The Moving Finger Writes...

It's Good to be a Pipe Maker.
Among pipe smokers you will find the nicest people. -Tom Eltang's slogan.

Pipe smokers are a tightly knit community.

Per Creutz, a Swedish man whose ticker stopped ticking a few years ago, was advised by his doctor to "take up a non-stressful hobby." He went to Tom Eltang's house, sat down, and smoked for ten hours as a succession of kind, interesting people came by to smoke. Per loves the pipe smoking community. "The friendliest people in the world."

They are an oppressed minority. News that Belmont, California recently banned smoking in multi-unit dwellings was met with much grumbling, but no surprise. West Hollywood almost did the same thing a few years back, until someone pointed out, "Immigrants smoke more, and they would be selectively oppressed by this bill!"

The competition pipe is rumored to be an Italian spigot.

Tom Pfaeffle suspects it's a make-believe spigot with a disguised mortise and tenon joint. He explains that an actual mortise and tenon joint was found to be too weak to withstand the rigors of life in the pocket of a military man, so the spigot was invented, the pipe stem a cone that jammed into the pipe, making a sturdier connection.

Pipe smokers are masters of their arcane lore. Put two together, and they invariably pull out their pipes, exclaiming with pleased recognition, "That's a Kent Rasmussen!" "Oho, a Peter Hedegaard!" " Peter Heeschen!" "Straight grain!" Sand blast!" "Rusticated!"

Competitors are given five minutes to inspect the pipe, and thirty seconds to light it. They cannot drink anything for ten minutes afterwards, to prevent moisture from playing a role in the competition. "Can't they just drool into the pipe stem?" I wonder.

I'm in Russia, at the International Pipe Smoking Championship.
What am I doing here?!!

Posted by Goddess at 06:10 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I am sick of Russia.

The South African wine was the last straw.

When I called for room service, the voice dissuaded me. It will be an hour, or an hour and a half. That is a long time. It is too long. Come to one of our restaurants, it will be faster."

I hang up, and try to go to a restaurant. One is closed. Both sky restaurants are closed. A fourth seems to be a discotheque. I return to my room and scavenge fruit. Finally I call room service again. A new voice takes my order. When it arrives...

The Beef Stroganoff has no potatoes. Mashed potatoes were advertised!

Worse, the wine is from South Africa. I had bad experiences with wine from Africa, though perhaps Zimbabwe and Zambia wines are not representative. I am not in the mood to experiment! The menu listed a 2004 Bordeaux from France, and a Chilean wine. Either would be acceptable. But in fact, the wine I have, I am told, is the only wine possible.

The horror of South Africa Merlot is the last straw.

THINGS I HATE ABOUT RUSSIA:

• Wine: South Africa. Enough said.
  
• Traffic: Awful.
  
• Shuttle driver 1/2 hour late to airport. See: traffic.
  
• Shuttle driver is supposed to speak English but does not.
  
• Shuttle driver ignores me, and only responds to Tom.
  
• The heat! The heat! The heat in our room is perpetually on.
  
• Passports, collected by front desk, are all but irretrievable.
  
• The bath water is yellow!
  
• Poor Tom said, "One of those cheesecakes will be mine," but when he went downstairs to buy a piece, they were all sold out, and moreover, there was a long line for the reddish-pink "something-or-other."
  
• No Internet in the room.
  
• Because they raise the drawbridges, people often have to leave the hotel at 1AM for morning flights. See: traffic.
  
• The toilet seats are uncomfortable.
  
• Nobody speaks English!
  

I hate Russia.

Posted by Goddess at 11:59 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Tom wanted to waltz across the Hermitage floors. Mom greeted this news with alarum. "You can't waltz acrss the Hermitage, Wendy, it's too slick!" Over the phone, Mom heard me roll my eyes. "No, really! Those beautiful wood floors are so slippery, they give you special paper booties, so you don't fall and hurt yourself! Oh Wendy, be careful."

And Tom dropped a lady on her butt during a Polka on Saturday! (The lady in question could not polka.) Ominous harbinger? I know no fear. Tom and I went to the Hermitage today. It was lovely. The Grand Ballroom was closed for renovations, but our tour guide suggested another room in which the Russian Czars and Czarinas danced.

After the tour, we located the suggested room in the Hermitage maze. It was occupied by a crypt. Could she possibly have meant for us to dance in front of a tomb? What the hell, we danced the Congress of Vienna. As we twirled around, a crowd of Japanese tourists filed into the room. Tom had chosen music that was quite long. We danced and danced, as the tourists watched. At the end of the music, Tom bowed low, to the sound of applause! Only one person applauded, but it felt nice!

The paper slippers Mom remembered were not evident, but women with stiletto heels wore thick wool covers over their shoes. Russian women tend to be tall, and tend to wear very high heels. The force impacted by a 110-lb woman stepping onto a 1/4" point is enough to damage even stone floors. Many churches in Europe have signs showing the stiletto behind a big red circle with a slash through it.

The wood floors of the Hermitage are magnificent.

Waltz worthy.

Posted by Goddess at 06:32 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Enroute to Saint Petersburg, I fret about the work that I should be doing instead of jaunting off to a very foreign contry. Fret. My father is scheduled for cataract surgery on Wednesday. Fret. Six days with a man I barely know. I should build an online shopping cart. I should buy my father a mobility scooter. I should arrange heat for my unheated new house.

I fret about things I can no longer change. It's too late for all that. Wise decision or not, I'm in the air.

Tom Pfaeffle, a neatly dressed and courteous dancer, has a secret life: a collection of 500 pipes, enough tobacco salted away to last until 2068, and the intriguingly whimsical title,"North American Pipe Smoking Champion."

He was gong to miss competing in the World Championship. Oracle cancelled vacations through Octuber (typo, but October is a tuber month) because they were in a crunch. "Tom, you have to defend your title!" I cried. "Go anyway! Call in sick! You have to go to Saint Petersburg!"

What with one thing and another, I accidentally wound up going to Russia with Tom. I don't want to talk about it. Here I am, on a plane, too late to turn back!

How does one win a pipe smoking competition?

Less is more. This is no Darwinian effort to smoke as much as you can. On the contrary. They give you a pipe (this year's model is Italian with silver bands) and 2.2g of "white cube-cut burley" tobacco and two matches. They give you 5 minutes to meld with the new pipe, 30 seconds to light up, and the last man smoking wins.

Competition tobacco is not the best. Even saying "cube cut burly" causes Tom to grimace in pain. There are many lovely tobaccos. Naturally aromatic, sometimes blended with small amounts of spices. Cinnamon, bergamot, nutmeg, coriander. Tobacco is like wine. Why would a pipe smoking championship mandate smoking unpleasant tobacco, any more than a World Wine Competition would select only wines from Zambia?

Fortunately, this year, the traditional model is thrown on its ear. The competition tobacco is 3 g of Heritage, a Virginia/burley blend.

Puff puff. More to come.

Posted by Goddess at 02:21 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I love my new neighborhood!
People push prams, walk dogs, and chat!

Big dogs are everywhere. Why? Opinions differ. Cautious neighbor Liz says it's due to a rash of break-ins several yars ago. Big dogs breed big poop problems. Some attempt to deal with the Big Poop Problem by affixing "Curb Your Dog" signs to trees, or pounding "No Dogs" signs into lawns. One creative neighbor put a wooden dog cutout on her lawn, showing a squatting pooch with a rectangle of brown stuff emerging from his nether regions.

Eww!

My cat Milkshake went walkabout and PurrBall and I miss her very much, but hope she is having an adventure. Cautious Neighbor Liz says, "Raccoons." But a more hopeful friend says, "She's sleeping in a little girl's bedroom, and her new name is Snow Ball."

Posted by Goddess at 06:27 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)