On one October evening I was sitting at a bar at Houston’s international airport named after Mr. Bush awaiting my connection to Los Angeles. I just flew for twellve and a half hours from Moscow and was eager to relax with a tall glass of heffe and a double shot of Patron Silver. Next to me sat a Mexican fellow who befriended me as soon as he saw me down the double shot. When I learned he was a Texan I proceeded to verbally abuse the president of the United States George W. Bush. On the other side of me sat a pair of Brits who grinned every time I said something demeaning about Bush. Suddenly, from across the bar I heard a loud voice coming from a thin young man, stating that if we weren’t at a public place he would have loved to let me have one right between my eyes. “And why’s that?” - I inquired. “You invade the democratic countries!” he proclaimed. So I got into a sermon, which was fueled by the months of Russian propaganda I was exposed to while living there. I was shouting across the bar about how censored the western media is, the media, which, at first gave no account at all about the Georgian provocation of war, and then gave a completely inaccurate one, while in Russia people watched in real time how Georgian Katyusha rockets bombarded civilians in the middle of the night. I was also trying to tell him how the former Russian president Putin is going to go down in history as the man who saved Russia but by then the Patron hit and my tongue was beginning to lag behind my brain, or the other way around… It was time for me to board my flight. I grabbed my coat, walked up to a guy across the bar, put my hand on his shoulder and said: “I am an American, just like you but the difference between us is: I know we are getting screwed and you don’t.” In reply I received: ”Sir, please take your hand off of me!” - which I did. I showed him a V with my right hand fingers and, saying: “Peace!” hurried off to my gate.

Three months later, while in Russia, my friend and a business partner insisted on an urgent meeting, during which he shoved me a stack of Euros and said that I had to leave Russia that very night. For the reason he said that the secret services are after me and, if I don’t leave now, they are preparing a case of me spying for the Americans against me. My first impression was: “What a bunch of bull!” but this friend was my only protection in Russia and I did not question his motives any further. For the farewell he asked me visit the kasparov.ru site (theotherrussia.org/ in English). I did that after my arrival to Paris. All of my previous beliefs about Russia evaporated. And now, knowing damn well that I may never see that guy from across the bar again, I would like to use the internet to offer my apology to him. He was a better American then me. He was better informed and I was the one being screwed. And I wish he did let me have one right between my eyes - I would feel better about that now.