4:59pm, PST, Hyatt Fisherman's Wharf

I ducked out to get some Q-Tips. I ran out in Moscow. And Daddy needs his Q's. That's just how I roll.

So passing through the Hyatt's Conference Center...


I noticed that there were a bunch of people gathered in one of the rooms.


I can't tell you for sure but I'd be willing to wager that these are the most bored people on the planet today.

10:15am - 12:30pm PST, Fisherman's Wharf

I don't like the way this guy's looking at me. He's definitely up to something...


So it's a simply stunning day here in the City by the Bay. Deep blue skies. Crisp air. All the seagull droppings you could ever hope for. So I decided to take a gambol about the wharf.


The homeless were enjoying the radiant sun. They're so lucky. They get to be outside all the time!


From their base at bayside, the cable cars plied their slopey rows.


The fishing boats basked in their berths in the harbor...


...while tourists strolled the docks looking for something to take a picture of and eat.


Lazy the locals sat on the sand, drinking their water and wearing their green sweaters.


Meanwhile, that great golden lady with her wide waistline spanning the channel stood sentry in the distance welcoming Great White sharks beneath her and suiciders above.


Ah, Frisco, my Frisco!

9:52am PST, Hyatt Fisherman's Wharf

Michael Clayton. Great movie. Not counting the end roll, coolest above-the-line end credits I've seen in ten years. Why ten? I don't know. I didn't want to say "ever" and sound stupid.

Anyway, here are the credits.

9:01am PST, Hyatt Fisherman's Wharf

Happily tucked in my hotel room watching Michael Clayton.

Wha... Wait A Minute, What Time Is It...?

Did I fall asleep?

12:45pm PST, Sutter Street, San Francisco

My hair is a catastrophe. It's been over four months since I've had it cut. So I'm taking the opportunity to go and get a chop. The gay concierge told me to go to Vidal Sassoon downtown. He had nice hair so why not?


They set me up with Nicole. Nicole is from Michigan and just as pleasant as can be. I told her what I needed: total wash-n-go. I don't use product. I don't own a blow dryer. And I'll be damned if I'm gonna keep a brush. She accepted the mission and went at it.

I'm not going to lie to you. This was an expensive haircut. And Nicole was such a warm, unaffected presence that I gave her a large tip. Like Benjamin Franklin may have been involved. But it felt good. She never engaged in patter or small talk. She asked real questions and never let me off the hook on a pat answer. It was like having your girlfriend cut your hair. What can I tell you; traveling turns me into a softie.

Anyway, that's her there on the far right in the white sweater.


After the haircut I ran down Sutter, made a left on Kearny and ducked into Walgreens. I bought an umbrella. Then I made a left on Kearny, crossed Sutter and ducked into this place called "Boxed Foods." Nicole said they make a mean panini and I was totally in the mood to trust her. I did (trust her). They did (make a mean panini).

11:25am PST, Stockton Street, San Francisco

It's a gray, drizzly day here in the Frisco. Even so, I needed to go to the bank. The hotel concierge directed me to what turns out to be the very first Bank of America ever.

That's right. You read that correctly. The very first Bank of America ever. Eh-ver.


So I went in and completed a couple of fiduciary transactions. It smelled old in there. Completely in keeping with it being the very first Bank of America ever.


This guy is a racist. I'm sorry, I don't like to cast aspersions on cab drivers I don't know. But this guy had many, many opinions on the racial identity and proclivities of the assorted drivers thwarting him. Failure to properly accelerate at a green light? Idiot Chinese. Slow left turn? FOTB Cambodian (Fresh Off The Boat). Don't even get him started on how many blacks are taking over the cab business.

I'm sorry, but I don't do racism. Makes my blood boil. I almost jumped out of his cab in protest. And I would've! But it was raining. So I decided to stay there and punish him with a withering gaze and repudiational silence. Teach him to mess with me... A white man!

8:52am PST, Sutter Street, San Francisco

In the cab to Travisa, a visa processing service who assures me they can turn this thing around in a day.


The dreadlocked crew at Travisa looked like they were late for a happening. But they seemed efficient. Their concern is that I'm trying to go back with a tourist visa rather than a business visa since a business visa is what I just had. Dig?

The building looks like Sam Spade should have an office around here somewhere.

4:03am PST, The Hyatt Fisherman's Wharf

Wide awake.

6:15pm PST, The Hyatt Fisherman's Wharf

What! I'm up! I'm up! Good god, what time is it...? Alright. Gotta get motivated here. Gotta go get more passport photos taken for the new visa application. Where's my water...?


I've taken a cab to this Kinko's on Market Street down in the Haight. Closest one. Believe it or not. Now try to imagine what a passport photo might look like if the subject had been up for over 30 hours and stuffed into two planes. Try to imagine. If you dare...

5:30pm, PST, The Hyatt Fisherman's Wharf

Finally here.


I like my bed. Very high thread count. Downy soft. Gonna just test it out...for...a... sec-- zzzzzzzz

4:45pm PST, San Francisco International Airport

That's the world famous Transamerica Building there on the right.

I'm struck by how dead the airport is. There's like, seriously, no one here.

The Immigration official who checked my passport was stunned to find out I had to come all the way back to the U.S. in order to be able to go all the way back to Russia. He went through this litany of, "Did you try...?" and "Well how about if you were to..." and "I'm sure the way to do it is..." No, no, no, no, no, sir. No. I tried and how-abouted and way-to-do-it'd my ass of. Actually, Julia Klimenko, the very great and beautiful Julia Klimenko tried everything that could possibly be tried. I even suggested she run for a seat in the Duma and change the Russian laws before I had to embark on this nutty expedition. So yes, Officer, we tried everything.


That's the world famous Coit Tower there on the left. It sits on an airport support pillar and on Telegraph Hill downtown. Coit Tower is a monument to firefighters. Which is why the top of the tower is supposed to resemble the nozzle of a fire hose. If you say so.

4:36pm PST, On The Tarmac in San Francisco

We're getting off the plane now.


I've set my watch for local time. I don't know what time it is.

11:30am PST, Somewhere Over Canada

I've just awakened from a chemically induced sleep. Something like seven hours worth, I think. My blanket is inadequate. Up in First Class they're probably snuggled under patchwork quilts hand-knitted by Quaker midwives.

The flight attendants are preparing the 2nd meal in an English accent.


By all reports we are flying high and moving fast.


Everybody has their own personal video screen with touch-screen menu functions and a whole library of movies to choose from. I think I'll watch as much of THE SIMPSONS MOVIE as I can before we land.

11:45am, GMT, I See Black People

Without hyperbole or exaggeration, I did not see one single black person in Moscow. Not a one. But once arriving here in London, well, I did.


Below is my taxi to San Francisco. Officially, I'm in 39D. That's an aisle seat on the center section. On the 747 the center section has 4 seats. I've selected a row with no one else in it on the theory that I can turn it into a bed once we get under way. It's often a difficult gambit. Most people have the same idea.


London had quite a fog this morning. Many flights were canceled. But things are beginning to catch up now.

7:30am GMT, Heathrow Airport, London

Guess our pilots finally got a pair and decided to put us on the ground. I couldn't see a damned thing until our wheels touched Limey tarmac. Should I not have said that? Limey tarmac? Was that wrong?


I've just done that connecting flight thing some airports are especially diabolical at where you follow a bad joke of signs and corridors through an infinite series of labyrinths and passages until finally reaching civilization. Still, my original London to Frisco leg flight was canceled and now I have a six hour layover. I thought about going into town and, while I love London, I've already seen every last cathedral, wharf, and museum in the place and so have decided to bivouac here in Purgatory.


Of course, there is a Harrods in here in case I need to get a new posh frock.

6am, Somewhere over Eastern Europe

We had to be de-iced first. They pushed us back across from the terminal and this long arm with a nozzle and blinding lights like eyes swept over the wings spraying it down with the European formula, Type II, a blend of glycol and a thickening agent. It lasts longer but is more toxic than its American cousin, Type I. Curiously, the US Food and Drug Administration regulates Type I de-icers because it has been determined that it is hazardous to swallow. I find this frustrating. Can anyone honestly say that a cruller isn't better with a glaze of ethylene glycol? Seriously.


Flight attendats loitered in the aisles waiting for their cue to put on the live pre-flight show. When the curtain finally went up, their choreography was flawless, especially tight when pointing out the available emergency exits. That said, I did feel like the woman in our cabin didn't reach deep enough when first placing the mask over herself then helping her child.


I've awakened to the nudge of a flight attendant telling me to restore my seat to its full upright position. I've slept nearly the full four hours. I'd like to tell you that I've finally managed the fine art of sleeping on aircraft. The truth is I've managed the fine art of Xanax.

A "Friends" episode is on the in-flight TV. It's the one with Jeff Goldblum. Not their finest hour.

Apparently there's fog down there so we're going to hang out upstairs for a while. I'm going back to sleep...

3:15am Domodedovo Airport, Moscow

Because Aeroflot doesn't fly to San Francisco, the show booked me on British Airways. In order to make it work, I have to take a 5:40am flight to London leaving out of Domodedovo Airport, the newest of the Moscow triumvarate of international air emporiums.

Never actually went to bed. My driver picked me up from the apartment at 2am. Before that, Marius, Brandy, Lara and I went to go have Georgian food. I came back home, finished packing and headed out.


Truth be told, traveling at 4am is kind of a pleasure. There's no one at the airport. No lines anywhere. Not at security. Not at the counter. Not nowhere. Those of us on the flight mostly slumped in our seats, heads bobbing, and waited to board.




In order to get to your gate you have to pass through the Duty Free gauntlet.


I'm going to confess something about the Duty Free. What the hell is that anyway? The Duty Free. Is it some sort of no tax shop? And if so, so what what? You go in for a Toblerone the size of a speed bumb and you save 63 cents? Is that it?


The Duty Free always struck me as sort of like one of those boats that would stroke up and down the Seine during Vichy France. And you'd go down to the bank and pick up some black market chocolates or tomatoes. Clearly, I don't understand the Duty Free.

Alright. Almost time to board.


You can see my flight there third from the bottom.

The Dumbest Trip Ever

I know it's been a few days since I've posted anything of any significance. My rant against chandeliers drew the ire of one particular reader who shall remain nameless Brandy. So, feeling unappreciated I decided to boycott myself. In the end, I caved.

So as described in an earlier post, my Russian visa expires tomorrow at midnight. This means I have to vacate the Russian premises and get ye back to the U.S. But I'm still on the movie so I'm going to San Francisco, to the city with the Russian Consulate that handles visas for California residents. The plan is to be on the consulate doorstep when they open and work them over in order to process a new visa for me within 48 hours. Then I go straight back to SFO and get on a plane back to Moscow by Thursday or Friday.

This harebrained scheme will result in me spending roughly 30 hours in the air. Oh, boy. I can hardly wait. Can. Hardly. Wait.

A Night At The Opera

We went to go see Madame Butterfly at the Bolshoi. Well, not the Bolshoi exactly. The actual Bolshoi is sinking into the swampy frost on which the legendary theater rests. The building is wrapped in scaffolding while the government figures out how to afford the nearly 3 billion dollar restoration cost. Billion. With a 'B'.

So there are a couple of other theaters in the plaza that defines the Bolshoi complex. Texan Robert Wilson's controversial avante garde staging of MADAME BUTTERFLY was in the so-called 'Small Bolshoi' next door.


I gotta tell you, I'm not really much of a chandelier man. Don't like 'em. Never have. Probably never will. Seem garish and tacky to my eyes. But you go to a place like this and it would seem wrong somehow if there weren't a few about.

Now I have to tell you that many Gungans died bringing you these photos. Camera are strictly not allowed. But I smuggled one in anyway. Which was an accomplishment in and of itself since you are also not allowed to bring your coat into the hall. You are required to check it.

The auditorium itself is understated and lovely. I liked its size. Everyone had a great seat.


We had seats in the very front row. That's us, an orchestra, and opera singers -- in that order. Over our heads hung another ubiquitous and seemingly obligatory chandelier. Can we just stop already?


As for the opera itself, all the performers were top notch. The staging was beautiful in a spartan avant garde kind of way. Ultimately, the form squeezed out the emotion for me and by the time Cio-Cio-San invokes her own demise I was almost completely disconnected. Still, it was cool.