Bourdain: A Voice for Good Lost to the Ages

Bourdain: A Voice for Good Lost to the Ages

I lived in Moscow for approximately 13 years.  For most of that time, it was a great and fascinating place to live.  I learned much about life and business, while also meeting some of the most interesting people and characters I could ever imagine.  And even though the experience ended on a low point, I’ll always remember it positively, and my days there were some of the best of my life. 

I arrived under a booming economy at the tail end of Yeltsinism and rode that wave for the first few years, but a dark cloud was also forming and it kept growing.  As the economy boomed and Putin got accustomed to being in power, he started altering the country’s direction.  As his power continued to grow, he started protecting it by any and all means, even if that meant tearing up the constitution and rule of law while also tearing down the independent press and arresting (or worse) business and opposition leaders.  By the end of my time there, the Kremlin was doing things I didn't think possible and the country had become something I never could have imagined.

I only had access to a few English language TV channels there and CNN was one of them.  When Anthony Bourdain’s Parts Unknown started being broadcast in 2013, I immediately became a fan and always watched it whenever possible.  Like for so many others, Bourdain came across as someone I related to and shared certain interests with, namely a love of travel, food and different cultures. 

In 2014, Russia’s corruption and hostile climate had crossed the point of no return for me and I was on the last lap of my life there.  I was closing down and selling my Russian assets and preparing to move back to the States.  Putin’s grip on power seemed untouchable and the press and opposition had been marginalized to such an extent that their voices were barely ever heard in both Russia and the West. 

Then, I saw a commercial that the next Parts Unknown show was taking place in Russia ahead of the Sochi Olympics and it was starring Russia’s former Deputy Prime Minister (under Yeltsin) and opposition leader Boris Nemtsov.  This was quite a surprise.  I’d known Nemtsov from afar for many years and he had remained one of the only strong and consistent voices of opposition to the Putin regime.  I’d seen him speak at multiple protests and conferences over the years and respected his honesty, integrity and determination to fight for a free and liberal Russia despite the risks.

I stayed in to watch the Parts Unknown episode and was completely blown away by what I saw.  At the most unexpected time and on an even more unexpected platform, Anthony Bourdain had done more to tell the world about what was really happening in Russia, while also promoting Nemtsov’s and the opposition’s cause, than any other Western or Russian media outlet ever could have.  The Nemtsov interview was open, direct, strong and shocking.  It ripped apart the myth of Putin’s Russia right at a time when Putin and his PR machine were in overdrive pushing a false narrative to the world ahead of the Olympics. 

I sat in front of the TV like a child watching Saturday morning cartoons.  I was mesmerized.  The interview was exciting and awe inspiring to anyone who cared about the state of affairs in Russia.  Nothing close to this amazing and honest interview had ever been broadcast in Putin’s Russia and Bourdain had somehow made it happen (probably because it was in English and on what was considered a food/travel show).  The show was broadcast throughout the country and many Russians out in the regions were able to watch on honest discussion on what was really happening under Putin’s rule for the first time.  Anthony pushed the discussion about topics that were forbidden in the Russian press and Nemtsov answered honestly, bravely and directly.  The interview ended with Bourdain saying to Nemtsov that many of Putin’s critics had had bad things happen to them and asking if he was concerned for his life. 

Nemtsov courageously answered, "Tony, I was born here 54 years ago.  This is my country.  The Russian people are in a bit of trouble.  Russian courts don't work.  Russian education declines every year.  I believe that Russia has a chance to be free- has a chance.  It's difficult, but I must do it."

My respect and admiration for both Bourdain and Nemtsov grew immeasurably from that moment.  Nemtsov gave an interview that would surely ruffle many feathers and make him a bigger target to the authorities and Bourdain had cleverly used his global platform to give access to and promote a much needed voice and political cause that the world had largely decided to ignore.  

The next day everyone I knew was talking about the show.  “Did you see Nemtsov on Parts Unknown last night?” was a question I heard repeatedly by my friends and colleagues.  It was ground breaking stuff and it was a positive jolt for the opposition’s cause.  

Despite that, over the next months, the most corrupt Olympics in history happened, Ukraine had a revolution that was countered by Russia sending in troops to steal Crimea and start a war in the Donbas region and I liquidated or sold all my assets and businesses and left the country.  I was shocked that Russia chose this path and more shocked that the country’s people allowed it to happen, but sadly, there weren’t many places left for the opposition’s voice to be heard and people couldn't hear any other options.  

In February 2015, Nemtsov was still trying his best to make a positive difference.  He announced that he was putting together a report that would prove that the Russian army was actively fighting in southeastern Ukraine (something the government adamantly denied) and he was going to present this to the world.  A few days later, I turned on the TV and saw that Boris Nemtsov was assassinated walking home with his girlfriend from a restaurant on Red Square right next to the Kremlin.  He was shot four times in the back.  It was a heartbreaking and tragic turn of events.  A prominent political figure of Nemtsov’s stature had always been considered untouchable for this type of gangland killing and the fact that he was murdered in front of the Kremlin- one of the most policed and secure areas in all of Russia- said it all.  It proved to be a Coup de Grâce to Russia’s opposition movement and no one was ever charged for masterminding this heinous and brazen crime. 

I was planning on visiting Russia in March of that year, but once Nemtsov was murdered, I cancelled my plans and haven’t gone back since.  It was just too much for me to accept. 

Since Anthony’s unexpected passing, this memory has continuously come to my mind.  Anthony was the real deal- a generous, ethical, and forthright person who endeavored to break down barriers and improve the world around him in any way he could and I believe that is why his death has had such an affect on so many people.  I never had the good fortune to meet him, but even now, weeks later, I’m still thinking about him.  Sadly, like Nemtsov before him, his voice for good is now lost to the ages.  Rest in Peace Mr. Bourdain- you made a difference-

 

Anthony Bourdain: June 25, 1956 - June 8, 2018

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Interested in reading another blog that touches upon some of these issues?  Please click the link below to read: A Spark of Revolution in Russia That Didn’t Catch-  

https://libertinereflections.blogspot.com/2018/03/russia-journal-election-fraud-and-spark.html


Or, for a more light hearted tale about a date I had in Russia in the old days when I took the girl to the exact restaurant I believe Nemtsov dined at on his fateful last night.

https://libertinereflections.blogspot.com/2018/02/gouzelle-from-museum.html

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A European Tour- Prague to Monte Carlo

A European Tour- Prague to Monte Carlo

“He who lives in harmony with oneself, lives in harmony with the world-” Marcus Aurelius

  

Prague- One of the Most Beautiful Cities in Europe

After I graduated from college I decided to do the typical three-month European backpacking tour that many young Americans do.  It seemed like a good idea before starting adult life, but once I stumbled onto Prague in the mid-90s, I threw out all my plans and decided to stay there for a while.  It was an exciting and different place in the middle of a cultural transformation.  After my money ran out, I got a job cooking at a vegetarian café/lounge for around $1.50 an hour.  I pulled in roughly $200 a month.  It wasn’t much, but it was enough to live on back in those early post-Velvet Revolution days, but my father, who’d paid for my college education, couldn’t understand any of it and after a few months demanded that I come back to the U.S. and start a real job.

“I didn’t pay for you to go to college so that you could be a short order cook in Czechoslovakia!” he yelled at me on a particularly stressful phone call before adding, “If you don’t come home now- never call me again!”  This proved to be the last time I would speak to him for over a year, but I deeply felt that I had to stay in Prague to see what life would send my way.

Over a year later, I heard that my father, his wife and my aunt and uncle were going on a vacation to Spain.  They were planning on renting a car and driving from Madrid to Seville, Cordoba and Granada with a short stay over in Toledo on the way down.  I hadn’t left Prague city limits for a year and had never been to Spain, so the trip sounded really good.  I called up my old man and suggested that it was time to bury the hatchet.  I then mentioned his trip to Spain.  He knew what I was after and told me, “I’ll tell you what- if you can be at the Madrid airport when we arrive, you can join us.  I’ll pay for your hotels and food, but you’ll have to get to and from Spain on your own.”

He was always a stickler on this kind of stuff, but I agreed to the terms.  “Sounds good- I’ll see you in Madrid!”  I told him and hung up the phone.  

A few days before they were to arrive, I filled my backpack with clothes, books and as much cheap Czech wine as I could carry and headed to the train.  The ride would take me south to Vienna, then west through Northern Italy and southern France to Barcelona and then over to Madrid.  In Europe, train tickets are valid for months and you’re allowed to get on and off as many times as you like if it’s along the route.  I managed to scrape up a few hundred dollars for the entire trip, so while it would be tight, I planned a few stops at some select cities along the way that I’d never been to.

I took the overnight to Vienna and then grabbed an early morning train to Italy.  Being a literature major and lover of Shakespeare, I decided Verona would be my first stop.  It was around 4pm when I got into the fair city where Romeo and Juliet took place.  I found a cheap room by the station, packed a smaller backpack with essentials (books, wine, etc.) and went to explore the city.    

Verona's Coliseum

Verona is a picturesque Italian town with its own mini-Coliseum.  I’ve always been a student of Roman history, so the place really appealed to me.  After walking around a bit, I picked up some Italian meats, cheeses and bread at a deli for about $10 and went into the Coliseum.  It was a beautiful and historic place.  It was also empty with no guards and tourists were few and far between.  I sat down under a late afternoon sun, opened a bottle of Czech wine and rolled a joint.  I then ate, drank, wrote some postcards and an entry into my journal and read some Marcus Aurelius.  It seemed like an appropriate read for the place.  After a couple hours, as the sun was setting, I made my way back to the hotel.  I showered and then had some drinks at a cool little bar.  It was a perfect start of my European tour. 

The next morning I caught an early train to Milan, transferred to Genoa and again to Monaco.  My next stop was Monte Carlo to see this notoriously elegant city and to gamble at their famous casino.  I arrived around 5pm.  Unlike most cities in Europe, Monte Carlo discourages “transient tourists” and doesn’t have any place to store luggage at the train station.  I had a monster backpack but was determined to get to the casino, so I walked around and went into every hotel I could find to see if a concierge would hold my bag for a few hours before I’d catch the overnight train to Barcelona.

My quest for a kind concierge was quite disheartening.  No one would take my backpack and they weren’t nice about it either.  After forty minutes of rejection, I decided to try one more place and if they said no, I’d give up and go to Nice for dinner instead.  When I entered the next boutique hotel, the guy at reception must have seen the anguish in my eyes.

“Excuse me, is there any chance you could hold my backpack for a few hours so I can take a look around the city?”  I asked in a voice betraying no hope of a positive answer.

Surprisingly, this was the moment when things shifted: “Oh, I really should not,” he struggled out, “But, since our restaurant is closed today, I could put it there for you.”

I thanked him profusely and dropped off the backpack.  I’d already changed into my best clothes before arriving, which were a pair of raggy Levi’s and a worn flannel shirt.  (Living for over a year on $200 a month didn’t leave a budget for clothes.)  

Port Hercule in Monte Carlo

I then made my way toward the casino via the port.  Once at Port Hercule, I stopped gobsmacked.  The sun was setting and the Mediterranean was a deep, rich blue like I’d never seen before.  Yachts were gracefully coming and going and the backdrop was this little elegant city surrounded by lush rolling hills.  It was stunning.  It seemed to be the most beautiful place on earth.  I decided to roll a joint in honor of such beauty, so I sat on a mooring post and rolled one up on my lap.  As I sat there, the worst dressed person in Monte Carlo, watching the sun slip behind the hills, but still sparkle off the sea smoking a joint as elegantly dressed citizens strolled by in shock and horror, a previously unknown level of beauty and refinement presented itself to my youthful mind.

The Casino de Monte Carlo

Once that realization passed, I walked up to the Casino de Monte Carlo.  Just walking into a posh place of such architectural beauty was intimidating.  I registered at the reception and received many scowling glances from everyone who saw me.  It was painfully clear that in my attire, I floated among the rich like a putrid fart in an elevator.

When I entered the floor of the casino I couldn’t find any of the games I expected.  It was all baccarat and roulette.  I asked a casino employee if they had blackjack, “Of course not, Monsieur,” he said, clearly offended that I would suggest such a thing, “This is the European casino.  You need to go to the American casino for that game.”

“American casino?  Oh, where’s that?” 

He reluctantly told me how to get there (it was only on another floor, not another building) and off I went.    

The American casino lacked the elegance of the European one, but it was crowded.  I had $100 to gamble and blackjack was my only hope of making a decent run at it.  The table was full, so I stood around drinking gin and tonics, observing, and waiting for a place to open up.  I noticed that the other patrons in high-end suits and designer dresses were stealing troubled glances in my direction.  

A player finally busted out in front of me and I took his seat.  When I sat down, two other players got up and left the table in what appeared to be disgust.  I’d never been snubbed by fellow gamblers before, but I shrugged it off- we all have our own path to walk in this life and this was mine.  I ordered another drink and cashed in my $100.  I then put up the table minimum as my first bet. 

When you only have $100 to gamble, you’re really at the mercy of Fate.  You need to be hot from the start or you’ll bust out- it’s that simple.  Tonight, after getting through so much bad snobbish energy, Lady Luck was waiting to reward me.  I won my first five hands. 

I started stepping up my bets.  I ordered another gin and tonic and some cigarettes and started making some small talk with the players.  As the cards kept coming, I started playing two hands when the spot opened up next to me.  This is a strategy I always try to employ, as one hand often covers the other and when you’re running hot, you can really make a bank.  I was running hot and it spread to the entire table.  As time flowed by we were all hooting and hollering as the dealer kept busting and paying us off one hand after another.  It was a blast.   

The drinks kept coming.  The cards kept hitting.  I was splitting cards and doubling down.  It was a run I’ll never forget. 

When I’m winning, I always put some money into my pocket after big hands.  Once a chip is off the table, it stays off the table.  That’s my rule.  About an hour into the session I had over $100 in my pocket and easily another $300 on the table.  The other players and I were talking and laughing with each other.  A crowd even formed to see what all the noise was about.  It’s amazing how winning money can break down social barriers between anyone.  

After another hour or so, things shifted again.  Understanding these shifts in luck is what separates the good gamblers from the bad.  I was young and drunk by now (drinking on an empty stomach) and I started chasing my losses by increasing my bets- a seriously foolish thing to do.  The cards were brutal and before I knew it, I was cleaned out and had to leave.  The bourgeois crowd was actually sad to see me crash and burn in such a spectacular fashion, but it wasn’t as bad as it looked.  I had quietly accumulated a large bulge of chips in my front pocket.  When counted, they totaled $425, which was a $325 profit!  These winnings would easily fund my entire trip.  

I cashed in and made my way back down to the port.  The moon had risen and everything was in a nice serene light.  I lit a smoke and stared at the spectacular surroundings.  What an amazing night!  I felt so grateful that I had stayed true to myself and was now at this place experiencing these things instead of wasting my youth in some dreary entry level job back in the States.   

My overnight train was still a couple hours away and I was hungry, so I decided to splurge on a nice meal.  I stopped at a high-end little restaurant.  Now that I was out of the casino, I’d again assumed the role of the worst dressed vagrant in Monte Carlo and the Maître-de looked at me with contempt when I asked for a table.  Remembering that a man is only worth his ambition, I took the rudeness as inspiration.  I ordered beer and perused the menu.  It was quite pricey to say the least, but I was determined to finish Monte Carlo on my terms.

When the waiter came back with my beer, he asked if I was ready to order.

“Yes, Monsieur, I am ready.  I’ll start with a soup de Poisson,” I said in my best, pretentious French accent, “and a T-bone steak.” 

As I sat there awaiting the best meal I would have since arriving in Europe over a year earlier, it didn’t matter one bit that I was spending over a third of the winnings for it.  I was living in the present and fully understood what Marcus Aurelius meant when he said, “We should not fear death, but rather we should fear never beginning to live.”

Marcus Aurelius

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Want to see how this one ends?  Please click the link below for Part II:

https://libertinereflections.blogspot.com/2018/07/european-journey-part-ii-monte-carlo.html

Also, if you like stories about exotic places you should check out my extended travelogue of my month in  India:  

 https://libertinereflections.blogspot.com/2018/02/india-journal-part-i.html

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The Scars and Stains of Respublicanski Stadium

The Scars and Stains of Respublicanski Stadium

Respublicanski Stadium- Eastern Europe's second largest sporting facility with a capacity of 80,000 people

Kiev, Ukraine, 1998

  

So I get call at around 2pm from my American buddy Patrick who tells me that Ukraine is playing Russia in a World Cup qualifying match at 7pm at Respublicanski Stadium.  He’s going with his Dutch friend Jan and they have an extra ticket.  He asks if I want to join them.  I had nothing to do and it sounded like fun, so we agreed to meet in front of the stadium at 6pm to grab some drinks and then go to the game.  I’d been living in Kiev for some time, but hadn’t been to a major football match like this before, so I was excited to go. 

Respublicanski Stadium is the second largest sports facility in Eastern Europe and holds over 80,000 people.  It was swarming with people when I arrived, but it was fairly easy to find Pat and Jan, as there weren’t many foreigners about and these two guys stuck out in the crowd like the moon in a clear evening sky.  They were dressed differently from the Ukrainians.  Also, Jan is a tall guy, probably six and half feet, with wavy hair.  Pat is a stocky Irish-American from Boston, which also provides a strong contrast to the Ukies who were all pretty non-descript in bland tones.  Anyway, we met up and Pat says that they’re selling beer in the stadium, so instead going to a bar around the corner to pre-game like we discussed, we’ll just go in, get through the security, grab some beers and find our seats. 

We have some really great seats right at mid-field, maybe 10 rows up.  It’s lively and there’s much energy emanating from the crowd.  This is also the first time beer is being sold in the stadium.  This is probably because a leading oligarch recently took over the brewery that is selling these beers.  It’s safe to assume that he managed to get permission from the city to set up small beer stands throughout the stadium for a nice bribe, but that’s just the way things are done out here.

The game is a real nail biter with it tied 1-1 going into the close and then in the final minutes Ukraine manages to squeak a goal in and they win 2-1.  We’re told by a Ukrainian sitting next to us that this is the first time that Ukraine has ever beaten Russia, which makes it an even more sweet victory.  Everyone is jubilant and going crazy.  On the way out, we stop and get another round for the road and begin the slow walk through the exits.  People watching is interesting with everyone in a good mood and we’re swept up by the atmosphere.

As we get out of the stadium and are making our way to the main boulevard we pass a guy and girl getting their photo taken with the stadium in the background.  Jan, always the joker, decides to jump into the photo and puts his arm around the girl with a big toothy smile.  Pat and I turn to see what Jan is doing and just catch the photo bomb occurring.  He’s smiling and clearly trying to just have some fun, but the Ukrainians start freaking out and all of a sudden the guy who was having his photo taken with the girl is getting in Jan’s face and being all aggressive.  Pat and I cannot believe that this is anything serious, so we just sit back and wait for Jan to talk his way out of it, but after a couple minutes, it’s heating up, not cooling down.  Jan is apologizing and saying he’s sorry and “it was just a joke” in his competent, but clearly not natural Russian, but he’s surrounded now, so I hand my almost full beer to Patrick and tell him that I’ll try to end this before it gets out of control and walk over.

This was not a good idea.  I get up to Jan and I'm about to say that it’s all just a misunderstanding, but once I step in, the guy shifts to me and immediately takes a swing at my face.  I reflexively dodge it, but out of nowhere I’m in a real fight and this guy is coming after me with abandon.  Now I realize my error.  I was caught up in the moment and had forgotten what being an olive skinned guy with dark hair means to many Ukrainians.  It means I’m an asshole.  I’m a piece of shit.  I’m from a part of the world that they can and will fuck with whenever possible.  While it’s gotten better over the years, back then, the country was still pretty isolated and racism was potent and something that many people clung to, a legacy of Soviet culture.  They’d lost so much over the years that having someone else to blame and pin their anger on was almost encouraged by the authorities.

So this guy is coming at me and the only thing I can do is defend myself.  I start swinging back and I land a couple good hits to his face, but as he goes down, I’m then hit from behind by one of his friends.  I turn and I now have another drunk Ukrainian to deal with.  He runs to tackle me, I side-step him, grab his shirt and whip him down behind me, using his momentum, so he goes falling down on his face, but it’s no use- it’s turned into a riot and everyone is going after the dark skinned asshole who is fighting the white Ukrainians.  It’s intense.  It’s a mob.  I’m moving, punching, getting whacked and throwing people around like crazy.  One guy finally manages to grab hold of me and then he and the crowd behind him started pushing me hard and fast toward a wall of a big carnival style tent that was set up in the parking lot.  They want to crush me into it, but at the last minute I manage to swing the guy holding me around and free myself and the whole posse goes into the wall instead.  It was a good move, but it was also no use, as I then immediately had another group replace them. 

This was the type of fight that if I went down, I’m sure I’d be stomped on my head and body until I couldn’t move.  It was literally life and death in a sea of violence and hatred.  It was all out war.  It was only a fucking photo bomb for goodness sake! 

After I managed to get through a few more people, I’m tackled hard from the side.  I didn’t see the guy coming, so we’re both airborne upon contact and then we land on a small foot table that an old woman, a Ukrainian babushka, was selling sunflower seeds on and the guy’s on top of me.  The little table collapses with a bang, the babushka’s screaming and I’m rolling around with this dirty, drunk Ukrainian, but I have so much adrenaline in my system, that I’m on fire.  I squirm out from under him and pin him down by the neck.  I whack him a good couple times hard in the face but right then, I’m grabbed from behind by the hair something fierce.  I swear, I’ve never had my hair pulled so hard in all my life. I was actually lifted up from the ground by it and when I turn around ready to unload, I see it’s a cop holding me! 

I’m relieved and immediately yell, “Ya ne hochoo- Ya ne hochoo etot!” which means, “I don’t want it, I don’t want this!”

I now have a moment to look around and see the destruction and crowd.  There are at least 10 cops surrounding us and it’s a complete mess.  Seeds everywhere, the babushka is screaming about her table and the cops are lining up all the Ukrainians that were after me.  The cop holding my hair demands my passport.  I take it out and when he sees it is a U.S. passport, there’s a look of shock in his eyes like he’s just seen a unicorn.  He, like many Ukrainians at this time, cannot understand how a dark skinned person is an American.  They all think I’m Jewish, Georgian, Arab, Indian or god knows what, but never an American.  He lets go of my hair and turns to the cop next to him and says, “On Americanske!” ("He's an American!") with an almost nervous chuckle.  I now know that I’m safe.  I try to explain what happened and how it started, but as I start, he tells me to, “Go, leave now!” and they turn their attention to the line-up of the drunken bastards who were after me. 

I quickly find Jan and Patrick, who actually came up when the cop what looking at my passport and we b-line it out of there in a hurry and go straight to the bar.  With our adrenaline through the roof, we slammed drinks at a fast clip until closing time.  I learned that Jan was jumped by a couple guys after the shit storm started and Patrick dumped the beer and tried to bring some order to the chaos, but it wasn’t containable with so many different people jumping in and trying to cause serious harm.  Thank god for the cops- without them, I don’t even want to contemplate what would’ve happened.

As we compare wounds, surprisingly, none of us had any visible, physical scars.  They never got a good shot in on my face, but my clothes are ripped and totally stretched.  I took a lot of blows to my head, as I instinctively pulled in and covered up when things became too crazy, but I somehow managed to stay afloat in a raging sea of violence long enough to walk away.  The next day, my head was bruised something awful, but at the bar this night, I was elated with relief and feeling no pain.

From this incident, I stopped going to all sporting events in Kiev (and later in Russia).  Years before I had a similar skinhead attack at a hockey game in Prague, but it never got so out of control and the true danger didn’t really sink in.  Now, I just couldn’t find it worthwhile to put myself into such a position again for the sake of watching sports.  I also accepted in no uncertain terms that despite believing I was a white person for my entire American childhood, outside of the States, I wasn’t white and there were many people out in the world that could only see me as an object to hate. 

I somehow got used to this notion and I grudgingly accepted it.  I saw it as the price of entry for the opportunity of living in a country going through an amazing once in a lifetime cultural revolution.  There is always a balance in life and racism was an offset to the life changing opportunities that this huge emerging market provided- for me at least.  While it got a lot better over time as the country opened up, the cops were the slowest to change.  It’s strange how that’s something similar to the U.S.   

I later found out that they stopped selling beer at the stadium after that one game.  Cramming 80,000 Ukrainians into a stadium and getting them drunk on cheap beer wasn’t a good idea.  Thank goodness no one was killed that night, and when I say no one, I’m mostly thinking about myself.  I also never photo bombed anyone ever again, why risk it?  

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Thanks for reading.  Interested in another tale from Kiev’s golden early post-Communist days?- check out this blog I wrote on dealing with Police Harassment:

https://libertinereflections.blogspot.com/2017/12/the-benefits-of-having-positive.html

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