I thought it might be nice to watch the parade, down at Red Square, if the weather is good enough. The Russians are sticklers for protocol, and documentation, on most occasions, and the Americans tend to be just as prickly when it comes to security for a presidential visit. I laughed my most sardonic laugh, and Monk allowed as how it might be hard to explain electronic journalism to the Ministry press people, but that he would make a pitch for me. Monk got back to me quickly. The Ministry suggested, he said, that I get a letter from the editor of an American newspaper asking me to provide the occasional article.
Nothing is open.
I don't remember the phone number of the Fulbright Office or my landlady, or the Dean at Moscow State University, where I am teaching. Even if I did know, I don't have a phone token on me. I can't get into the U.S. Embassy because my ID card is at home. I can't walk to a friend's apartment and knock on the door because I don't know where anybody lives. Actually, this story has a cop-out ending.