May Day Celebrations
(Excerpt from the book RUSSIA: A JOURNEY TO THE ARCTIC)
[Edited slightly for brevity]

(Conclusion)

Sunday May 1

…What happened next, to this day, I’m still not sure if I heard or saw the events correctly. When he made those last disparaging remarks to us, the conversations in the room became quieter. Other than the band continuing to play and the singer singing, the attention now focused on us. Up to this point, other than the words “You Americans,” everything he spoke was in Russian. But now, perhaps in one last attempt to intimidate us and save face he stood up, pointing to himself, and with a loud voice in perfect English declared… “I’m with the Russian mafia.”

Nobody spoke. There was silence in the crowded room. Even the continuous vodka toasting came to a brief halt, as the focus was on what would happen next…

But big Bob Forsythe, our leader, didn’t need long for the challenge. He stood up, all 6’10” of himself, faced his opponent, grinned, and pointing to himself said, “I’m with the mafia too!” Why he made that statement, I’ll never know. I never did ask him. Perhaps he had a few too many drinks and was sick and tired of the rantings, and at that point couldn’t care less what he said, or perhaps he spoke those words to spite his opponent. I was going to ask Ray the next day if he heard and saw the same things that I heard and saw, but I forgot. I still wonder today what their recollections are, of what took place that night at Restaurant 65.

At this point, the Russian had no comeback. He meekly walked over to our table and faced Bob. With Bob looming over him, and the little guy straining his neck to look “way up,” he extended his hand in friendship and respect. Bob shook his hand. The Russian then quietly headed back to his table where he spent the rest of the evening in relative silence. He had no more taunts directed our way. The party continued on, vodkas were replenished, the dancing continued, the band played on into the night, and the May Day, or should I say “The Spring and Labor Day” celebrations, continued on in the traditional way that the Russians celebrated. World War 3 between the Russians and us “Americans” was averted by Bob. That was the end of the hostilities… or so we thought.

Later on that evening, Ray had to go to the bathroom. He leaned over to me and said, “Larry, I have to go to the bathroom.” At first I didn’t understand why he was telling me this. Perhaps he wanted to check if I had to pee. I didn’t.
I replied, in a state of stupor, “That’s nice.”
He leaned over closer, looked me straight in the eye and repeated, more urgently this time, “Larry, I have to go to the bathroom!”
I gazed at him a bit longer. The few too many vodkas still had control of me, and I still didn’t know “what the heck” Ray was onto. Then it finally dawned on me, and I realized what he was trying to say.
“Oh, okay, right. Yeah, let’s go.”

We were in foreign territory and some of the Russians, who had a few too many drinks, probably didn’t exactly approve of us, especially considering us as “Americans” hitting on their ladies. Heading alone into a washroom, with a bunch of Russian drunks following you, is not a guarantee for a safe pee. I escorted Ray to the washroom and stood patiently outside his stall, abiding my time, trying hard not to look stupid.
As I stood there patiently holding up the wall, I thought to myself, “Well, this is all good for Ray, he is safely inside his stall, but what about me? Standing there alone, how was he going to help me if I was attacked?” But, there were no conflicts. Ray had a safe pee, and we both came back to the table, with no black eyes or sore guts.
In the wee hours of the morning, we were tuckered out from the dancing and our primitive Russian language lessons we were trying out on our newly found lady friends, so we took the thirty minute walk back to the hotel. It was semi-dark as the sun wasn’t yet quite on call for its twenty-four hour a day duty. Our normal, leisurely pace was quickened this evening as three or four drunks followed us from the bar, slowly weaving behind us, yelling and swearing at “us Americans.” We prudently didn’t respond, nor look back. We kept walking straight ahead and eventually they lost interest in us.
But unfortunately for us, we didn’t all make it back to the hotel that night. Only five made it back. We lost Peter 1. I wondered what the war room back home would think; only five days in and already we were down a man for the project.
But it wasn’t that Peter was beat up, lying in a sewer gutter in some back alley, a casualty of the drunk men following us, nor had he fallen victim to the short man of questionable mafia status. Instead, he was a casualty to a young, pretty female. And no, she wasn’t a honeypot, a trap set to lure him for his passport, or his wealth, or the vast secrets he held pertaining to this project. He succumbed to that irresistible thing called “love.”
After chatting it up with one of the ladies sitting next to us at our table, he stayed behind and didn’t come back until much later that morning. It’s amazing how love transcends all language barriers. [They ended up spending a quiet evening at her parent’s place with him meeting her family.]
During our preparation phase before coming to Russia, Alex Costin, our logistics coordinator, warned us to stay away from the Russian ladies as, at times, they are setups. They work in partnerships with others and engage in things ranging from petty thefts and stealing of passports, to more sinister criminal activities, especially when the mafia is involved.
But the ladies whom we met and sat with, at the restaurant that night, were innocent enough. They simply wanted to spend the weekend in celebration of the May Day long holiday and have a good time with their fellow Russian comrades and visitor guests. I think in the end, they, along with the rest of us, ended up having just that…a very good time.
Back at the safety of the hotel, it was too early to sleep, so we stayed up and played crazy rummy until 4:30 in the morning. We placed a heavy three-pound loaf of Russian Black Bread and a case of beer on Peter 1’s chair where he normally sat, in memory of him, as we played with only five people now. (We later broke the bread and drank the warm beer.)