Manning the Gate of the Soviet Embassy

I have been asked to explain item #3 in the list of 6 quirky items about myself that I posted on my blog last night, so here it is.

In 1970-71 I spent my college junior year in France, and for spring vacation, I took a tour, designed for American students living in Europe, of Prague, Moscow, Leningrad (now back to its original name of St. Petersburg), and Warsaw. It was thrilling because very few Americans at that time had ever been to these cities, and I was stunned with the beauty and charm of Prague, which few living Americans had as yet discovered (now it is overrun with Americans.)

Anyway, after our 3 days there, at the airport for our flight to Moscow, I discovered that all my money and papers were missing; I had apparently been pickpocketed. The tour guide gave me some money, and then everyone flew off and left me there. They did at least leave me in the hands of a couple of Czech college guys who had been our official escorts (in those days in those countries, Western tourists didn't go anywhere on their own.)

I was allowed to stay in the same hotel with a group of Swedish students who were on a tour, and then the Czech boys helped me go around to the Czech police, the American embassy, and the Soviet embassy, in order to get a new Czech exit visa, a new passport, and a new Soviet entry visa. The American passport was the hardest, that is, they were the least willing to give me new papers, because I had no proof of who I was, but I think I must have looked pretty harmless, because they finally relented. (It was cool having a passport issued in Prague; I was sorry when I had to surrender it when it expired and I needed a new one.)

It took 3 days to get everything, and in the interim I went places with the Swedes, or the Czech guys, and was mildly romanced by the Swedish tour leader's very handsome son, so all in all it was kind of fun, and I fell head over heels in love with Prague. One day one of the Czech boys and I stood talking on the Charles bridge for an hour or two, and no one ever passed by. Now the Charles Bridge is filled with tourists and hawkers selling trinkets.

Finally all I needed was the Soviet visa, and at the Soviet embassy they said that they were waiting for a telegram to arrive saying that it was OK. It was getting late in the day, and they were going to lock their gate. So they suggested that I walk down to the end of the driveway where the locked gate was (the embassy was like a mansion in estate-like grounds), so that I could let the car in that was bringing the telegram.

So there I stood, a 20-year-old American girl, with the power to give access to the Soviet Embassy to anyone I wanted to! It was a funny feeling. Of course I didn't let anyone in who didn't belong there, and I got my visa, and then that evening I flew off to Moscow on a plane full of Russians, and another part of the adventure began (it started with an official in the Moscow airport saying to me, "What are you doing coming into Russia ALONE?")

The postscript to this episode is that as soon as I realized my predicament, I sent off a postcard to my parents telling them that I was in Czechoslovakia (as it was called then) with no money or papers. Then three days later I sent them another postcard saying I was fine and was rejoining my tour group. But that postcard was delayed for two weeks, and so they spent two weeks worried about their daughter, lost behind the Iron Curtain. Now that I'm a mother, I know how awful that must have been!