There’s a big, special event of some sort going on this weekend in Red Square. The entire Square is filled with tents and temporary performance facilities.

One of the groups performing is the Russian Army Equestrian Team, which is practicing in one of those temporary venues right next door to Lenin’s tomb.

At the exact moment we walked into the tomb, the equestrian team began performing to the theme from the Mission: Impossible TV show.

How weird is that? Every week Mission: Impossible showed American agents overthrowing Communist dictators and its theme song begins playing just as we enter the tomb of the most honored Commie of them all.

I made a point of using the men’s room next door to the tomb. Seemed like an appropriate way to honor the man who inflicted so much misery on the world.

By the way, Lenin’s been dead for 90 years and it doesn’t really look like there’s much of the original body left. Might as well be a wax dummy at Madame Tussaud’s.

Vladimir, the man in the middle of this photo, is the one who titled it “The three amigos and the Crimean cognac”.

Those of you who know me well know that I rarely drink alcoholic beverages. I was never much of a drinker to begin with and pretty much avoid all alcohol since my bout with Lyme Disease.

With that in mind, you may find the following story hard to believe, but Jamie will verify the details.

We boarded the speed train from St Petersburg to Moscow at 1:30 pm and quickly found our seats near the back of the first class car. Seated directly across the aisle from us were two burly Russian men about my age. Like many of the other Russians aboard, they had numerous alcoholic beverages arrayed across their dining trays.

After a few minutes one of them leaned over to me and said, “Are you Americans?”

When we answered in the affirmative, he waved a bottle of liquor in my direction and said, “Would you like a drink?”

Before we left home, our Ukrainian friend Yulia had warned us not to allow a Russian to buy us a drink. “They’ll get insulted if you want to stop drinking before they do,” she said. “You may end up in a fight.”

Hmmm, I thought, this may be the situation Yulia warned us about. So I politely declined the man’s kind offer by saying that I have a medical condition that prohibits me from imbibing.

He shrugged and gave me a look that clearly said, You are a pathetic Yankee pussy. You are the son of a dog. The only people you insult worse than my people are your own people. I am ashamed to share this fine Russian train car with you and your kind.

At least that’s what I read into his shrug and look of disappointment. So I thought, what the hell. Let’s go for it.

The two Russians, my new best friends, were named Vladimir and Vasily. They proudly told me that their drink of choice was a 50-year old cognac produced in Crimea. And, of course, that also made it my drink of choice.

I usually don’t like the taste of alcohol, but this was good. It was smooth. I turned to Jamie and said, “This is the best alcohol I’ve ever had. It makes my stomach all warm and tingly.”

After I finished my first glass, Vladimir extended his hospitality and poured another round for the three of us. I liked the second one as much as the first.

I let Jamie have a sip, but I really didn’t want to. Let the bitch find her own Russian friends with 50-year old Crimean cognac.

Oh, my god. I can’t believe I said that. It must be the cognac speaking.

Pour another one, Vlad, pour another one.

The Marriott hotel in Moscow helped me book tickets on a train from Helsinki to Saint Petersburg. That’s all I knew about the train.

Jamie and I decided to do a little homework to prepare for the trip between Helsinki, Finland and St Petersburg, Russia. We visited Helsinki’s main station the day before our departure and asked the nice woman in the information booth a few questions.

“You can’t miss the train,” she said. “It’s the one that doesn’t look like any of the others. And it’s a Russian train so make sure you keep your passports with you.”

“Will they check them here in Helsinki or in St Petersburg or aboard the train,” I asked.

She laughed. “They’ll check them four different times aboard the train.”

And they did. First an unsmiling conductor checked them. Then an unsmiling customs inspector checked them. Then an unsmiling immigration inspector checked them. And finally, some other undetermined, unsmiling official checked them again. Apparently just to make sure the other unsmiling officials hadn’t screwed up.

All that aside, the train was great. It looked brand new inside and out, but even better, it was a “speed train” that quickly revved up to a top speed of 130 miles an hour. I know the exact speed because there was an LED readout that constantly updated the current speed.

The countryside was beautiful, a “stewardess” served us a delicious breakfast, and we were in St Petersburg before we knew it.

We made new friends on the cruise between Stockholm, Sweden and Helsinki, Finland. And almost lost them.

This is Teppo, our new Finnish friend. We rode down the elevator with him, his wife Kristina, his friend Ismo and Ismo’s wife Kulika. A bit later Jamie and I were out on the sundeck trying to take a selfie when Teppo came out and volunteered to take a photo of us.

Jamie handed him her camera, Teppo took it, immediately handed it to me, squeezed between us, and said, “Here. Take a picture of us.”

Some time later Jamie and I were sitting on the observation deck as the ship sailed down the beautiful fjord that leads from Stockholm to the Baltic Sea. Teppo and his entourage came into the room and he brought them over to make introductions.

Teppo, easy to pronounce. Same with Kristina. Ditto on Ismo. But Kulika is a tongue twister in Finnish. When I tried to pronounce it, they all looked kind of embarrassed and told me I was pronouncing it incorrectly. I tried again, but they looked even more uncomfortable. They tried to coach me, but the more I tried to say it the more uncomfortable they got.

Finally, Kristina said, “The way you pronounce it is a very bad word in Finnish.” They all nodded in agreement.

“Really?” I said. “What does it mean the way I pronounced it?”

They all hesitated to answer. Teppo finally solved the impasse by patting his penis.

So rest assured, I am doing my part for international relations by calling one of our new Finnish friends a prick.

While walking outside the Norwegian royal palace today I said something dumb and immediately started trying to correct myself. Jamie looked at me and said, “Diggin’ your hole out of a grave, are you?”

That’s what we call a “Robinson-ism”. Jamie’s late grandfather’s last name was Robinson and this mixing of metaphors and making up words and phrases seems to be genetic because at least three generations of Robinsons have been afflicted with it.

Some of Jamie’s are hilarious, others are mysterious, and some are just plain deep thoughts stumbled upon accidentally. Like these:

In attempting to say she didn’t trust something I was saying:
“There’s something rotten in Melville.”

Explaining that she had to sign an agreement not to give any stock tips when she went to work for a major bond trading firm:
“I had to sign an ethnic clause.”

Describing an effeminate server:
“Our waiter is gay as a kite.”

And in a similar vein:
“What does it mean when they say someone’s ‘three as a queer dollar bill?’”

As I was recovering from a lingering illness:
Jamie: How are you feeling?
Jim: Old and tired.
Jamie: You’re not old and tired. You’re young and viral. (Pauses, realizing that that’s not the correct word). No, that’s not right. I meant to say you’re young and vile.

Referring to her initial opinion of Madonna:
“She’s just a flash in the pants.”

Immediately after our first meeting someone who later became a very good friend:
Jim: Do you think he’s gay?
Jamie: No. He’s just Canadian.

While watching Jeopardy:
Jamie: Isn’t he Canadian?
Jim: Who?
Jamie: Alex Quebec.

While telling me that our cat was nearly a year old:
“Last year at this time Sydney was just a twinkle in her mama’s belly.”

While telling me how intelligent dogs are:
“Dogs are smart. It’s just human nature.”

While telling me how poor someone was:
“She doesn’t have a squat to piss in.”

Describing the our wealthy neighbors’ new service elevator to the wine cellar:
“Look. They have a dumb bell waiter.”

Explaining why the Lakers weren’t playing well early in the season:
“They’re just getting their feet warm.”

Responding to me while I’m trailing behind as she races down the street:
Jim: Are you in a hurry?
Jamie: No, I just want to get there fast.

While dining at a seafood restaurant:
“What kind of fish is in clam chowder?”

In response to me telling her how to drive:
“Stop being a backstreet driver.”

Thinking she had figured something out:
“I just had an epitome.”

In reference to an unnecessary trip some business acquaintances were taking:
“Do they really need to go or is this just one of those Bullwinkles?”

Describing a horrible odor:
“It smelled bad enough to knock over a train.”

Suggesting that we should get a little exercise:
“We’ll just walk for half an hour, no matter how long it takes.”

In saying that one of our cats is stupid:
“No one ever said he was the brightest tool in the shed.”

In discussing Texas weather:
“Have you noticed that it usually gets hot when it gets warm?”

Unfortunately, she’s much more careful since I started my “Robinson-ism” file so her Robinson-isms are now far fewer and much farther between. And that, of course, means I treasure each of them more than ever.

Back at my first job in advertising I worked with a copywriter who handled the Van De Kamp Bakery account. Every week she had to write descriptive copy that made a number of different bakery items sound delicious.

After a couple months of this she had run out of new ways to describe something as flaky and tasty. So she resorted to repeated use of the onomonopia “Mmm”. She was very particular about the number of m’s in Mmm. It had to be exactly three. Not two. Not four. Three and three only. One week she got in a huge, screaming argument with the art director because he added a fourth m in order to make a line of copy look more balanced. She went crazy, screaming, “There are only three m’s in Mmm.”

Well, if that copywriter were here in Stavanger, she might be tempted to make it Mmmmmmm.

Check out the item in the photo above: There simply aren’t enough m’s to adequately describe caviar in a toothpaste tube. I’m not a fan of caviar’s taste nor texture, but I know that devotees are willing to pay small fortunes for Beluga caviar. I just looked it up. The going rate is $200-300 per ounce.

This, obviously, is not Beluga. How do I know? Because it costs $1.30 per tube.

Caviar in a tube, however, is not the oddest culinary delight to be found in Norway. That honor goes to a restaurant we saw advertised in Bergen. The ad touted the fact that the restaurant was, and I quote, “Located next to the leprosy museum.”

Mmmmmmmm.

Here’s a long, seemingly unrelated story that actually isn’t: I consult with Barnett Cox, an advertising agency in San Luis Obispo. About five years ago Dave Cox Barnett came to me and said, “I’ve hired a new copywriter and I want you to mentor her.” I was horrified when he told me she was almost my age. Crap, that’s old for a copywriter. How in the hell, I wondered, can I possibly teach some old woman how to write copy?

We spoke. I liked her, but still had little hope that I could ever turn a longtime newspaper reporter into much of a copywriter.

Well, I was wrong. I’ve told anyone who would listen that Suzy McDonald was great. Is great. We hit it off so well that I often refer to her as my office wife. And not in a complimentary way.

One day Suzy asked where we were going to begin our trip around the world. When I said, “Iceland”, she said, “Why are you going there?”

“Well, I’ve always wanted to visit Iceland,” I said, “but Jamie wants to go so she can ride an Icelandic horse.”

That’s when Suzy said one of the most surprising things I’ve ever heard.

“I have an Icelandic horse. You guys should come up for lunch and Jamie can ride him.”

So one Sunday afternoon we took our friend Ray up to Cambria for lunch with Suzy and her husband Bob. Jamie and Ray and I later agreed that it was one of the nicest afternoons we’d ever spent. Their house is beautiful. The lunch was spectacular. The surroundings were stunning. The company was great. And Jamie, who as far as I knew had never ridden a horse, had a ball riding Suzy’s Icelandic horse.

Today we went to a stable a few miles outside of Reykjavik. We rode Iceland horses in Iceland, which I guess is a big deal to aficionados of Icelandic horseflesh. Other horses have four gaits — walk, trot, cantor and gallop. But Iceland horses have their own unique gait — the tölt — which is so smooth it feels like you’re gliding. One guide said that when a horse is tölting, you could drink a mug of beer without spilling a drop.

My horse’s was named Lucky. Jamie’s was named Eyjafjallajökull or some equally unpronounceable Icelandic name.

Here you go, Suzy. Here’s a photo of Jamie in Iceland with Eyjafjallajökull.

I was standing in line at the downtown post office yesterday — our last day in San Luis Obispo — when I received a frantic phone call from Jamie. She was hyperventilating, gasping for air so rapidly that I couldn’t understand what she was saying. She was finally able to blurt out that she had lost our passports.

Holy crap. We were scheduled to leave for our going away dinner just two hours later.

Displaying a Phil Jackson Zen-like calmness that’s completely foreign to me, I tried to calm her down so she could help figure out where the missing documents might be. Strange as it seems (even to me) I calmly finished my business at the post office, strolled down to the bank to make a last minute deposit, and then thought “Hmmm. We only visited two places this morning, so they must be at either the town’s other post office or the AT&T store.”

I quickly drove to the other post office, bypassed the people waiting in line, walked up to the counter and said, “Did someone leave a large gray wallet here this morning?”

Before the clerk could answer the first woman in line said, “Your wife just called. We’ve all been looking around, but it’s not here.”

“Thanks,” I hollered as I ran out the door.

The AT&T store was just around the corner so it only took a couple minutes to drive there. A young rep greeted me at the front door and asked how he could help.

“Did anyone leave a large gray wallet here this morning?”

“I’ll go in back and take a look.”

Just as he disappeared around the corner the rep who had helped us earlier that day walked out from the back office. He saw me and said, “Hey, I have your wife’s wallet.” He pulled it out from under the counter with a big smile on his face.

But I’m sure it wasn’t nearly as big as the smile on Jamie’s face when I called to tell her the passports had been found.