Everyone in Russia smokes. And I mean everyone. It is impossible to escape the stench of cigarette smoke. They smoke on the street. The smoke in restaurants. They smoke in public restrooms.

Today Jamie said, “If second hand cigarette smoke really killed people, everyone in this country would be dead.”

No doubt about it.

McDonald’s built its first restaurant in the early 1950s in San Bernardino, my hometown. And the first TV commercial I ever wrote was for McDonald’s back in about 1972. So I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for the company.

I remember reading stories in the news at the end of the Cold War when McDonald’s first opened in Russia — enormous crowds mobbed the store and they ran out of food within an hour or two. They had to call out the riot police.

Nothing has changed. The McDonald’s we saw in St Petersburg had lines out each door and at a walk-up window.

Jamie needed food yesterday after a day of hiking around the Kremlin and said, “Let’s just eat at that McDonald’s over there.”

It was another mob scene. They had lines 20 people deep at both of the walk up windows and probably ten or more deep at a dozen or so lines inside. Every seat was taken and people who had already received their food were circling the restaurant looking for tables like vultures looking for carrion.

The menu was completely in Russian, but we got lucky and the guy behind us in line spoke English and helped us order. I tried to buy him lunch, but he said, “I’m not eating. I’m just here with my friend.”

I can report that the food tastes exactly the same in Moscow, Russia as it does in Moscow, Idaho and the same in St Petersburg, Russia as it does in St Petersburg, Florida.

This was one very unusual day. The most unusual day of our trip so far. Let me explain.

We’re boarding the Trans-Siberian Express tonight and will be aboard for the next seven nights. We brought along seven changes of clothing, so that means we needed to wash our clothes today.

Of course, we could have had the hotel send them to their laundry, but the price sheet said that washing one pair of socks costs $9. And that’s the cheapest thing on the price sheet. I am, after all, the son of a Dutch dairy farmer and I wouldn’t pay $9 to wash a pair of socks if I had a billion dollars in the bank.

So I got online and found the only laundromat in Moscow. It’s about a ten minute bus ride away. We went to the concierge and he told us where to catch the bus and even marked it on a map for us.

We then wandered around Moscow like Moses in the desert. Of course, he was lost for 40 years and we only were only lost for 40 minutes or so before we found the bus stop, but you understand what I mean.

When we finally found the bus stop and got aboard the bus just sat there. I pushed a handful of rubles toward the driver, but he pushed them back, shaking his head and saying something unintelligible in Russian. This sequence of events was repeated several times.

Finally a woman came over and in very broken English said, “Bus not moving. We filming.” We looked around and, sure enough, the area around the bus was taped off and a film crew was hard at work. The woman told us to get off the bus and go to the next bus stop.

While we were looking at our map and trying to figure out where the next bus stop might be, the same woman approached us and said, “Where you going? We take you there.”

At first we thought we had misinterpreted her broken English, but no. She said the shoot was done at this location and if we got aboard the bus they would take us right to our destination.

We got aboard only to find a singer and a guitar player sitting in the front of the bus facing the rest of the passengers. Those passengers all began waving little Russian flags; the chubby, bearded guitar player began playing; a spirited but surprisingly bad singer began singing; and the formerly stationery bus began rolling down Moscow’s Golden Circle drive. We were also handed flags so we began waving them and singing along with the rest of the passengers to a Russian song we’d never heard before. A middle aged man wearing a bright red sash got up and made a speech that made everyone cheer. A woman came down the aisle and handed everyone — us included — caviar in little pastry cups.

The cameras were rolling and they kept taking shots of us and the whole thing was very odd.

I turned to Jamie and said, “I think we’re on the Russian version of Candid Camera.”

Ten minutes later the bus pulled over at our destination and the nice woman who had invited us aboard said, “This your stop.” She wanted us to get off the bus, but the camera man and the interviewer had different ideas.

“We’re from Russian television,” he said in pretty damn good English. “Can we interview you?”

“Sure.”

Where are you from? What are your names? How long have you been here? How do you like it? How have you been treated? Etc, etc, etc.

When he finished, the man in the bright red sash handed me his business card and said, “Send me email. I send you photos.”

As we climbed down out of the bus, the rest of the passengers on the bus cheered for us and waved their flags. We got to the sidewalk, the bus pulled away and Jamie said, “Do you have any idea what that was all about?”

“None,” I said. “But we’re going to be on Russian television.”

UPDATE: I saved the printed materials that the people gave me and showed them to the concierge here at the hotel. He laughed and said, “How did you get hooked up with this guy? He’s a candidate for mayor of Moscow.”

ANOTHER UPDATE: Yes. We got all our clothes washed at the laundromat for $17 which is what it would have cost for 2 pairs of socks. And as an added bonus, Russian laundromats don’t work like American ones. We simply dropped the clothes off and a nice woman washed and dried and folded them for us. Even the socks.

Let me quote what Wikipedia has to say about Moscow’s weather just so you understand where I’m coming from:

Typical high temperatures in the warm months of June, July and August are around 23 °C (73 °F), but during heat waves, which can occur anytime from May to September, daytime temperature highs often top 30 °C (86 °F) for sometimes one or two weeks. In the winter, temperatures normally drop to approximately −10 °C (14 °F), though there can be periods of warmth with temperatures rising above 0 °C (32 °F).

Got that? Pretty mild in the summer, but bitterly cold in the winter.

We’re staying at the Marriott Grand Hotel on Moscow’s nicest street, just down the road from the Kremlin, Red Square, Lenin’s Tomb. It’s a hoity toity place, with a guy playing a grand piano in the lobby, a full concierge staff, and breakfasts that go for $50 each. It’s Russia and we were a little nervous, so we splurged a little and stayed here because it’s a really nice place.

So considering the weather I noted above and the quality of the hotel, how do you explain the fact that our room is air conditioned, but not heated. There’s a note in the room that says — and I paraphrase — “If you need a heater, call the staff and request one.”

This is a mystery to me.

We were sitting in a ritzy cafe overlooking Lenin’s tomb watching the Russian Army Equestrian Team when they began performing to Pink Floyd’s “Hey, you”.

Never did I think I’d visit Lenin’s tomb. Never did I think I’d be sipping tea in a ritzy cafe next to Lenin’s tomb. Never did I think I’d hear Pink Floyd while sipping tea in a ritzy cafe next to Lenin’s tomb.

What planet is this?

The line to get into Lenin’s Tomb is legendarily long. I’ve read that it can wind its way around Red Square and that people can wait for hours.

The concierge at our hotel told us those stores were true. But he gave us a little tip: Little old Russian ladies get there early and nab the first places in line, then resell them to tourists.

“Show up at about 9:45 am and flash 200 rubles at the old woman at the front of the line,” he suggested. “One of them will sell you her place in line.”

We got there about 45 minutes early and there was no one in line. No one. Not a soul. We walked around Red Square and came back at 9:45. There were still only about 20 people in line and none of them were little old Russian ladies.

Weird.

At 10 am, they began admitting tourists to the Tomb. We snaked single file through the tomb and when we came out about five minutes later, there was no one in line.

I guess Communist leaders lose their luster when a country goes capitalist.

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 weakling. 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.

From what I can tell, Russian rulers changed their residences about as often as most people change their underwear. More often than some folks, I suspect.

For example, this is Peterhof, Peter the Great’s Summer Palace. Well, to be accurate, this is a small portion of the Summer Palace. It’s just too large to fit into one photo. If we had taken the photo from the far end of the reflecting pool instead of near the end of it, the Summer Palace would be a tiny spot in the distance.

The Summer Palace is a 45-minute hydrofoil cruise away from the heart of downtown St Petersburg. Oddly enough, it’s also 45 minutes away from the remarkably ornate park that was Peter’s Summer Garden.

If the commute from his summer house to his summer garden takes 45 minutes aboard a modern, high speed hydrofoil, one can only wonder how long it took several centuries ago.

We have a friend named Yulia who goes out with Chase Fleming, son of our friends Mark and Diane Fleming. She was born in the Ukraine and was nice enough to give us some Russian travel tips before we started our trip.

I readily admit that my knowledge of St Petersburg was virtually zero. St Petersburg, Russia? Hell, I don’t even know anything about St Petersburg, Florida.

So I was most surprised when Yulia called St Petersburg “the Venice of the North”. I had no idea – absolutely none – that St Petersburg had canals.

But I can now report with great authority that there are, indeed, canals crisscrossing the city. We took a cruise on the canals and viewed all the remarkable buildings that grace the landscape.

Or waterscape, as the case may be.