- [...]
On
the
negative
side,
I
faced
a
never-ending
string
of
questions
about
the
microphone
and
parabolic
reflector
I
carried
around
[...]
At
about
six
o'clock
one
Sunday
morning,
while
recording
sparrows
in
a
small
community
along
the
coast
of
northern
Washington,
a
fellow
came
rushing
out
of
his
house,
making
a
beeline
for
me.
He
looked
rather
impatient,
and
perhaps
just
a
little
ticked
off.
"Thank
God
you're
finally
here!"
he
said.
How
often
does
life
give
you
a
straight
line
like
that
one?
"I'm
sorry,"
I
said.
"I
got
here
as
fast
as
I
could."
[...]
I
[...]
had
to
admit
that
I
had
no
idea
what
he
was
going
on
about,
and
that
my
microphone
and
I
were
just
trying
to
record
the
songs
of
birds
in
and
around
his
neighbourhood.
With
a
really
disappointed
look
about
him,
he
explained
that
he
was
a
shortwave
radio
buff.
He
thought
that
I
was
whatever
branch
of
the
American
government
deals
with
complaints
by
people
whose
shortwave
radios
had
been
messed
up
by
newly
erected
cellular
telephone
towers.
[...]
You
really
have
to
admire
his
faith
that
the
government
would
send
out
a
special
agent
to
look
into
radio-wave
complaints
that
early
on
a
Sunday
morning.
[Chapter 1,
John
James
Audubon
in
the
Land
That
God
Forgot,
p. 6-7]
- Of
course,
when
I
say
that
it
was
Audubon's
goal
to
"study
and
paint"
birds
in
Labrador,
I
mean
that
he
planned
to
shoot
a
lot
of
birds,
bring
their
corpses
back
to
camp,
stick
wires
up
their
bums
to
hold
them
in
place,
twist
them
into
postures
they
never
could
have
attained
in
life,
and
then
paint
them.
You
don't
have
to
look
at
many
Audubon
paintings
to
get
a
sense
of
what
I
mean.
[Chapter 1,
John
James
Audubon
in
the
Land
That
God
Forgot,
p. 10]
- Cabinets
fill
of
dead
animals
in
public
museums
are
not
for
everyone.
But,
with
proper
interpretation
by
skilled
tour
guides,
this
sort
of
exhibit
can
go
a
long
way
toward
helping
us
appreciate
the
unity
and
diversity
of
of
the
natural
world.
Some
see
the
cabinets
full
of
eggs
and
stuffed
birds
in
scientific
collections
as
a
waste,
but
judicious
collecting
has
very
little
impact
on
bird
populations
and
has
helped
ornithology
to
advance
as
a
scientific
endeavour.
Whatever
may
have
driven
the
Labrador
duck
to
extinction,
it
certainly
wasn't
collection
for
museums,
and
without
those
few
stuffed
specimens,
we
would
have
no
tangible
reminder
of
the
finality
of
their
elimination.
[Chapter 4,
Walter
Gets
Blackmailed,
p. 56]
- Looking
for
shade,
we
went
back
to
Christ's
Piece
[a
park
in
Cambridge,
UK]
beside
the
bus
station.
We
watched
a
group
of
young
lady
tourists
from
Japan
get
confused
about
the
intentions
of
a
panhandler,
and
marvelled
at
the
elegant
razor
wire
that
kept
people
in
the
park
from
getting
into
surrounding
college
residences.
[...]
[Chapter 4,
Walter
Gets
Blackmailed,
p. 59]
- If
St
George's
Hall
[in
Liverpool,
UK]
looks
as
though
it
needs
a
good
scrub
on
the
outside,
don't
despair.
Inside
you
will
be
greeted
by
a
vaulted
ceiling
with
images
of
Neptune
and
Roman
soliders,
of
angels
and
cherubs.
There
are
lustrous
marble
columns,
statues
of
dead
mayors
and
parliamentarians,
ten
incredible
chandeliers,
a
pipe
organ,
and
a
stained
glass
window
of
St
George
being
mean
to
an
oversized
lizard.
Behind
the
building
are
gardens,
walkways,
benches,
more
dead
mayors,
a
dead
prime
minister,
and
a
tribute
to
the
King's
Liverpool
Regiment.
The
whole
effect
leaves
you
thinking
that,
as
saints
go,
George
must
have
been
a
really,
really
good
one;
if
not
exactly
best
friends
with
God
then
certainly
on
a
first-name
basis.
Oddly
enough,
St
George
was
an
Arab
who
died
in
Palestine
around
AD
303.
He
was
adopted
as
England's
patron
saint
by
the
crusaders
of
Richard
the
Lionheart
eight
hundred
years
later.
[Chapter 4,
Walter
Gets
Blackmailed,
p. 61]
- Even
though
I
come
from
a
country
[Canada]
that
is
officially
bilingual,
I
can
clain
to
be
absolutely
horrid
with
foreign
languages.
My
grasp
of
French
is
limited
to
a
handful
of
words
like
jambon,
crayon,
chien,
and
blibliothéque.
These
disconnected
words
are
unlikely
to
be
of
any
use
unless
I
find
myself
in
need
of
a
pencil
in
a
library
to
make
notes
about
types
of
ham
preferred
by
dogs.
And
so
it
was
with
three
Labrador
Duck
adventures
awaiting
me
in
the
far-flung
corners
of
France,
I
knew
it
was
best
to
engage
a
minder.
I
needed
someone
who
could
ensure
that
I
got
a
hotel
room
and
not
a
room
in
a
brothel,
and
who
could
assure
me
of
a
glass
of
wine
and
not
a
prison
record.
I
needed
someone
to
keep
me
calm
by
booking
train
tickets
during
an
impending
general
strike,
and
to
translate
technical
expressions
like
duck
in
natural
history
museums.
[...]
[Chapter 5,
A
Swelling
in
My
Socks,
p. 68]
- [...]
the
guide
suggests
that
I
might
be
listening
to
a
physician
say,
"Vous
avez
une
inflammation
de
les
chaussettes"
(you
have
an
inflammation
of
your
socks),
to
which
I
am
apparently
supposed
to
respond,
"Je
voudrais
du
citron
et
une
couche!"
(I
would
like
some
lemons
and
a
diaper!).
This
sort
of
dialogue
left
me
wondering
how
much
Julie
had
paid
for
the
phrase
book.
Event
so,
I
became
quite
dedicated
to
the
little
book.
It
did,
however,
overlook
the
one
key
phrase
that
might
be
more
valuable
than
any
other.
It
would
go
something
along
the
lines
of
"Pardon
me,
but
I
am
astonishingly
useless
at
French.
Instead
of
having
me
mess
up
your
beautiful
language,
if
I
point
at
something,
will
you
please
package
it
up
in
exchange
for
a
handful
of
euros?"
[Chapter 5,
A
Swelling
in
My
Socks,
p. 74]
- [...]
I
generally
relied
on
five
key
expressions.
These
were:
bonjour
or
bonsoir,
s'il
vous
plaît,
numbers
between
un
and
vingt,
merci
and
au
revoir.
Much
could
be
accomplished
with
those
words
and
a
bit
of
pointing
[...]
I
think
I
can
claim
to
have
learned
a
few
small
things
about
language,
transportation
and
general
behaviour
while
in
Paris.
I
thought
of
them
as
my
ten
rules
for
getting
by
and
staying
alive
in
the
French
capital:
- Your
place
in
a
queue
is
only
a
state
of
mind
unless
you
are
willing
to
defend
it
with
tooth
and
nail.
- The
penultimate
accessory
to
disguise
oneself
as
a
Parisian
is
a
baguette
in
a
paper
bag.
The
disguise
can
only
be
improved
upon
with
a
cigarette.
- Do
not
be
deceived
by
the
number
of
letters
in
a
French
word;
most
words
are
pronounced
with
only
one
syllable,
if
that.
Never
pronounce
the
second
half
of
any
word.
- Do
not
be
deceived
by
the
number
of
words
in
a
French
utterance.
The
sentence
"Mon
à
nôtre
la
fenêtre
vore
carotine
d'agréable
depuis
en
petite
dix-neuf
avec
Caroline
et
Antoine
..."
probably
translates
as
"The
train
is
five
minutes
late."
- While
on
foot,
do
not
be
deceived
by
what
appear
to
be
pedestrian
crosswalks.
They
were
installed
some
years
ago
as
a
joke,
and
are
now
used
as
an
opportunity
for
target
practice
by
drivers.
And
lawyers.
- As
a
driver,
do
not
be
deceived
by
an
apparent
right-of-way
over
pedestrians.
In
Paris,
those
on
foot
will
cross
the
road
anywhere
and
at
any
time.
The
bravest
pedestrians
are
the
most
elderly
and
otherwise
least
mobile.
- Try
not
to
require
an
ambulence
on
a
Friday
afternoon.
Flashing
lights
and
a
siren
given
an
emergency
vehicle
no
priority
at
a
traffic
circle
between
16:00
and
19:00.
In
case
of
life-threatening
injury,
consider
walking
to
a
hospital.
- Do
not
be
tempted
to
rent
a
car
in
Paris.
The
last
vacant
parking
spot
was
reported
in
1987,
and
four
men
died
in
the
battle
for
it.
- In
Paris,
street
vendors
with
licences
are
afraid
of
the
police.
Beggars
are
not
afraid
of
God
Almighty.
- In
Paris,
beggars
are
fluent
in
every
language
ever
devised.
They
should
be
employed
by
the
United
Nations
as
Translators.
[Chapter 5,
A
Swelling
in
My
Socks,
p. 80-81]
- [...]
Thinking
that
the
DNA
extracted
from
a
Black
East
Indies
duck
might
give
me
some
insight
into
the
eggs
analyzed
by
Sorenson,
I
had
asked
[Margot]
Morris
to
set
aside
some
eggshell
fragments
when
her
ducks
bred
in
the
spring.
Morris
had
done
much
better
than
that.
Before
selling
off
her
menagerie,
she
had
set
aside
three
intact
duck
eggs.
They
had
been
sitting
in
her
kitchen
beside
the
stove
in
a
Tupperware
container
for
two
months
since
she
collected
them.
As
we
spoke,
Morris
worked
her
way
through
a
pack
of
Black
Cat
cigarettes,
while
the
eggs
stared
at
me
from
the
container
on
the
kitchen
table.
They
bobbed
slightly
in
half
an
inch
of
evil
green
ooze.
Despite
the
best
intentions
of
the
engineers
at
Tupperware
International
to
keep
freshness
locked
in,
the
container
was
emitting
the
unmistakeable
odour
of
horribly
rotten
eggs.
Perhaps
after
years
of
chain-smoking,
Morris
had
completely
lost
her
sense
of
smell.
I
felt
really
badly
for
poor
Shadow
[a
blue
heeler].
At
the
end
of
an
hour,
we
thanked
Morris,
wished
her
the
best
of
luck
in
selling
her
home
and
with
her
move
to
Ontario,
and
drove
off
with
our
little
Tupperware
prize.
It
was
all
Sarah
and
I
could
do
to
keep
our
breakfast
in
place.
Even
though
it
was
raining,
we
drove
with
the
car
windows
wide
open.
We
had
to
do
something
quickly.
In
the
most
remote
corner
of
a
parking
lot,
I
pried
open
the
container's
lid
and
started
to
heave.
Imagine
hiking
through
a
sulfurous
swamp
for
a
week.
At
the
end
of
your
trek,
take
off
your
hiking
socks,
and
fill
them
with
Parmesan
cheese
and
vinegar.
Then
have
a
baby
puke
in
them.
That
is
the
smell
of
two-month-old
Black
East
Indies
duck
eggs.
I
decanted
the
ooze,
swirled
the
eggs
in
some
fresh
water,
and
decanted
again.
I
resealed
the
container,
wrapped
it
in
a
plastic
bag,
and
put
it
back
in
the
car's
trunk
to
simmer.
We
drove
on
to
Saint
John,
the
second-largest
city
in
New
Brunswick,
and
all
too
frequently
confused
with
St.
John's,
the
capital
of
Newfoundland
and
Labrador.
Our
hotel
gave
us
a
dripping
faucet.
Rather
than
let
all
of
that
fresh
water
go
to
waste,
I
turned
on
the
bathroom
fan,
opened
the
egg
container,
and
placed
it
under
the
drip,
allowing
the
water
to
carry
some
of
the
stench
down
the
drain.
We
abandoned
our
room
and
found
a
very
nice
Mexican
restaurant
with
a
flamenco
guitarist.
[...]
The
next
morning
found
us
travelling
south
along
the
Trans-Canada
Highway
[...]
Regrettably,
we
got
to
the
Grand
Manan
ferry
two
minutes
late
for
the
9:30
sailing.
Sarah
was
philosophical
about
it
and
suggested
that
I
might
want
to
have
a
go
with
the
eggs,
which
were,
quite
frankly,
causing
her
car
to
be
unridable.
The
tide
was
out
and
I
took
the
eggs
and
Sarah's
pocketknife
down
the
gravel
embankment
to
a
spot
where
a
rivulet
of
fresh
water
ran
down
to
the
ocean.
I
steeled
my
nerves
and,
following
a
long
tradition
of
egg
collectors,
but
fearing
an
explosion,
I
poked
a
very
small
hole
through
the
shell
at
the
blunt
end.
I
suspect
that
more
Christians
would
be
frightened
into
good
behaviour
if
ministers
described
hell
in
terms
of
the
smells
that
issued
from
that
egg.
Saving
oneself
for
marriage
would
seem
like
the
only
possible
course
of
action
if
the
alternative
was
eternity
exposed
to
that
smell.
But
to
draw
a
parallel
of
that
sort
would
be
to
tarnish
the
good
name
of
hell.
From
the
moment
I
pricked
the
shell,
a
geyser
of
frothy
green
liquid
shot
from
the
hole
and
arced
before
hitting
the
ground
more
than
a
yard
away.
Seconds
passed,
and
the
geyser
didn't
stop;
I
started
to
fear
for
the
local
environment.
Thirty
minutes
later,
by
poking
and
prodding
and
rinsing
the
egg
under
the
rivulet,
I
had
managed
to
get
all
the
contents
out
and
leave
the
shell
intact.
After
another
thirty
minutes
of
this
disgusting
display
I
had
the
second
shell
cleaned
out.
I
didn't
have
the
heart
to
repeat
the
performance
and,
with
the
ferry
pulling
back
into
its
berth,
I
tossed
the
third
egg
on
a
rock.
It
exploded.
[Chapter 8,
A
Traveler's
Guide
to
the
Smells
of
East
Coast
Canada,
p. 116-119]
- [...]
When
we
got
back
to
Black's
Harbour,
we
stopped
near
a
convenience
store
to
use
the
phone
booth.
This
would
have
been
a
much
more
useful
exercise
if
there
had
been
a
telephone
in
it.
We
went
into
the
store
where
the
lday
behind
the
counter
explained
that
youths
had
ripped
the
telephone
out
of
the
box
so
many
times
that
the
New
Brunswick
telephone
company
now
refused
to
fix
it.
I
made
what
I
thought
was
a
very
reasonable
suggestion.
If
the
box
didn't
have
a
telephone,
wouldn't
it
be
more
sensible
to
take
away
the
box
so
that
people
wouldn't
stop
mistakenly?
No,
I
was
told,
because
then
people
wouldn't
come
into
the
store
looking
for
a
pay
phone
there.
"Does
the
store
have
a
pay
phone?"
"No,
it
doesn't."
"Doesn't
that
irritate
people?"
"Yes,
sometimes,
but
they
usually
buy
something
anyway."
[Chapter 8,
A
Traveler's
Guide
to
the
Smells
of
East
Coast
Canada,
p. 121-122]
- There
was
a
time
when
airline
travel
was
something
a
bit
more
elegant.
I've
seen
the
photographs.
Men
wore
business
suits
and
smart
hats,
and
women
wore
elegant
dresses.
In
the
era
when
only
those
with
quite
a
bit
of
spare
cash
could
afford
to
fly,
I
am
sure
that
in-flight
emergencies
were
greeted
with
expressions
like
"What's
that?
An
imminent
crash,
you
say?
Oh
dea,
bad
show.
One
had
better
buckle
up,
I
suppose."
Today,
any
old
rabble
can
fly.
Me,
for
instance,
and
I
find
myself
asking
if
I
want
to
fly
with
any
airline
that
would
have
me
as
a
passenger.
[Chapter 11,
Enduring
Images
of
Germany,
p. 147]
- [...]
Reichholf
sent
his
assistant
to
fetch
me.
As
she
escorted
me
to
the
duck,
she
said,
"My
English
is
not
good."
"Mein
Deutsch
ist
schrecklich,"
I
replied,
and
felt
rather
clever
for
getting
that
much
out.
[Chapter 11,
Enduring
Images
of
Germany,
p. 167]
- The
Neptunbrunnen
is
a
beautiful
fountain
inspired
by
fountains
in
Rome
and
Versailles.
Neptune
is
held
aloft
on
an
open
clam
shell
by
hybrid
horse-men
with
duck
feet
instead
of
hands.
Neptune
is
held
above
a
serpent,
a
crocodile,
a
seal,
and
an
octopus
with
seven
legs.
A
septopus,
I
suppose.
The
fountain
is
probably
even
better
when
it
is
turned
on.
Dry;
I
didn't
think
it
could
serve
as
my
enduring
image.
[Chapter 11,
Enduring
Images
of
Germany,
p. 174]
- If
you
were
asked
to
describe
the
appearance
of
a
typical
ornothologist,
you
might
be
inclined
to
use
expressions
like
weedy
or
willowy
or
reedy.
This
is
a
shame,
because
most
ornithologists
I
know
are
hale,
hardy,
and
tanned,
wearing
denim
and
leather,
and
altogether
ready
to
scale
the
tallest
mountain
with
a
machete
in
their
teeth.
Holz
is
not
the
machete
type,
despite
trying
for
the
look
with
a
rough-and-tumble
beard.
In
describing
him,
perhaps
I
can
use
the
word
etiolated
without
being
insulting,
because
only
botanists
know
what
it
means.
[Chapter 11,
Enduring
Images
of
Germany,
p. 186-187]
- After
detraining
at
Brussel's
Gare
Centrale,
I
told
Mom
about
my
unique
form
of
navigation
in
foreign
cities
--
following
people
who
look
as
though
they
know
where
they
are
going
and
hoping
for
the
best.
For
a
change,
it
worked.
We
soon
found
outselves
in
the
shadow
of
the
spite
marking
the
Grande
Place,
the
centre
of
Brussels
in
almost
every
sense.
The
cobblestoned
marketplace
has
been
a
gathering
place
for
traders
for
about
one
thousand
years.
Today
the
architecture
of
many
great
European
cities
is
dictated
by
the
reconstruction
efforts
following
World
War
II
bombing.
In
contrast,
the
Grande
Place
owes
its
character
to
buildings
erected
after
two
days
of
canon
fire
by
the
French
in
1695,
but
I
never
discovered
what
residents
of
Brussels
had
to
irritate
the
neighbours.
Trading
guilds
had
constructed
their
guild
houses
to
match
dictates
of
the
city,
resulting
in
buildings
in
glorious
harmony.
The
judicious
use
of
gold
relieves
the
possible
monotony
of
the
grey
cobbles
and
grey-and-tan
buildings.
Statues
of
what
I
took
to
be
kings,
saints
and
gargoyles
festoon
the
town
hall.
My
favourite
was
a
gargoyle
parrot.
Some
of
the
statuary
may
be
missing
an
arm
here
or
a
head
there,
but
the
overall
effect
is
stunning.
[...]
[...]
We
then
stumbled
upon
one
of
the
most
famous
landmarks
in
Brussels,
It
is,
sadly,
a
small
statue
of
a
boy
urinating.
The
original
dates
to
the
early
seventeenth
century.
After
attempts
by
the
Fench
and
English
to
steal
it
a
century
later,
it
was
finally
nicked,
broken,
replicated,
and
remounted
in
1817.
In
a
corner
shop
close
by,
I
spied
the
ugliest
souvenir
on
the
face
of
the
Earth.
It
was
a
two-inch-tall
replica
of
the
peeing
boy
with
a
bottle
opener
sprouting
from
the
top
of
his
head.
[Chapter 12,
A
Black-and-White
Duck
in
a
Colorless
Land,
p. 194-195]
- Not
willing
to
jump
right
into
an
examination
of
the
Smithsonian's
four
Labrador
Ducks
after
a
long
journey
from
Britain,
I
had
scheduled
a
day
of
rest,
relaxation,
and
exploration,
and
so
Jane
and
I
were
off
to
tour
some
of
Washington's
great
attraction,
starting
with
the
Mall.
This
grand,
tree-lined
avenue
seems
to
be
the
American
response
to
the
Imam
Square
in
Isfahan
or
Tiananmen
Square
in
Beijing
--
built
to
impress
visitors
for
centuries
to
come.
[Chapter 15,
Backpacking
Through
Gotham
City,
p. 223-224]
- Before
going
on
to
be
nasty
about
Philadelphia's
Academy
of
Natural
Sciences,
I
feel
I
should
give
it
a
really
big
buildup.
[...]
But
then
it
all
starts
to
fall
apart.
The
short
walk
from
the
train
station
was
pleasant
enough,
but
as
we
approached
Logan
Square,
we
faced
the
disturbing
image
of
a
large
community
of
homeless
persons
living
at
the
centre
of
a
fountain,
now
dry.
The
academy
itself
scared
me,
reminding
me
of
the
sort
of
Home
for
Naughty
Boys
that
my
parents
pointed
out
as
a
way
of
frightening
me
into
good
behaviour.
If
not
quite
a
late-nineteenth-century
reform
school,
then
perhaps
a
penitentiary
for
wayward
Walmart
employees.
[Chapter 15,
Backpacking
Through
Gotham
City,
p. 231]
- We
thrust
ourselves
back
out
into
the
daylight,
eighty-six
floors
up
[on
the
observation
deck
of
the
Empire
State
building],
to
confront
a
view
like
no
other:
the
ultimate
array
of
endless
architectural
erections,
home
to
millions
of
people
who
lived,
played,
loved,
and
died
below
us.
I
looked
deep
inside
myself,
and
the
out
over
the
city,
for
inspiration,
wondering
what
would
make
people
pay
$13
and
stand
in
line
for
so
long
to
see
it.
If
it
were
an
eighty-six-story
view
of
the
Brazilian
rain
forest,
I'm
not
sure
that
it
would
have
been
as
popular
as
the
Empire
State
Building.
Could
it
be
that
this
was
one
of
the
world's
best
views
of
what
humankind
is
driven
to
create
by
urges
that
we
cannot
fully
understand?
Being
a
little
less
philosophical,
and
a
little
more
task-oriented,
it
occured
to
me
that
a
good
chunk
of
all
the
Labrador
Ducks
on
my
quest
had
been
shot
within
the
panorama
before
me.
Indeed,
the
very
reason
that
the
Labrador
Ducks
went
extinct
may
have
been
staring
at
me.
It
seems
completely
unlikely
that
my
ducks
had
become
extinct
because
they
were
harvested
at
an
unsustainable
rate.
It
seems
a
lot
more
likely
that
their
numbers
had
spiraled
down
because
of
the
increasing
number
of
inhabitants
on
the
eastern
American
seaboard
in
the
1800s.
All
of
those
people,
making
all
of
that
sewage,
all
of
it
going
untreated
into
the
ocean,
exactly
where
the
Labrador
Duck
was
spending
the
winter.
For
millennia,
they
had
passed
the
nonbreeding
season
feeding
on
mussels
in
the
shallow
waters
just
off
the
American
East
Coast,
but
then
the
human
population
exploded.
I
contend
that
my
ducks
were
polluted
into
oblivion.
[Chapter 15,
Backpacking
Through
Gotham
City,
p. 241-242]
- Broadway
and
Worth
may
have
been
an
interesting
place
in
its
day,
but
nowadays
it
ranks
as
one
of
the
three
ugliest
intersections
in
North
America.
On
the
southwest
corner
stands
the
Steps
Clothing
Company
(EVERY
ITEM
$10),
and
a
Japanese-Chinese
restaurant.
On
the
northwest
corner
is
a
Strawberry
Clothing
store
and
a
B'way
Best
Gourmet
Farm.
It
isn't
really
a
farm.
On
the
northeast
corner
are
a
thirteen-floor
apartment
block
and
the
Independence
Community
Bank,
featuring
gargoyles
with
bat
wings.
None
of
these
buildings
has
any
apparent
redeeming
features,
but
each
is
a
gothic
cathedral
compared
to
what
stands
on
the
southeast
corner.
The
Jacob
K.
Javits
Federal
Building
occupies
an
entire
city
block,
and
does
so
without
grace.
Forty-four
stories
by
my
count,
it
did
as
little
to
satisfy
my
soul
as
alcohol-free
beer.
This
is
one
of
the
ugliest
buildings
in
the
world,
and
so
I
just
had
to
take
a
photograph.
[Chapter 15,
Backpacking
Through
Gotham
City,
p. 241-242]
- Rejuvenated
by
the
food,
we
found
enough
zip
for
a
short
walk
along
the
Fontanka
River.
The
canal-side
venue
was
quite
choked
with
couples
smoking,
drinking,
and
snogging
in
almost
equal
measures.
The
waterway
was
choked
with
tour
boats,
although
the
boats
were
not
choked
with
tourists.
Despite
the
late
hour,
the
sun
was
a
long
way
off
the
horizon.
By
good
fortune,
we
had
arrived
in
late
June.
St.
Petersburg
is
sufficiently
far
from
the
equator
that
at
that
time
of
year,
the
sky
remained
illuminated
around
the
clock.
Looking
back
at
our
hotel,
we
had
no
trouble
spotting
our
room;
it
was
the
only
one
with
its
window
open.
Odd,
we
thought.
As
we
tried
to
drop
off
to
sleep,
it
became
apparent
why
all
the
other
windows
had
been
closed.
Built
on
a
big,
fetid
swamp,
St.
Petersburg
is
ideal
breeding
habitat
for
mosquitoes,
and
most
of
the
year's
bumper
crop
had
found
their
way
into
our
room.
Every
ten
minutes,
we
had
to
get
out
of
bed,
turn
on
the
lights,
and
try
to
swat
the
new
pulse
of
mosquitoes
that
had
snuck
out
from
behind
the
curtains.
This
game
of
nude
mosquito
bashing
continued
until
about
2
a.m.
Not
that
we
had
killed
them
all
by
then,
we
were
just
too
tired
to
care
anymore.
[Chapter 16,
The
Beano
Goes
to
Russia,
p. 269-270]
- Despite
the
popular
image
of
Russia
as
the
new
centre
of
capitalism
and
everything
nasty
that
goes
with
it,
organised-crime
bosses
in
Russia
have
bigger
concerns
than
fleecing
tourists.
In
St.
Petersburg,
tourists
have
less
to
fear
from
the
mafia
than
being
robbed
and/or
beaten
up
by
thugs
dressed
as
police
officers.
How
comforting.
Indeed,
there
are
really
only
six
important
threats
to
tourists
to
St.
Petersburg:
- Maniacal
drivers
have
no
respect
for
pedestrians.
It
is
said
that
the
majority
of
drivers
do
not
have
liability
insurance
--
or
brake
pads.
- St.
Petersburg
pickpockets
display
a
remarkable
level
of
industry.
Curiously,
German
tourists
are
particularly
frequently
targeted.
The
police
telephone
hotline
for
foreigners
is
278-30-18.
- Missing
manhole
covers
are
an
ongoing
problem.
I
can't
claim
that
we
saw
more
than
two
dozen
gaping
manholes
and
managed
to
avoid
every
one.
- Every
guidebook
warns
of
Romany
beggars,
while
claiming
not
to
be
bogoted
toward
any
particular
ethnic
group.
Begging
can
quickly
turn
into
flagrant
theft
when
women
work
with
children
trained
to
rifle
through
pockets.
- The
drinking
water
is
contaminated
by
heavy
metals,
bacteria,
and
a
nasty
intestinal
parasite
called
Giardia
lamblia.
Having
suffered
through
giardiasis
in
Canada,
you
can
trust
me
--
you
don't
want
this
one.
Unless
vomiting
and
explosive
diarrhoea
are
a
priority
for
you.
- The
final
great
tourist
problem
is
a
national
toilet
paper
shortage.
The
last
two
problems
may
be
related.
Carrying
a
small
satchel
of
toilet
paper
is
said
to
be
the
best
way
to
go.
[Chapter 16,
The
Beano
Goes
to
Russia,
p. 270-271]
- [Dr.
Vladimir]
Loskot,
Leading
Research
Fellow
and
Head
of
the
Department
of
Ornithology
at
the
[Zoological
Museum
and
Institute
...]
led
us
through
a
level
of
public
displays,
through
a
security
door,
and
into
the
troglodyte
world
of
the
institute's
research
collection.
Underfoot,
the
concrete
floor
was
crumbling
in
places
and
excavated
in
others,
with
some
of
the
more
dangerous
bits
covered
with
metal
sheets.
We
passed
a
small
mountain
of
rusting
radiators
that
had
been
ripped
out
awaiting
replacement,
hopefully
before
winter
set
in.
We
passed
a
small
hillock
of
fluorescent
tubes.
Whether
new
or
burned
out,
they
were
covered
with
a
layer
of
dust
thick
enough
to
be
called
soil.
Indeed,
the
whole
tunnel
was
dusty
enough
to
support
its
own
ecosystem.
We
passed
a
cleaning
lady
who,
in
the
ultimate
act
of
futility,
was
trying
to
clear
away
some
of
the
dirt
with
a
small
brush.
Loskot
called
the
elevator.
It
was
one
of
those
remarkable
optical
illusions
--
much
smaller
on
the
inside
than
it
appeared
on
the
outside.
With
the
three
of
us
inside,
there
was
enough
air
to
only
fill
one
pair
of
lungs,
so
we
had
to
breathe
in
turns.
In
broken
English,
Loskot
used
one
of
his
breaths
to
explain
that
we
should
avoid
touching
the
elevator's
walls
as
they
were
probably
dirty.
[Chapter 16,
The
Beano
Goes
to
Russia,
p. 273]
- Leaving
the
fortress,
we
recrossed
the
Neva,
and
found
our
way
to
Decembrists'
Square,
the
spot
where
Russia's
first
revolution
was
quashed
on
December
14,
1825.
[...]
The
one
unavoidable
feature
of
the
park
was
the
huge
statue
of
Peter
on
horseback,
dressed
in
a
Roman
toga
and
capped
with
a
laurel
wreath.
Peter,
not
the
horse.
The
horse
was
busy
stamping
on
a
very
large
snake
that
represented
treason.
The
statue,
commissioned
by
Peter's
wife,
Catherine,
and
executed
by
scultor
Étienne
Falconet,
was
erected
in
1782.
For
reasons
not
explained
in
the
book,
Peter's
right
arm
was
extended
in
a
level
salute.
Lisa
figured
it
out.
"It's
like
an
amusement
park
ride.
He's
saying,
'You
must
be
at
least
this
tall
to
forge
an
empire!'"
[Chapter 16,
The
Beano
Goes
to
Russia,
p. 283]
