those of you who don't realize you are waiting - before I leave here.
One of the interesting things is the amount of poetry that has emerged. Not particularly planned, little bits and longer pieces and nothing that is going to shake earth anywhere, but a sign of my being more open to see and respond to moments and feeling. Neat. The hair has continued to grow - for those who had trouble opening the pictures (or whose systems simply refused to accept them, which included a whole bunch of hotmail addresses) I will be re-sending smaller bmp files. Not enough on top to comb or even grab onto if I were drowning, but I no longer look like a skinhead between rallies. I did trim the beard a little but haven't touched the new growth. (One of my dreams last night was that I had shaved. I wonder what THAT means?)
Today is dark and cloudy, so I am not tempted to go forth and golf. I'll sing at mid-day - usually I have been using my walkman, with the earpiece stuck in one ear so I can hear the accompaniment but I can still hear me. Today I'm borrowing a portable boom box thingy, so I can hear the music in the space. Since others are away I can work a little longer, if the voice is up to it. My director this morning said he might come and listen - see, even retreat directors need to do penance from time to time. And laundry. It feels like things are ending, although I will do a stretch today of further reflection.
(Later in the day.) I had a lovely singing time today. The voice opened up nicely and the chance to hear the music was delightful. My director came for a bit, and another woman on the staff came, and the cleaning lady (whose schedule I have been disrupting) was also invited in, so I had a bit of an audience - and you know how I hate that!! Hehehe. It was fun and I got some good work done - if the high b-natural at the end of Nessun Dorma comes out like today's on the recording, I will be a happy tenor.
Others in the group went off today for a day in Rhyll and back to start the reflection process with their own directors - tonight it's kind of fun, they're a little like children at camp, walking around the halls whispering to each other, trying not to disturb the 8-day retreatants, but excited to be finished with the retreat. There was a group coffee this morning (which I almost missed - I hadn't read the bulletin board and just happened to wander in for a cup of coffee about a half an hour after it had started) with everyone happily nattering away. I hope people aren't going to start exchanging addresses and expecting Christmas cards. It's a strange sort of shared and yet not shared experience.
So that's it from the hills of Wales. If there are momentous developments today, I'll add a PS. And on Tuesday, off this goes. If there are things worth telling in Belfast, or London, or Boston, or on the way back, I'll send a separate note. (I have started to read through emails, and someone asked me if I would be able to walk around in Belfast. It occurred to me - and it really hadn't up to that point - that it's been a month with no news, radio, papers. For all I know there could be civil war going on. I have absolutely no idea of anything that has happened in the world since July 31. I assume if the Queen had died or something of that nature, someone would have prayed about it at Mass. All the same, when I get to the train station I better buy a paper.)
In theory I should be back on the SJLagos3 address as of September 28 but so far I have been unable to access that account - maybe they've gone out of business. Maybe I'VE gone out of business. I will be in Rome from October 20 or 21 until November 15th, and during those days will be back on this AOL address.
One final note - I mentioned a couple of times that you were being prayed for during this retreat. That's not a news item. It goes on as a regular item of my life - sometimes generally, sometimes specifically, as a birthday or an anniversary comes up, or just as you arise in my mind. I don't often tell you - but God knows all about it. In one sense, I end this retreat as I began it, thankful for my friends and aware that they are - you are - probably the greatest of God's many blessings in my life.
Love and prayers and stuff like that
John Sheehan, SJ
The Wandering Jesuit
leaving Wales for Belfast
# 14 - Father John in Russia
Harken back to the days of yesteryear, to a time when letters were written on paper and copies were made and sent around to people, when there was time for reflection and sharing of feelings and adventures - to a time when out of darkest Africa (well, certainly gloomy Africa) came The Massive Missives. The voice of the missive has been silent in the land but here again come tales and wanderings from the fuzzy friar, the juiced-up Jesuit, the peripatetic preacher, the reverend redactor, the sometime scribe of the Society of Jesus.
Herewith - Father John’s adventures in Russia. (And this is probably an appropriate moment to assure my readers that the mere fact that they have received this massive missive does not oblige them in any way to actually read it. I, of course, find the whole thing fascinating. You may not - and this is why God has invented a whole series of devices including delete buttons and waste baskets. Follow your heart. I love you anyway. Just don’t tell me.)
Russia? (The inquiring reader asks.) Russia? What in the world is he doing there? How did he manage to get to Russia? What scam is the slippery Sheehan pulling off this time. Faithful reader, I am the victim of fate, puppet in the winds of what might be - and for once, this is NOT something I arranged. The Italian Ambassador in Lagos has gotten to be a good friend, and has sponsored a couple of concerts for me, and keeps insisting that any time I want to drop in or appropriate a spare bedroom, that I should think of the Embassy as my home. (Unlike the American Embassy in Lagos which recently refused me admittance to the premises - but that’s a story for another time.) Another good friend is Maria Aseeva, a brilliant concert pianist who is here in Lagos, teaching at the MUSON School of Music and giving concerts and who has accompanied me for concerts on several occasions. I was at lunch one day at the embassy - Maria was there, and a couple (she is Russian, the husband is Nigerian, they met when he was studying in Moscow - we forget how many scholarships Russia provided to Africans over the years) and they were talking about a trip to Russia they were planning. Maria to return home to visit, the Ambassador to re-visit a country he had visited years before and the other two to renew acquaintances and see family. Going to be a real jaunt, with a cruise down the Volga, time in Moscow - great fun. And they spent a certain amount of lunch talking about this great trip they are all going on.
I didn’t say a word. I swear I didn’t. Bring your Bibles, your white chickens or whatever paraphernalia on which you wish me to take an oath and I will stake my immortal soul and somewhat dubious reputation on the assertion that not by so much as a rolling of the eyes or a sighing of the sighs did I even plant the remotest suggestion that I too would love to cruise the Volga and visit and whatever in Russia. (Actually I have wanted to visit Russia ever since I was a small boy and could recite the whole list of the Czars in order, by heart.) But at one point someone said - and I quote – “Father, you should come.” Interior, it was all interior, the outer visage never changed - but the Cheshire Cat of Lewis Carroll parentage (anyone who does not think that casting Whoopee Goldberg as the Cat was brilliant has my permission to go and get his/her head examined and if you don’t know what I’m talking about it means you haven’t seen the Hallmark rendition of Alice and you should. A little over the top in places, but then again, so was Carroll... where was I - ah yes, end parentheses) never had a cheerier smile (inside) than I.
However, I am a man of the world and I know that things that get said at luncheon tables don’t count. Odds are made to be beaten and sometimes things said at luncheon tables actually DO happen - but rarely enough that the first sentence of this paragraph may still stand as a relatively stable rule of human behavior and interaction. So I made polite noises and they made polite noises about how much my presence would add to the trip. And finally I was backed into the social corner of having to say that as men with vows of poverty, trips to Russia are not normally on our agenda, lovely as they idea might sound. And the hoped-for response - Ah Father, come as our guest. We will pay.
Hehehe. Now to get my Superior’s permission. I made it clear to them that this was a most unusual notion and I could not simply say yes by myself - and I flatter myself enough to think that if I simply disappeared for a couple of weeks, someone might notice. So I said I would check with my boss and get back to them.
Well, my Superior said yes. Most of my trips since coming to Nigeria have been for business or have certainly included business, and I realized - those of you who know me well correct me if I’m wrong - that the last real vacation I have had, ie time away doing nothing but nothing and not taking along a computer full of work and running errands en route, was in 1987. So he said yes. And I said yes. And spent the next several weeks worrying that maybe I had misunderstood the offer, that maybe the offer was really only luncheon talk (see rules for human behavior above) - but sure enough, Maria’s mother wrote me a letter of invitation (actually she wrote two but that involves more detail about getting a Russian visa than you really want to know about) and I got my visa and the plane tickets were booked. And a problem arose.
I had gotten permission for essentially a two-week jaunt. Fair enough. Then I learned that Aeroflot (the Russian airline) only flies Lagos to Moscow twice a month, and the next return flight after our arrival was too soon, we would not have returned from our river wandering. That would mean I would be away for a month - and that’s a long time to be away. In theory we are entitled to three months every two years, but I cannot imagine a circumstance in the present setup that could let me be away for that length of time. Aaargh. My Russian dream started to crumble around the edges.
But I have been having vocal problems, and when I was in the US to do a wedding for the daughter of my oldest friend in the world - the age part has to do with the length of our friendship not the chronological accumulation he has amassed - I saw a good doctor there who gave me a massive medicine dose and told me to see him in two months. I explained that that was not possible - men with vows of poverty don’t travel from Lagos to Boston for a check-up. He did NOT offer to pay for the trip, but he did give me the name of a doctor in London, so going to London at the end of August or the early part of September was a definite gotta-do. Talked to my travel agent and he worked with Aeroflot (bless them both) and I got a Lagos-Moscow-Lagos ticket with a side trip to London for only $60 additional. Not bad, eh? So I get Russia, cruise, vacation, and a trip to London to see the doctor.
I am writing this first part on a train wending its way (its 16 hour way - this is a BIG part of the world) from Moscow to Samara. I arrived this morning on Aeroflot, spent the day sight-seeing and am now on my merry way to Samara, along with Maria and her two sons, the Italian Ambassador and Maria’s mother. (The other couple dropped out along the way. No, I don’t know why. Let them write their own letter.) Mama booked the tickets, and while the others are in communal splendor four cars away, I sit in solitary elegance in the Premier Class, with a compartment all to myself. Mama comes from a family of priests, and she is inordinately impressed at having a priest in the entourage. I am confident that as she gets to know me, on the trip back I will spend the night sleeping sitting up in the third class carriage.
(As I finished that paragraph I looked out the window and saw the most magnificent Orthodox Church sliding past the window. No time to grab a camera - at 9:30 at night it is still light enough out to take pictures. I have no idea where it is or where we are - my cabin attendant who brings me tea and will be in shortly to turn down the bed speaks not one word of English, and my Russian is limited to very short phrases and one word questions, accompanied with a fair amount of pantomime and attempts at thought transference. Pantomime gets a B; thought transference is not all it is cracked up to be. I love trains, and sleeping on trains and after the Aeroflot flight - read on, you haven’t missed anything, I just haven’t gotten there yet - I am really looking forward to the sleeping. Toddling down the aisle to go to the bathroom is a minor drawback, but at least it’s a Premier bathroom. I think that means the toilet paper is provided. Been meaning to check that out.)
Leaving Lagos was, as always, a minor adventure. I was better prepared for this than some of my other departures - I have decided that I have reached an age where all-nighters, however noble the cause, just don’t fill me with the same excitement that they did when I was a boy, and I am dedicating a certain portion of my life and skill to trying to insure that these do NOT become necessary. In this case, I succeeded. Did what I had to do, had my shower, closed my bag, weighed it and found it was under the limit and I was off. Stop at the hospital to see our guy who was shot - he is getting out the following day so I had a little chat with the chief accountant so there will be no problems with his leaving. And on to the airport.
Eager? Me? Well, the plane was scheduled to leave at 5 in the afternoon, check-in opened at one, and the woman at Aeroflot had told Maria that if she arrived early she would try to get us into Business Class seats. I arrived at the airport at 12:20. Waited and waited and waited. At 1:45 I got in the queue (American translation - line) so I would at least be registered. I got registered, and got my seat in Business Class and the woman assured me she would save seats for Maria and the boys. They came around 3 - about five minutes after I walked away from the desk. No problem, the plane was delayed because of weather, sent off to Cotonou, so the departure ended up being 8:30 PM in the pouring rain rather than 5.
Aeroflot. Anyone ever taken Aeroflot? This was my first experience, and usually airlines do not send their best crew or equipment to Lagos. So my judgements may be unfair, based only on a single experience. Nice people. But imagine the smallest airline seat you have ever been in. Imagine it is old, and sinking in the middle. The light is not focused on your seat, the air whispers rather than blows and the English over the PA system is as unintelligible as is the Russian. In fact, I caught a couple of words of the Russian. And this, mind you, was the Business Class. I have three more flights in my immediate future and I did not want to spoil my vacation, so I did NOT even look in the main cabin to see what the seating is like in tourist class. I’ll find out first hand - or first fanny - soon enough.
First Class got choice of drinks - we got choice of wine or fruit juice. Don’t know what happened in steerage. No movie (six hours to Malta and another four to Moscow after a stop in the Island kingdom), no music or headphones. Magazine in Russian, ditto all newspapers. Fortunately one of Maria’s sons was sitting next to me, so I knew that I had a choice between chicken and fish. Didn’t really matter - they served the same meal for breakfast and so I simply had chicken in the evening and fish for breakfast. Everyone who said Yecch when they read that - me too.
At Malta (at 1:30 in the morning, local time) we got a chit for a free container of juice and after 35 minutes of shopping, back on the plane for round two. Reminded me of the forced stops on Nigerian roads, when you take a cross country bus, and the driver stops at a food stand or a bar - owned by his cousin, or who has been paid to bring his customers in. Nice airport - my first time in Malta. I think I need to go back in the daylight.
Daylight and breakfast - which looks suspiciously like dinner - and we’re off the plane, to hear news that the day before a bomb in the Moscow Metro injured over 100 and killed at least 8.Through the airport and through the airport and through the airport - and my only comment about the immigration procedure is that it reminded me of an African country, and that is usually not a complimentary comment. Isn’t in this instance either. Took me one 1 hour and forty minutes of pushing and some harsh words to get up to the desk. Security men wander around and make sure you wait behind the red line - but as to setting up a line, or some sort of control - forget it. Think of the red line as the starting point for a ten yard dash (Sydney, here we come!) And you’ve just about got it.
Of course Maria and her sons, as citizens of Russia, had a different line and sailed through with nary a problem, They had collected the baggage (enough baggage to start a small country, thank you, and all of it not just for Moscow, oh no, all of it going on to Samara. Porters dream of baggage like this because they get to charge by the piece AND the weight of the piece.) and were (thank you God) waiting for me as I came grumbling through. Another friend was there to meet us, as was Mama and so we began the logistical nightmare of moving the bags. Done and to the friends’ house for snacks. And off for sightseeing, pausing only briefly to change my shirt. And perform other necessaries of the toilette which probably do not have a place in a narrative of this kind.
Cars in Russia have left-hand drive, same as the U.S. (Yes, I know you know that, and actually I knew that, but some who are reading might not have known that, and this is the kind detail that makes the experience come alive. So there.) We got a cab - hire car - and down to the Kremlin and Red Square. I know enough Russian to read slowly the words - meanings will come. I amused myself trying to figure out store and road signs as they whizzed by. It’s fun when you struggle with a bizarre combination of Russian letters and hear yourself saying McDonalds, or sport. Bit by painful bit. I’m too old to really learn a new language but every little bit helps. Russia is like America, in that I am finding most people I come across don’t speak English. (Or French or German, for that matter.) And it’s been a while since I couldn’t communicate in some language. In Nigeria, for example, even in the deepest bush villages, someone speaks some English and everyone speaks some Pidgin. Here - oops. As with my cabin attendant, see above. I did learn that today is a national holiday for railway workers, and so when my attendant brought me tea she also brought me water and two boxes of cookies. I just learned they were a gift to everyone who travels today from the railway workers, so we all can help them celebrate. Amtrak, take note.
The Kremlin was closed. Yup, some sort of renovation work going on at the entrance way, and so no one could go in. Unless you wanted to pay the guard a little something, which he indicated was perfectly okay and he would be willing to let us in. (Why do I feel I have not traveled very far after all?) We opted instead for a visit to the museum just outside the Kremlin, just off Red Square. A Boris Gudenoff look alike stands outside and for a fee you can stand next to him and take a picture. The pictures of the Moscow buildings don’t quite do the real thing justice - amazing. The museum was interesting, less for me the early stone age sections and more when they got into the history of the Czars and more recent developments. I paid homage to the portrait of Catherine the Great, a particular favorite of the Society of Jesus, because it was she who kept the Society alive in Russia during the time we were shut down by the Pope. Amazing history, thank you Catherine.
Back home for more food (I had been warned about this with Russian hospitality - an empty mouth is somehow an affront to the whole nation, and keeping the mouths of your guests filled is a sacred obligation. Caviar, vodka, ground veal and onions in a sweet pepper as part of a soup, assorted cold cuts, wonderful brown bread (did I mention the vodka? Deserves another nod.), and cake and wonderful dark and very small and seedless grapes. And off to the train. Now I confess, at this point I am starting to drop off in the taxi - and since taxi drivers all over the world seem to have sprung from a common stock, which is amazing since one of the overriding drives seems to be suicide, sleeping in a moving cab is either a sign of great faith, utter abandon or creeping fatigue - but we assemble at the station (the Ambassador, Maria and I from one direction, Mama and the two boys from the other), find the train and compartments -and as the sun sinks slowly in the west, I sink slowly into my cabin and whatever dreams are going to come in languages I cannot understand. There is a youngster in the cabin next to me, with a radio. Or tape player. And an obvious excess of energy. Don’t Russian parents know about Prozac for children? Fortunately someone else complained about the loud music so I don’t have to be the villain, and hopefully they will tie the child to the bed and gag her. I would volunteer but my phrase book does not have the expression “tie and gag.” A note will go off to the publisher immediately upon my return, that there is a whole section of useful phraseology that they seem to have overlooked. Is your child deaf? I suppose I should warn you that when provoked I tend to stuff children into pillowcases? You and who else? Those sorts of handy conversational bon mots.
Crash time in Russia. Tomorrow we reach Samara (Atlases out, class) and I’m not sure if we board the ship immediately or if that is a Friday adventure. All will be revealed in time, as the stripper said to the clock makers’ convention. And with that, spahkoynigh nochee (I could do it in Cyrillic but I suspect the email transfer would be deadly. Probably turn out to have wished you a night of conjugal bliss with a pig. Sweet dreams.)
Thursday, August 10 - Feast of St Lawrence. Gadget stores like Sharper Image are full of devices to help you sleep by producing the sound of rain, babbling brooks, ocean lapping gently against shore, white noise (whatever THAT is). Why do none of them provide the soothing rattle and gechunk of a train at night. The movement is wonderful too but the sound of the wheels over the tracks is a wonderful put me to sleeper.
Well, it turned out the attendant doesn’t come up and make up the cabin - I do. So I did. Each bunk has two huge pillows, so since I have the place to myself, I used one bunk as a staging area and the other for sleeping. The sleeping surface is firm - a polite way of saying hard - but I like it hard. (No editorial comment from the readers, please.) After all, for many years I slept on the floor. The what we sat on when it was a seat turned out to be a comforter doubled over, so with that and one of the big pillows, it was really very comfortable. Two people in this cabin however had better be really good friends.
Morning rose and so did I - and at 7 they turned off the electricity in the cabins. Cheap bastards. There is certainly light but not quite enough. Ah well. The toilet is the train type I grew up with, where the produce is delivered right onto the tracks, thus not in use when the train is in the station. Fortunately. And for those of you who wondered, toilet paper is provided. The reasons for giving thanks just keep multiplying.
Saying Mass at my little table as the train whizzed through the countryside reminded me of the book Don Camillo goes to Russia. I assume you know the Don Camillo books, about a parish priest in Italy who is in constant friendly warfare with the local communist boss and the various stories of life in the village. Delightful, and fun to see a priest not afraid to use his fists or get involved in a variety of things. In this book, the communists are sponsoring a trip to Russia, and Don Camillo creates a false identity for himself and blackmails the local communist boss into taking him as part of the group. Here I am saying Mass in the middle of Russia. One of those “Pinch me because I don’t quite believe it” moments.
The landscape is interesting but only occasionally distinctive. For much of the time you could as easily be in England or France. But then an Orthodox Church will pop up or some distinctive haystack or building will remind me we are moving ever toward Samara. (And of course, there is the phenomenon I go through every time I travel outside of Africa, that for the first several days I am always surprised that there are so many white folk around.) Certainly the train service is not geared for foreigners. If you don’t speak Russian, good luck. In other places signs of directions are in two languages, usually English, but the train is strictly Russian. Fair enough - it is Russia. Good inspiration to keep studying and learning new words. But one of the joys of train travel for me has always been meeting people, dropping into casual conversations - and that is denied me on this trip.
Russians eat salad for breakfast. Tomato salad, and cold peas with chopped onions and mayonnaise. Eggs are served runny but accompanied by the wonderful brown bread, serve’em raw, fine with me. Because of my strange diet I am not supposed to be indulging in the cup of tea which makes its appearance here at least as frequently as in England and maybe even more so. A sliced apple helps and a carton of cherry juice. Not Chock full o’ Nuts but stokes the old engine. Another time change coming into Samara - and off for a new adventure. Two days on land then onto the ship.
Thanks be to God that Samara is the last stop on the train. I had been told we would arrive in Samara around 1:20, so I had settled in, was doing some odds and ends on the computer - and suddenly Tioma bursts into my room and says, “Come, Father John, we are leaving.” Aha - end of the line and time to get off. Scrambled my things together and off we got. Friends of Maria there to meet us - thank heaven because as I may have mentioned earlier, she is carrying enough luggage to start a small country. Took several strong men several trips to schlepp all the bags to the two cars and some fancy moving and packing to get everything. But in everything got and off we went.
Now let me note for the record that the Ambassador has two strong character traits - he is a worrier and he likes to be in control. And not speaking the language or being in a country largely foreign to him does not slow him one little bit. All the way from the station to the apartment, he worried that the luggage was not on tight enough (on the roof of the car in front of us), that the driver was not being careful enough, that we did not have a program scheduled for the rest of the day. He is big on this notion of program, that he should know in advance what we are going to do and how long it will take. He asked me perfectly seriously if the guidebook said how long it should take to see the Kremlin. I said no. In fact, I have no idea, and would pay no attention to any such number were a guidebook silly enough to print such a thing. I can go to the Metropolitan Museum in New York and spent a day with only three paintings. Who knows how long it may take to “see” the Kremlin?
We arrived (a 4th floor walk up - adventure, this is an adventure) and were shown the apartment. Maria went on to her family’s apartment and we had a chance for a show and a snooze - the Ambassador snoozed, I visited with a friend of Maria’s who was on deck to help with English translations. The Ambassador arose and started worrying about the program, the time schedule on the boat (time schedule on a cruise boat? I don’t think he understands the basic concept, which is leave your watch in your stateroom!) And generally driving people NUTS. We had a very nice lunch - borscht, and finely cut meat and potatoes. As always, caviar and brown bread and vodka. Ambassador went out with Tatiana to buy beer - if what he wants isn’t available he either does something about it or sulks. I went out after lunch with Tioma and Tatiana to get an arts magazine, so the Ambassador could make a program of what there might be to do. Go with the flow is NOT in his vocabulary. Back and I decided to go for a walk by myself. Had them write the address and phone, in case I got seriously lost or in trouble, and set forth. After all, I don’t speak Russian - how much trouble could I get in?
Well, faithful reader, you will undoubtedly be disappointed to learn that I got into no trouble whatever. The street in front of the apartment building has been closed off to traffic and is a permanent shopping area, with small stalls in tents set up along both sides of the street, in the street, with regular shops behind them, separated by the sidewalk. I browsed through the shops, that were in the process of closing, and ended up at the Volga River. Lots of people in swimming, free games areas for the kids, stands with food and drink and music and a gentle party atmosphere pervading. Watched some volleyball, a couple of absolutely stunning young ladies, some dogs frolicking on the beach and gorgeous streaks of lighting flashing through the darkening sky.
Lightning? Darkening say what? Suddenly thought that perhaps it was becoming time to head home. So home I headed and ran into the Ambassador and Tatiana on the way. As we walked up the street, a few raindrops fell, multiplied and became - with the accompaniment of a mighty wind - a fairly impressive storm. We were drenched. Towels, tea with jam (since I am not allowed tea on this strange diet for my voice I had hot water with jam - home made cherry jam. Forget the water.) Later Maria and her mother arrived, had been out shopping for the apartment - and the Ambassador fairly quickly launched into worrying about tonight’s schedule and tomorrow’s schedule. He gets very antsy sitting still and not seeing sights. Again, the rain having stopped, seemed like time for a walk. But before I could get out by myself, there was a group. About two blocks later - with the Ambassador spending the whole time pushing and pushing about arranging everything for tomorrow - slightly ungracious, seemed to me and really tiring - I split and went wandering by my lonesome.
One thing I can do well is be invisible. A little study of traffic patterns, how people walk, and even without speaking the language, if my clothes are not a give away, I can blend into the rhythm of that street and unless I am a white man in Africa, I tend to disappear. (I can do pretty well with this for a white man in Africa but invisible I will never be. At least not without some serious make-up and a shave.) Which is pretty much what I did for the next couple of hours. Started to rain again, so I meandered home - trying never to come back the way I left - and wrote, said evening prayers and for me, a fairly early fall into the bed.
What have I learned? Well, traveling with a guy who wants to run things and a woman in the same party who also wants to run things can get really tiring. Russians eat more and more frequently than I do and prices are generally cheaper. The hospitality and generosity of the individual Russians I have met rather takes my breath away. In Samara the streets are clean, public transport runs well and often, and people have great pride in their “new” Russia and what Russia has done in the past. But they will also tell you that things are not good. On the day we arrived, bomb blast in the subway. (Probably associated with Chechnya.) I was talking to a school teacher today who gets $30 a month. She can live - but when I asked her where she was on the income level, she said poor. But, she said, there is only poor and rich, nothing in between.
Friday, August 11 - Nothing like a hard mattress for a good night’s sleep. Deep and restful and wonderful. I could have slept longer but the day calls - and let me tell you, some hot water with home made cherry jam juice stirred in, fresh cheese, home made bread (brown and white) good butter and lots of caviar - now this is my idea of breakfast. Schedule for the day - Maria is off to practice piano and Tatiana, Maria’s friend, is going to guide us around, us being me and Giovanni (the Ambassador). Beautiful day - first stop, the Roman Catholic cathedral for Mass.
Let me remark on something I had already noticed, but I wanted to extend my observational base before noting it - Russian women have not abandoned the mini-skirt, and there are some - a pleasing number, may I say - who wear it quite well. There is a style of dressing here that some would call provocative. But I don’t get the sense that that is what’s behind it. It is a freer expression of sensuality - sexuality - celebration, if you will, of being young and free and able to wear stuff like this - and it would be mis-read in the U.S. but here it is delightful. (Unless, of course >>I<< class="Section2">
Next stop, the Art Museum. Yes, this is a tourist day, going to “see the sights.” On the way, though, we passed an enchanting building and decided to stop in, just to see the building. It houses the Children’s Art Museum - a school and display space for the work of children. Now this is a concept I did not think I wanted to get near but Tatiana said it was good, even if just to see the house, so in we trundled.
Enchanting. The house used to belong to a German, and was beautifully kept, and so is in immaculate condition. He was an architect, and enjoyed doing unusual things, so the rooms are different and interesting and the house itself provides its own fascination. But even more entrancing than the house turned out to be the art work.
Children’s art. Oxymoron list item #45. Or so I would have thought. Their exhibits change on a regular basis, and the one we saw was done by a group of children from a religious school, so the drawings were heavily religious. But very creative, several I would have bought had they been for sale, and several others would make wonderful greeting cards. Ikon imitations, Bible scenes, some general religious images (angels, Resurrections scenes, etc) and a couple of village life that were very professional. (Done by a 12-year old) Ages of the children went from 7 to 14, but the general skill/talent level was far beyond that. (This from a man who can’t draw a straight line with $300 worth of equipment.) One boy did a St George and the Dragon that was evocative of Chagall. Another girl copied a very traditional icon of three angels in the corner and the main painting was her mother and grandmother and some other woman in the same pose. Very clever. All in all, a pleasant surprise.
Now for the “real” art museum. Housed in what had been a large house, you wander through a number of rooms. The main lecture area is featuring cartoons and some paintings done during the war, so the themes are anti-Hitler and pro-Russia. Kind of gets in the way of the “art.” But one room is devoted to ancient icons, several rooms of Russian painters, a couple of rooms with European painters, an Asian collection, and in the basement, some young people had an exhibit of their photography, which was uniformly technically first-rate and occasionally very creative and entertaining, once even provocative. More wit than soul, but a nice way to round off the first leg.
The art museum, like several other similar places, has retained the institution of the old Russian woman whose job it is to sit in the room and watch you watch the paintings. If they like you, they might turn on the lights. Or not. Seemed to be strictly a personal call. Of course, some of the paintings looked better with the lights off.
And back to Maria’s for food. (Remember, each time I casually throw in that we have gone back to Maria’s, this involves a four flight climb. And if you did not notice any mention of car, tram or bus in the morning’s activities, it is not because I have become a careless narrator, it’s because walked every step of the way. )By now it’s around 2 and the gathering grows. Along with the size of my feet. Maria’s two boys come with Maria’s father, who has been sick and is - well, if not feeble, certainly shaky. More caviar, borsch (no t at the end in Russian) and some minced meat in dough...can’t think of the name right now. At the end of the meal I had to go and register with the police. No, I hadn’t done anything - you’ve been reading along, when would I have had the time to DO anything. No, this is still Russia and foreign visitors must register with the police. So I did, Tatiana translating merrily along. The young man was obviously bored with his job, a Christian (several large posters of the Sacred Heart of Jesus decorated the walls of the immigration sector at the police station) and fascinated with the idea that I was working in Nigeria, so the simple job of registering took a while. Filling out forms - ten minutes. Answering questions about Nigeria - thirty minutes. There is now a file on me in Russia. Gives you pause.
Back to Maria’s to change my shirt, and off to meet the Lutheran pastor. I don’t know why, everybody seemed to think that as a religious, I would want to meet every other religious in the city and by heaven, either before or after the boat trip, I’m scheduled to do it, including the bishop and the jews at the local synagogue. Stand by for further updates.
He’s a young man, German, and came to Samara because his wife had studied Russian and wanted to spend some time perfecting the language so she could teach it in school. She had majored in Russian and theology and wanted more. He found an ad, Samara was looking for a pastor and Stuttgart, his home town and Samara are sister cities, at least in the Lutheran Church. So he answered the ad - he was the only one who applied, so they took him. He had to learn Russian, so did a four-week intensive course, and has been improving ever since. He’s been here for four years and is going back in January.
The church building is simple but very nice, and the acoustics are wonderful. I mention that because he was under the impression I was ready to give a concert and he was excited and ready to give me all the help I needed. (Concert in the church, in case that connection is a little fuzzy.) I explained about my current vocal malaise, but he assured me that any time I wanted to come back, the church was mine, and he would be sure and tell his replacement about me. The new guy is himself a musician, a choral singer, not a soloist and wants to continue the tradition of concerts in the church. Consider that an invitation.
We had a great visit - in English. Since he’s German, naturally he speaks English, and since the Ambassador does not speak German, we kept it in the common language. Another friend of Maria’s, Yuri, had arrived with his car to take us to the church. Yuri had rebuilt the piano in the church (the GRAND piano in the church) and had gotten to know the pastor that way. Yuri turned out to be something of a magician. As we left the Lutheran Church he asked if we wanted to see the Philharmonic Hall. I had seen the building, but it turns out he meant inside. It is now almost 7PM and during the day the building was closed and locked - but this is no problem to Yuri, who waltzes up to the two policeman guarding the door, chats away for a minute and waves us all in. They are working on the stage - they are in the process of installing a 2 million mark organ from Hamburg - but he opened the protective curtain and I sang from the stage of the Philharmonic. The impression I have had from a couple of people is that all I have to do is ask and a formal concert will be forthcoming.
From there, to an old Russian orthodox church, lots of paintings and incense and bowing and the ones praying are young and old. One young girl, perhaps sixteen, was visiting several icons, and apparently doing some serious praying. At one point she was in front of the main altar and her boyfriend came up and starting rubbing her shoulders, gently and in a sort of encouraging way. At which point an older woman arrived, and interrupted this tender moment, obviously scolding young man for behavior inappropriate in a church. They were very polite and listened most apologetically. As we were leaving they were just ahead of us and were engaging in some serious hugging outside the church property.
Yuri spent a lot of time talking to an old man inside the church - unfortunately Yuri speaks very little English and the old man none, so I didn’t hang around. He was right out of the old Russian paintings, though, heavy white beard, lined face, just waiting for the road company of Cherry Orchard to start casting.
From there to the Opera House, built on the site of the largest cathedral in Samara, which was torn down as part of Stalin’s plan to re-build Russia from the ground up, preferably on the sites of anything religious. Again it was closed - again we got in. They even opened the theatre and turned on the lights, so Father John could sing from the stage. Turns out the director (himself a tenor) is a friend of Yuri’s, and I was asked three times if I would like to take part in a production. Three times I answered yes. I can hardly wait to see my superior’s face when I ask him for several months off to go and sing opera in Russia.
Yuri is one of those guys who knows everyone. He is, among other things, a piano technician. Tuner, but also builds and re-builds. That gets him into some interesting places. I had said, jokingly, that since he had gotten us into the Philharmonic, which was closed, and into the opera theatre which was closed, what could he do with the bank? He said that several years ago he had been tuning a piano in a bank, and at the end of the day, they had closed up and locked up and forgotten about the piano tuner upstairs. He finished and came down, and found himself locked in. Tried the doors, and could not get out. However, apparently in trying to get out he had set off an alarm, so the next thing he knew, there were armed soldiers, pointing their guns at him, and shouting for him to lie down. Which he did. They handcuffed him, and when they found his bag of tools, they were certain that they had nailed a major bank robber in the act. Of course, when they called the bank manager, he explained, and was duly embarrassed and Yuri was set free. But he said no, he did not think he could do anything about getting in to a bank. At least when it is closed.
Remember the long nights? Daylight until after 9, so off we went for more sightseeing in Samara, including stops at gorgeous public areas along the Volga, one way outside of town and up on top of a hill. Used to be a military installation and has only been open to the public about three years. Visited several spots where the rich and powerful have their dachas (summer cottages - if you can call something with 23 rooms a cottage) and another development where some of the Russian mafia are spending their money in construction of large homes.
So it was after ten by the time we got back to Maria’s. Note on driving in Samara - apparently the lines in the road are something put down by a previous government, and in the new feeling of freedom, these are considered relics from the past. Lane is a somewhat ambiguous concept, and so we found people passing on the right and on the left, and we did too. There was one traffic light with three lights side by side - the two outer ones were green and the middle one was red. They seemed to mean as little as the lane markers, since people went right, left and straight with equal freedom, and when we asked, neither our translator nor our driver could explain what the lights meant.
So everyone else went out to eat and I sat down to catch up on some unsaid prayers and jot these notes. With this strange diet I am not supposed to eat within 3 hours of going to bed - and if you think I am going to stay up until 1 in the am just for the privilege of some food, think again. I’m about to get on a ship that feeds us four times a day - I can afford to skip a meal. So off to bed, to dream about food. And young Russians in mini-skirts. And bunkers full of Germans looking at pictures of Russians getting ready to go out and kill Germans.
Saturday, August 12 - I got up around 7, showered (cold - they have a hot water heater that is very efficient when it’s on - it is gas, so you have to manipulate three different switches and light this flame, adjust it - and the flow of hot water is virtually endless. A pass-through heater. However, getting the gas lit is easier said than accomplished, and I ended up with a very short and brisk shower, a preferable alternative to blowing up the whole building.) And had some hot water with jam, and cheese. Prayed, said Mass, and studied Russian for about 90 minutes. Still no signs of life, so I packed. As I was finishing, some sleepy and tousled folks staggered in, so it was almost noon before anything approaching action occurred. And not much of that.
We went to do some shopping, and a visit to a book store, where I bought a dictionary and a book of proverbs, Optimist ever that I am, I have this thought that on the boat I will sit and translate and improve my virtually non-existent Russian. We’ll see. Home for dinner, and waiting around for the car to come and take us to the boat. (When I started translating, I discovered I had bought a book of Asian proverbs. Still good practice but not quite the entree into the Russian soul that I had envisioned.)
There are two schools of thought regarding travel. One is - get there early and anticipate delays and disasters. The other is - why waste time waiting around, get there just prior to departure. Each viewpoint argues that theirs is the most efficient. The two people with whom I travel each belong to one of the two schools, and the bulk of the late afternoon was conflict resulting from the clash of these differing philosophies. Each won - each got to the boat according to their separate desires, and everyone made the boat. Turns out the director of activities is an old friend of Maria’s and the ever present Yuri had already been down to tune the piano on the boat for Maria, so she will be able to practice and perhaps even perform.
I write this on the Volga. We pulled out at seven - but the boat runs on Moscow time, so all the events are one hour different from the local time. Confusing? Yup, and worse in Russian. Dinner was a little hurried but nice - we are on the first seating of two, which means that relaxed dawdling over the meal is not encouraged. Not the sumptuous buffet of brochures in the US and Virgin Islands, but good food, and starting tomorrow, regular menu selection. You pick the day’s meals at breakfast each day so it is prepared and waiting for you when you arrive. As the meal ended, people were seen taking with them bread and leftover portions from their meals. “We paid for it, we might as well take it.”
My cabin is slightly smaller than the train compartment, but it does have its own bathroom. I was a little concerned, conducting my initial inspection, to note the lack of towels, soap and toilet paper - not necessarily listed in their order of importance. Trying to be a cool traveler, I mentioned this in passing and was assured they would come. (Just wanted to be sure these weren’t items we were supposed to bring ourselves.) By ten pm, I was no longer cool, and I raised my voice just the teensiest bit. But the t/p appeared. Deo gratias. The one thing the cabin does NOT have is an electrical outlet. I mean, there is a plug for the shaver in the bathroom, but I don’t think I want to trust the computer to that. The bathroom is the style found on board small vessels and trailers - the shower is also the bathroom, so you don’t want to leave the toilet paper or anything electrical in the room when you want to wash.
Two great pictures I did not take, although there may be other chances. As the boat was leaving the pier, everyone was on deck, waving and watching the departure. Standing on deck, looking down the aisle, there was a wide variety of rear ends, sticking out into the walkway, since everyone was, of course leaning on the rail. And the counterpart picture from the top deck, looking down and seeing just the rows of heads sticking out. I suspect the same phenomenon will repeat itself at other stages of the trip.
The Volga is a great wide river and not overly developed, It is truly beautiful, and after dinner to walk around the deck and stand at the bow as the sun set - delightful. The passengers are a mix, although virtually all Russian. I have the only beard on the boat, and the cross I wear around my neck has caused no little gentle staring. The Nigerian shirt probably helps too. People are obviously intrigued. Lots of families and small children, young couples, and larger family groups, three generations. We are in that number, since Maria’s mother and father are with us. Interesting family - the grandfather has recently had an operation and so is a little slow, but in the several hours he has been on the boat he seems to have strengthened visibly. After dinner he was walking around by himself, and has his own cabin. For many years he was a television camera operator at Samara State television. (Be honest - how many of you have ever heard of Samara before this? Me either.) The grandmother comes from a long line of priests going back 200 years. Her grandfather was a bishop, but when a seminarian, had a gorgeous bass voice. Once, Chaliapin was supposed to come and sing with the local opera company but had celebrated too much the night before in some other place and did not come. This was a major event, and major politicians, dignitaries and Church officials were in attendance. Canceling was beyond thought, so they sent for Vladimir, and asked him to please fill in. Now, as a seminarian this was not allowed, and he could have been dismissed if anyone found out. But they assured him he would wear heavy make-up and no one would ever know. He wanted to, and knew the opera, so he went ahead.
The local Bishop was present, and said to one of his priests in attendance that he was surprised how much Chaliapin sounded like their Vladimir. He had heard Chaliapin in Moscow several months previously, and remarked on the different sound. Very good, but different.
Even before the performance was over, Vladimir took off and dashed back to the seminary, jumped into bed, still in full makeup and costume, and pulled up the covers. Good thing, because the Bishop sent that priest to check up on him, but he was able to report to the Bishop that Vlad was safely in bed in the seminary. As I said, he went on to become a Bishop himself.
Tomorrow we have a stop in the morning so people can go swimming in the Volga. Hoping that the sight of yours truly in a bathing suit will not cause trauma in young children, I rather think that swimming in the Volga is something I will add to my list of experiences.
Sunday, August 13 - Twenty years ago I was preparing to enter the Jesuits. My entrance day was August 16, 1980, and the whole family took me to Syracuse, rather like taking your son to summer camp. (Except mine didn’t do that - they put me on a train in New York that took me to Maine where I took a bus to a camp in the middle of nowhere. It was actually great fun and I went back for two more years after that.) We stopped in Schenectady on the way, where my father had grown up and at my request visited some of his boyhood haunts. But I ramble.
The sound of rushing water as the ship pushes its way through the river is not quite as soothing as the clack of train wheels, but pretty good. The bed was hard - but as you know, I like hard bed. Not as wide as one might like, but I did not fall off. Good sleep. Woke up to see the sunrise over the water and then back to bed. Up again a little later and early morning on the river is quiet and peaceful and just wonderful. If this keeps up I just might turn back into a human being before this trip is over. Said a quiet Mass at my little table, with the river easing by and then thought I would try my shower/bathroom combination. Thought it carefully through and not too bad - the floor is slatted so the water runs through, and while the whole place was wet and steamy it dried out fairly quickly. One of the ongoing topics is comparing Russia to Nigeria - Nigeria loses pretty consistently - and I have to say that the water pressure in my cabin shower is about twice what I get back in Lagos.
I dressed and had a vision of reading my morning breviary quietly out on deck as the scenery slipped by, so I whipped open my curtains and found myself facing a stone wall. Hmm, must have docked while I was washing. Well, I can always sit on the other side of the ship. So went up and turned left and found another great stone wall. Seems there are a couple of locks on this river, and we were in one of them. I went out and watched us being raised to the next level and then carefully ease out into the river. The width of the lock is just barely larger than the width of the boat, but the captain (having probably done this 150 times) was perfection and all went smoothly. I remember studying about locks when I was in grade school, and again in physics class, but being inside one in a relatively large ship is a different experience. Others were up watching and I ran into my new best friend, Tioma, Maria’s son, who is a mature and interesting 14-year old who speaks excellent English and who is regularly my translational savior. We wandered about for a while and then it was time for breakfast.
Russian breakfast - slices of ham and cheese, brown and white bread and lots of butter, coffee and juice. Then they brought us large slabs of cottage cheese pie - not exactly cheesecake, rougher texture, but sweet with a cream sauce. And should you still be peckish, a semolina with lots of butter or light oil, I couldn’t quite tell. We are in no danger of starving. We also had menus for the next two meals, so I decided to experiment and am having kidneys for lunch, with a cold borsh first and pig’s tongue for supper. There were other choices but how often on your average menu do you get a good pig’s tongue.
Dress is much more informal than I had thought. I brought a suit and two formal Nigerian outfits and I think they will stay in the cupboard. People here do not spend a lot of time at their meals. Most were finished breakfast and on their way in less than 20 minutes. They cleaned all the plates and took with them what they did not finish, but they don’t dawdle over their meals. By the time I got out on deck, people were sitting and reading and walking. The boat does not provide a lot of activity during the day. There is a bar, and another lounge where people are playing cards. Maria is practicing piano in the music lounge. I read for a while outside, and worked on Russian for about an hour, walked around. Unlike an ocean cruise, though, we have constant scenery on both sides, and many people, yours truly included, spend time just watching the countryside go by. Before breakfast, around 7:30 Moscow time (6:30 local time) the water was dead calm, and there were fishermen both in very small boats and along the shore, doing their Sunday morning thing. Rather like a Currier & Ives print. There are channels occasionally going out of the river, sometimes you can see grasses growing under the water. Always new and interesting and very restful.
The PA system puts forth a constant stream of music and comedy shows and announcements about something - of course it all means nothing to me. There was a session this morning with the cruise director. I hope someone from our group went to see what it was about but I would not be surprised if no one did. They seem singularly uninterested in knowing ahead of time what might be going on. There are two saunas on board, which I may drop in on. Disco in the evening, and movies - last night they showed 6th Sense, dubbed into Russian. I didn’t go. I have to keep reminding myself that it is not necessary to do anything - just relaxing and watching the river is okay.
Swimming in the Volga - wet, chilly, and wonderful. No self-consciousness among my fellow passengers, displaying as diverse a range of body styles and beach garments as you could hope to find in any collection of oddities - small and skinny, large and super large, half naked and (in the case of several small children, completely naked). We docked at a floating pier along a beach, and waiting for us were a number of people selling vegetables, fried fish and fresh fish.
Sidebar - the meals are included in the price of the ticket and are really fairly substantial. However, apparently part of the joy of travel is constant eating, and so everyone - well, practically everyone - arrived on board with sacks of food and drink. And they do eat throughout the day. When we stopped later in the day in Sarata (for only 30 minutes, it was a “technical stop” - I still haven’t discovered what that means) many left the ship to buy soft drinks, beer, and ice cream. So, at the beach, there were sales of fish and vegetables.
The water was green, with small algae in it, which everyone assures me aren’t dangerous. The swimming was great and very relaxing. As soon as we left they announced the first seating for lunch. Turns out the menus we filled out this morning (remember the kidneys and the pig’s tongue?) are for tomorrow’s meals. For lunch we had the ever-present bread, smoked herring, compote (fruit drink with the fruit still in it, slightly sweet) chicken bouillon, but with spaghetti and large chunks of chicken, meat (of some kind - not sure about that one) with gravy, cracked wheat (groats?), gravy and baked prunes. Fresh bananas. And Maria brought a bottle of vodka from the freezer. Once it was determined that Father John liked vodka it has been served at every meal but breakfast, and I rather think if I hinted...
Yet another walk around the deck was then in order. While thus perambulating, there came an announcement that those who wished were welcome on the navigational deck. They called it the Captain’s deck. So up we went, and were treated to a spectacular view and a basic tour of the mechanics of running the ship. I will not bore you with the statistics about how many tons of diesel we burn in a 24 hour period or the like - most of them I have forgotten anyway. But it was a nice informal addition to life on board.
In between times, I have been working on my Russian and doing some reading on the Jesuit Constitutions and the history of the Society, going back and forth. Not light reading, but a good environment in which to read with the atmosphere for reflection. I was thinking this morning that this would not be a bad way to make a retreat. I don’t speak the language, so conversation is not a distraction. Good atmosphere, lots of places to pray, no interruptions. Again, I can imagine the look on some Superior’s face if I propose that. Cost is a bargain - a week on the boat, single private room, all meals included, is around $150. (Yes, that is NOT a typo, one hundred and fifty dollars. Outside the reach of many.)
Later in the afternoon we stopped at Sarata - how many minutes? Everyone who answered 30, put a gold star on your forehead, you have been paying attention. The rest of you - go back four paragraphs and concentrate. Tioma was worried I would not make the boat, but I had seen the towers of an orthodox church and was sure I could make it and back. And did. Took some pictures, and saw an old woman with a baboon. I am not being unkind in describing her child, literally a baboon, in red plastic diapers and a fairly unsubstantial looking chain. Asking money for people to take picture. Now I have seen baboons in action in Africa and I give this animal a wide berth. Nasty disposition and serious teeth and I have seen them do some serious damage to human flesh. Maybe the teeth had been filed or pulled, maybe the critter was drugged, maybe I passed the Doctor Doolittle of Sarata without knowing it - but I still gave the pair lots of room.
Some new passengers on board - Tioma said he heard some of them speaking English. There is a film tonight - no announcement as to what, or if there was, it was in Russian and I missed it - and the usual round of disco and disco. Tomorrow we will spend the morning in Volgograd, sightseeing and shopping, and in the afternoon there is a - wait for it - competition for the best voice on the boat. Now Maria says I should not enter, it would not be fair. (She says that I am better than the lead tenor at the opera house, but she may be indulging in exaggeration. Of course, then again, maybe she’s not.) She says that she will speak to the cruise director, who is an old friend of hers, and I can be the Chairman of the judging panel and then I could sing something at the end of the contest. Whatever happens it should be interesting. I’m not sure that I would include “Best Voice on the Konstantin Korotkov” on my resume. I didn’t ask if there were a cash prize. Maybe I should investigate further.
After supper tonight (salad and roast chicken with LOTS of garlic and rough rice and a very nice sweet cake), I watched the sun go down from the top deck. Weather is getting warmer as we go south, and I am getting more relaxed. Strange feeling, not at all unpleasant. Relaxed. Interesting concept, I will have to observe this and see all of the ramifications. They have (thank you, God) turned off the radio for tonight, although at 10:30 there is a story for the children before they go to sleep. The disco bar is full, no seats, and later the outdoor disco on the sun deck will open up. They are at the stern, I am in the bow, so I can open my window to hear the water rushing under the boat and not be bothered by the music. Dreams. Wherever you are, whenever you are reading this, may your dreams be as lovely as my day has been.
Monday, August 14 - Today is the anniversary of my taking vows as a Jesuit - some of you were there. It is also the birthday of my cousin, Mary Grace Royal - so whenever you read this, if you are looking for an excuse for a drink, you now have two things to toast - her birthday and my vow day. Drink up and think of both of us!
When you are in prison, or in summer camp, or in boarding school, meals take on an undue importance. (I guess I could add a seminary to that list.) For similar, although not identical reasons, meals on a ship have the same weight in the normal course of daily life, and so I bore you with regular repetitions of the menu. Breakfast was again ham slices and cheese and breads, then blinski (light pancakes with a cream sauce) and what we would call oatmeal, with melted butter. And coffee and apple juice. Waddling away from the table, we approach Volgograd. Before breakfast many of us were up to watch the ship go through another lock, this time a double, down one level, then into a new lock and down another level.
Volgograd - used to be called Stalingrad. Before that it had been called Tsaringrad (or something like that - the Tzar’s city - the inhabitants are very happy with the current name). One of the great and more horrible battles of the second world war, and most of our tour was to monuments of that time. A gorgeous day, which helped keep the tour from being depressing. They have left one bombed out building as part of a memorial to the destruction of the city - over 100,000 Russian soldiers and many more civilians killed in 142 days of bombing. I took lots of pictures - if they come out maybe I’ll set up a web page where you can come and look. I missed a lot of the statistics - Tioma is only 14 and while a great help, does not have the range of a regular translator and a lot of things get by him.
The longest stop was at the major memorial to the dead and the battle. A long (long!) series of steps going up a hill. Midway is a double wall (on each side of the steps) with huge carvings of aspects of the war and battle, and music playing underneath. At one point I looked over and there was a young lady in a HOT pink top posing provocatively inside one of the wall carvings. I wasn’t quite fast enough, missed the picture. Further up is a pool and statue in the center - when we were there, there was a young boy in the pool in his underwear fishing out coins tourists had thrown in. Beyond that is the entrance to the memorial to the dead soldiers, perhaps also an unknown soldier? As we arrived, they did the changing of the guard. You enter a large domed room, open at the top, and an eternal flame in burning in the center, guarded by two soldiers. There is a ramp around the wall, and you walk up that and out onto the path that leads up to the statue of Mother Russia. The soldiers, with their high goose step for moments of major ceremonial importance, relieved the guards then marched up the ramp, relieved two on guard at the top and marched off. A very moving moment.
Another climb and you are at the base of the statue - huge. Possible to go inside and climb up to the sword handle but the interior stairs were closed for renovations. Can’t tell you how disappointed I was not to be able to climb another bit, having done nothing, it seemed, but climb for the previous two hours. We enjoyed the view, the guide held forth some more and then the bus came to collect us for more sitting down touring.
By the way - remember an earlier comment of mine in general appreciation of the mini skirt in Russia? After a morning in Volgograd, you may add the same appreciation to hot pants, which likewise are seen in greater profusion that I remember seeing in other places. Now, fashion hound that I am not, it may be that this is one of those nostalgic comebacks that has simply escaped my attention, but it added to which might otherwise have been a fairly somber morning.
The bad news was that they had not received kidneys and so had substituted a lean beef strip with garlic and fried potatoes. Yummy. And cold borsch and salad and fresh pears and compote. Once again my fellow travelers (you should pardon the expression) bought out the local fruit stalls and bottled water concessions, carrying great sacks of produce onto the ship. I guess these folks spend all their time in between meals just eating in their rooms.
Maria has been sick all day. Apparently spent much of last night throwing up, so they brought the doctor this morning who gave her an injection. When we returned she was worse, so the doctor was contacted again. A couple of minutes ago, I was sitting in my cabin and there was knock on the door and a very large woman in a white coat entered, (rather like a Benny Hill casting of what a Russian doctor might look like), bearing what seemed to me to be a VERY large needle. In my best Russian I pointed out that she was looking for the room next door. Wonderful how a rush of fear can improve your linguistic skills.
After a restful afternoon I wandered up to the music room for the vocal competition. My worst fears were realized. Karaoke without the screen. In a small room, enough amplification equipment to launch a political campaign and a sheet with all the available songs. Of course they were all in Russian, and in the course of a fairly painful afternoon, I did not hear one song I recognized. This may be a reflection on the ability of the contestants, but I would think I would gain some glimmer from the accompaniment. Not today.
Actually only three people got up to sing, and in a perfect world, they would each be given the choice of never EVER singing again in public, or being taken out to be shot. I would vote for the latter, just to insure that their genes would not be passed on to offspring. I have nothing against people who can’t sing, can’t carry a tune, can’t even hear a tune. Some of my best friends fall into that category. But they all also have the good taste, wisdom and discretion not (I repeat NOT) to get up and sing in public, especially with the aid of a microphone and an amp turned up way too high and a whole lot of cheap electronic accompaniment. One young girl can perhaps be excused for not knowing any better, or perhaps for having parents who do not know any better and who encourage her in this foolishness. But the other two - both old enough to know better and NOT old enough not to care, and at 4 in the afternoon, neither had the excuse of being drunk. One older woman started out, and she is a type everyone knows. Once she had the mike, I thought she would never leave. Loud, can’t find or keep pitch, and is sure she is the answer to - whoever. The other would win my vote for best voice. She didn’t actually HAVE the best voice - none of them had the best voice - but she had a cute smile and far and away the best legs. In the case where there is not enough voice among the three of them to build even one voice, you have to vote on something, and I am voting on legs. And cute smile. (She also has a large boyfriend or husband so we all applauded.) I did not get up and enter into this particular fray. The ugly American has enough examples around the world, I was not going to spend the remainder of the cruise being actively disliked by the friends and family of people who did not win this particular competition.
I also discovered - no prize, but another competition later this week, and the grand finale contest as part of the disco bar on the last night on the river. Even WITH a prize, I think that would take care of any flickering interest I might have had. Next time I am going to go to the children story-telling session and see if I can understand any of the words.
Things I have not mentioned. Cigarettes - lots of them, with people attached. Even on the plane, there was a smoking section. Yup, a smoking section on an international flight. Been a while since I’ve seen that. But many here are still puffing away and I don’t recall seeing any warning signs on the cigarette ads I have seen. I’ll try to remember to look more closely at the next billboard I see.
Supper - the pig’s tongue arrived, as promised and it was wonderful, best meal of this leg of the trip so far. And a sweet roll filled with apricot for dessert. Quite all right. Instead of an after dinner drink, I have been having some quiet time on deck, watching the sun set. Just as intoxicating, helps me sleep just as much and not a calory in the whole thing. Besides the scenery and the water, it is fun to watch other people watching the sunset, those who do not partake of the various evening activities. There is a movie every night, and tonight on the sun deck they are having “Games for Adults Only.” You tell me. Might mean more room at the disco bar.
Maria (we learned just before supper) has been throwing up blood throughout the day, so a quick trip to the doctor and Maria will not be touring Astrakan tomorrow, but will instead get to see the inside of the Astrakan Hospital. Good. If it’s not serious, she (and the rest of us) will have peace of mind. And if it is serious, Astrakan is a big city, and she should be able to get some good medical attention. Everyone is very relieved. The hospital was suggested, as an outpatient, just to have some tests done, and she absolutely said no. But after a quiet word with the doctor, the doctor did not put it in the form of a question. The sub-text apparently was that if Maria ignored the doctor’s advice, the doctor would go to the captain and have her put off the boat and then she could do whatever she wanted. Brava, doctor.
I’ve been working on translating Russian proverbs in addition to my basic grammar and exercises, and in my first proverb, I have found a word not in my dictionary and a word with a letter I have never seen before, nor apparently has my Russian grammar. I have tried to guess what misprint it might be but no luck so far. It does not bode well for the remaining 130 pages of proverbs and wise sayings.
Time to do some non-Russian reading, a little praying in advance of the feast and to sleep, perchance to dream - of pig’s tongue, perhaps, but not the singing trio. Smile.
Tuesday, August 15 - Feast of the Assumption. Seems as though we have been on this boat much longer. I’m really happy. And rested, and able to simply sit and enjoy without feeling I have to do something. I brought with me things to do - one does not abandon compulsive behavior overnight - and I may actually get to some of them before the trip is over. Or not. What, me worry?
Up early to go out on deck and say the morning office in the sun, and while up there, a father and son came along to fly a kite off the back of the boat. Wonderful. They were not successful, mind you, but they had great fun trying. Mama and I were the only ones to show up for breakfast. Now normally this would simply mean more food for the rest of us - but at breakfast they present menu selection sheets for two upcoming days (16th and 17th) and Mama speaks no English. And I did not bring my handy dandy Berlitz book with me. So Mama picked what she wanted, and I read through to see if there were anything I even remotely recognized. As a friend of my mother’s used to say - sometimes in life, there is nothing for it but to pray and live dangerously. I can hardly wait to see what I ordered. Then I simply split the choices and ordered something for everyone, so that they can fight over what comes. If they don’t show up, ah well, there they are.
They have a new tape on the loudspeaker this morning - a tenor, not great but not bad, singing some things I know and some I don’t, all in Russian of course. At which point I realize that if I do come and sing with the Samara Opera, even if it is an opera I know, I will have to re-learn it in Russian. What fun! I love challenges.
Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Astrakan. Like where? At the foot of the Volga, right before the Caspian Sea. Just south of the city, which is itself built on 11 islands, and there is a lot of space between the right bank and the left bank of the city, the river breaks into many small rivulets, creating the Volga Delta. We went on a walking tour of the city in the morning, and like most walking tours in Russia, the focus is on war memorials, Lenin’s Park (every city of any size has a Lenin’s Park - some larger, some smaller, but omnipresent), and the Kremlin. Again, many Russian cities have a Kremlin, not just Moscow. Seems to come from the founding center of the city, usually a fort. Certainly the case here, and built when the Volga was much more in the city - about a 20-minute walk further inland than it flows now, so the walls on three sides were on the river. Made it hard to attack, which was, of course, the idea. If I understand our guide, the name itself comes from a combination of Russian words meaning the place where the Turks were turned back, (I actually think it is the swamp where the Turks were turned back but I would not bet my soul on that one.)
The Kremlin encloses about a hectare of land, and includes a fascinating church, built some time in the 18th century by a slave with no training or education. We are talking a two story, highly decorated, fairly sophisticated structure, with some wonderful icons. Now this may just be a pious legend but it does cause one to spend more time looking at the church than otherwise.
Back to the boat in time to catch the bus for the second part of the tour, which was a ride around the city (Astrakan is around a half million, so this is not a major event), and a stop at a fish market. Say what? Apparently, for the cognoscenti of fish markets and fish, stopping to buy fish at Astrakan is a must. So everyone piled off and loaded up on fish. Except me. I went through the fish market and having been appropriately tipped off, went to visit a church right behind the market. Very nice. And quiet. And no smell of fish.
I had gotten separated from my translator when we dashed for the bus, but a lady asked me (in Russian) if I spoke Russian, and when I answered negatively, she volunteered her son, who does speak some English, and he became my new new best friend. Admittedly, some of the time he did not know the English for what was being said, but a fair amount of what he did know was of minimal interest (Did you know the Astrakan train station was build like an Indian train station? I have no idea what that means, but the guide told us three different times, so somebody must think it is important. Something to do with Astrakan being the bridge between the east and the west.)
After the fish market, we went on to see the Lotus, which was the star attraction of this particular excursion. Lotus. The flower. The guide this morning had gone on at some length about the lotus and this one expounded even further. Now I knew that the lotus was a hardy little seed, able to sleep through the winters and that one found in Egypt, over 2,000 years old, was able to bring forth a plant and a flower. Go, Lotus! But why all the fuss? This was NOT a question answered by this trip. We got to a shack near the trolley tracks and across from a fascinating cemetery, and went into a garden area, along a path lined with chicken wire (to keep us away from the pear trees and grape arbor, I suspect) At the end of the path is a pond, and everyone filed down to what looked to my untrained eye like a section of swamp land. True there were lotus plants and some had flowered. Some had flowered a while ago, and all that were left were the seed pods, but there were also some flowers. Okay.
But everyone neatly lined up to have their individual pictures taken standing in front of these green plants. Some tried to arrange the picture so there was actually a lotus flower in it, but most were just standing in front of green plants. I watched for a while and never did quite figure out what all the fuss was. When Yvgeny came back, he admitted he didn’t understand it himself. So there you are. On the way back they pointed out the location of a circus, which performs from April through October. Imagine - missing the circus so we can visit swamp flowers! Some people have very strange priorities.
Back to the boat - well, actually, back to the dock and a 20-minute wait for the boat, which had gone off to re-fuel. (During which time I followed the example of my Russian boatmates and bought a watermelon. True I only bought one, and I did not buy tomatoes or melons or three-gallon jugs of water - but at least I felt part of the group, carrying something back on board.) Another of the advantages of this river business is that they don’t have to carry a full load of anything. At each stop, they unload garbage, flush their sewage tanks, take on food and newspapers and at two of the stops, take on fuel. Which means that large areas of the ship do not have to be given over to storage.
As we were leaving this morning, I was told that Maria had changed her mind about going to the hospital, that she was feeling much better. Now I respect the God-given right of other people to make stupid choices in their lives and if someone decides that severe abdominal pain and vomiting blood does not indicate a trip to the hospital, who am I to interfere? When we returned to the boat, she was feeling still better and attributed her problem to an attack of malaria. Now it is true that a change of climate can often bring on an attack, and it is true that malaria produces different effects in different people. However, this is the first time that I have known these particular symptoms to indicate malaria. We’ll see. But everyone is glad she is feeling better.
But while we were away she had bought her own watermelon (and eaten half of it) and a kilo of caviar for me. I had said I would buy two kilos but before I could get any further information, our Italian friend intervened with the ultimate dissertation on the buying and keeping of caviar. (He had already gone a couple of rounds with the translator on the subject of the slave who built the church.) I did not have the will or the energy to get involved in trying to tell a Russian about caviar so I went to lunch. After lunch I went back into the town (by myself) to get a stone for a friend of mine who collects stones from places, and I wanted to do some walking. Without people talking at me, or arguing. Nice. After about 90 minutes I headed back to the pier (since the boat would shortly be leaving), and about a hundred yards out into the river was a large barge, with a full sound stage set up, VERY large amplifiers and music playing. Part of a promotional concert tour of the river towns on the Volga sponsored by a cigarette company. Some very good music, actually, although just recordings. The real concert will happen in the evening, after we depart. I found myself a shady spot under a tree and listened. And watched.
As I was doing my invisible observer thing, a young lady in a black shift came along the path and went down one of the stone stairways leading to the river. She sat by herself for a little, then stood up. Raised her dress to her waist (she had my full and complete attention!) and adjusted her bikini bottom. Then she pulled the dress over her head, and in her bra and panties, slipped into the Volga for a little swim. Stayed in the water about five minutes, came out (and people say there are no such things as water nymphs!) and slipped the black shift back over her head, pulled it down, shook her short cut hair for a minute, grabbed her shoes and back to the path and on to wherever she was going. A moment like that can keep me smiling for two or three days.
But before I could wipe the smile off my face, I looked up to see a young man, perhaps 16, no shirt, smoking a cigarette, holding a bottle of beer and visibly staggering down the path. Made it to the railing and held on for a little. Had a couple of belts from the bottle, lit another cigarette and staggered off. Two different visions of Russian youth.
Time to re-board the boat, mark my stone and get ready for the departure. When will I see Astrakan again? Ever? I better go up on deck and wave just in case.
Because lunch had been so late, dinner was moved back an hour, so by the time dinner was over (fresh white fish from the Volga - see, the stop at Astrakan had some good dimensions - and oranges), a little deck time to watch the setting sun and chat, some reading, evening prayers - and there it was, bed time. We have had a full moon for most of the cruise, and last night it was a deep yellow, very bright but rich. Unfortunately, now that we are heading north again, the moon is on the other side of the boat, and I no longer can peek out through my curtains. I wonder if it will change my dreams.
Wednesday, 16 August - Feast of St Stephen of Hungary. Early breakfast today because we are having a “green stop” festival on the water. ( I looked it up - that’s what the notice says.) Around 8:30 we had an unannounced stop for an hour at a vegetable market and once again, people descended with huge bags. One man came back on board carrying three large watermelons. The one I bought yesterday was 9 kilos (around 20 pounds) and these looked bigger. Bags of apples as large as I am - I want to take pictures as people leave the boat, it should look like an exodus from somewhere or other.
Wonderful faces at the market. Lots of fish, and some caviar, although those in the now thought it a little expensive. When I go ashore I always wear my cross and one woman approached me and wanted to sell me an ikon, not a tourist ikon but a real old one. Maria said no, that if someone sells their family icon she is not a good person and we should not get involved. Among the things we bought were large orange fruits that look like oversize butternut squash but turn out to be rather like honeydew melons. I also saw cantaloupe and bought several, since it is one we don’t get in Nigeria either. Turns out many Russians don’t know this fruit - a number asked what it was and asked for a taste. Tioma has never eaten it, for instance. The sellers were largely - I don’t know, Mongolian? Eskimo looking, very oriental eyes and very dark skin. The faces some of the old women were gorgeous, and I am sorry I don’t have the kind of courage to simply walk up and snap away. Got some discreet shots but it cried out for National Geographic. As I was re-boarding the boat, a small boat came up, an class=Section3>
older man with baskets of fruit to be sold. And someone pointed out that tied to his stern was a brightly colored toy tugboat. That I did get a picture of.
About an hour after we left we tied up for the day, swimming and relaxing. A floating dock in the river. And it took almost two hours to get tied to the dock. And the dock re-tied to the shore. Much moving and throwing of lines and young men running around - a very complicate procedure. Muscle power at its best, and a large audience watching every move. During the process a woman started talking with Tioma and asked if she could speak with him. Turns out she is a teacher of English to small children, but has had very little practice speaking English. Many I could announced a practice class for anyone who wants to practice. Turns out her eldest son (around 14) is ranked 5th in all of Russia playing chess. (I discovered this AFTER I had said I did play and would be pleased to play with him. Ah well - humiliation is good for the soul. Years ago I did beat an Austrian Grand Master but I think it was because my play was SO unconventional that he got confused.)
One of the stereotypes of “old Russia” was that everything in the world had been invented by, perfected by or done first by a Russian. There is still some of that, and I usually keep my mouth shut. A good sign of national pride, maintained through some difficult times. I did object when I was told that television had been invented by a Russian in 1939. But it has been interesting as the young Russian stresses everything good comes out of Russia to have it constantly countered by the Italian Ambassador who manages to try and relate the derivation of words to Latin (and thus Italian) and to find Italian connections wherever possible. Some of his connections are no less far-fetched than the Russian orientation. Italian-inspired architecture, Italian inspired cooking, Italian designed cars and of course, Italian fashions.
It was a very lazy day, no call to do much of anything. I worked on some financial stuff from Nigeria, my daily dose of Russian, some reading - nothing of note. We left around six, and while the process of leaving was simpler than tying up, it was still an interesting process to watch. On the way to supper, as I was walking down the narrow hallway, a woman opened her room door and the smell of fish nearly knocked me over. If you buy it, you’ve got to live with it. Better them than me.
After supper, I was informed that the cruise director had been talking to Maria and “we” were going to give a short concert for the cruise folk. Tomorrow night. Now I have not done any singing for several months, have had a closed down throat and did not even bring my book of lyrics, much less any music. BUT - seems I am going to give part of a concert. Ah well - one day in worry mode won’t kill me. Maria thinks she can remember the accompaniment to O Sole Mio and Mattinata and if I do one or two things a capella, that will suffice. At least I’ll get to wear one of my fascinating Nigerian outfits. Costume is everything.
Today is the Pope’s birthday. I hope he had a lovely day. I certainly did, and it’s not even my birthday. It is the 20th anniversary of when I entered the Jesuits. How time flies... whether you’re having fun or not, actually.
Thursday, 17 August - Nobody’s feast day that I know of. Gentle morning on deck, early breakfast again, because we will have a morning stop at Volgograd. The excursion is to the planetarium - I am going to do some shopping and wandering. Morning menu report - the usual ham and cheese and bread and butter, and instead of coffee, this morning we had hot chocolate. Then two hot dogs and sweet sauerkraut, with tomatoes. (There are tomatoes served at every meal. They are, of course, on my list of things I am not supposed to have, but the couple of times I have weakened, I have found them really delicious.) There was yogurt on the table, and after the hot dogs came the hot cereal, this morning sweet rice with butter. I can FEEL the cholesterol in my system. But if I’m going to sing tonight I will eat lightly at lunch and skip supper. The grandmother and grandfather and I were the only ones who made the meal. The children have a thing about sleeping late and somehow the others never bother to read the schedule. The problem is there is another seating after ours so when they come late and stay late in tends to make the life of the waitress more difficult.
One of the odd tidbits I have picked up is how much work has been done on the Volga. When they were building power stations along the river, and there are at least five currently working, they did a lot of dredging and widening of the river. Once I knew that, then I recognized places where the bank had been cut and artificially set in. I get asked the strangest questions - like, how many power generating stations are there along the Mississippi? I have no idea. How tall is the Statue of Liberty? Taller than the statue of Mother Russia, but beyond that?
Other odd bits - toilet paper. (Well, what’s the point of travel if you don’t pick up interesting ways in which countries are different?) There is no hole in the center - no core, just solid paper all the way through. Brown, untreated paper, fairly sturdy, but tightly wrapped and solid. Good value. None of this loosely wrapped, full of air and more core than paper stuff we get in Nigeria.)
Ah well, time to go back into Volgograd and buy some presents. Anyone want anything from Russia? No? Well, you had your chance.
....well, didn’t >>I<<>>I<< certainly remember him and when possible, try to keep the day. Today, though, was not really a day of celebration.
Giovanni called to say that a program had been arranged (which made him a happy wanderer) and that the son of a friend of Nikolai’s who speaks Italian would be joining us and we would be going out to some monastery and other sights outside the Moscow walls. Then he called back to say the plan had changed and we would meet at a metro stop. Fair enough. Weather was terrible - cold and heavy rain today. So I added a sweater to the touring ensemble but full of faith took my camera with me, just in case the sun should make an appearance. Found the subway, found the people, and the young man had brought his mother with him. Now we are four.
Leaving the subway it took several questions but we found the monastery. The grounds were not an option since it was pouring, and the cathedral was closed. And there was a museum with an exhibit of monastic life of French nuns in the 15th century. At that point, I would vote to go back to bed. But the mother of the young man is nothing is not determined so we go over to the cathedral, and discover that it is only closed to the general public, tour groups are going in at a merry rate. Why, she asks, can we not go in with a tour group? Oh no, not possible. Oh? She disappears and comes back with the administrator of the whole place who lets us in. A force with which to be reckoned.
When we left the cathedral (don’t forget the cold weather and the pouring rain and my shoes are soaked and I am less than thrilled about the program), we find that the “guides” don’t really have a program, so Giovanni suggests the modern wing of the Russian museum we saw yesterday. (After he left me he went to the Pushkin and spent several hours with an exhibition of Flemish painters. Better man than I.) I said bless him, I would peel off and visit the Cathedral of the Savior, largest church in Moscow, just rebuilt. It had been blown up to make room for a Soviet center that was never built - for any years the site was a swimming pool. It has been re-done and is supposed to be magnificent. He said he would like to see that, so off we went.
Pouring rain. And cold. I keep repeating this because it was a major element (you should pardon the pun) in the day. We got to the cathedral and sonofagun, there was a large ceremony for some young troops taking place and the cathedral (wait for it) was closed. Mama went to the personnel entrance to see if she could talk us in the back door, but the magic wasn’t working. So Giovanni and the two guides went on to explore more museums at the Kremlin and I sat and reconnoitered. Decided I might as well work on some of the things I wanted to see so I went on to the Kremlin to see some of the churches and Lenin’s tomb. And I spent some thoroughly idle time in GYM (GUM - what used to be the state department store right at Red Square). Lenin’s Mausoleum was closed. (Why would you CLOSE a mausoleum? Ah well.) Visited both the churches and saw several couples who had just been married. Apparently a visit to Red Square is a tradition? Had an ice cream - even in the pouring rain and cold, the locals continue to chomp down the frosty. And decided that if I were ever going to get to St Barbara’s Church, I had better take a chance on the weather. (The rain had stopped.) I have a very dear friend named Barbara - I had already gotten an icon of St Barbara but this church is very well known and I thought it would be fun to get a picture and light a candle for her and her family.
So off I went and with only one slight misadventure - seems there are two Metro stations with the same name - seems a curious lack of creative planning there - found the church. Which - wait for it - was closed for renovations. Everything is closed. Went down the street to a monastery attached to a gorgeous (so am was told) 5-cupola cathedral known for its outstanding acoustics. Closed - only open for Mass on Saturday evening. Seems time to go home. Checked email and collapsed. And pretty well stayed that way. Did not go out, answered a knock on the door once to meet a door to door salesman (so muvch for the security man at the front door), went to bed early and slept a full ten hours without moving. I think they call this vacation.
Saturday, August 26 - Last full day in Moscow. Up and showered, prayed and puttered. Guess what the weather was? If you put your check mark next to Cold and rainy, you win a prize. Back to the sweaters and off to meet Giovanni - we’re going to try and get to the Cathedral again, the one that was closed yesterday.
A little history - this cathedral was built to commemorate the victory over Napoleon - remember the 1812 Overture, Tchaikovsky, lots of cannons? That one - and it was a great cathedral until the 1920's, when it was decided it represented a decadent prior age and so they blew it up. Literally dynamited this great work of art, itself containing hundreds of works of art. Just blew it up. (There are a number of instances of Soviet destruction of art - makes you think of the vandals at the gates of Rome, the general barbarian destruction of times past.) The plan was to create a great Soviet centre, and the drawings are most impressive of what they did not build. What they did build was a foundation, and then turned that into a swimming pool (we are talking a lot of connected pools in one central ring). In the 1980's there was a popular movement to rebuild the cathedral and with public contributions and support from the city of Moscow, they started. Using the original plans, and drawings and photos of how it was, and calling on artists and craftsmen from all over Russia, they re-created the original.
It is breath-taking. Under the church is a smaller chapel and a museum of the re-building. Unfortunately they don’t show much about the original church, and what they do have is in Russian only, so there are a lot of questions I have that remain unanswered. But it was a great visit, and went long beyond what we had expected. Giovanni went off to the airport - he is heading back to Italy this afternoon - and I went off to give myself the treat of a good lunch that I had promised myself earlier.
Well - half and half. Found a restaurant that had gotten a good recommendation in one of the English newspapers, and worked my way through a large Russian menu and a staff that did not speak English. Had a reasonable crab salad and a rich sturgeon in shaved potato crust, with a cream sauce laced with black and red caviar. Not bad. Glass of wine with the meal and a cup of coffee afterwards. Despite the signs announcing credit cards, turned out they don’t accept plastic - I had enough cash. But when I got the bill - although the menu had been in roubles, the bill was in dollars, and at the end changed into roubles at a rate every favorable to the establishment. And some fairly startling prices for plain water and coffee. Still not New York prices but not exactly a fairy-tale ending either.
The rain had stopped but the sky was still dark and Father John decided to leave some of Moscow for his next trip, and headed home. Stopped in the Business Centre to do e-mail, and despite the assurance that it would be open on Saturday until 5, doors locked. Closed and not open seems to be the sub-theme of my time in Moscow. Figuring this was a sign from God, back to room to digest and think about packing.
Moscow television is fascinating. Several rip-offs of US shows (I have seen Russian versions of stupid pet tricks - a whole show!) Dating Game, Wheel of Fortune, and Funniest Home Videos. A couple of quasi-talk shows featuring local talent, the Benny Hill Show (call me a cultural illiterate but I think he is wonderful. And Charlie Chaplin said he was the funniest man in show business. So there) and a lot of American films and some shows with Russian dubbing. The English track is left in and turned down, so with practice you can ignore the Russian and get much of the English. The show with the lifeguards seems to be on every day, and this morning before I went out I saw part of a Cannonball film - one of the Burt Reynolds numbers with everybody in the world making an appearance. Lots of talking heads, which I ignore, and a regular schedule of history films. Adverts both Russian and from the original producer - English, French, US. Some of the Russian ones are great - one for a candy bar has a young girl stabling her horse, opens a candy bar as she strolls down the aisle and takes a bite. Passes two stalls with horses looking over the gate and a third with a very attractive young man. She stops and does a double-take. He looks at her and she blushes. He whinnies - she looks startled and looks at his feet - which are the legs of a horse. Pull back shot, horse bottom, young man looking over the top. Cut to slide of candy bar. Great.
Of course, they also have an ad for a small personal geiger counter, to measure radiation in your playground or at the fruit stand. No kidding, comes in several attractive colors. Think Chernobyl is a blot on the national psyche? You got it.
Interesting aside - the caricature of the Russian peasant woman always seems to give her a - is it a mole I mean? Little lump of flesh, usually on the chin or nose, sometimes with a hair or two growing out of it? That little button - somehow I don’t think mole is the word I want, but a wart is dark, isn’t it? Maybe it’s a wart - features in a lot of drawing. Well, it features on a lot of faces as well, many quite attractive, but this little - thing - crops up a lot, once you start to look for it.
Tomorrow to the airport and on to England. I don’t think Michelin or Michener have anything to fear from the scribblings of this wanderer but it has been a lovely and entertaining and mildly educational trip. I love going to new places and Russia is a place I have always wanted to visit - and to which I would very much like to return. If any of the invitations turn into real invitations, I might be back. Certainly there could be opportunities to sing - but I also need to make money if I am going to take the time away. For the Society of Jesus to let me come back, there will have to be some tangible return. We’ll see.
One of the things that would be nice would be if any of you have old (or new) comic books, literary magazines - things that would interest teen-age types learning English - let me know and I will give you the address of the English teacher in Samara who is trying to teach students without herself ever having left the country and with few resources. Don’t send them to me - if you have anything you think might help, and would like to contribute the postage, I’ll send you her address. (This is the one who is working for a base salary of $30 a month, which even the government admits is not enough for basic existence.)
OK - Mass and packing and bed, remembering, we hope to set the alarm. Car is coming around 8, which means being checked out, and I have no idea what that means in this particular system. They probably come and count the linen before you go. All will be revealed, a closing reflection in London and I will send this forth onto the electronic airways, and hard copies for my poor friends who are not electronically up to date. Should you have gotten two (or more) copies of this, that means that you are listed twice in my address book, hopefully at least under different addresses. Like cards at Christmas, this is also a good chance to be sure my address book is up to date. Given my various computer problems, crashes and misadventures during the past year, that I have errors and glitches and have lost people isi not at all unlikely. So if you don’t get this, be sure and tell me.
Sunday, August 27 - My last morning in Moscow. (Except for the morning I will have when I pass through ono my way back to Lagos.) 6:30 in the morning, just finished packing, and out the window of my hotel, you have never seen a more beautiful day. Naturally. When I am IN Moscow, wanting to walk around and see things - rain and cold and thoroughly nasty. The day I leave - spectacular weather. Grumble, whuffle, snort. (Can you imagine? My spell checker doesn’t recognize whuffle. Have to add that to the old word list.)
Moscow - One of the things I was warned about before starting this trip was Moscow, city of thieves. Aside from one brief attempt on the Metro, I have certainly seen nothing. People who live here I have talked with assure me it is a relatively dangerous city, and certainly the number of car alarms would tend to bear that out. My hotel room is above a parking lot - we floors above, but the windows are not hermetically anything’d, and so noise (and an occasional pleasant breeze) come through. Just as one learns to sleep through trains passing or planes landing, so too one learns to sleep through car alarms, and I would guess an average of four or five an hour going off downstairs. I have not leapt to the window each time to see if these were robbery attempts or just folks getting into their cars - I watched one poor man in Astrakan work with car for about ten minutes before he got the alarm turned off and was able to drive away. At least I assume it was his car.
Nothing to do now but watch the sunrise and wait for the call to tell me the car is on its way. No television. I have never stayed up to see when the stations go off the air, but at 7:30 they are not yet on and working, at least not on Saturday. (Turns out that just after 7:00 something did come on, and I spent my last minutes in Moscow watching a Russian version of Mary Poppins, complete with sliding up the bannister.)
Check-out was easy, as was the drive to the airport, in stunningly gorgeous weather. Sigh. We got there good and early, and in fact, had to wait, since the check in didn’t open until two hours before departure. Never mind, we got to watch some fascinating people, and I am sure they felt the same about us. Nikolai showed up and he and Maria went off for about 40 minutes so he could write a letter to someone in the UK for her to carry, But when he got back, we got in line and he went to the head of the line, then came back and walked us to the head of the line, we got taken care of instantly, no question about the weight of our luggage, and off we went. Hot knife through soft butter.
Now you would have thought that people would have grumbled and mumbled and stared daggers at these people being pushed to the head of the queue, but not a grumble nor a stare that I saw. I think it is a reflex from the days of a former system where there was a privileged class and the rest of us, and when someone from the former showed up, it was natural that he would get sent through. Same thing applies in Nigeria, except the privilege is usually bought and paid for in cash. Sort of an economic democracy - everybody with money gets to vote. Or, everyone’s money is equal. Anyway, we sailed through, and found ourselves in the Duty Free before we knew it. I usually pass these places by, but here wanted to get some vodka for people in England, and Tony Montfort at Jesuit Missions had asked me to pick him up some cigarettes of a particular kind. Normally we would be trying to get him to stop but it is his 60th birthday next week, so I bought away.
The Russian airport has many of its flights away from the terminal, so you board a bus which takes you to the plane. Plane turned out to be an older airbus, wide open configuration, older seats with strange sags, but more room than we are used to in the modern cattle car configuration. No music or video but very good food, good service, better PA so the English was more understandable and since it was a flight to England, most of the crew spoke some English. Flight is just over three hours, so not bad at all. Bernard was there to meet us, we dropped us off at Wimbledon, collected the train ticket and he then took Maria to the station for the trip to place where she is taking the Master classes. I called to alert them what train she was on, and settled in. Laundry, e-mail - all the luxuries of the western world. (You can even drink the water from the tap!) Of course, when I signed onto AOL I was told I had 179 bits of new mail. Thank you very much. Went over to Montford’s later for dinner - among his many talents he is a first-rate cook, and we had a piece of beef that was as good as anything I have had in years. Amazing. Raspberries and cream for dessert. I staggered home, did some more internet and crashed.
Interesting cast of characters at the Mission residences. There is an American on his way back to Zambia (he’s been working in the missions for 40 years), an older man I know from Harare (78 and still working a full schedule), a guy from El Salvador, in for an operation, one from Guyana doing some medical treatment, and one who is working in Burma. When we sit around and talk about the state of the world, everyone brings his own varied experience. Two Americans and four Brits. Good group. I have helped one with a computer problem, so he thinks I am wonderful.
Monday, August 28 - Bank holiday. Time to bring this rambling to a close. I had thought I would spend the day working on cleaning up this narrative and getting it ready to send off, but instead went out and spent most of the day at Hampton Court, one of my favorite places. Tours with people in costume, music presentation and wonderful CD walking tours, all included in the price of the ticket. Ferry back on the river. Life ain’t bad.
Tuesday, August 29 - Today I end this long (loooong) letter. Yesterday on the news we heard that the tv tower in Moscow had burned. I could see it from my hotel window and at one point I had suggested we might go to the restaurant on the top. August is not a good month for Russia - historically, and certainly not this one - bombs, submarines and now this.
What have I learned? I like Russia, and Russians and would like to go back. I was more tired than I thought when I left and I’m a whole lot better but not fully - whatever. I don’t take very good care of myself in Lagos and I know that but it did come back to me strongly on this trip. Time to implement one of the many resolutions made in the past. That others do not travel as I do, and I must be patient. That Russia is simultaneously much richer than Nigeria and in some ways poorer, but that the general level of society, of structural civilization is way higher. (Someone once said that the greatest determining factor in developing civilization is climate, that in the very warm climates with no real seasons, no great civilizations have developed and sustained. There is something in the demand of having to create shelters, store food for the winter, plan ahead, that helps create the need for that longer-lasting structure. Not inevitably. Mongols, Eskimos, American Indians, all lived in varied climates without going that route. But it is constant in all the cultures that did develop.
Off we go, into the sunset. If you’ve gotten this far, you will be relieved to know that I solemnly promise I will not send a Christmas letter. If anyone you know might like to browse through these wanderings, feel free to share them. Remember the Jesuits, both collectively and this one individually - in your prayers, if you win the lottery or come into money or just as you sit around the campfire and tell stories. Remember Nigeria too. In spite of all the fine words from the recent visit of the President of the United States, it is a country with at least as many problems as possibilities, and the problems are much deeper than poverty and money (including the infamous debt-relief) is not the answer. (By the way - in case anyone has any doubts, I do NOT think that debt relief ought to be an option for Nigeria. It, unlike many other countries, has resources, and simply wiping away the accumulated burden - a burden that exists because of the corruption and the dishonesty of its leaders and the apathy of its people - will only open the door for further loans and further abuses and will do nothing to helping remedy the causes of the problems they now face. We hear that the people suffer because of this - true, but removing the debt in Nigeria will not change the lot of the people one bit. The federal government does not distribute the money it receives - to the companies with whom it does business, with the employees it is supposed to pay salaries to - money it has, and spends instead on automobiles and houses and furnishings for its legislators, on football teams and travel for its leaders, on propaganda for advertising to help balance a bad image. It does nothing to changing the reality underneath the image but instead spends the money to try and change the image. Debt relief for many countries, in some form, is a good and noble move. In the case of Nigeria, it would be contributing to the corruption we must fight if the country is to move forward.
I digress. The idea was to remember Nigeria when you are praying. If you don’t pray - maybe it’s time to start.
I will continue to pray for you, and remember you, and every now and then, flood your mailboxes, whether electronic or postal, with idle wanderings and whatevers.
Whatever....
John Sheehan, SJ
Idle Wanderer
Post Script
Thought you were finished, huh? Well, almost. I just felt there were a few loose ends that had not been properly tied when I sent off the last Massive Missive, and so here they are.
First of all, a technical note - if you had trouble opening or receiving the attachment, please tell me. Some have been unable to deal with the WordPerfect but have done fine when I sent the copy in rtf format. If that doesn’t work, a dear friend in the US is in the process of copying and sending hard copies to people without email - I know, it’s hard to believe that there are technologically deprived even in this day and age but there are, and we have to make provisions for them. So you can be added to that list if all else fails.
I apologize for ending the day before I went to the doctor. Several people have written to ask how that part of the adventure went. Very well. The reason for my going to London at all was to have a check-up and see about getting weaned off this very strong (and very expensive) medicine I have been taking for the past two months. The doctor - Harley Street offices, thank you very much - gave me a thorough going over, including sending a small tv camera down my nose - and his report is positive. Vocal chords look good, he was pleased with my report of what has and has not been going on, and says I should maintain the diet, cut back on the medicine, made some good suggestions about alternate ways to deal with it if the problem persists and says now I have to do the vocal exercises and get back in shape. He also recommended going back to my own teacher or seeing someone to have a check on my technique - rather like a batting coach working with someone in the middle of the season.
And at the end of this session, he announced that he does not usually charge “men of the cloth”. Bless his heart. He was recommended by the doctor in Boston, and turns out to be one of the top voice men on this side of the Atlantic. While I was there an emergency call came in from someone at the Globe Theatre, and turns out he has even written a book (which I went right out and bought). A very positive trip and made me feel much better. I sang a little in the office as part of the procedure (interesting sensation, that, singing while a small tv camera is down your nose) and the staff came in from several offices, and one asked afterwards if I would sing something more for her in the office. Couldn’t have been too bad.
So while I still have a strange diet, a bag full of pills, a slanted bed and the admonitory caution to lose some weight, the news is good and the hope is that within the next year at least one CD will finally get recorded. Part of the whole situation is, to no one’s surprise, stress, so finding better ways to deal with that also has to be part of my regimen. (Regimen. No matter what context you put it in, an unpleasant sounding word.)
The rest of my time in London was relatively uneventful. The day I went into London for the doctor’s visit, I read in the paper about a production of The Elixir of Love (L’Elisir d’Amore, but since it was being sung in English...) in Hyde Park that evening. After I left the doctor I went over to the Jesuit residence at Farm Street, visited and had lunch, and then went to Hyde Park to see about tickets. Hyde Park is a fairly large place, as parks go, and so rather than just wander around until I found it (which is how I usually approach finding something - with remarkable success, actually) I stopped in at the park information office to ask. The most remarkable man was working there. When I went in he was sitting down behind a desk and a young mother and five (5!) children were clustered around him, so all I could hear was his voice, as he plotted a route for them through the park, pointed out interesting things they might want to stop and see and was very helpful. He was very knowledgeable, and I assumed, from his manner and the amount he seemed to know, that he was an older man. When they finally trooped out, I was startled to see that he was younger than I - by a fair bit. He was equally helpful to me, and we chatted for a while before I strolled on. Here is someone who has what most would consider a silly job, and he enjoys it and makes it rewarding to himself and to the people who stop in. Found the venue - yes, the opera would be there, no, I could not get tickets until around 6:30, yes tickets were still available. So I went into town, ran some errands, and came back. Bought my ticket, watched the ducks and the people on the lake and went in to see the opera.
“In” is a little misleading, since the production was staged outside, just off the children’s swimming pool. They had set up a small stage, chairs, lights and a curtained area for the orchestra. Six in the orchestra - piano, clarinet, two violins, cello and bass, and seven in the cast, Yup, they did the whole opera with seven people. Staging was very creative, and very funny. I usually don’t like opera in English (unless it was written in English) but this translation was very good. The acting was very good, the singing ranged from pretty good to very good (although I blush to admit I am a far better tenor than the guy they had up there) and all in all it was a fun evening. Except for the temperature, which dropped fairly dramatically once the sun went down, and I nearly froze. I had a brushed silk jacket which is usually quite warm, and which is probably the reason I am still alive today, but it was not quite enough and by the interval I was thoroughly frozen. I seriously thought about leaving - it was that cold - but the production was that good, I stuck it out.
Tony Montfort is the head of Jesuit Missions. He’s a layman, been there for about 35 years or so, and is a gift to missionaries from all over the world. His office in Wimbledon has bedrooms for visitors, and it is where I stay when I go to London if they have room. Friday of this week was his 60th birthday and cards and telegrams and presents came from all over the world. On Thursday night the Jesuits present decided to take him out, which was great fun. On Friday we started the day with mass in the house chapel - yours truly was the principal celebrant with six other priests present - the staff took him to lunch, some lay people came in the afternoon for a most elegant tea and his family had a party in the evening.
I note for the record that during the time I was in Russia I not only did not gain any weight, I think I actually lost a little. However that was all undone by my time in London, where I did not walk enough and indulged too much. All the birthday celebrations didn’t help one bit.
Monday morning, September 4th - Holiday in the US, in England back to school day. For me, travel to Moscow day. Got nailed at the airport for excess baggage. The flight (Aeroflot again) was quite good, the most modern plane I have seen so far, and they even had a music station, with headphones, so I got to listen to music. Decent lunch and a really nice (French) red wine. I had two bottles. (Very small bottles.) And a little nap. Those last two items may be related.
Arriving in Moscow, I went to the Transfer Desk. I moved quickly and was in the forefront of a large group. Got to the desk, and as I stepped up, the woman at the desk left. Now there were two other desks operating but by then that large group had arrived and there were long queues. When in Rome... waiting for an opportune moment, I simply acted like a Russian, stepped sideways and snuck my ticket in. The man looked at it - I had a reservation at a transit hotel - and said he was too busy to deal with it, I should go to the desk inside the terminal. Where there was another large group. Since there was no queue in evidence, I used my crowd skills and fairly quickly found myself at the counter. Got my hotel chit and directions to the gathering point for the bus. Which I found, and where I waited. And waited. And waited. Things finally started moving, but from the time we landed until I got to the hotel was three hours. Grumble, whuffle, snort. Some interesting moments. While I was waiting, there was a youngish man, sitting on some steps, earphones in his ears, grooving with the music, with a cigarette stuck in his nose. I guess he wanted to smoke without using his hands. Smoking is permitted pretty much everywhere, anywhere.
The room was nice - small, but with a private bathroom, tv set (and they had BBC) and a fridge. Of course, I had nothing to put into the fridge but it was a nice touch. Had a shower, read a little, watched television (BBC was fairly boring but on a German sports station they had about an hour of Sumo wrestling. Here I am in Moscow, an American on his way to Nigeria, watching Sumo wrestling with a German commentator. I love it.) And sleep.
5:30 - phone call from the desk to remind me that the bus leaves at 6. I was already awake but it was a nice touch. Breakfast was delivered in a plastic bag - yogurt, cookies, a roll, cheese, water and apple juice, candy of several kinds. Bus ride back - our hotel was about 20 minutes away from the airport - lines to check in, lines for passport control, wait for the gate to open. Lots of Nigerians, each with mounds of luggage. If anyone ever decided to enforce cabin luggage restrictions, either in terms of size or weight, these folks would be out of luck. When traveling with Nigerians around, you learn to get on fast, or else you will find all the luggage storage space taken up. They put their bags wherever they can, and have no concern that some later passenger might not have any room near his on seat for a coat or a briefcase.
But all went smoothly and I found myself in Economy Class, on an aisle seat in the front of the section. The plane filled rapidly and I had two young boys next to me with lots of hand luggage. At that point, they brought in a Nigerian who was being deported. He was drugged, drunk or crazy, or perhaps some combination of all three. Very loud, very abusive. He had a security man with him, and with some difficulty they got him into his window seat at the front of the section. He was not happy, complaining that they had stolen his money, his passport, that they were being unfair, and he kept sticking in bits of bad German and worse French. The thought of ten hours with this guy was not a happy prospect.
At one point (he had been complaining about not having any food or water), the attendant brought him a glass of water and immediately several Nigerians began protesting that they had put something in the water, that they were trying to hurt him, that this was all a racist plot by whites against blacks, that they had no right to treat a human being this way - and on and on and on, very loudly, abusively and with more than a smattering of foul language just to give it strength. One man stood in the aisle and berated the crew at high volume while others helpfully chimed in from their seats. One thing a Nigerian is unable to do is not get involved in or offer commentary on any situation. In the States at least one of the commentators would have been escorted off the airplane.
At this point, Nikolai (my Russian friend in Lagos who works for Aeroflot whose apartment in Moscow was our first stop way back on day one) showed up. (Thank you, God) He had said he might be returning to Lagos on this flight, and he managed to get me moved into First Class. (Thank you, God) He said the food would still be economy, and I assured him that for the privilege of sitting in those seats I would bring my own food. That ought to be a program with airlines - if they have empty seats, anyone in Economy can move up by paying an additional $50 (or whatever) - same meal, just big seat. Or as a special privilege for priests and rabbis and guys with beards. I know, it’ll never sell. But it could make a lot of people happy. And wouldn’t cost the airline anything and would actually make a couple of bucks.
So as I write this I am sitting in First Class, somewhere between Moscow and Malta, preparing myself mentally and emotionally for the return to Lagos and all the new adventures that await me there. There are four seats instead of the six in each row in economy, and there is lots of space. ( I am in the emergency exit row, so even if I extend my leg all the way I cannot touch the seat in from of me. No leg rest but a much more comfortable situation. And I think I will need this last little bit of relaxation. The priest who has been holding the fort sent me an email that he had fired our #1 driver, who is suing me. So I need to find out what THAT is all about and see if I can pacify without involving lawyers. There is a meeting on Saturday of the Finance Committee, the group that is supposed to advise me in the financial management of the Region. Weekly Mass resumes, and I need to be putting together a renovation construction bid, hiring new staff, finding out why the telephones aren’t working - I started jotting down things to be done while I was watching cricket, and I very quickly had 32 items on the list. It will continue to be a full life.
(Interval - we stopped for the break at Malta, and got to walk around the airport for an hour. Ever been to Malta? Neither have I, except technically. But flying in and out, my one observation is that all the buildings are the same color. Sort of a light sandstone brown, and there is nothing else. No yellow, no blue, no painted white, no red brick or aluminum siding - there did not seem to be any painted buildings at all, everything is pretty much the same. Oh, a half a shade lighter or darker here and there, but no colors at all. I wonder if that is tradition, legislation, some sort of religious thing (“Oh God, if you save us in this battle we will never paint our houses..” that sort of thing.) Whatever, it makes for a striking and fairly desert-like appearance from the air.
At Malta, Nikolai again met people he knew, and when we returned to the plane, while two women were ushered out of their temporary first class seats (not for having people sit in them, there are only three of us in this section for the second leg) I remain in mine, comfortable and separated from the sweaty crowds sitting somewhere behind me. No update on the crazy guy, so I assume they have him somehow under control. Because Nikolai knows everyone, we also got to visit the flight deck, and chatted away with the pilot and crew while we were winging our way to Lagos. I am not so blase but that I have to admit, that was neat. Nothing to see but sky and instruments, but pretty sky, working instruments and a group of confident professional people. I usually am flying into Lagos at night - it is an interesting experience to actually see the Sahara underneath us and land and stuff like that.)
Anyway - shortly I will be back at the desk, treading the mill, so if I don’t fill your mailboxes, electronic or otherwise, for a while, it’s because I have returned to the “busier than God syndrome”. I did get a spiritual director for my do it yourself Tertianship program this year, so fulfilling those obligations will be another item on the list for the coming year, and an increase in already scheduled travel. But unless you are a friend of a friend and have never met me except via these letters, you know that even when I am (strangely) silent, you continue to be remembered and thought about and prayed for on a regular basis.
As I hope I, and the rest of the Jesuits, will be remembered by you, at prayer or however you do that. And as always, should you win a lottery or be remembered by a rich relative, cash in a bunch of suddenly valuable stock or find a suitcase filled with negotiable securities or bearer bonds, please do not forget the Jesuits. It’s tax deductible, goes to a good cause, and besides making you feel good here just might give you a little extra credit somewhere else. You never can tell.
Now I am really and truly ending this 2-part missive. With love to you and yours.....
Fr. John Sheehan, SJ
Lagos
Back at sjlagos3(at)Infoweb.abs.net
Herewith - Father John’s adventures in Russia. (And this is probably an appropriate moment to assure my readers that the mere fact that they have received this massive missive does not oblige them in any way to actually read it. I, of course, find the whole thing fascinating. You may not - and this is why God has invented a whole series of devices including delete buttons and waste baskets. Follow your heart. I love you anyway. Just don’t tell me.)
Russia? (The inquiring reader asks.) Russia? What in the world is he doing there? How did he manage to get to Russia? What scam is the slippery Sheehan pulling off this time. Faithful reader, I am the victim of fate, puppet in the winds of what might be - and for once, this is NOT something I arranged. The Italian Ambassador in Lagos has gotten to be a good friend, and has sponsored a couple of concerts for me, and keeps insisting that any time I want to drop in or appropriate a spare bedroom, that I should think of the Embassy as my home. (Unlike the American Embassy in Lagos which recently refused me admittance to the premises - but that’s a story for another time.) Another good friend is Maria Aseeva, a brilliant concert pianist who is here in Lagos, teaching at the MUSON School of Music and giving concerts and who has accompanied me for concerts on several occasions. I was at lunch one day at the embassy - Maria was there, and a couple (she is Russian, the husband is Nigerian, they met when he was studying in Moscow - we forget how many scholarships Russia provided to Africans over the years) and they were talking about a trip to Russia they were planning. Maria to return home to visit, the Ambassador to re-visit a country he had visited years before and the other two to renew acquaintances and see family. Going to be a real jaunt, with a cruise down the Volga, time in Moscow - great fun. And they spent a certain amount of lunch talking about this great trip they are all going on.
I didn’t say a word. I swear I didn’t. Bring your Bibles, your white chickens or whatever paraphernalia on which you wish me to take an oath and I will stake my immortal soul and somewhat dubious reputation on the assertion that not by so much as a rolling of the eyes or a sighing of the sighs did I even plant the remotest suggestion that I too would love to cruise the Volga and visit and whatever in Russia. (Actually I have wanted to visit Russia ever since I was a small boy and could recite the whole list of the Czars in order, by heart.) But at one point someone said - and I quote – “Father, you should come.” Interior, it was all interior, the outer visage never changed - but the Cheshire Cat of Lewis Carroll parentage (anyone who does not think that casting Whoopee Goldberg as the Cat was brilliant has my permission to go and get his/her head examined and if you don’t know what I’m talking about it means you haven’t seen the Hallmark rendition of Alice and you should. A little over the top in places, but then again, so was Carroll... where was I - ah yes, end parentheses) never had a cheerier smile (inside) than I.
However, I am a man of the world and I know that things that get said at luncheon tables don’t count. Odds are made to be beaten and sometimes things said at luncheon tables actually DO happen - but rarely enough that the first sentence of this paragraph may still stand as a relatively stable rule of human behavior and interaction. So I made polite noises and they made polite noises about how much my presence would add to the trip. And finally I was backed into the social corner of having to say that as men with vows of poverty, trips to Russia are not normally on our agenda, lovely as they idea might sound. And the hoped-for response - Ah Father, come as our guest. We will pay.
Hehehe. Now to get my Superior’s permission. I made it clear to them that this was a most unusual notion and I could not simply say yes by myself - and I flatter myself enough to think that if I simply disappeared for a couple of weeks, someone might notice. So I said I would check with my boss and get back to them.
Well, my Superior said yes. Most of my trips since coming to Nigeria have been for business or have certainly included business, and I realized - those of you who know me well correct me if I’m wrong - that the last real vacation I have had, ie time away doing nothing but nothing and not taking along a computer full of work and running errands en route, was in 1987. So he said yes. And I said yes. And spent the next several weeks worrying that maybe I had misunderstood the offer, that maybe the offer was really only luncheon talk (see rules for human behavior above) - but sure enough, Maria’s mother wrote me a letter of invitation (actually she wrote two but that involves more detail about getting a Russian visa than you really want to know about) and I got my visa and the plane tickets were booked. And a problem arose.
I had gotten permission for essentially a two-week jaunt. Fair enough. Then I learned that Aeroflot (the Russian airline) only flies Lagos to Moscow twice a month, and the next return flight after our arrival was too soon, we would not have returned from our river wandering. That would mean I would be away for a month - and that’s a long time to be away. In theory we are entitled to three months every two years, but I cannot imagine a circumstance in the present setup that could let me be away for that length of time. Aaargh. My Russian dream started to crumble around the edges.
But I have been having vocal problems, and when I was in the US to do a wedding for the daughter of my oldest friend in the world - the age part has to do with the length of our friendship not the chronological accumulation he has amassed - I saw a good doctor there who gave me a massive medicine dose and told me to see him in two months. I explained that that was not possible - men with vows of poverty don’t travel from Lagos to Boston for a check-up. He did NOT offer to pay for the trip, but he did give me the name of a doctor in London, so going to London at the end of August or the early part of September was a definite gotta-do. Talked to my travel agent and he worked with Aeroflot (bless them both) and I got a Lagos-Moscow-Lagos ticket with a side trip to London for only $60 additional. Not bad, eh? So I get Russia, cruise, vacation, and a trip to London to see the doctor.
I am writing this first part on a train wending its way (its 16 hour way - this is a BIG part of the world) from Moscow to Samara. I arrived this morning on Aeroflot, spent the day sight-seeing and am now on my merry way to Samara, along with Maria and her two sons, the Italian Ambassador and Maria’s mother. (The other couple dropped out along the way. No, I don’t know why. Let them write their own letter.) Mama booked the tickets, and while the others are in communal splendor four cars away, I sit in solitary elegance in the Premier Class, with a compartment all to myself. Mama comes from a family of priests, and she is inordinately impressed at having a priest in the entourage. I am confident that as she gets to know me, on the trip back I will spend the night sleeping sitting up in the third class carriage.
(As I finished that paragraph I looked out the window and saw the most magnificent Orthodox Church sliding past the window. No time to grab a camera - at 9:30 at night it is still light enough out to take pictures. I have no idea where it is or where we are - my cabin attendant who brings me tea and will be in shortly to turn down the bed speaks not one word of English, and my Russian is limited to very short phrases and one word questions, accompanied with a fair amount of pantomime and attempts at thought transference. Pantomime gets a B; thought transference is not all it is cracked up to be. I love trains, and sleeping on trains and after the Aeroflot flight - read on, you haven’t missed anything, I just haven’t gotten there yet - I am really looking forward to the sleeping. Toddling down the aisle to go to the bathroom is a minor drawback, but at least it’s a Premier bathroom. I think that means the toilet paper is provided. Been meaning to check that out.)
Leaving Lagos was, as always, a minor adventure. I was better prepared for this than some of my other departures - I have decided that I have reached an age where all-nighters, however noble the cause, just don’t fill me with the same excitement that they did when I was a boy, and I am dedicating a certain portion of my life and skill to trying to insure that these do NOT become necessary. In this case, I succeeded. Did what I had to do, had my shower, closed my bag, weighed it and found it was under the limit and I was off. Stop at the hospital to see our guy who was shot - he is getting out the following day so I had a little chat with the chief accountant so there will be no problems with his leaving. And on to the airport.
Eager? Me? Well, the plane was scheduled to leave at 5 in the afternoon, check-in opened at one, and the woman at Aeroflot had told Maria that if she arrived early she would try to get us into Business Class seats. I arrived at the airport at 12:20. Waited and waited and waited. At 1:45 I got in the queue (American translation - line) so I would at least be registered. I got registered, and got my seat in Business Class and the woman assured me she would save seats for Maria and the boys. They came around 3 - about five minutes after I walked away from the desk. No problem, the plane was delayed because of weather, sent off to Cotonou, so the departure ended up being 8:30 PM in the pouring rain rather than 5.
Aeroflot. Anyone ever taken Aeroflot? This was my first experience, and usually airlines do not send their best crew or equipment to Lagos. So my judgements may be unfair, based only on a single experience. Nice people. But imagine the smallest airline seat you have ever been in. Imagine it is old, and sinking in the middle. The light is not focused on your seat, the air whispers rather than blows and the English over the PA system is as unintelligible as is the Russian. In fact, I caught a couple of words of the Russian. And this, mind you, was the Business Class. I have three more flights in my immediate future and I did not want to spoil my vacation, so I did NOT even look in the main cabin to see what the seating is like in tourist class. I’ll find out first hand - or first fanny - soon enough.
First Class got choice of drinks - we got choice of wine or fruit juice. Don’t know what happened in steerage. No movie (six hours to Malta and another four to Moscow after a stop in the Island kingdom), no music or headphones. Magazine in Russian, ditto all newspapers. Fortunately one of Maria’s sons was sitting next to me, so I knew that I had a choice between chicken and fish. Didn’t really matter - they served the same meal for breakfast and so I simply had chicken in the evening and fish for breakfast. Everyone who said Yecch when they read that - me too.
At Malta (at 1:30 in the morning, local time) we got a chit for a free container of juice and after 35 minutes of shopping, back on the plane for round two. Reminded me of the forced stops on Nigerian roads, when you take a cross country bus, and the driver stops at a food stand or a bar - owned by his cousin, or who has been paid to bring his customers in. Nice airport - my first time in Malta. I think I need to go back in the daylight.
Daylight and breakfast - which looks suspiciously like dinner - and we’re off the plane, to hear news that the day before a bomb in the Moscow Metro injured over 100 and killed at least 8.Through the airport and through the airport and through the airport - and my only comment about the immigration procedure is that it reminded me of an African country, and that is usually not a complimentary comment. Isn’t in this instance either. Took me one 1 hour and forty minutes of pushing and some harsh words to get up to the desk. Security men wander around and make sure you wait behind the red line - but as to setting up a line, or some sort of control - forget it. Think of the red line as the starting point for a ten yard dash (Sydney, here we come!) And you’ve just about got it.
Of course Maria and her sons, as citizens of Russia, had a different line and sailed through with nary a problem, They had collected the baggage (enough baggage to start a small country, thank you, and all of it not just for Moscow, oh no, all of it going on to Samara. Porters dream of baggage like this because they get to charge by the piece AND the weight of the piece.) and were (thank you God) waiting for me as I came grumbling through. Another friend was there to meet us, as was Mama and so we began the logistical nightmare of moving the bags. Done and to the friends’ house for snacks. And off for sightseeing, pausing only briefly to change my shirt. And perform other necessaries of the toilette which probably do not have a place in a narrative of this kind.
Cars in Russia have left-hand drive, same as the U.S. (Yes, I know you know that, and actually I knew that, but some who are reading might not have known that, and this is the kind detail that makes the experience come alive. So there.) We got a cab - hire car - and down to the Kremlin and Red Square. I know enough Russian to read slowly the words - meanings will come. I amused myself trying to figure out store and road signs as they whizzed by. It’s fun when you struggle with a bizarre combination of Russian letters and hear yourself saying McDonalds, or sport. Bit by painful bit. I’m too old to really learn a new language but every little bit helps. Russia is like America, in that I am finding most people I come across don’t speak English. (Or French or German, for that matter.) And it’s been a while since I couldn’t communicate in some language. In Nigeria, for example, even in the deepest bush villages, someone speaks some English and everyone speaks some Pidgin. Here - oops. As with my cabin attendant, see above. I did learn that today is a national holiday for railway workers, and so when my attendant brought me tea she also brought me water and two boxes of cookies. I just learned they were a gift to everyone who travels today from the railway workers, so we all can help them celebrate. Amtrak, take note.
The Kremlin was closed. Yup, some sort of renovation work going on at the entrance way, and so no one could go in. Unless you wanted to pay the guard a little something, which he indicated was perfectly okay and he would be willing to let us in. (Why do I feel I have not traveled very far after all?) We opted instead for a visit to the museum just outside the Kremlin, just off Red Square. A Boris Gudenoff look alike stands outside and for a fee you can stand next to him and take a picture. The pictures of the Moscow buildings don’t quite do the real thing justice - amazing. The museum was interesting, less for me the early stone age sections and more when they got into the history of the Czars and more recent developments. I paid homage to the portrait of Catherine the Great, a particular favorite of the Society of Jesus, because it was she who kept the Society alive in Russia during the time we were shut down by the Pope. Amazing history, thank you Catherine.
Back home for more food (I had been warned about this with Russian hospitality - an empty mouth is somehow an affront to the whole nation, and keeping the mouths of your guests filled is a sacred obligation. Caviar, vodka, ground veal and onions in a sweet pepper as part of a soup, assorted cold cuts, wonderful brown bread (did I mention the vodka? Deserves another nod.), and cake and wonderful dark and very small and seedless grapes. And off to the train. Now I confess, at this point I am starting to drop off in the taxi - and since taxi drivers all over the world seem to have sprung from a common stock, which is amazing since one of the overriding drives seems to be suicide, sleeping in a moving cab is either a sign of great faith, utter abandon or creeping fatigue - but we assemble at the station (the Ambassador, Maria and I from one direction, Mama and the two boys from the other), find the train and compartments -and as the sun sinks slowly in the west, I sink slowly into my cabin and whatever dreams are going to come in languages I cannot understand. There is a youngster in the cabin next to me, with a radio. Or tape player. And an obvious excess of energy. Don’t Russian parents know about Prozac for children? Fortunately someone else complained about the loud music so I don’t have to be the villain, and hopefully they will tie the child to the bed and gag her. I would volunteer but my phrase book does not have the expression “tie and gag.” A note will go off to the publisher immediately upon my return, that there is a whole section of useful phraseology that they seem to have overlooked. Is your child deaf? I suppose I should warn you that when provoked I tend to stuff children into pillowcases? You and who else? Those sorts of handy conversational bon mots.
Crash time in Russia. Tomorrow we reach Samara (Atlases out, class) and I’m not sure if we board the ship immediately or if that is a Friday adventure. All will be revealed in time, as the stripper said to the clock makers’ convention. And with that, spahkoynigh nochee (I could do it in Cyrillic but I suspect the email transfer would be deadly. Probably turn out to have wished you a night of conjugal bliss with a pig. Sweet dreams.)
Thursday, August 10 - Feast of St Lawrence. Gadget stores like Sharper Image are full of devices to help you sleep by producing the sound of rain, babbling brooks, ocean lapping gently against shore, white noise (whatever THAT is). Why do none of them provide the soothing rattle and gechunk of a train at night. The movement is wonderful too but the sound of the wheels over the tracks is a wonderful put me to sleeper.
Well, it turned out the attendant doesn’t come up and make up the cabin - I do. So I did. Each bunk has two huge pillows, so since I have the place to myself, I used one bunk as a staging area and the other for sleeping. The sleeping surface is firm - a polite way of saying hard - but I like it hard. (No editorial comment from the readers, please.) After all, for many years I slept on the floor. The what we sat on when it was a seat turned out to be a comforter doubled over, so with that and one of the big pillows, it was really very comfortable. Two people in this cabin however had better be really good friends.
Morning rose and so did I - and at 7 they turned off the electricity in the cabins. Cheap bastards. There is certainly light but not quite enough. Ah well. The toilet is the train type I grew up with, where the produce is delivered right onto the tracks, thus not in use when the train is in the station. Fortunately. And for those of you who wondered, toilet paper is provided. The reasons for giving thanks just keep multiplying.
Saying Mass at my little table as the train whizzed through the countryside reminded me of the book Don Camillo goes to Russia. I assume you know the Don Camillo books, about a parish priest in Italy who is in constant friendly warfare with the local communist boss and the various stories of life in the village. Delightful, and fun to see a priest not afraid to use his fists or get involved in a variety of things. In this book, the communists are sponsoring a trip to Russia, and Don Camillo creates a false identity for himself and blackmails the local communist boss into taking him as part of the group. Here I am saying Mass in the middle of Russia. One of those “Pinch me because I don’t quite believe it” moments.
The landscape is interesting but only occasionally distinctive. For much of the time you could as easily be in England or France. But then an Orthodox Church will pop up or some distinctive haystack or building will remind me we are moving ever toward Samara. (And of course, there is the phenomenon I go through every time I travel outside of Africa, that for the first several days I am always surprised that there are so many white folk around.) Certainly the train service is not geared for foreigners. If you don’t speak Russian, good luck. In other places signs of directions are in two languages, usually English, but the train is strictly Russian. Fair enough - it is Russia. Good inspiration to keep studying and learning new words. But one of the joys of train travel for me has always been meeting people, dropping into casual conversations - and that is denied me on this trip.
Russians eat salad for breakfast. Tomato salad, and cold peas with chopped onions and mayonnaise. Eggs are served runny but accompanied by the wonderful brown bread, serve’em raw, fine with me. Because of my strange diet I am not supposed to be indulging in the cup of tea which makes its appearance here at least as frequently as in England and maybe even more so. A sliced apple helps and a carton of cherry juice. Not Chock full o’ Nuts but stokes the old engine. Another time change coming into Samara - and off for a new adventure. Two days on land then onto the ship.
Thanks be to God that Samara is the last stop on the train. I had been told we would arrive in Samara around 1:20, so I had settled in, was doing some odds and ends on the computer - and suddenly Tioma bursts into my room and says, “Come, Father John, we are leaving.” Aha - end of the line and time to get off. Scrambled my things together and off we got. Friends of Maria there to meet us - thank heaven because as I may have mentioned earlier, she is carrying enough luggage to start a small country. Took several strong men several trips to schlepp all the bags to the two cars and some fancy moving and packing to get everything. But in everything got and off we went.
Now let me note for the record that the Ambassador has two strong character traits - he is a worrier and he likes to be in control. And not speaking the language or being in a country largely foreign to him does not slow him one little bit. All the way from the station to the apartment, he worried that the luggage was not on tight enough (on the roof of the car in front of us), that the driver was not being careful enough, that we did not have a program scheduled for the rest of the day. He is big on this notion of program, that he should know in advance what we are going to do and how long it will take. He asked me perfectly seriously if the guidebook said how long it should take to see the Kremlin. I said no. In fact, I have no idea, and would pay no attention to any such number were a guidebook silly enough to print such a thing. I can go to the Metropolitan Museum in New York and spent a day with only three paintings. Who knows how long it may take to “see” the Kremlin?
We arrived (a 4th floor walk up - adventure, this is an adventure) and were shown the apartment. Maria went on to her family’s apartment and we had a chance for a show and a snooze - the Ambassador snoozed, I visited with a friend of Maria’s who was on deck to help with English translations. The Ambassador arose and started worrying about the program, the time schedule on the boat (time schedule on a cruise boat? I don’t think he understands the basic concept, which is leave your watch in your stateroom!) And generally driving people NUTS. We had a very nice lunch - borscht, and finely cut meat and potatoes. As always, caviar and brown bread and vodka. Ambassador went out with Tatiana to buy beer - if what he wants isn’t available he either does something about it or sulks. I went out after lunch with Tioma and Tatiana to get an arts magazine, so the Ambassador could make a program of what there might be to do. Go with the flow is NOT in his vocabulary. Back and I decided to go for a walk by myself. Had them write the address and phone, in case I got seriously lost or in trouble, and set forth. After all, I don’t speak Russian - how much trouble could I get in?
Well, faithful reader, you will undoubtedly be disappointed to learn that I got into no trouble whatever. The street in front of the apartment building has been closed off to traffic and is a permanent shopping area, with small stalls in tents set up along both sides of the street, in the street, with regular shops behind them, separated by the sidewalk. I browsed through the shops, that were in the process of closing, and ended up at the Volga River. Lots of people in swimming, free games areas for the kids, stands with food and drink and music and a gentle party atmosphere pervading. Watched some volleyball, a couple of absolutely stunning young ladies, some dogs frolicking on the beach and gorgeous streaks of lighting flashing through the darkening sky.
Lightning? Darkening say what? Suddenly thought that perhaps it was becoming time to head home. So home I headed and ran into the Ambassador and Tatiana on the way. As we walked up the street, a few raindrops fell, multiplied and became - with the accompaniment of a mighty wind - a fairly impressive storm. We were drenched. Towels, tea with jam (since I am not allowed tea on this strange diet for my voice I had hot water with jam - home made cherry jam. Forget the water.) Later Maria and her mother arrived, had been out shopping for the apartment - and the Ambassador fairly quickly launched into worrying about tonight’s schedule and tomorrow’s schedule. He gets very antsy sitting still and not seeing sights. Again, the rain having stopped, seemed like time for a walk. But before I could get out by myself, there was a group. About two blocks later - with the Ambassador spending the whole time pushing and pushing about arranging everything for tomorrow - slightly ungracious, seemed to me and really tiring - I split and went wandering by my lonesome.
One thing I can do well is be invisible. A little study of traffic patterns, how people walk, and even without speaking the language, if my clothes are not a give away, I can blend into the rhythm of that street and unless I am a white man in Africa, I tend to disappear. (I can do pretty well with this for a white man in Africa but invisible I will never be. At least not without some serious make-up and a shave.) Which is pretty much what I did for the next couple of hours. Started to rain again, so I meandered home - trying never to come back the way I left - and wrote, said evening prayers and for me, a fairly early fall into the bed.
What have I learned? Well, traveling with a guy who wants to run things and a woman in the same party who also wants to run things can get really tiring. Russians eat more and more frequently than I do and prices are generally cheaper. The hospitality and generosity of the individual Russians I have met rather takes my breath away. In Samara the streets are clean, public transport runs well and often, and people have great pride in their “new” Russia and what Russia has done in the past. But they will also tell you that things are not good. On the day we arrived, bomb blast in the subway. (Probably associated with Chechnya.) I was talking to a school teacher today who gets $30 a month. She can live - but when I asked her where she was on the income level, she said poor. But, she said, there is only poor and rich, nothing in between.
Friday, August 11 - Nothing like a hard mattress for a good night’s sleep. Deep and restful and wonderful. I could have slept longer but the day calls - and let me tell you, some hot water with home made cherry jam juice stirred in, fresh cheese, home made bread (brown and white) good butter and lots of caviar - now this is my idea of breakfast. Schedule for the day - Maria is off to practice piano and Tatiana, Maria’s friend, is going to guide us around, us being me and Giovanni (the Ambassador). Beautiful day - first stop, the Roman Catholic cathedral for Mass.
Let me remark on something I had already noticed, but I wanted to extend my observational base before noting it - Russian women have not abandoned the mini-skirt, and there are some - a pleasing number, may I say - who wear it quite well. There is a style of dressing here that some would call provocative. But I don’t get the sense that that is what’s behind it. It is a freer expression of sensuality - sexuality - celebration, if you will, of being young and free and able to wear stuff like this - and it would be mis-read in the U.S. but here it is delightful. (Unless, of course >>I<< class="Section2">
Next stop, the Art Museum. Yes, this is a tourist day, going to “see the sights.” On the way, though, we passed an enchanting building and decided to stop in, just to see the building. It houses the Children’s Art Museum - a school and display space for the work of children. Now this is a concept I did not think I wanted to get near but Tatiana said it was good, even if just to see the house, so in we trundled.
Enchanting. The house used to belong to a German, and was beautifully kept, and so is in immaculate condition. He was an architect, and enjoyed doing unusual things, so the rooms are different and interesting and the house itself provides its own fascination. But even more entrancing than the house turned out to be the art work.
Children’s art. Oxymoron list item #45. Or so I would have thought. Their exhibits change on a regular basis, and the one we saw was done by a group of children from a religious school, so the drawings were heavily religious. But very creative, several I would have bought had they been for sale, and several others would make wonderful greeting cards. Ikon imitations, Bible scenes, some general religious images (angels, Resurrections scenes, etc) and a couple of village life that were very professional. (Done by a 12-year old) Ages of the children went from 7 to 14, but the general skill/talent level was far beyond that. (This from a man who can’t draw a straight line with $300 worth of equipment.) One boy did a St George and the Dragon that was evocative of Chagall. Another girl copied a very traditional icon of three angels in the corner and the main painting was her mother and grandmother and some other woman in the same pose. Very clever. All in all, a pleasant surprise.
Now for the “real” art museum. Housed in what had been a large house, you wander through a number of rooms. The main lecture area is featuring cartoons and some paintings done during the war, so the themes are anti-Hitler and pro-Russia. Kind of gets in the way of the “art.” But one room is devoted to ancient icons, several rooms of Russian painters, a couple of rooms with European painters, an Asian collection, and in the basement, some young people had an exhibit of their photography, which was uniformly technically first-rate and occasionally very creative and entertaining, once even provocative. More wit than soul, but a nice way to round off the first leg.
The art museum, like several other similar places, has retained the institution of the old Russian woman whose job it is to sit in the room and watch you watch the paintings. If they like you, they might turn on the lights. Or not. Seemed to be strictly a personal call. Of course, some of the paintings looked better with the lights off.
And back to Maria’s for food. (Remember, each time I casually throw in that we have gone back to Maria’s, this involves a four flight climb. And if you did not notice any mention of car, tram or bus in the morning’s activities, it is not because I have become a careless narrator, it’s because walked every step of the way. )By now it’s around 2 and the gathering grows. Along with the size of my feet. Maria’s two boys come with Maria’s father, who has been sick and is - well, if not feeble, certainly shaky. More caviar, borsch (no t at the end in Russian) and some minced meat in dough...can’t think of the name right now. At the end of the meal I had to go and register with the police. No, I hadn’t done anything - you’ve been reading along, when would I have had the time to DO anything. No, this is still Russia and foreign visitors must register with the police. So I did, Tatiana translating merrily along. The young man was obviously bored with his job, a Christian (several large posters of the Sacred Heart of Jesus decorated the walls of the immigration sector at the police station) and fascinated with the idea that I was working in Nigeria, so the simple job of registering took a while. Filling out forms - ten minutes. Answering questions about Nigeria - thirty minutes. There is now a file on me in Russia. Gives you pause.
Back to Maria’s to change my shirt, and off to meet the Lutheran pastor. I don’t know why, everybody seemed to think that as a religious, I would want to meet every other religious in the city and by heaven, either before or after the boat trip, I’m scheduled to do it, including the bishop and the jews at the local synagogue. Stand by for further updates.
He’s a young man, German, and came to Samara because his wife had studied Russian and wanted to spend some time perfecting the language so she could teach it in school. She had majored in Russian and theology and wanted more. He found an ad, Samara was looking for a pastor and Stuttgart, his home town and Samara are sister cities, at least in the Lutheran Church. So he answered the ad - he was the only one who applied, so they took him. He had to learn Russian, so did a four-week intensive course, and has been improving ever since. He’s been here for four years and is going back in January.
The church building is simple but very nice, and the acoustics are wonderful. I mention that because he was under the impression I was ready to give a concert and he was excited and ready to give me all the help I needed. (Concert in the church, in case that connection is a little fuzzy.) I explained about my current vocal malaise, but he assured me that any time I wanted to come back, the church was mine, and he would be sure and tell his replacement about me. The new guy is himself a musician, a choral singer, not a soloist and wants to continue the tradition of concerts in the church. Consider that an invitation.
We had a great visit - in English. Since he’s German, naturally he speaks English, and since the Ambassador does not speak German, we kept it in the common language. Another friend of Maria’s, Yuri, had arrived with his car to take us to the church. Yuri had rebuilt the piano in the church (the GRAND piano in the church) and had gotten to know the pastor that way. Yuri turned out to be something of a magician. As we left the Lutheran Church he asked if we wanted to see the Philharmonic Hall. I had seen the building, but it turns out he meant inside. It is now almost 7PM and during the day the building was closed and locked - but this is no problem to Yuri, who waltzes up to the two policeman guarding the door, chats away for a minute and waves us all in. They are working on the stage - they are in the process of installing a 2 million mark organ from Hamburg - but he opened the protective curtain and I sang from the stage of the Philharmonic. The impression I have had from a couple of people is that all I have to do is ask and a formal concert will be forthcoming.
From there, to an old Russian orthodox church, lots of paintings and incense and bowing and the ones praying are young and old. One young girl, perhaps sixteen, was visiting several icons, and apparently doing some serious praying. At one point she was in front of the main altar and her boyfriend came up and starting rubbing her shoulders, gently and in a sort of encouraging way. At which point an older woman arrived, and interrupted this tender moment, obviously scolding young man for behavior inappropriate in a church. They were very polite and listened most apologetically. As we were leaving they were just ahead of us and were engaging in some serious hugging outside the church property.
Yuri spent a lot of time talking to an old man inside the church - unfortunately Yuri speaks very little English and the old man none, so I didn’t hang around. He was right out of the old Russian paintings, though, heavy white beard, lined face, just waiting for the road company of Cherry Orchard to start casting.
From there to the Opera House, built on the site of the largest cathedral in Samara, which was torn down as part of Stalin’s plan to re-build Russia from the ground up, preferably on the sites of anything religious. Again it was closed - again we got in. They even opened the theatre and turned on the lights, so Father John could sing from the stage. Turns out the director (himself a tenor) is a friend of Yuri’s, and I was asked three times if I would like to take part in a production. Three times I answered yes. I can hardly wait to see my superior’s face when I ask him for several months off to go and sing opera in Russia.
Yuri is one of those guys who knows everyone. He is, among other things, a piano technician. Tuner, but also builds and re-builds. That gets him into some interesting places. I had said, jokingly, that since he had gotten us into the Philharmonic, which was closed, and into the opera theatre which was closed, what could he do with the bank? He said that several years ago he had been tuning a piano in a bank, and at the end of the day, they had closed up and locked up and forgotten about the piano tuner upstairs. He finished and came down, and found himself locked in. Tried the doors, and could not get out. However, apparently in trying to get out he had set off an alarm, so the next thing he knew, there were armed soldiers, pointing their guns at him, and shouting for him to lie down. Which he did. They handcuffed him, and when they found his bag of tools, they were certain that they had nailed a major bank robber in the act. Of course, when they called the bank manager, he explained, and was duly embarrassed and Yuri was set free. But he said no, he did not think he could do anything about getting in to a bank. At least when it is closed.
Remember the long nights? Daylight until after 9, so off we went for more sightseeing in Samara, including stops at gorgeous public areas along the Volga, one way outside of town and up on top of a hill. Used to be a military installation and has only been open to the public about three years. Visited several spots where the rich and powerful have their dachas (summer cottages - if you can call something with 23 rooms a cottage) and another development where some of the Russian mafia are spending their money in construction of large homes.
So it was after ten by the time we got back to Maria’s. Note on driving in Samara - apparently the lines in the road are something put down by a previous government, and in the new feeling of freedom, these are considered relics from the past. Lane is a somewhat ambiguous concept, and so we found people passing on the right and on the left, and we did too. There was one traffic light with three lights side by side - the two outer ones were green and the middle one was red. They seemed to mean as little as the lane markers, since people went right, left and straight with equal freedom, and when we asked, neither our translator nor our driver could explain what the lights meant.
So everyone else went out to eat and I sat down to catch up on some unsaid prayers and jot these notes. With this strange diet I am not supposed to eat within 3 hours of going to bed - and if you think I am going to stay up until 1 in the am just for the privilege of some food, think again. I’m about to get on a ship that feeds us four times a day - I can afford to skip a meal. So off to bed, to dream about food. And young Russians in mini-skirts. And bunkers full of Germans looking at pictures of Russians getting ready to go out and kill Germans.
Saturday, August 12 - I got up around 7, showered (cold - they have a hot water heater that is very efficient when it’s on - it is gas, so you have to manipulate three different switches and light this flame, adjust it - and the flow of hot water is virtually endless. A pass-through heater. However, getting the gas lit is easier said than accomplished, and I ended up with a very short and brisk shower, a preferable alternative to blowing up the whole building.) And had some hot water with jam, and cheese. Prayed, said Mass, and studied Russian for about 90 minutes. Still no signs of life, so I packed. As I was finishing, some sleepy and tousled folks staggered in, so it was almost noon before anything approaching action occurred. And not much of that.
We went to do some shopping, and a visit to a book store, where I bought a dictionary and a book of proverbs, Optimist ever that I am, I have this thought that on the boat I will sit and translate and improve my virtually non-existent Russian. We’ll see. Home for dinner, and waiting around for the car to come and take us to the boat. (When I started translating, I discovered I had bought a book of Asian proverbs. Still good practice but not quite the entree into the Russian soul that I had envisioned.)
There are two schools of thought regarding travel. One is - get there early and anticipate delays and disasters. The other is - why waste time waiting around, get there just prior to departure. Each viewpoint argues that theirs is the most efficient. The two people with whom I travel each belong to one of the two schools, and the bulk of the late afternoon was conflict resulting from the clash of these differing philosophies. Each won - each got to the boat according to their separate desires, and everyone made the boat. Turns out the director of activities is an old friend of Maria’s and the ever present Yuri had already been down to tune the piano on the boat for Maria, so she will be able to practice and perhaps even perform.
I write this on the Volga. We pulled out at seven - but the boat runs on Moscow time, so all the events are one hour different from the local time. Confusing? Yup, and worse in Russian. Dinner was a little hurried but nice - we are on the first seating of two, which means that relaxed dawdling over the meal is not encouraged. Not the sumptuous buffet of brochures in the US and Virgin Islands, but good food, and starting tomorrow, regular menu selection. You pick the day’s meals at breakfast each day so it is prepared and waiting for you when you arrive. As the meal ended, people were seen taking with them bread and leftover portions from their meals. “We paid for it, we might as well take it.”
My cabin is slightly smaller than the train compartment, but it does have its own bathroom. I was a little concerned, conducting my initial inspection, to note the lack of towels, soap and toilet paper - not necessarily listed in their order of importance. Trying to be a cool traveler, I mentioned this in passing and was assured they would come. (Just wanted to be sure these weren’t items we were supposed to bring ourselves.) By ten pm, I was no longer cool, and I raised my voice just the teensiest bit. But the t/p appeared. Deo gratias. The one thing the cabin does NOT have is an electrical outlet. I mean, there is a plug for the shaver in the bathroom, but I don’t think I want to trust the computer to that. The bathroom is the style found on board small vessels and trailers - the shower is also the bathroom, so you don’t want to leave the toilet paper or anything electrical in the room when you want to wash.
Two great pictures I did not take, although there may be other chances. As the boat was leaving the pier, everyone was on deck, waving and watching the departure. Standing on deck, looking down the aisle, there was a wide variety of rear ends, sticking out into the walkway, since everyone was, of course leaning on the rail. And the counterpart picture from the top deck, looking down and seeing just the rows of heads sticking out. I suspect the same phenomenon will repeat itself at other stages of the trip.
The Volga is a great wide river and not overly developed, It is truly beautiful, and after dinner to walk around the deck and stand at the bow as the sun set - delightful. The passengers are a mix, although virtually all Russian. I have the only beard on the boat, and the cross I wear around my neck has caused no little gentle staring. The Nigerian shirt probably helps too. People are obviously intrigued. Lots of families and small children, young couples, and larger family groups, three generations. We are in that number, since Maria’s mother and father are with us. Interesting family - the grandfather has recently had an operation and so is a little slow, but in the several hours he has been on the boat he seems to have strengthened visibly. After dinner he was walking around by himself, and has his own cabin. For many years he was a television camera operator at Samara State television. (Be honest - how many of you have ever heard of Samara before this? Me either.) The grandmother comes from a long line of priests going back 200 years. Her grandfather was a bishop, but when a seminarian, had a gorgeous bass voice. Once, Chaliapin was supposed to come and sing with the local opera company but had celebrated too much the night before in some other place and did not come. This was a major event, and major politicians, dignitaries and Church officials were in attendance. Canceling was beyond thought, so they sent for Vladimir, and asked him to please fill in. Now, as a seminarian this was not allowed, and he could have been dismissed if anyone found out. But they assured him he would wear heavy make-up and no one would ever know. He wanted to, and knew the opera, so he went ahead.
The local Bishop was present, and said to one of his priests in attendance that he was surprised how much Chaliapin sounded like their Vladimir. He had heard Chaliapin in Moscow several months previously, and remarked on the different sound. Very good, but different.
Even before the performance was over, Vladimir took off and dashed back to the seminary, jumped into bed, still in full makeup and costume, and pulled up the covers. Good thing, because the Bishop sent that priest to check up on him, but he was able to report to the Bishop that Vlad was safely in bed in the seminary. As I said, he went on to become a Bishop himself.
Tomorrow we have a stop in the morning so people can go swimming in the Volga. Hoping that the sight of yours truly in a bathing suit will not cause trauma in young children, I rather think that swimming in the Volga is something I will add to my list of experiences.
Sunday, August 13 - Twenty years ago I was preparing to enter the Jesuits. My entrance day was August 16, 1980, and the whole family took me to Syracuse, rather like taking your son to summer camp. (Except mine didn’t do that - they put me on a train in New York that took me to Maine where I took a bus to a camp in the middle of nowhere. It was actually great fun and I went back for two more years after that.) We stopped in Schenectady on the way, where my father had grown up and at my request visited some of his boyhood haunts. But I ramble.
The sound of rushing water as the ship pushes its way through the river is not quite as soothing as the clack of train wheels, but pretty good. The bed was hard - but as you know, I like hard bed. Not as wide as one might like, but I did not fall off. Good sleep. Woke up to see the sunrise over the water and then back to bed. Up again a little later and early morning on the river is quiet and peaceful and just wonderful. If this keeps up I just might turn back into a human being before this trip is over. Said a quiet Mass at my little table, with the river easing by and then thought I would try my shower/bathroom combination. Thought it carefully through and not too bad - the floor is slatted so the water runs through, and while the whole place was wet and steamy it dried out fairly quickly. One of the ongoing topics is comparing Russia to Nigeria - Nigeria loses pretty consistently - and I have to say that the water pressure in my cabin shower is about twice what I get back in Lagos.
I dressed and had a vision of reading my morning breviary quietly out on deck as the scenery slipped by, so I whipped open my curtains and found myself facing a stone wall. Hmm, must have docked while I was washing. Well, I can always sit on the other side of the ship. So went up and turned left and found another great stone wall. Seems there are a couple of locks on this river, and we were in one of them. I went out and watched us being raised to the next level and then carefully ease out into the river. The width of the lock is just barely larger than the width of the boat, but the captain (having probably done this 150 times) was perfection and all went smoothly. I remember studying about locks when I was in grade school, and again in physics class, but being inside one in a relatively large ship is a different experience. Others were up watching and I ran into my new best friend, Tioma, Maria’s son, who is a mature and interesting 14-year old who speaks excellent English and who is regularly my translational savior. We wandered about for a while and then it was time for breakfast.
Russian breakfast - slices of ham and cheese, brown and white bread and lots of butter, coffee and juice. Then they brought us large slabs of cottage cheese pie - not exactly cheesecake, rougher texture, but sweet with a cream sauce. And should you still be peckish, a semolina with lots of butter or light oil, I couldn’t quite tell. We are in no danger of starving. We also had menus for the next two meals, so I decided to experiment and am having kidneys for lunch, with a cold borsh first and pig’s tongue for supper. There were other choices but how often on your average menu do you get a good pig’s tongue.
Dress is much more informal than I had thought. I brought a suit and two formal Nigerian outfits and I think they will stay in the cupboard. People here do not spend a lot of time at their meals. Most were finished breakfast and on their way in less than 20 minutes. They cleaned all the plates and took with them what they did not finish, but they don’t dawdle over their meals. By the time I got out on deck, people were sitting and reading and walking. The boat does not provide a lot of activity during the day. There is a bar, and another lounge where people are playing cards. Maria is practicing piano in the music lounge. I read for a while outside, and worked on Russian for about an hour, walked around. Unlike an ocean cruise, though, we have constant scenery on both sides, and many people, yours truly included, spend time just watching the countryside go by. Before breakfast, around 7:30 Moscow time (6:30 local time) the water was dead calm, and there were fishermen both in very small boats and along the shore, doing their Sunday morning thing. Rather like a Currier & Ives print. There are channels occasionally going out of the river, sometimes you can see grasses growing under the water. Always new and interesting and very restful.
The PA system puts forth a constant stream of music and comedy shows and announcements about something - of course it all means nothing to me. There was a session this morning with the cruise director. I hope someone from our group went to see what it was about but I would not be surprised if no one did. They seem singularly uninterested in knowing ahead of time what might be going on. There are two saunas on board, which I may drop in on. Disco in the evening, and movies - last night they showed 6th Sense, dubbed into Russian. I didn’t go. I have to keep reminding myself that it is not necessary to do anything - just relaxing and watching the river is okay.
Swimming in the Volga - wet, chilly, and wonderful. No self-consciousness among my fellow passengers, displaying as diverse a range of body styles and beach garments as you could hope to find in any collection of oddities - small and skinny, large and super large, half naked and (in the case of several small children, completely naked). We docked at a floating pier along a beach, and waiting for us were a number of people selling vegetables, fried fish and fresh fish.
Sidebar - the meals are included in the price of the ticket and are really fairly substantial. However, apparently part of the joy of travel is constant eating, and so everyone - well, practically everyone - arrived on board with sacks of food and drink. And they do eat throughout the day. When we stopped later in the day in Sarata (for only 30 minutes, it was a “technical stop” - I still haven’t discovered what that means) many left the ship to buy soft drinks, beer, and ice cream. So, at the beach, there were sales of fish and vegetables.
The water was green, with small algae in it, which everyone assures me aren’t dangerous. The swimming was great and very relaxing. As soon as we left they announced the first seating for lunch. Turns out the menus we filled out this morning (remember the kidneys and the pig’s tongue?) are for tomorrow’s meals. For lunch we had the ever-present bread, smoked herring, compote (fruit drink with the fruit still in it, slightly sweet) chicken bouillon, but with spaghetti and large chunks of chicken, meat (of some kind - not sure about that one) with gravy, cracked wheat (groats?), gravy and baked prunes. Fresh bananas. And Maria brought a bottle of vodka from the freezer. Once it was determined that Father John liked vodka it has been served at every meal but breakfast, and I rather think if I hinted...
Yet another walk around the deck was then in order. While thus perambulating, there came an announcement that those who wished were welcome on the navigational deck. They called it the Captain’s deck. So up we went, and were treated to a spectacular view and a basic tour of the mechanics of running the ship. I will not bore you with the statistics about how many tons of diesel we burn in a 24 hour period or the like - most of them I have forgotten anyway. But it was a nice informal addition to life on board.
In between times, I have been working on my Russian and doing some reading on the Jesuit Constitutions and the history of the Society, going back and forth. Not light reading, but a good environment in which to read with the atmosphere for reflection. I was thinking this morning that this would not be a bad way to make a retreat. I don’t speak the language, so conversation is not a distraction. Good atmosphere, lots of places to pray, no interruptions. Again, I can imagine the look on some Superior’s face if I propose that. Cost is a bargain - a week on the boat, single private room, all meals included, is around $150. (Yes, that is NOT a typo, one hundred and fifty dollars. Outside the reach of many.)
Later in the afternoon we stopped at Sarata - how many minutes? Everyone who answered 30, put a gold star on your forehead, you have been paying attention. The rest of you - go back four paragraphs and concentrate. Tioma was worried I would not make the boat, but I had seen the towers of an orthodox church and was sure I could make it and back. And did. Took some pictures, and saw an old woman with a baboon. I am not being unkind in describing her child, literally a baboon, in red plastic diapers and a fairly unsubstantial looking chain. Asking money for people to take picture. Now I have seen baboons in action in Africa and I give this animal a wide berth. Nasty disposition and serious teeth and I have seen them do some serious damage to human flesh. Maybe the teeth had been filed or pulled, maybe the critter was drugged, maybe I passed the Doctor Doolittle of Sarata without knowing it - but I still gave the pair lots of room.
Some new passengers on board - Tioma said he heard some of them speaking English. There is a film tonight - no announcement as to what, or if there was, it was in Russian and I missed it - and the usual round of disco and disco. Tomorrow we will spend the morning in Volgograd, sightseeing and shopping, and in the afternoon there is a - wait for it - competition for the best voice on the boat. Now Maria says I should not enter, it would not be fair. (She says that I am better than the lead tenor at the opera house, but she may be indulging in exaggeration. Of course, then again, maybe she’s not.) She says that she will speak to the cruise director, who is an old friend of hers, and I can be the Chairman of the judging panel and then I could sing something at the end of the contest. Whatever happens it should be interesting. I’m not sure that I would include “Best Voice on the Konstantin Korotkov” on my resume. I didn’t ask if there were a cash prize. Maybe I should investigate further.
After supper tonight (salad and roast chicken with LOTS of garlic and rough rice and a very nice sweet cake), I watched the sun go down from the top deck. Weather is getting warmer as we go south, and I am getting more relaxed. Strange feeling, not at all unpleasant. Relaxed. Interesting concept, I will have to observe this and see all of the ramifications. They have (thank you, God) turned off the radio for tonight, although at 10:30 there is a story for the children before they go to sleep. The disco bar is full, no seats, and later the outdoor disco on the sun deck will open up. They are at the stern, I am in the bow, so I can open my window to hear the water rushing under the boat and not be bothered by the music. Dreams. Wherever you are, whenever you are reading this, may your dreams be as lovely as my day has been.
Monday, August 14 - Today is the anniversary of my taking vows as a Jesuit - some of you were there. It is also the birthday of my cousin, Mary Grace Royal - so whenever you read this, if you are looking for an excuse for a drink, you now have two things to toast - her birthday and my vow day. Drink up and think of both of us!
When you are in prison, or in summer camp, or in boarding school, meals take on an undue importance. (I guess I could add a seminary to that list.) For similar, although not identical reasons, meals on a ship have the same weight in the normal course of daily life, and so I bore you with regular repetitions of the menu. Breakfast was again ham slices and cheese and breads, then blinski (light pancakes with a cream sauce) and what we would call oatmeal, with melted butter. And coffee and apple juice. Waddling away from the table, we approach Volgograd. Before breakfast many of us were up to watch the ship go through another lock, this time a double, down one level, then into a new lock and down another level.
Volgograd - used to be called Stalingrad. Before that it had been called Tsaringrad (or something like that - the Tzar’s city - the inhabitants are very happy with the current name). One of the great and more horrible battles of the second world war, and most of our tour was to monuments of that time. A gorgeous day, which helped keep the tour from being depressing. They have left one bombed out building as part of a memorial to the destruction of the city - over 100,000 Russian soldiers and many more civilians killed in 142 days of bombing. I took lots of pictures - if they come out maybe I’ll set up a web page where you can come and look. I missed a lot of the statistics - Tioma is only 14 and while a great help, does not have the range of a regular translator and a lot of things get by him.
The longest stop was at the major memorial to the dead and the battle. A long (long!) series of steps going up a hill. Midway is a double wall (on each side of the steps) with huge carvings of aspects of the war and battle, and music playing underneath. At one point I looked over and there was a young lady in a HOT pink top posing provocatively inside one of the wall carvings. I wasn’t quite fast enough, missed the picture. Further up is a pool and statue in the center - when we were there, there was a young boy in the pool in his underwear fishing out coins tourists had thrown in. Beyond that is the entrance to the memorial to the dead soldiers, perhaps also an unknown soldier? As we arrived, they did the changing of the guard. You enter a large domed room, open at the top, and an eternal flame in burning in the center, guarded by two soldiers. There is a ramp around the wall, and you walk up that and out onto the path that leads up to the statue of Mother Russia. The soldiers, with their high goose step for moments of major ceremonial importance, relieved the guards then marched up the ramp, relieved two on guard at the top and marched off. A very moving moment.
Another climb and you are at the base of the statue - huge. Possible to go inside and climb up to the sword handle but the interior stairs were closed for renovations. Can’t tell you how disappointed I was not to be able to climb another bit, having done nothing, it seemed, but climb for the previous two hours. We enjoyed the view, the guide held forth some more and then the bus came to collect us for more sitting down touring.
By the way - remember an earlier comment of mine in general appreciation of the mini skirt in Russia? After a morning in Volgograd, you may add the same appreciation to hot pants, which likewise are seen in greater profusion that I remember seeing in other places. Now, fashion hound that I am not, it may be that this is one of those nostalgic comebacks that has simply escaped my attention, but it added to which might otherwise have been a fairly somber morning.
The bad news was that they had not received kidneys and so had substituted a lean beef strip with garlic and fried potatoes. Yummy. And cold borsch and salad and fresh pears and compote. Once again my fellow travelers (you should pardon the expression) bought out the local fruit stalls and bottled water concessions, carrying great sacks of produce onto the ship. I guess these folks spend all their time in between meals just eating in their rooms.
Maria has been sick all day. Apparently spent much of last night throwing up, so they brought the doctor this morning who gave her an injection. When we returned she was worse, so the doctor was contacted again. A couple of minutes ago, I was sitting in my cabin and there was knock on the door and a very large woman in a white coat entered, (rather like a Benny Hill casting of what a Russian doctor might look like), bearing what seemed to me to be a VERY large needle. In my best Russian I pointed out that she was looking for the room next door. Wonderful how a rush of fear can improve your linguistic skills.
After a restful afternoon I wandered up to the music room for the vocal competition. My worst fears were realized. Karaoke without the screen. In a small room, enough amplification equipment to launch a political campaign and a sheet with all the available songs. Of course they were all in Russian, and in the course of a fairly painful afternoon, I did not hear one song I recognized. This may be a reflection on the ability of the contestants, but I would think I would gain some glimmer from the accompaniment. Not today.
Actually only three people got up to sing, and in a perfect world, they would each be given the choice of never EVER singing again in public, or being taken out to be shot. I would vote for the latter, just to insure that their genes would not be passed on to offspring. I have nothing against people who can’t sing, can’t carry a tune, can’t even hear a tune. Some of my best friends fall into that category. But they all also have the good taste, wisdom and discretion not (I repeat NOT) to get up and sing in public, especially with the aid of a microphone and an amp turned up way too high and a whole lot of cheap electronic accompaniment. One young girl can perhaps be excused for not knowing any better, or perhaps for having parents who do not know any better and who encourage her in this foolishness. But the other two - both old enough to know better and NOT old enough not to care, and at 4 in the afternoon, neither had the excuse of being drunk. One older woman started out, and she is a type everyone knows. Once she had the mike, I thought she would never leave. Loud, can’t find or keep pitch, and is sure she is the answer to - whoever. The other would win my vote for best voice. She didn’t actually HAVE the best voice - none of them had the best voice - but she had a cute smile and far and away the best legs. In the case where there is not enough voice among the three of them to build even one voice, you have to vote on something, and I am voting on legs. And cute smile. (She also has a large boyfriend or husband so we all applauded.) I did not get up and enter into this particular fray. The ugly American has enough examples around the world, I was not going to spend the remainder of the cruise being actively disliked by the friends and family of people who did not win this particular competition.
I also discovered - no prize, but another competition later this week, and the grand finale contest as part of the disco bar on the last night on the river. Even WITH a prize, I think that would take care of any flickering interest I might have had. Next time I am going to go to the children story-telling session and see if I can understand any of the words.
Things I have not mentioned. Cigarettes - lots of them, with people attached. Even on the plane, there was a smoking section. Yup, a smoking section on an international flight. Been a while since I’ve seen that. But many here are still puffing away and I don’t recall seeing any warning signs on the cigarette ads I have seen. I’ll try to remember to look more closely at the next billboard I see.
Supper - the pig’s tongue arrived, as promised and it was wonderful, best meal of this leg of the trip so far. And a sweet roll filled with apricot for dessert. Quite all right. Instead of an after dinner drink, I have been having some quiet time on deck, watching the sun set. Just as intoxicating, helps me sleep just as much and not a calory in the whole thing. Besides the scenery and the water, it is fun to watch other people watching the sunset, those who do not partake of the various evening activities. There is a movie every night, and tonight on the sun deck they are having “Games for Adults Only.” You tell me. Might mean more room at the disco bar.
Maria (we learned just before supper) has been throwing up blood throughout the day, so a quick trip to the doctor and Maria will not be touring Astrakan tomorrow, but will instead get to see the inside of the Astrakan Hospital. Good. If it’s not serious, she (and the rest of us) will have peace of mind. And if it is serious, Astrakan is a big city, and she should be able to get some good medical attention. Everyone is very relieved. The hospital was suggested, as an outpatient, just to have some tests done, and she absolutely said no. But after a quiet word with the doctor, the doctor did not put it in the form of a question. The sub-text apparently was that if Maria ignored the doctor’s advice, the doctor would go to the captain and have her put off the boat and then she could do whatever she wanted. Brava, doctor.
I’ve been working on translating Russian proverbs in addition to my basic grammar and exercises, and in my first proverb, I have found a word not in my dictionary and a word with a letter I have never seen before, nor apparently has my Russian grammar. I have tried to guess what misprint it might be but no luck so far. It does not bode well for the remaining 130 pages of proverbs and wise sayings.
Time to do some non-Russian reading, a little praying in advance of the feast and to sleep, perchance to dream - of pig’s tongue, perhaps, but not the singing trio. Smile.
Tuesday, August 15 - Feast of the Assumption. Seems as though we have been on this boat much longer. I’m really happy. And rested, and able to simply sit and enjoy without feeling I have to do something. I brought with me things to do - one does not abandon compulsive behavior overnight - and I may actually get to some of them before the trip is over. Or not. What, me worry?
Up early to go out on deck and say the morning office in the sun, and while up there, a father and son came along to fly a kite off the back of the boat. Wonderful. They were not successful, mind you, but they had great fun trying. Mama and I were the only ones to show up for breakfast. Now normally this would simply mean more food for the rest of us - but at breakfast they present menu selection sheets for two upcoming days (16th and 17th) and Mama speaks no English. And I did not bring my handy dandy Berlitz book with me. So Mama picked what she wanted, and I read through to see if there were anything I even remotely recognized. As a friend of my mother’s used to say - sometimes in life, there is nothing for it but to pray and live dangerously. I can hardly wait to see what I ordered. Then I simply split the choices and ordered something for everyone, so that they can fight over what comes. If they don’t show up, ah well, there they are.
They have a new tape on the loudspeaker this morning - a tenor, not great but not bad, singing some things I know and some I don’t, all in Russian of course. At which point I realize that if I do come and sing with the Samara Opera, even if it is an opera I know, I will have to re-learn it in Russian. What fun! I love challenges.
Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Astrakan. Like where? At the foot of the Volga, right before the Caspian Sea. Just south of the city, which is itself built on 11 islands, and there is a lot of space between the right bank and the left bank of the city, the river breaks into many small rivulets, creating the Volga Delta. We went on a walking tour of the city in the morning, and like most walking tours in Russia, the focus is on war memorials, Lenin’s Park (every city of any size has a Lenin’s Park - some larger, some smaller, but omnipresent), and the Kremlin. Again, many Russian cities have a Kremlin, not just Moscow. Seems to come from the founding center of the city, usually a fort. Certainly the case here, and built when the Volga was much more in the city - about a 20-minute walk further inland than it flows now, so the walls on three sides were on the river. Made it hard to attack, which was, of course, the idea. If I understand our guide, the name itself comes from a combination of Russian words meaning the place where the Turks were turned back, (I actually think it is the swamp where the Turks were turned back but I would not bet my soul on that one.)
The Kremlin encloses about a hectare of land, and includes a fascinating church, built some time in the 18th century by a slave with no training or education. We are talking a two story, highly decorated, fairly sophisticated structure, with some wonderful icons. Now this may just be a pious legend but it does cause one to spend more time looking at the church than otherwise.
Back to the boat in time to catch the bus for the second part of the tour, which was a ride around the city (Astrakan is around a half million, so this is not a major event), and a stop at a fish market. Say what? Apparently, for the cognoscenti of fish markets and fish, stopping to buy fish at Astrakan is a must. So everyone piled off and loaded up on fish. Except me. I went through the fish market and having been appropriately tipped off, went to visit a church right behind the market. Very nice. And quiet. And no smell of fish.
I had gotten separated from my translator when we dashed for the bus, but a lady asked me (in Russian) if I spoke Russian, and when I answered negatively, she volunteered her son, who does speak some English, and he became my new new best friend. Admittedly, some of the time he did not know the English for what was being said, but a fair amount of what he did know was of minimal interest (Did you know the Astrakan train station was build like an Indian train station? I have no idea what that means, but the guide told us three different times, so somebody must think it is important. Something to do with Astrakan being the bridge between the east and the west.)
After the fish market, we went on to see the Lotus, which was the star attraction of this particular excursion. Lotus. The flower. The guide this morning had gone on at some length about the lotus and this one expounded even further. Now I knew that the lotus was a hardy little seed, able to sleep through the winters and that one found in Egypt, over 2,000 years old, was able to bring forth a plant and a flower. Go, Lotus! But why all the fuss? This was NOT a question answered by this trip. We got to a shack near the trolley tracks and across from a fascinating cemetery, and went into a garden area, along a path lined with chicken wire (to keep us away from the pear trees and grape arbor, I suspect) At the end of the path is a pond, and everyone filed down to what looked to my untrained eye like a section of swamp land. True there were lotus plants and some had flowered. Some had flowered a while ago, and all that were left were the seed pods, but there were also some flowers. Okay.
But everyone neatly lined up to have their individual pictures taken standing in front of these green plants. Some tried to arrange the picture so there was actually a lotus flower in it, but most were just standing in front of green plants. I watched for a while and never did quite figure out what all the fuss was. When Yvgeny came back, he admitted he didn’t understand it himself. So there you are. On the way back they pointed out the location of a circus, which performs from April through October. Imagine - missing the circus so we can visit swamp flowers! Some people have very strange priorities.
Back to the boat - well, actually, back to the dock and a 20-minute wait for the boat, which had gone off to re-fuel. (During which time I followed the example of my Russian boatmates and bought a watermelon. True I only bought one, and I did not buy tomatoes or melons or three-gallon jugs of water - but at least I felt part of the group, carrying something back on board.) Another of the advantages of this river business is that they don’t have to carry a full load of anything. At each stop, they unload garbage, flush their sewage tanks, take on food and newspapers and at two of the stops, take on fuel. Which means that large areas of the ship do not have to be given over to storage.
As we were leaving this morning, I was told that Maria had changed her mind about going to the hospital, that she was feeling much better. Now I respect the God-given right of other people to make stupid choices in their lives and if someone decides that severe abdominal pain and vomiting blood does not indicate a trip to the hospital, who am I to interfere? When we returned to the boat, she was feeling still better and attributed her problem to an attack of malaria. Now it is true that a change of climate can often bring on an attack, and it is true that malaria produces different effects in different people. However, this is the first time that I have known these particular symptoms to indicate malaria. We’ll see. But everyone is glad she is feeling better.
But while we were away she had bought her own watermelon (and eaten half of it) and a kilo of caviar for me. I had said I would buy two kilos but before I could get any further information, our Italian friend intervened with the ultimate dissertation on the buying and keeping of caviar. (He had already gone a couple of rounds with the translator on the subject of the slave who built the church.) I did not have the will or the energy to get involved in trying to tell a Russian about caviar so I went to lunch. After lunch I went back into the town (by myself) to get a stone for a friend of mine who collects stones from places, and I wanted to do some walking. Without people talking at me, or arguing. Nice. After about 90 minutes I headed back to the pier (since the boat would shortly be leaving), and about a hundred yards out into the river was a large barge, with a full sound stage set up, VERY large amplifiers and music playing. Part of a promotional concert tour of the river towns on the Volga sponsored by a cigarette company. Some very good music, actually, although just recordings. The real concert will happen in the evening, after we depart. I found myself a shady spot under a tree and listened. And watched.
As I was doing my invisible observer thing, a young lady in a black shift came along the path and went down one of the stone stairways leading to the river. She sat by herself for a little, then stood up. Raised her dress to her waist (she had my full and complete attention!) and adjusted her bikini bottom. Then she pulled the dress over her head, and in her bra and panties, slipped into the Volga for a little swim. Stayed in the water about five minutes, came out (and people say there are no such things as water nymphs!) and slipped the black shift back over her head, pulled it down, shook her short cut hair for a minute, grabbed her shoes and back to the path and on to wherever she was going. A moment like that can keep me smiling for two or three days.
But before I could wipe the smile off my face, I looked up to see a young man, perhaps 16, no shirt, smoking a cigarette, holding a bottle of beer and visibly staggering down the path. Made it to the railing and held on for a little. Had a couple of belts from the bottle, lit another cigarette and staggered off. Two different visions of Russian youth.
Time to re-board the boat, mark my stone and get ready for the departure. When will I see Astrakan again? Ever? I better go up on deck and wave just in case.
Because lunch had been so late, dinner was moved back an hour, so by the time dinner was over (fresh white fish from the Volga - see, the stop at Astrakan had some good dimensions - and oranges), a little deck time to watch the setting sun and chat, some reading, evening prayers - and there it was, bed time. We have had a full moon for most of the cruise, and last night it was a deep yellow, very bright but rich. Unfortunately, now that we are heading north again, the moon is on the other side of the boat, and I no longer can peek out through my curtains. I wonder if it will change my dreams.
Wednesday, 16 August - Feast of St Stephen of Hungary. Early breakfast today because we are having a “green stop” festival on the water. ( I looked it up - that’s what the notice says.) Around 8:30 we had an unannounced stop for an hour at a vegetable market and once again, people descended with huge bags. One man came back on board carrying three large watermelons. The one I bought yesterday was 9 kilos (around 20 pounds) and these looked bigger. Bags of apples as large as I am - I want to take pictures as people leave the boat, it should look like an exodus from somewhere or other.
Wonderful faces at the market. Lots of fish, and some caviar, although those in the now thought it a little expensive. When I go ashore I always wear my cross and one woman approached me and wanted to sell me an ikon, not a tourist ikon but a real old one. Maria said no, that if someone sells their family icon she is not a good person and we should not get involved. Among the things we bought were large orange fruits that look like oversize butternut squash but turn out to be rather like honeydew melons. I also saw cantaloupe and bought several, since it is one we don’t get in Nigeria either. Turns out many Russians don’t know this fruit - a number asked what it was and asked for a taste. Tioma has never eaten it, for instance. The sellers were largely - I don’t know, Mongolian? Eskimo looking, very oriental eyes and very dark skin. The faces some of the old women were gorgeous, and I am sorry I don’t have the kind of courage to simply walk up and snap away. Got some discreet shots but it cried out for National Geographic. As I was re-boarding the boat, a small boat came up, an class=Section3>
older man with baskets of fruit to be sold. And someone pointed out that tied to his stern was a brightly colored toy tugboat. That I did get a picture of.
About an hour after we left we tied up for the day, swimming and relaxing. A floating dock in the river. And it took almost two hours to get tied to the dock. And the dock re-tied to the shore. Much moving and throwing of lines and young men running around - a very complicate procedure. Muscle power at its best, and a large audience watching every move. During the process a woman started talking with Tioma and asked if she could speak with him. Turns out she is a teacher of English to small children, but has had very little practice speaking English. Many I could announced a practice class for anyone who wants to practice. Turns out her eldest son (around 14) is ranked 5th in all of Russia playing chess. (I discovered this AFTER I had said I did play and would be pleased to play with him. Ah well - humiliation is good for the soul. Years ago I did beat an Austrian Grand Master but I think it was because my play was SO unconventional that he got confused.)
One of the stereotypes of “old Russia” was that everything in the world had been invented by, perfected by or done first by a Russian. There is still some of that, and I usually keep my mouth shut. A good sign of national pride, maintained through some difficult times. I did object when I was told that television had been invented by a Russian in 1939. But it has been interesting as the young Russian stresses everything good comes out of Russia to have it constantly countered by the Italian Ambassador who manages to try and relate the derivation of words to Latin (and thus Italian) and to find Italian connections wherever possible. Some of his connections are no less far-fetched than the Russian orientation. Italian-inspired architecture, Italian inspired cooking, Italian designed cars and of course, Italian fashions.
It was a very lazy day, no call to do much of anything. I worked on some financial stuff from Nigeria, my daily dose of Russian, some reading - nothing of note. We left around six, and while the process of leaving was simpler than tying up, it was still an interesting process to watch. On the way to supper, as I was walking down the narrow hallway, a woman opened her room door and the smell of fish nearly knocked me over. If you buy it, you’ve got to live with it. Better them than me.
After supper, I was informed that the cruise director had been talking to Maria and “we” were going to give a short concert for the cruise folk. Tomorrow night. Now I have not done any singing for several months, have had a closed down throat and did not even bring my book of lyrics, much less any music. BUT - seems I am going to give part of a concert. Ah well - one day in worry mode won’t kill me. Maria thinks she can remember the accompaniment to O Sole Mio and Mattinata and if I do one or two things a capella, that will suffice. At least I’ll get to wear one of my fascinating Nigerian outfits. Costume is everything.
Today is the Pope’s birthday. I hope he had a lovely day. I certainly did, and it’s not even my birthday. It is the 20th anniversary of when I entered the Jesuits. How time flies... whether you’re having fun or not, actually.
Thursday, 17 August - Nobody’s feast day that I know of. Gentle morning on deck, early breakfast again, because we will have a morning stop at Volgograd. The excursion is to the planetarium - I am going to do some shopping and wandering. Morning menu report - the usual ham and cheese and bread and butter, and instead of coffee, this morning we had hot chocolate. Then two hot dogs and sweet sauerkraut, with tomatoes. (There are tomatoes served at every meal. They are, of course, on my list of things I am not supposed to have, but the couple of times I have weakened, I have found them really delicious.) There was yogurt on the table, and after the hot dogs came the hot cereal, this morning sweet rice with butter. I can FEEL the cholesterol in my system. But if I’m going to sing tonight I will eat lightly at lunch and skip supper. The grandmother and grandfather and I were the only ones who made the meal. The children have a thing about sleeping late and somehow the others never bother to read the schedule. The problem is there is another seating after ours so when they come late and stay late in tends to make the life of the waitress more difficult.
One of the odd tidbits I have picked up is how much work has been done on the Volga. When they were building power stations along the river, and there are at least five currently working, they did a lot of dredging and widening of the river. Once I knew that, then I recognized places where the bank had been cut and artificially set in. I get asked the strangest questions - like, how many power generating stations are there along the Mississippi? I have no idea. How tall is the Statue of Liberty? Taller than the statue of Mother Russia, but beyond that?
Other odd bits - toilet paper. (Well, what’s the point of travel if you don’t pick up interesting ways in which countries are different?) There is no hole in the center - no core, just solid paper all the way through. Brown, untreated paper, fairly sturdy, but tightly wrapped and solid. Good value. None of this loosely wrapped, full of air and more core than paper stuff we get in Nigeria.)
Ah well, time to go back into Volgograd and buy some presents. Anyone want anything from Russia? No? Well, you had your chance.
....well, didn’t >>I<<>>I<< certainly remember him and when possible, try to keep the day. Today, though, was not really a day of celebration.
Giovanni called to say that a program had been arranged (which made him a happy wanderer) and that the son of a friend of Nikolai’s who speaks Italian would be joining us and we would be going out to some monastery and other sights outside the Moscow walls. Then he called back to say the plan had changed and we would meet at a metro stop. Fair enough. Weather was terrible - cold and heavy rain today. So I added a sweater to the touring ensemble but full of faith took my camera with me, just in case the sun should make an appearance. Found the subway, found the people, and the young man had brought his mother with him. Now we are four.
Leaving the subway it took several questions but we found the monastery. The grounds were not an option since it was pouring, and the cathedral was closed. And there was a museum with an exhibit of monastic life of French nuns in the 15th century. At that point, I would vote to go back to bed. But the mother of the young man is nothing is not determined so we go over to the cathedral, and discover that it is only closed to the general public, tour groups are going in at a merry rate. Why, she asks, can we not go in with a tour group? Oh no, not possible. Oh? She disappears and comes back with the administrator of the whole place who lets us in. A force with which to be reckoned.
When we left the cathedral (don’t forget the cold weather and the pouring rain and my shoes are soaked and I am less than thrilled about the program), we find that the “guides” don’t really have a program, so Giovanni suggests the modern wing of the Russian museum we saw yesterday. (After he left me he went to the Pushkin and spent several hours with an exhibition of Flemish painters. Better man than I.) I said bless him, I would peel off and visit the Cathedral of the Savior, largest church in Moscow, just rebuilt. It had been blown up to make room for a Soviet center that was never built - for any years the site was a swimming pool. It has been re-done and is supposed to be magnificent. He said he would like to see that, so off we went.
Pouring rain. And cold. I keep repeating this because it was a major element (you should pardon the pun) in the day. We got to the cathedral and sonofagun, there was a large ceremony for some young troops taking place and the cathedral (wait for it) was closed. Mama went to the personnel entrance to see if she could talk us in the back door, but the magic wasn’t working. So Giovanni and the two guides went on to explore more museums at the Kremlin and I sat and reconnoitered. Decided I might as well work on some of the things I wanted to see so I went on to the Kremlin to see some of the churches and Lenin’s tomb. And I spent some thoroughly idle time in GYM (GUM - what used to be the state department store right at Red Square). Lenin’s Mausoleum was closed. (Why would you CLOSE a mausoleum? Ah well.) Visited both the churches and saw several couples who had just been married. Apparently a visit to Red Square is a tradition? Had an ice cream - even in the pouring rain and cold, the locals continue to chomp down the frosty. And decided that if I were ever going to get to St Barbara’s Church, I had better take a chance on the weather. (The rain had stopped.) I have a very dear friend named Barbara - I had already gotten an icon of St Barbara but this church is very well known and I thought it would be fun to get a picture and light a candle for her and her family.
So off I went and with only one slight misadventure - seems there are two Metro stations with the same name - seems a curious lack of creative planning there - found the church. Which - wait for it - was closed for renovations. Everything is closed. Went down the street to a monastery attached to a gorgeous (so am was told) 5-cupola cathedral known for its outstanding acoustics. Closed - only open for Mass on Saturday evening. Seems time to go home. Checked email and collapsed. And pretty well stayed that way. Did not go out, answered a knock on the door once to meet a door to door salesman (so muvch for the security man at the front door), went to bed early and slept a full ten hours without moving. I think they call this vacation.
Saturday, August 26 - Last full day in Moscow. Up and showered, prayed and puttered. Guess what the weather was? If you put your check mark next to Cold and rainy, you win a prize. Back to the sweaters and off to meet Giovanni - we’re going to try and get to the Cathedral again, the one that was closed yesterday.
A little history - this cathedral was built to commemorate the victory over Napoleon - remember the 1812 Overture, Tchaikovsky, lots of cannons? That one - and it was a great cathedral until the 1920's, when it was decided it represented a decadent prior age and so they blew it up. Literally dynamited this great work of art, itself containing hundreds of works of art. Just blew it up. (There are a number of instances of Soviet destruction of art - makes you think of the vandals at the gates of Rome, the general barbarian destruction of times past.) The plan was to create a great Soviet centre, and the drawings are most impressive of what they did not build. What they did build was a foundation, and then turned that into a swimming pool (we are talking a lot of connected pools in one central ring). In the 1980's there was a popular movement to rebuild the cathedral and with public contributions and support from the city of Moscow, they started. Using the original plans, and drawings and photos of how it was, and calling on artists and craftsmen from all over Russia, they re-created the original.
It is breath-taking. Under the church is a smaller chapel and a museum of the re-building. Unfortunately they don’t show much about the original church, and what they do have is in Russian only, so there are a lot of questions I have that remain unanswered. But it was a great visit, and went long beyond what we had expected. Giovanni went off to the airport - he is heading back to Italy this afternoon - and I went off to give myself the treat of a good lunch that I had promised myself earlier.
Well - half and half. Found a restaurant that had gotten a good recommendation in one of the English newspapers, and worked my way through a large Russian menu and a staff that did not speak English. Had a reasonable crab salad and a rich sturgeon in shaved potato crust, with a cream sauce laced with black and red caviar. Not bad. Glass of wine with the meal and a cup of coffee afterwards. Despite the signs announcing credit cards, turned out they don’t accept plastic - I had enough cash. But when I got the bill - although the menu had been in roubles, the bill was in dollars, and at the end changed into roubles at a rate every favorable to the establishment. And some fairly startling prices for plain water and coffee. Still not New York prices but not exactly a fairy-tale ending either.
The rain had stopped but the sky was still dark and Father John decided to leave some of Moscow for his next trip, and headed home. Stopped in the Business Centre to do e-mail, and despite the assurance that it would be open on Saturday until 5, doors locked. Closed and not open seems to be the sub-theme of my time in Moscow. Figuring this was a sign from God, back to room to digest and think about packing.
Moscow television is fascinating. Several rip-offs of US shows (I have seen Russian versions of stupid pet tricks - a whole show!) Dating Game, Wheel of Fortune, and Funniest Home Videos. A couple of quasi-talk shows featuring local talent, the Benny Hill Show (call me a cultural illiterate but I think he is wonderful. And Charlie Chaplin said he was the funniest man in show business. So there) and a lot of American films and some shows with Russian dubbing. The English track is left in and turned down, so with practice you can ignore the Russian and get much of the English. The show with the lifeguards seems to be on every day, and this morning before I went out I saw part of a Cannonball film - one of the Burt Reynolds numbers with everybody in the world making an appearance. Lots of talking heads, which I ignore, and a regular schedule of history films. Adverts both Russian and from the original producer - English, French, US. Some of the Russian ones are great - one for a candy bar has a young girl stabling her horse, opens a candy bar as she strolls down the aisle and takes a bite. Passes two stalls with horses looking over the gate and a third with a very attractive young man. She stops and does a double-take. He looks at her and she blushes. He whinnies - she looks startled and looks at his feet - which are the legs of a horse. Pull back shot, horse bottom, young man looking over the top. Cut to slide of candy bar. Great.
Of course, they also have an ad for a small personal geiger counter, to measure radiation in your playground or at the fruit stand. No kidding, comes in several attractive colors. Think Chernobyl is a blot on the national psyche? You got it.
Interesting aside - the caricature of the Russian peasant woman always seems to give her a - is it a mole I mean? Little lump of flesh, usually on the chin or nose, sometimes with a hair or two growing out of it? That little button - somehow I don’t think mole is the word I want, but a wart is dark, isn’t it? Maybe it’s a wart - features in a lot of drawing. Well, it features on a lot of faces as well, many quite attractive, but this little - thing - crops up a lot, once you start to look for it.
Tomorrow to the airport and on to England. I don’t think Michelin or Michener have anything to fear from the scribblings of this wanderer but it has been a lovely and entertaining and mildly educational trip. I love going to new places and Russia is a place I have always wanted to visit - and to which I would very much like to return. If any of the invitations turn into real invitations, I might be back. Certainly there could be opportunities to sing - but I also need to make money if I am going to take the time away. For the Society of Jesus to let me come back, there will have to be some tangible return. We’ll see.
One of the things that would be nice would be if any of you have old (or new) comic books, literary magazines - things that would interest teen-age types learning English - let me know and I will give you the address of the English teacher in Samara who is trying to teach students without herself ever having left the country and with few resources. Don’t send them to me - if you have anything you think might help, and would like to contribute the postage, I’ll send you her address. (This is the one who is working for a base salary of $30 a month, which even the government admits is not enough for basic existence.)
OK - Mass and packing and bed, remembering, we hope to set the alarm. Car is coming around 8, which means being checked out, and I have no idea what that means in this particular system. They probably come and count the linen before you go. All will be revealed, a closing reflection in London and I will send this forth onto the electronic airways, and hard copies for my poor friends who are not electronically up to date. Should you have gotten two (or more) copies of this, that means that you are listed twice in my address book, hopefully at least under different addresses. Like cards at Christmas, this is also a good chance to be sure my address book is up to date. Given my various computer problems, crashes and misadventures during the past year, that I have errors and glitches and have lost people isi not at all unlikely. So if you don’t get this, be sure and tell me.
Sunday, August 27 - My last morning in Moscow. (Except for the morning I will have when I pass through ono my way back to Lagos.) 6:30 in the morning, just finished packing, and out the window of my hotel, you have never seen a more beautiful day. Naturally. When I am IN Moscow, wanting to walk around and see things - rain and cold and thoroughly nasty. The day I leave - spectacular weather. Grumble, whuffle, snort. (Can you imagine? My spell checker doesn’t recognize whuffle. Have to add that to the old word list.)
Moscow - One of the things I was warned about before starting this trip was Moscow, city of thieves. Aside from one brief attempt on the Metro, I have certainly seen nothing. People who live here I have talked with assure me it is a relatively dangerous city, and certainly the number of car alarms would tend to bear that out. My hotel room is above a parking lot - we floors above, but the windows are not hermetically anything’d, and so noise (and an occasional pleasant breeze) come through. Just as one learns to sleep through trains passing or planes landing, so too one learns to sleep through car alarms, and I would guess an average of four or five an hour going off downstairs. I have not leapt to the window each time to see if these were robbery attempts or just folks getting into their cars - I watched one poor man in Astrakan work with car for about ten minutes before he got the alarm turned off and was able to drive away. At least I assume it was his car.
Nothing to do now but watch the sunrise and wait for the call to tell me the car is on its way. No television. I have never stayed up to see when the stations go off the air, but at 7:30 they are not yet on and working, at least not on Saturday. (Turns out that just after 7:00 something did come on, and I spent my last minutes in Moscow watching a Russian version of Mary Poppins, complete with sliding up the bannister.)
Check-out was easy, as was the drive to the airport, in stunningly gorgeous weather. Sigh. We got there good and early, and in fact, had to wait, since the check in didn’t open until two hours before departure. Never mind, we got to watch some fascinating people, and I am sure they felt the same about us. Nikolai showed up and he and Maria went off for about 40 minutes so he could write a letter to someone in the UK for her to carry, But when he got back, we got in line and he went to the head of the line, then came back and walked us to the head of the line, we got taken care of instantly, no question about the weight of our luggage, and off we went. Hot knife through soft butter.
Now you would have thought that people would have grumbled and mumbled and stared daggers at these people being pushed to the head of the queue, but not a grumble nor a stare that I saw. I think it is a reflex from the days of a former system where there was a privileged class and the rest of us, and when someone from the former showed up, it was natural that he would get sent through. Same thing applies in Nigeria, except the privilege is usually bought and paid for in cash. Sort of an economic democracy - everybody with money gets to vote. Or, everyone’s money is equal. Anyway, we sailed through, and found ourselves in the Duty Free before we knew it. I usually pass these places by, but here wanted to get some vodka for people in England, and Tony Montfort at Jesuit Missions had asked me to pick him up some cigarettes of a particular kind. Normally we would be trying to get him to stop but it is his 60th birthday next week, so I bought away.
The Russian airport has many of its flights away from the terminal, so you board a bus which takes you to the plane. Plane turned out to be an older airbus, wide open configuration, older seats with strange sags, but more room than we are used to in the modern cattle car configuration. No music or video but very good food, good service, better PA so the English was more understandable and since it was a flight to England, most of the crew spoke some English. Flight is just over three hours, so not bad at all. Bernard was there to meet us, we dropped us off at Wimbledon, collected the train ticket and he then took Maria to the station for the trip to place where she is taking the Master classes. I called to alert them what train she was on, and settled in. Laundry, e-mail - all the luxuries of the western world. (You can even drink the water from the tap!) Of course, when I signed onto AOL I was told I had 179 bits of new mail. Thank you very much. Went over to Montford’s later for dinner - among his many talents he is a first-rate cook, and we had a piece of beef that was as good as anything I have had in years. Amazing. Raspberries and cream for dessert. I staggered home, did some more internet and crashed.
Interesting cast of characters at the Mission residences. There is an American on his way back to Zambia (he’s been working in the missions for 40 years), an older man I know from Harare (78 and still working a full schedule), a guy from El Salvador, in for an operation, one from Guyana doing some medical treatment, and one who is working in Burma. When we sit around and talk about the state of the world, everyone brings his own varied experience. Two Americans and four Brits. Good group. I have helped one with a computer problem, so he thinks I am wonderful.
Monday, August 28 - Bank holiday. Time to bring this rambling to a close. I had thought I would spend the day working on cleaning up this narrative and getting it ready to send off, but instead went out and spent most of the day at Hampton Court, one of my favorite places. Tours with people in costume, music presentation and wonderful CD walking tours, all included in the price of the ticket. Ferry back on the river. Life ain’t bad.
Tuesday, August 29 - Today I end this long (loooong) letter. Yesterday on the news we heard that the tv tower in Moscow had burned. I could see it from my hotel window and at one point I had suggested we might go to the restaurant on the top. August is not a good month for Russia - historically, and certainly not this one - bombs, submarines and now this.
What have I learned? I like Russia, and Russians and would like to go back. I was more tired than I thought when I left and I’m a whole lot better but not fully - whatever. I don’t take very good care of myself in Lagos and I know that but it did come back to me strongly on this trip. Time to implement one of the many resolutions made in the past. That others do not travel as I do, and I must be patient. That Russia is simultaneously much richer than Nigeria and in some ways poorer, but that the general level of society, of structural civilization is way higher. (Someone once said that the greatest determining factor in developing civilization is climate, that in the very warm climates with no real seasons, no great civilizations have developed and sustained. There is something in the demand of having to create shelters, store food for the winter, plan ahead, that helps create the need for that longer-lasting structure. Not inevitably. Mongols, Eskimos, American Indians, all lived in varied climates without going that route. But it is constant in all the cultures that did develop.
Off we go, into the sunset. If you’ve gotten this far, you will be relieved to know that I solemnly promise I will not send a Christmas letter. If anyone you know might like to browse through these wanderings, feel free to share them. Remember the Jesuits, both collectively and this one individually - in your prayers, if you win the lottery or come into money or just as you sit around the campfire and tell stories. Remember Nigeria too. In spite of all the fine words from the recent visit of the President of the United States, it is a country with at least as many problems as possibilities, and the problems are much deeper than poverty and money (including the infamous debt-relief) is not the answer. (By the way - in case anyone has any doubts, I do NOT think that debt relief ought to be an option for Nigeria. It, unlike many other countries, has resources, and simply wiping away the accumulated burden - a burden that exists because of the corruption and the dishonesty of its leaders and the apathy of its people - will only open the door for further loans and further abuses and will do nothing to helping remedy the causes of the problems they now face. We hear that the people suffer because of this - true, but removing the debt in Nigeria will not change the lot of the people one bit. The federal government does not distribute the money it receives - to the companies with whom it does business, with the employees it is supposed to pay salaries to - money it has, and spends instead on automobiles and houses and furnishings for its legislators, on football teams and travel for its leaders, on propaganda for advertising to help balance a bad image. It does nothing to changing the reality underneath the image but instead spends the money to try and change the image. Debt relief for many countries, in some form, is a good and noble move. In the case of Nigeria, it would be contributing to the corruption we must fight if the country is to move forward.
I digress. The idea was to remember Nigeria when you are praying. If you don’t pray - maybe it’s time to start.
I will continue to pray for you, and remember you, and every now and then, flood your mailboxes, whether electronic or postal, with idle wanderings and whatevers.
Whatever....
John Sheehan, SJ
Idle Wanderer
Post Script
Thought you were finished, huh? Well, almost. I just felt there were a few loose ends that had not been properly tied when I sent off the last Massive Missive, and so here they are.
First of all, a technical note - if you had trouble opening or receiving the attachment, please tell me. Some have been unable to deal with the WordPerfect but have done fine when I sent the copy in rtf format. If that doesn’t work, a dear friend in the US is in the process of copying and sending hard copies to people without email - I know, it’s hard to believe that there are technologically deprived even in this day and age but there are, and we have to make provisions for them. So you can be added to that list if all else fails.
I apologize for ending the day before I went to the doctor. Several people have written to ask how that part of the adventure went. Very well. The reason for my going to London at all was to have a check-up and see about getting weaned off this very strong (and very expensive) medicine I have been taking for the past two months. The doctor - Harley Street offices, thank you very much - gave me a thorough going over, including sending a small tv camera down my nose - and his report is positive. Vocal chords look good, he was pleased with my report of what has and has not been going on, and says I should maintain the diet, cut back on the medicine, made some good suggestions about alternate ways to deal with it if the problem persists and says now I have to do the vocal exercises and get back in shape. He also recommended going back to my own teacher or seeing someone to have a check on my technique - rather like a batting coach working with someone in the middle of the season.
And at the end of this session, he announced that he does not usually charge “men of the cloth”. Bless his heart. He was recommended by the doctor in Boston, and turns out to be one of the top voice men on this side of the Atlantic. While I was there an emergency call came in from someone at the Globe Theatre, and turns out he has even written a book (which I went right out and bought). A very positive trip and made me feel much better. I sang a little in the office as part of the procedure (interesting sensation, that, singing while a small tv camera is down your nose) and the staff came in from several offices, and one asked afterwards if I would sing something more for her in the office. Couldn’t have been too bad.
So while I still have a strange diet, a bag full of pills, a slanted bed and the admonitory caution to lose some weight, the news is good and the hope is that within the next year at least one CD will finally get recorded. Part of the whole situation is, to no one’s surprise, stress, so finding better ways to deal with that also has to be part of my regimen. (Regimen. No matter what context you put it in, an unpleasant sounding word.)
The rest of my time in London was relatively uneventful. The day I went into London for the doctor’s visit, I read in the paper about a production of The Elixir of Love (L’Elisir d’Amore, but since it was being sung in English...) in Hyde Park that evening. After I left the doctor I went over to the Jesuit residence at Farm Street, visited and had lunch, and then went to Hyde Park to see about tickets. Hyde Park is a fairly large place, as parks go, and so rather than just wander around until I found it (which is how I usually approach finding something - with remarkable success, actually) I stopped in at the park information office to ask. The most remarkable man was working there. When I went in he was sitting down behind a desk and a young mother and five (5!) children were clustered around him, so all I could hear was his voice, as he plotted a route for them through the park, pointed out interesting things they might want to stop and see and was very helpful. He was very knowledgeable, and I assumed, from his manner and the amount he seemed to know, that he was an older man. When they finally trooped out, I was startled to see that he was younger than I - by a fair bit. He was equally helpful to me, and we chatted for a while before I strolled on. Here is someone who has what most would consider a silly job, and he enjoys it and makes it rewarding to himself and to the people who stop in. Found the venue - yes, the opera would be there, no, I could not get tickets until around 6:30, yes tickets were still available. So I went into town, ran some errands, and came back. Bought my ticket, watched the ducks and the people on the lake and went in to see the opera.
“In” is a little misleading, since the production was staged outside, just off the children’s swimming pool. They had set up a small stage, chairs, lights and a curtained area for the orchestra. Six in the orchestra - piano, clarinet, two violins, cello and bass, and seven in the cast, Yup, they did the whole opera with seven people. Staging was very creative, and very funny. I usually don’t like opera in English (unless it was written in English) but this translation was very good. The acting was very good, the singing ranged from pretty good to very good (although I blush to admit I am a far better tenor than the guy they had up there) and all in all it was a fun evening. Except for the temperature, which dropped fairly dramatically once the sun went down, and I nearly froze. I had a brushed silk jacket which is usually quite warm, and which is probably the reason I am still alive today, but it was not quite enough and by the interval I was thoroughly frozen. I seriously thought about leaving - it was that cold - but the production was that good, I stuck it out.
Tony Montfort is the head of Jesuit Missions. He’s a layman, been there for about 35 years or so, and is a gift to missionaries from all over the world. His office in Wimbledon has bedrooms for visitors, and it is where I stay when I go to London if they have room. Friday of this week was his 60th birthday and cards and telegrams and presents came from all over the world. On Thursday night the Jesuits present decided to take him out, which was great fun. On Friday we started the day with mass in the house chapel - yours truly was the principal celebrant with six other priests present - the staff took him to lunch, some lay people came in the afternoon for a most elegant tea and his family had a party in the evening.
I note for the record that during the time I was in Russia I not only did not gain any weight, I think I actually lost a little. However that was all undone by my time in London, where I did not walk enough and indulged too much. All the birthday celebrations didn’t help one bit.
Monday morning, September 4th - Holiday in the US, in England back to school day. For me, travel to Moscow day. Got nailed at the airport for excess baggage. The flight (Aeroflot again) was quite good, the most modern plane I have seen so far, and they even had a music station, with headphones, so I got to listen to music. Decent lunch and a really nice (French) red wine. I had two bottles. (Very small bottles.) And a little nap. Those last two items may be related.
Arriving in Moscow, I went to the Transfer Desk. I moved quickly and was in the forefront of a large group. Got to the desk, and as I stepped up, the woman at the desk left. Now there were two other desks operating but by then that large group had arrived and there were long queues. When in Rome... waiting for an opportune moment, I simply acted like a Russian, stepped sideways and snuck my ticket in. The man looked at it - I had a reservation at a transit hotel - and said he was too busy to deal with it, I should go to the desk inside the terminal. Where there was another large group. Since there was no queue in evidence, I used my crowd skills and fairly quickly found myself at the counter. Got my hotel chit and directions to the gathering point for the bus. Which I found, and where I waited. And waited. And waited. Things finally started moving, but from the time we landed until I got to the hotel was three hours. Grumble, whuffle, snort. Some interesting moments. While I was waiting, there was a youngish man, sitting on some steps, earphones in his ears, grooving with the music, with a cigarette stuck in his nose. I guess he wanted to smoke without using his hands. Smoking is permitted pretty much everywhere, anywhere.
The room was nice - small, but with a private bathroom, tv set (and they had BBC) and a fridge. Of course, I had nothing to put into the fridge but it was a nice touch. Had a shower, read a little, watched television (BBC was fairly boring but on a German sports station they had about an hour of Sumo wrestling. Here I am in Moscow, an American on his way to Nigeria, watching Sumo wrestling with a German commentator. I love it.) And sleep.
5:30 - phone call from the desk to remind me that the bus leaves at 6. I was already awake but it was a nice touch. Breakfast was delivered in a plastic bag - yogurt, cookies, a roll, cheese, water and apple juice, candy of several kinds. Bus ride back - our hotel was about 20 minutes away from the airport - lines to check in, lines for passport control, wait for the gate to open. Lots of Nigerians, each with mounds of luggage. If anyone ever decided to enforce cabin luggage restrictions, either in terms of size or weight, these folks would be out of luck. When traveling with Nigerians around, you learn to get on fast, or else you will find all the luggage storage space taken up. They put their bags wherever they can, and have no concern that some later passenger might not have any room near his on seat for a coat or a briefcase.
But all went smoothly and I found myself in Economy Class, on an aisle seat in the front of the section. The plane filled rapidly and I had two young boys next to me with lots of hand luggage. At that point, they brought in a Nigerian who was being deported. He was drugged, drunk or crazy, or perhaps some combination of all three. Very loud, very abusive. He had a security man with him, and with some difficulty they got him into his window seat at the front of the section. He was not happy, complaining that they had stolen his money, his passport, that they were being unfair, and he kept sticking in bits of bad German and worse French. The thought of ten hours with this guy was not a happy prospect.
At one point (he had been complaining about not having any food or water), the attendant brought him a glass of water and immediately several Nigerians began protesting that they had put something in the water, that they were trying to hurt him, that this was all a racist plot by whites against blacks, that they had no right to treat a human being this way - and on and on and on, very loudly, abusively and with more than a smattering of foul language just to give it strength. One man stood in the aisle and berated the crew at high volume while others helpfully chimed in from their seats. One thing a Nigerian is unable to do is not get involved in or offer commentary on any situation. In the States at least one of the commentators would have been escorted off the airplane.
At this point, Nikolai (my Russian friend in Lagos who works for Aeroflot whose apartment in Moscow was our first stop way back on day one) showed up. (Thank you, God) He had said he might be returning to Lagos on this flight, and he managed to get me moved into First Class. (Thank you, God) He said the food would still be economy, and I assured him that for the privilege of sitting in those seats I would bring my own food. That ought to be a program with airlines - if they have empty seats, anyone in Economy can move up by paying an additional $50 (or whatever) - same meal, just big seat. Or as a special privilege for priests and rabbis and guys with beards. I know, it’ll never sell. But it could make a lot of people happy. And wouldn’t cost the airline anything and would actually make a couple of bucks.
So as I write this I am sitting in First Class, somewhere between Moscow and Malta, preparing myself mentally and emotionally for the return to Lagos and all the new adventures that await me there. There are four seats instead of the six in each row in economy, and there is lots of space. ( I am in the emergency exit row, so even if I extend my leg all the way I cannot touch the seat in from of me. No leg rest but a much more comfortable situation. And I think I will need this last little bit of relaxation. The priest who has been holding the fort sent me an email that he had fired our #1 driver, who is suing me. So I need to find out what THAT is all about and see if I can pacify without involving lawyers. There is a meeting on Saturday of the Finance Committee, the group that is supposed to advise me in the financial management of the Region. Weekly Mass resumes, and I need to be putting together a renovation construction bid, hiring new staff, finding out why the telephones aren’t working - I started jotting down things to be done while I was watching cricket, and I very quickly had 32 items on the list. It will continue to be a full life.
(Interval - we stopped for the break at Malta, and got to walk around the airport for an hour. Ever been to Malta? Neither have I, except technically. But flying in and out, my one observation is that all the buildings are the same color. Sort of a light sandstone brown, and there is nothing else. No yellow, no blue, no painted white, no red brick or aluminum siding - there did not seem to be any painted buildings at all, everything is pretty much the same. Oh, a half a shade lighter or darker here and there, but no colors at all. I wonder if that is tradition, legislation, some sort of religious thing (“Oh God, if you save us in this battle we will never paint our houses..” that sort of thing.) Whatever, it makes for a striking and fairly desert-like appearance from the air.
At Malta, Nikolai again met people he knew, and when we returned to the plane, while two women were ushered out of their temporary first class seats (not for having people sit in them, there are only three of us in this section for the second leg) I remain in mine, comfortable and separated from the sweaty crowds sitting somewhere behind me. No update on the crazy guy, so I assume they have him somehow under control. Because Nikolai knows everyone, we also got to visit the flight deck, and chatted away with the pilot and crew while we were winging our way to Lagos. I am not so blase but that I have to admit, that was neat. Nothing to see but sky and instruments, but pretty sky, working instruments and a group of confident professional people. I usually am flying into Lagos at night - it is an interesting experience to actually see the Sahara underneath us and land and stuff like that.)
Anyway - shortly I will be back at the desk, treading the mill, so if I don’t fill your mailboxes, electronic or otherwise, for a while, it’s because I have returned to the “busier than God syndrome”. I did get a spiritual director for my do it yourself Tertianship program this year, so fulfilling those obligations will be another item on the list for the coming year, and an increase in already scheduled travel. But unless you are a friend of a friend and have never met me except via these letters, you know that even when I am (strangely) silent, you continue to be remembered and thought about and prayed for on a regular basis.
As I hope I, and the rest of the Jesuits, will be remembered by you, at prayer or however you do that. And as always, should you win a lottery or be remembered by a rich relative, cash in a bunch of suddenly valuable stock or find a suitcase filled with negotiable securities or bearer bonds, please do not forget the Jesuits. It’s tax deductible, goes to a good cause, and besides making you feel good here just might give you a little extra credit somewhere else. You never can tell.
Now I am really and truly ending this 2-part missive. With love to you and yours.....
Fr. John Sheehan, SJ
Lagos
Back at sjlagos3(at)Infoweb.abs.net
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