...single suitcases we allow ourselves during extended leisure travel. Soon we are walking down the concrete walkway toward the station. Shirley is pulling her backpack on rollers; mine is on my back. It is after ten o'clock in the evening, but Moscow is far north, and the sun has not yet set. The long express train was sold out. The walkway overflows with passengers crowded shoulder to shoulder.

Shirley and I are seasoned independent travelers. As academics, we have large blocks of unstructured time in the summer, and often travel in Europe for period varying from three to six weeks. By avoiding travel in high season, we almost never have to book accommodations before arriving at a destination. This trip, however, has been different. We speak no Russian, and are only gradually becoming familiar with the Cyrillic alphabet. Very few Russians understand English; fewer still have any interest in speaking it with Americans. Thus we were frustrated in Saint Petersburg by normally routine transactions. Bargaining for inexpensive accommodations; buying groceries or tickets; reading street signs during our daily hours-long walks; determining which direction train to take in a metro station: these and similar activities have been troublesome and time-consuming to complete. Consequently, before leaving Saint Petersburg we booked a five-day home stay in Moscow with an English-speaking host.

We know nothing about our host Georgi beyond his name, his Moscow address and telephone number, and the fact that presumably he will meet us at the head of the train with a sign displaying my last name. We hope he will be there, because our backup plan takes us by taxi to a relatively inexpensive hotel near the Kremlin, and our Lonely Planet travel guide has cautioned us about taxi travel from Russian train stations and airports. As we approach the engine, I see an elderly man holding a folded cardboard sign. About 5' 9" tall with gray hair and a receding hairline, he is dressed in a non-descript short-sleeved shirt and drab trousers. He looks very fit for his age, which we later learn is seventy-six, and it is easy to see that he was handsome when young. I walk over to him, gently unfold the sign, and recognize my name. After brief introductions, we make our way to the car park. On the way, we note that our host walks with a limp, and that his bent and scarred left forearm implies a one-time serious fracture.

On the way to Georgi's apartment in his twelve-year-old automobile, Shirley and I become acquainted with our host. He is very friendly and seems to have a genuine love of life. Outgoing, modest, courteous, gentle--almost courtier-like--he makes one feel comfortable immediately. His English, halting but adequate for everyday conversation, is self-taught; his German, he assures us without vanity, is much better. Georgi's wife Galina currently is residing at their country cottage, so only the three of us will be staying at the Moscow apartment. We are not the first Americans to stay in their home. Georgi tells us he hosts English-speaking tourists because he enjoys the cultural interchange, because it affords him an opportunity to practice his English, and because it enables him to supplement his income. His behavior during our stay will confirm the sincerity of the first two sentiments, but ultimately we will understand that money is not an unimportant issue in his decision to allow tourists into his home.

We arrive at Georgi's apartment, a third-floor five-room flat in a high rise building on the Moscow River Embankment. Directly across from Gorky Park, it turns out to be a pleasant twenty-five minute river walk from Red Square and the Kremlin. We have learned that Georgi is retired. Asked about his profession, he hesitantly reveals that he was once a professional pilot. Shirley and I find this information intriguing, since we are both faculty members at Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University in Daytona Beach, Florida. Shirley is currently Director of Educational Technology for the university. I teach subjects such as aerodynamics, aircraft performance, and upset recovery to students who for the most part anticipate careers as airline pilots. Moreover, as a young man I flew U. S. Navy jets off aircraft carriers. I ask Georgi if he was an airline pilot, and after some urging, he says no, not an airline pilot, but a test pilot. I tell him I too was once a pilot, then--because his answers are reluctant--let the matter drop. Later I will discover that his reluctance simply masks modesty.

Inside Georgi's apartment, we settle our belongings into a drab combination living room/ den with a sofa bed, then share with our host--who provides tea--a small meal of bread and cheese we carried onto the train but did not eat.

Leaving the kitchen, I glance into Georgi's disarrayed study and glimpse a myriad of aviation memorabilia: models of jet fighter and transport aircraft; aviation pictures and citations; what appear to be military medals; and similar paraphernalia. The next day, I cannot resist asking him to give me a tour of the room. Once inside, what I see overwhelms me. Here is a picture of Georgi in 1960 sitting on the immediate right of Leonid Breshnev, then head of the Soviet Communist party, and shortly to displace Nikita Khrushchev as the most powerful man in Russia. Of the ten men in the picture, Georgi is one of only two to whom Breshnev has just presented the Soviet Gold Star, a medal which designates its recipient a Hero of the Soviet Union. The Gold Star is the highest Soviet award, comparable apparently to the U.S. Medal of Honor. There is also a picture of Georgi with Yuri Gargarin, the first cosmonaut, about ten years Georgi's junior; Gargarin's left arm is wrapped around the shoulders of his mentor and close friend. Beside the Gargarin picture is a shot of Apollo 16 on the moon, autographed by Charles M. Duke, Jr.: "To Georgi Mosolov: A salute to a famous pilot from Apollo 16. God bless you. Charlie Duke 7/15/92." Nearby on the wall are three citations the Federation Aeronautique Internationale presented to Georgi between October 1959 and July 1962. Working my way haltingly through their French language inscriptions, I realize two are for airplane world speed records, and one for an airplane world...

NOTE: All illustrations and photos have been removed from this article.



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