People in Different Worlds

The state of Indiana charges an additional fee if you decide to pay your child support online. So I, being someone who is obligated to pay said support, choose to write a check every two weeks and mail it the old fashioned way to the Indiana State Central Collection Unit. After writing the check one lovely spring day, I walked over to my local post office to deposit the envelope in the big blue mailbox. Passing the Tavern on the way, I saw a couple of regulars standing outside and talking to the bartender who I knew would be taking over in just a couple of hours. I briefly considered going into the Tavern, that home away from home for me, for some lunch. I wanted to tell Dustin, the aforementioned (and hockey loving) bartender about how I had recently been to my very first hockey game and how the crowd had screamed at me for ignorantly getting up to fetch beers while the puck was in play. Apparently, this is a grave no-no. You could be killed by the puck or something. Never before had so much belligerence been directed toward me by so many people at once.

They roared at me to sit down. Some of their faces were stern. Some of them were angry. Others were in disbelief. But most of the faces were blurry due to the several beers, multiple daiquiris (mixed with 151), and the bottle of vodka that my buddy Steve and I had been consuming before we arrived at the arena. As I obediently began returning to my seat, I yelled back at them all. "I know, I know. 'Act like you've been here before!' Well, I've never been here before! I've never been to a hockey game!" The tone of my voice was that of aggression with a wink. The sternness and anger of the crowd became smiles and laughter. They forgave this drunken sojourner in a foreign land and began advising me when it was okay to leave my seat. But I digress...

Back home in Broad Ripple, I dropped my envelope into the mailbox and began heading in the direction of the nearby Belgian brewpub. No Tavern for me this time. But as I rounded the corner and began walking down Broad Ripple Avenue, I changed my mind. I decided to head into the Cuban sandwich shop. It was much closer and their food is delicious. I walked in and ordered the Regular Cuban Sandwich from the large Cuban man with the large Cuban mustache who is the proprietor of the establishment. (The man is the proprietor, not the mustache). As I awaited my food, another man walked in and said he had never been there before. "In that case", said the friendly proprietor with a smile "I advise you to get one of everything on the menu." The patron laughed and then said that his friend had recommended that he get a Cuban sandwich. "It's an authentic Cuban sandwich", the proprietor explained. "But they don't even make them this way in Cuba anymore." The patron naturally inquired why this should be so. "Because they can't get the ingredients. That's what socialism will do for you."

The patron nodded and said, "We really don't understand what socialism is like."

"Oh, I know what it's like", said the proprietor.

"I know you know what it's like", clarified the patron. "We Americans don't really understand it. And we don't really understand poverty."

"No, you don't. You say you're poor and you have big screen TVs and video games..."

"And $600 phones", the patron interrupted while holding up his own device as an example.

"Right", rejoined the proprietor. "You have all these things but you think you're poor because you don't have a Bill Gates house?" He shook his head in disbelief.

"We have floors! I adopted a kid from Ethiopia. He lived in a hut with dirt floors", said the patron.

"My ex was from Honduras", said the proprietor.

"I've been to Honduras", I chimed in. "The people there lived in little cinder block houses with no floors."

"Right", said the proprietor. "With corrugated metal roofs. And that gets hot!"

"Sometimes the walls are corrugated metal too", added the patron. "I've seen it."

The patron then, realizing that he had not yet ordered anything, began reading the menu board and finally chose a sandwich. Then he jumped right back into the conversation which he was clearly enjoying.

"So, I'm sure you loved Fidel Castro", he said with a wry smile.

"I loved it when he died!" said the proprietor. "I don't know if you heard this", he continued. "But when he died, when they were transporting his casket, the wheel fell off!" He laughed at the poetic justice. "And he spent his whole life hating capitalism. Then he died on Black Friday!" He continued laughing at the expense of the deceased dictator. "I bet he really died the day before, on Thanksgiving. But they probably didn't release the news until the next day so people wouldn't give thanks for Castro's death! Hahaha!"

The patron and the proprietor then began talking about Cuba's future and whether or not there was reason for optimism. I looked up at the big American flag pinned to the ceiling. I was going to mention that I liked how Obama had opened up relations with Cuba and that that should bode well for the future of the island nation, but I didn't know how that would be received and decided to remain quiet. Right about then my sandwich was finished and I took the bag and headed out the door toward home. Passing the Tavern again, I saw another regular standing outside smoking. He is a white man a little younger than I and he was talking to three black girls. He waved and I threw up the peace sign. "What's up, man? You doin' alright?" he asked. "Doin' great", I replied as I kept walking. He eyed my sandwich bag and smiled. "That don't look like a pint in that bag", he quipped. The girls giggled. "Nope", I said with a smile. "It's a sammich!"

I crossed Broad Ripple Avenue and then crossed College and began walking north over the canal. An older black man apologized to me as he ran around me. He was trying to beat the fast approaching bus to the bus stop. His clothes were filthy and he had a giant hole in his shoe. I walked on home.

The Sophistry of Closed Border Libertarians

“The kind of man who wants the government to adopt and enforce his ideas is always the kind of man whose ideas are idiotic.” 
― H.L. Mencken

The presidency of Donald Trump has barely begun and I already find myself even more irritated than usual with my fellow citizens. Sophistry is alive and well on both the Left and the Right. The Leftists now flood the airports to let immigrants and refugees know they're welcome in America. I wish they would have shown this level of concern for these people when Barrack Obama was helping to blow the shit out of their countries and murdering their children. But Obama was polite. He didn't say mean things about Mexicans or Muslims. He simply deported and murdered them respectively.

Trump, on the other hand, is quite rude. The Right loves this. In fact, I think it's what they like most about him. He played the heel, but they made him the babyface. I'm far from the only one that has commented on the irony of the "silent moral majority" supporting a whoremongering, philandering, lying casino owner as the agent of God, chosen to restore America's greatness. But he says mean things about people the Right doesn't like. They see him as their great defender against the cultural Marxist weirdos they see on tv. They will forgive him any biblical sin as long as he continues in this role.

It's not a novel point to say that the Left and Right are hypocritical bastards who are always ready to use sophistry to defend enforcing their own particular preferences on their opposition while, at the same time, arguing that they should personally be left to freely live life however  they see fit.  But the group that has earned the lion's share of my ire since the Trump election is the "libertarians". The closed border libertarians, to be precise. 

Full disclosure: I consider myself to be a libertarian. For years I have been reading books and websites that promote and defend the ideas of classical-liberalism. They almost always took a tone of pessimism and suspicion toward any government exercise of power. But then Trump came along and promised to stop Mexicans from getting across that imaginary line on the south side of Texas and suddenly the tone changed. The focus changed from defending individual liberty to defending a specific culture, namely, middle-class white Christian culture. 

One of the greatest lessons that should have been learned from the classical liberals, such as Frederic Bastiat, Ludwig von Mises, and F.A. Hayek, is that the more laissez-faire capitalism is allowed to flourish, the less reason there is for conflict between different groups. The functioning of capitalism is dependent on peace and the defense of private property. The State, on the other hand, survives on conflict. The State confiscates private property and dubs it "public property". It's your property and my property. But maybe I would like to see a factory built on that property and you would like a lovely flower garden. They cannot simultaneously exist there. We have an inherent conflict created by the State. But the State has a solution. It will provide us an opportunity to vote for a candidate that may or may not resolve this conflict to our liking. Whichever candidate gets more than 50% of the votes gets to decide what shall be done with "our" property. So, we take to to the streets and we take to social media and argue with all the evil people with whom we differ on this subject. One candidate ultimately proves victorious and then, in all likelihood, does whatever his biggest donors want anyway. If a factory is built, you blame me. If a factory is not built, I blame you. The State gets off virtually scot-free. 

The same rule applies when we're talking about cultural conflicts. Whether or not a business has signs in Spanish, whether or not someone with a penis can use the women's bathroom, whether or not a sign says "merry Christmas" instead of "happy holidays", whether or not someone has to bake a cake for your wedding, whether or not you can have a public prayer to Jesus, whether or not you can have a public prayer to Allah, and whether or not you can freely cross the Rio Grande are all conflicts that are either exploited by the State or created by it in the first place. 

Libertarians used to say they understood that. But now instead of directing their aforementioned pessimism and skepticism toward the head of State, they've been directing it toward his detractors. This is fine when we're talking about the war mongering neo-cons who feel like Trump is too cozy with Russia for the simple reason that he's not dropping bombs on the Russian people. What concerns me is the constant defense of Trump's wall. These "closed border" libertarians do not like Mexicans and others freely traveling to America and liken it to trespassing. Suddenly, and only in this special instance, public property is magically turned into private property. Heretofore, the State has had too much power in every respect except one: They can't stop the inflow of "illegals". The "libertarians" prescribe more power to the State.

Of course, they don't say, "I want less Spanish speaking brown people in my country". They say that the welfare state and open borders are incompatible. The argument runs that foreigners are more likely to vote for socialists who promise to award them a bigger share of the welfare pie. Keeping them out is tantamount to self defense. They want to steal our property and redistribute it to themselves. Let's put aside the fact that the welfare state was overwhelmingly chosen by white Americans and that white Americans still support it in massive numbers. If you take these "closed border" folks at their word, they don't mind the color of the skin of the people coming here. It's the ideas of that group which they wish to quarantine. They are advocating that the State control the flow of ideas. This is the opposite of libertarianism. It is Statism.

I guess I have Donald Trump to thank for exposing this dark side of so many people who I thought were in my ideological camp. And though I agree with Mencken's pronouncement that "it is better to know than to be ignorant", it's disappointing to realize that I'm even more alone in my views on human freedom than I originally supposed.

The Counterfeiting Machine

Imagine if I had a machine that could counterfeit money. I would be at quite an advantage in the marketplace. Imagine that I shared this funny money with my friends, which of course includes you, dear reader. We would go around spending our newly made cash on all of the finest things this world has to offer. Would it be fair to all of those people who don't have such a machine? Of course not. Not only are we getting rich without producing anything or rendering any services to anyone, we are actually stealing from everyone. As we buy more and more, prices are bid up and up. The law of supply & demand tells us that as money increases relative to the amount of goods and services there are to pay for, prices MUST go up. The money in everyone else's checking account can't buy as much today as it did yesterday because of our counterfeit spending spree. But who cares? They're all suckers.

Of course, if we did this we would likely be caught pretty quickly. People who spend wantonly and have no ostensible income tend to attract the attention of the Feds. We would have to be sneakier. I actually know about some people at a corporation who do it pretty well and no one seems to notice. They claim it's perfectly legal, but it doesn't sound legal. This corporation has a friend with a printing press who they have hired to help with investments. But they don't just ask the guy to print them up money. That would be flagrantly counterfeiting. No, they are much more clever than that.

The corporation issues bonds, which are bought up by certain investment firms, most notably Goldman Sachs. Goldman Sachs then turns around and puts the bonds back up for sale at a higher price in order to make a profit. But who in their right mind would pay the higher price instead of the original market price? A man with a counterfeiting machine, that's who. The counterfeiter prints up some cash and hands it over to the investment bankers. Then the man with the machine allows the bonds to mature. Once they have matured, he cashes them in and uses the money to cover his "expenses". And here's the best part. Any profit above expenses that the counterfeiter makes is returned to the original corporation which is his employer.

These people have all gotten insanely rich off of this scheme. They are some of the wealthiest people to have ever lived on this planet. I am not one to begrudge someone the accumulation of vast amounts of wealth. If you get rich by selling me something I want/need, good for you. If you never lifted a finger in your life and inherited an obscene fortune, I don't give a shit. It doesn't bother me. But I don't like being robbed. I don't like being made a sucker. Don't you think the government should do something about these swindlers? Don't you pay taxes in order to build prisons for people like these?

I'm sure, dear reader, you have realized by now that the mendacious corporation in the example *is* the government. The man with the money machine is the Federal Reserve, the central bank of the United States. Of course, the Fed doesn't actually need a printing machine. It just creates digital money out of thin air and transfers it to the likes of Goldman Sachs or the U.S. Treasury Department. And it's all legal because they write the laws. As these bastards spend their ill gotten fortunes, prices are bid up. Your money is worth less. We're all a bunch of suckers.

Freedom in Broad Ripple

We have to enjoy freedom everywhere we find it. In this world there are so many things of which it is impossible to be free. We cannot be free from scarcity. We all age and fall prey to various maladies. We all have both physical and intellectual limitations. Many of us (if not all of us) suffer from involuntary feelings for someone which are not reciprocated. We all must act in order to attempt to make each minute more satisfactory than the last. And then we all die. All of this would be depressing as shit if it wasn't for those wonderful pockets of freedom all around us.

I very recently moved to Broad Ripple and have spent most of my time here looking for these pockets (instead of looking for a job). Of course, not having a job means that I'm basically living in a giant bubble of freedom. From this vantage, it is the lack of freedom which appears in small pockets. But every once in awhile some small, seemingly inconsequential act will overwhelm my heart with an even greater love for life.

By late afternoon/early evening yesterday, I was feeling pretty damn good. I had been drinking Canadian whisky for a bit and now I knew that I must have pizza (By the way, desire for pizza (especially after drinking) is another thing we simply cannot be free from. It is an immutable law of the universe). I told my roommate that I had resolved to return to Bazbeaux, which is an excellent pizza joint named after a 15th century French jester. He recommended that I get the "Quattro Formaggio". It has romano, cheddar, ricotta, mozzarella (of course), provolone, bacon, and mushroom on it. I was sold.

I walked outside and was amazed at how cool the weather was. It felt so wonderful after the unbearably muggy/wet August we had just endured. "Maybe I should go to Flatwater instead and sit outside", I thought. But I dismissed this idea almost immediately. For one, when I'm alone, I don't want to sit at a table. I sit at the bar. This is how all solitary men should behave. And for two, the Quattro Formaggio was already calling to my soul. Destiny compelled me to "choose" Bazbeaux. So, I walked over to Westfield Boulevard and prepared to meet my fate.

I entered the pizza place and smoothly approached the counter. "For all they know, I'm completely sober", I thought. "Hi! Did you have a carryout?" the young woman behind the counter cheerfully asked. "Actually", I responded, "I need to order a pizza." "What kind would you like?" "A friend of mine recommended that I get the Quattro...something." Shit. Hopefully she'll assume I'm just an idiot and not drunk. "The Quattro Formaggio", she helpfully replied. "It's the first one on our menu. It's very popular." "That's what I want", I assured her. "Okay, would you like a beer while you wait?" Bless her soul! She began reciting the list of beers on tap and I chose a Heffenweizen.

She brought a glass out to me as I sat waiting on a bench. Between sips of that delicious beverage, I looked around and admired the ambience of the place. It has character. I felt the same way about the Broad Ripple Brew Pub which I had just visited for lunch. This is why I moved to the city. The very fact that there are so many more people here with more variations in tastes and preferences makes it a much more interesting place. There are more places to explore within walking distance of me now than there was in the entire small town that I grew up in. There is a lot of unique beauty to appreciate.

I wasn't even halfway through with my beer when the girl returned with my pizza. "Did you want to finish that before you go?", she asked. I lowered my voice and asked, "Can I get a to go cup?" She nodded as she checked over her shoulder to make sure no one was hearing our exchange. "Just come over to the bar." She took my glass and I followed her over to the bar. She poured the remaining beer into a styrofoam cup and then went to the tap and topped it off. Bless her soul indeed! This was an act of rebellion against the authorities who have determined that I should not be able to exit a pizza shop with an open beer in my hand.  It was beautiful.

I walked out of the restaurant and began my short trek back to my townhouse on College Avenue. The sun was shining and a cool breeze was blowing as I admiringly looked at the little canal that runs through my neighborhood. "This is freedom", I thought. There was a man and a woman up ahead of me on the sidewalk. The woman was pushing a stroller. The world is a beautiful place.

The Myth of (Political) Salvation

How can we dispel the myth of political salvation? How do we lay to rest that old canard that through democracy and representative government, humanity can be improved? How can it be shown that it is completely absurd to trust that a politician can make life on this earth easier to bear? Maybe it's not just political salvation that needs to be done away with, but salvation itself. The notion that we human beings are unnatural invaders of this planet, a parasite in need of reformation, permeates all of society. The Christians believe that most of us are Hell bound sinners. There seem to be plenty of Muslims who are happy to exterminate those they deem to be infidels. The environmentalists think of themselves as Earth's representatives against the exploitations of mankind. The United States government uses a seemingly endless supply of weapons in an attempt to mold the world into a "better" place.

Is there a god? Did he make a broken world? Are human beings a menace? Are we a disgrace to God and a threat to the planet on which we reside? This all seems silly to me. As I write this, I am drinking a vodka-tonic and listening to Rimsky-Korsakov. I can hear the bubbling of the olive oil in the pan of chicken I have baking in the oven. The central air unit is protecting me from the humidity of the day. There is no way to improve upon this scene. Some will say that if it were not for the government, if not for politicians, I would not have the electricity needed to power this little CD player, or my oven, or the very tablet I am composing this on. They will say that without the protection of the police, I would not be able to enjoy the relative safety of my little apartment. Without regulations, how could I trust the quality of my vodka or my chicken? Anyone who argues in this manner is arguing that coercive violence is the wellspring of my contentment. Are they correct? If so, put a political sign in your yard, slap a bumper sticker on your Buick, and get a tattoo of Bernie's spectacles.

But I believe in a different idea. I believe in liberty for the individual. I believe that it is mankind's nature to seek mutually beneficial trades. I believe that art, literature, and science thrive when and where the State is reduced. I believe that Ghandi was right when he advised that you should be the change in the world that you wish to see. I don't believe in a creator who would create sinners and then be offended by their sins. I don't believe that waging war will establish peace. I don't believe that voting for the least evil candidate will improve my government. I do not believe that mankind is a menace to the Earth any more than I believe the Earth is a menace to mankind. I believe that there is no such thing as acting against your nature.

It is natural for men to be dissatisfied with their circumstances. And it is natural for some men to use coercive violence in order to alter these circumstances. But resistance to this violence is also natural. And it is natural for some to explain that peaceful cooperation leads to greater happiness than does violent appropriation. It is our nature to present new ideas, weigh them in our minds, and choose to accept or reject them. It is my nature to see no use in picking between a career ciminal and an obnoxious charlatan. It is your nature to ignore the stupidity of it all and to enter into the polling booth.

No matter which candidate proves victorious in November, I can assure you that there will be no alteration in human nature. We will remain dissatisfied as we ever have been. Over the centuries, the characters have changed but the story has remained the same. Only rarely does the idea of Liberty make a strong enough impression to reduce hunger, crime, and ignorance for the mass of men. Mostly we just cry out for a mightier shepherd to relieve us from the burden of choice. But don't be sad. Just pour yourself a drink, turn off the television, and try to appreciate every ounce of freedom in your life. The sky at dusk, the soft glow of the lamp, and even the sound of your ceiling fan can be enjoyed without the permission of any authority and without the contribution of anyone else's opinion.

It is human nature to try and find solutions to problems. The only solution for dealing with the inadequacies of the human race is to improve the only person you can control: yourself. Politics is not only non-conducive to this goal, it's downright inimical.

Music, Alcohol, and Literature

I wish my medium was music. But my medium is words. Words are so limited. Music can reach into the depths of your mind and soul and connect with...something I cannot describe because there are no words to describe it. I've spent many hours clumsily strumming on guitars. And from time to time, I'll bang randomly on a piano. But the gift is not in me. Thank God for the people who do have it and use it. How much more dreary and impossible would life be without music?

That's not to say that the written word is unimportant. I could not get by without the words of the great writers. People who know me well will hear the same names come up again and again; the names of my literary heroes. Ludwig von Mises, H.L. Mencken, John Steinbeck, Hunter S. Thompson, Charles Bukowski, Frederic Bastiat, Murray Rothbard, George Orwell, and Kurt Vonnegut, just to name a few. Like music, these men seem to be able to transcend the limitation of words and touch something deep. The same goes for Dostoevsky, Twain, Plato, and even Fred Reed. But these men are special. Most of us will never be able to make profound connections with strangers across time and space just by transforming the thoughts in our head into words to be read.

Listening to great musicians and reading great writing are forms of worship for me. If I combine them, the worship intensifies. But there is still a missing ingredient if I want to reach euphoria. I need alcohol. By themselves, each of these three things can make me reverent of the God of the universe. But when I combine them, it's one of the closest things to heaven on earth that I can ever experience, the other being incredible sex. You know the kind of sex I mean. The kind where you completely lose yourself in your partner and the entire world and its infinite problems evanesce. Time stops. The universe hums. Sex was definitely one of God's greatest inventions. Right up there with the aforementioned music, alcohol, and literature.

I suppose the common factor in all of these modes of worship is appreciation. And every individual shows their passionate appreciation for the creation in their own individual way. Some through cooking and/or eating. Some through caring for their children or their pets. Some people jump out of planes. Some people create beautiful paintings. Some people appreciate architecture and poetry. Some people like to sit quietly by a stream. And some people like to sit in a dim room, listening to Howlin' Wolf while drinking cheap bourbon on a rainy afternoon. There's no doubt about it. Appreciation is key.

I wish my medium was music. If my medium was music, I could make you understand how I think and feel without the use of any of these words. I could play a few notes and appreciation would involuntarily pour from your heart. The world would be a better place, if only for those few moments.

Sneaky Russians

Pete really doesn't like to talk very much. I assume this is because he can't really hear for shit. Every time I walk into his barber shop it's the same routine; he asks me what we're doing, I tell him that I just want a 3 guard all the way around, and he quietly proceeds to buzz my hair off as instructed. When I first began going to him, I would make an effort to start up conversation with him. But I quickly learned that this was futile because, like I said, he can't really hear for shit.

A little more than a week before I was to leave for my vacation to Russia, I stopped into Pete's for the usual. Pete must have been in a rare mood because as he was finishing up, he asked me how I'd been and what had I been up to. I said in a consciously, almost obnoxiously, loud voice that I was planning a trip to Moscow. "Pardon?" replied the deaf barber. "I AM GETTING READY TO GO TO RUSSIA." This time he heard me. "Russia?" he responded. "Why would you go to Russia?" I loudly and briefly explained that I had decided to travel the world and that I already had a friend living in Moscow who could show me aroud. Plus, I remarked further, it would be nice to get there and see it before the bastards bring the iron curtain back down.

Pete, like almost every other person I had told about this trip, began to slowly shake his head. "You trust them?" he asked in disbelief. "The Russians?" I replied. "Sure. Why not?" Pete continued to shake his head. "I don't! They're sneaky!" He was being serious, but I immediately laughed. The first thing that came to mind was Boris the Blade (aka Boris the Bullet Dodger), the Russian character in the movie Snatch. The other characters are constantly referring to him as "that sneaky fuckin' Russian". I tried to assure Pete that I would be fine as he pulled the cape off of me and I stood up to pay. I gave him a twenty and he gave me a ten back in change. Later I would message my Muscovite friend, Sasha, and tell her how my old barber had warned me that Russians are sneaky. "It's true", she replied.

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It was my fourth day in Moscow when Sasha suggested that I might like to visit VDNKh Park. She told me that they had collected a lot of Soviet era monuments and such in this place. It was basically a museum (At least, that's how I understood it at the time. Upon returning home, I looked it up and found a distinctly different description). My interest was piqued immediately. She would not be able to go with me because she had to work, but she told me I could take the Metro to VDNKh Station and then, once I was there, I would need to ask someone for directions to the park. I googled the location and thought I had a pretty good idea of where it was. I pulled my Metro map out of my back left pocket. It was the only thing I carried in my back pockets after Sasha and her friend had flipped out on the first night when they learned I had both my wallet and passport in my backpockets. "Why would you do that?" Sasha demanded to know. "Why would you just leave it where someone could take it?" "Maybe Pete was right", I thought.

I walked down to the nearest Metro station which was called Sukharevskaya. Like VDNKh, it is an orange line station. This meant that I would not even need to switch trains. VDNKh was only four stops away. Easy. I made my way on to the car and found a seat. Then I concentrated on the little chart above the windows that showed the names of the stops. Almost every word that came over the PA system was gibberish as far as I was concerned. But I listened for the names of the stops and made sure I didn't miss my station. First was Prospekt Mira. Sasha had previously explained to me that this translated to "prospect of world peace". Then came Rizhskaya. Then Alexeyevskaya. Finally, I arrived at VDNKh. By the way, VDNKh is apparently an acronym. It stands for Vystavka Dostizheniy Norodnogo Khozyaystva which translates to Exhibition of Achievements of National Economy...in case you were wondering.

I ascended from the Metro and saw a little park. From my previous Google research, I knew that this little park was northwest of the station and that my destination was northwest of the park. I began walking. I very soon came upon what is a common sight in Moscow; a beautiful Russian Orthodox church. But this one had a graveyard. I had not yet, to that point, laid eyes upon a Russian graveyard. Each grave was fenced off from the next. I'd never seen anything like it. The yard was just a mess of iron rods, granite crosses, and various flowers, trees, and plants. When I later brought it up to Sasha, she joked that Russians are so tired of collectivism that by the time they die, they would at least like a private grave, fenced off from all the others.

I continued past the church and began walking down a road that I assumed would lead me to VDNKh Park. There were signs that said, in English, that they led to the "Russian Cultural Center". I figured that must be the same thing. I decided to follow these signs. They led me to a boulevard that was lined on both sides by somewhat run down Soviet era apartment buildings. Weatherwise, it was a lovely day and there were many people walking about. I took off my jacket and began to carry it. I began to get very thirsty. I figured I would hold out until I got to the park before I would bother buying any. I walked another block. And then another. The signs kept leading me onward. Another block. Another. The apartment buildings seemed to be getting worse and worse. But the people walking the streets seemed to be as nicely dressed as any Russians I'd seen. I walked on, getting thirstier with every step. "Where is this damn place already?" I wondered.

I had been walking for what seemed like an eternity when I decided I couldn't take it anymore. I needed water. My mouth was unimaginably dry. In my head I could hear Hank Williams singing about throats burned dry and souls that cry for water. Cool, clear water. I saw a sign that said "продукты" (groceries) and went inside to fetch a bottle of glorious H2O. The shop was very small and there were already a handful of other patrons in there. I made my way to the back where the cooler was. I opened the sliding door and selected a bottle and began to study it carefully. You see, in Moscow (and from what I've heard, most of Europe) many people prefer carbonated water to plain water. I'm not kidding. They really go crazy for that shit. But I, being a thirsty person, had no need for carbonated water. I wanted the real deal. The problem was that I have an incredibly limited russian vocabulary and could not decipher which bottle was which. I had already accidentally purchased the fizzy water on a previous day and was determined to avoid it this time. I shook the bottle ever so slightly (so as not to draw attention) to see whether or not it would fizz. It didn't seem to. Satisfied with my choice, I approached the register.

The woman at the register rang up the bottle and jabbered at me in Russian the amount I owed. There was no screen to show me the number, and I had no clue what she had said. "Vy govorite po-angliiski?", I asked. She briskly shook her head and exhaled a sigh of annoyance through her nose. At that moment, I noticed some shady looking characters entering the little store. They were dirty and not at all dressed like the pleasent people I had seen on the street. I tried to ignore them and focus on the problem at hand. I remembered that the price listed in the cooler was around 120 rubles. But I wasn't sure if they charged sales tax afterward like they do here in the States (turns out they don't). I had several rubles in coins in my pocket. But I decided it would be easier to just give her the 500 ruble note (about $7.50 American) that was in my wallet. I handed it to her. She looked at it for a moment and then began to jabber at me again while motioning to the register. I gathered that she was trying to tell me that she did not have enough change for such a large note. I plunged my hand into my pocket and presented to her all my ruble coins. I held them in my open palm like a child as she picked out the 20s and 10s needed and then completed the transaction by placing my change back into the same palm. "Spasibo", I said before exiting the shop and continuing in the direction that the signs pointed.

I turned the corner and smiled to myself. "Such nice people", I thought. They didn't care that I was an American or that our governments are currently in the middle of an extremely dangerous and completely asinine pissing match. This particular store clerk was not unique in her willingness to assist a helpless foreigner. I saw it time and again while I was there. The rude people seemed to be few and far between. There is absolutely no reason for any animosity between the American people and the Russian people. If it weren't for the power hungry assholes in Washington and inside the Kremlin, we common people would engage in peaceful trade and friendship with few problems. "I really like it here. I like these people", I thought as I twisted the cap off my bottle. I was so parched. I needed this cool water so badly. I took a giant swig of the water. It was carbonated. "Sneaky fuckin' Russians!" I began to pray for a nuclear war to put me out of my misery.