The people around me had begun to stir, the flight about 12 hours total, we had about 9 hours in the can. I was sitting among a group of Acrobats returning home after a extended tour through the US. As the flight started, everyone had been in a festive mood, the pressure was off, the party was on. As the jet got off the ground, I had gone through the cabin, back to the head, I was surprised by the number of pints and quarts of liquor the passengers had brought on board. I had never seen so much booze in flight before, and was sure this would cause trouble with the attendants. As I returned to my seat, I passed a cart full, the attendants were in on it, they were selling it. I guess there job would be easier, if everyone would just pass out. Well the cabin had begun to stir, and it seemed their taste had changed, now they were hitting the Irish Whiskey. I was pretty pickled at this point, and opted out of the second half of the party, chosing instead, to sober up a little for my arrival. I had hit a few snags, procuring my passport, snags of a self inflicted nature. That old ticket, I got out in the New Mexico desert, had come back to haunt me. My only foul, I thought was not having proof of insurance. I had been insured, and chose to ignore it. At the last minute, it had reared its ugly head, and was a roadblock to my travel. I think that if that ticket, was from any other State, I never would have made my flight. Amazingly, I was able to call the Judge in Taos, and discuss my situation. On my word, that upon returning to the states, I’d resolve the problem, she removed the holds. I have never been good about taking care of tickets, and when I returned, always the rebel, I neglected this issue yet once more. It was the right choice, being sober, coming into Moscow. Now, the headache was gone, and some of my wits were with me. I didn’t speak the language, and had no idea, of what to expect, going through Customs. I declared my cash, along with some art I was bringing into the country, and was cleared quickly. My friend Vasile, met me on the other side of the fence, and we were off, on the wildest ride I’ve ever had in a cab. It was citizens day in Moscow, crowds were everywhere, the streets were full with people. The driver, undeterred, drove on sidewalks, honking his horn, and shaking his fist at cops, the whole way. Vasile had arranged for me, an exhibit of my work, at the Photo Center, the second exhibit of my photographs in Moscow. He had arranged for me to stay with a Russian art critic and her family, just a few blocks from the Kremlin. All my life, I’d been told, of how different as a people, Russians and Americans were. Right away, I realized we were the same. Vasile explained it this way:”Russians speak Russian, Americans speak English, the rest of the world speaks three languages”. The reports on the news, at the time of my trip, described a bleak situation in russia, and I decided to only stay the weekend. The cameras focused on the grocery stores, and all the empty shelves. If they had only spun the cameras 180 degrees, they would have shown a vibrant, flourishing, market place, outside of the grocery, in the parking lot. It was at this time that I realized propaganda was not just Russian, America had adopted this tactic as well. Vasile put it this way: “Russians are very crazy, Americans are very crazy too”.