Madden Mischief

I dunno.  Was I colluding with Russians when I was in Moscow a few years ago?

I vaguely recall talking with so many Russians over chilled vodka, being transported in private cars to high-level meetings with Russian business financiers and leaders, discussing ways I could help boost U.S. passenger traffic on Russia’s #2 airlines.

I don’t remember much of that whirlwind trip.

I was so jet lagged.  It had been arranged so quickly by Oksana Voinych, my director of Russian American Public Relations, that my head never stopped spinning the whole four freezing days I was there.

And then I had to give a power-point presentation, no less, which ostensibly was the reason for the hastily-planned trip.

First I had to fly to Washington, DC for a meeting at the Russian Consulate to secure the necessary documents needed to enter Russia.  Then next morning I rushed to board a flight to Moscow where I was to speak on crisis management at a conference of Russian communications officials.

When I arrived it was cold like I hadn’t experienced in decades when I was living in New York before relocating my PR firm, TransMedia Group, down to sunny Florida.

And here I was in gray, snow-covered, freezing Moscow in middle of winter.  Was this really happening?  Or was this a frosty dream from which I needed to awaken myself?

I remember after a short $100 cab ride from my hotel one night, I was walking in Red Square.  I was shivering in my winter overcoat, despite several scarfs wrapped around my neck and my hat pulled tightly down over my forehead.

Man was it cold, yet was it still clear and beautiful and fascinating, almost magical as I walked by Red Square imagining Joseph Stalin, dictator of the then Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR) glaring down at me from his famous balcony perch watching his tanks and missiles roll thunderously buy.

“Who is that American down there with all those scarfs?  What’s he doing here?  Colluding with us?  Arrest him!”

I hurried to the underground street crossing before KGB could get to me and soon as I alighted on the other side, I was in another world, standing before the entrance of one of the most marvelously elegant Ritz-Carlton hotels I had ever seen, surpassing even the Ritz in Paris.

I rushed inside.  Made a beeline to the bar and ordered a vodka martini.  “Do you have Russian vodka?” I asked the beautiful female bartender, who chucked at my little joke.

She proceeded to make be a superb martini, one I will always remember during the time I colluded with Russian, a time that I will always treasure.

Tell Mr. Mueller I’m ready for sentencing.

If you like the way I write, collude with me a little and buy my book “Is there enough Brady in Trump to win the inSUPERable BOWL?” available from Amazon.

Thank you

                                                                                                                                                TM