I have a long-time friend whom I met at UNESCO in Paris during my translator/interpreter days.  He was a journalist there, and he was from... the U.S.S.R.
       At least that’s what it was called back in those days.  Now it’s Russia.  And now both of us Cold War survivors are retired.
       Vladimir (that’s his name) finds retirement a bit boring, I think.  He’s far too bubbly and active a person to just sit around (except when he plays chess).  So he decided to create a cultural group called Glagol.  When I asked him what that meant in Russian, he explained it came from a Pushkin poem and meant “the Word”, or “the Message”.  Carrying a message.
       And the message he’s chosen to carry of his Russian homeland this time is that the Volga region northeast of Moscow is a region of rural beauty.  So I just had to go see for myself.
       What’s more, as the trip isn’t run by a tourist agency but rather organized by the Glagol group itself, the budget for the week is only 500 euros (+ visa + plane ticket), which is about as cheap a trip as I’ve ever taken. That budget includes bus, hotels (single or double occupancy), meals, excursions, museum fees, guide and interpreter plus insurance, with activities to include folklore festivals and meeting local artisans.  A real bargain!

Americans can visit many countries around the globe without a visa, or at least without getting one first.  We’re lucky that way.  When I went to Jordan to see the “lost” city of Petra, for example, my visa was stamped in my passport at the airport upon arrival.  But this is Russia and I am a Yankee.  So a visa will be required.
       To be fair, the French people traveling with me had to get one too.  So Vladimir escorted us all to the Russian embassy to cut through the red tape, because they know him.
       We all had to have a letter of invitation, which Glagol’s Russian counterpart willingly extended.  And the visa applications can, indeed must, be filled out on-line.  It was basically three pages (I think) for the French, but there was an extra added section for me, the Yank, making mine at least double that.  In addition to much other stuff, the form wanted to know everywhere I’d been on previous trips for I-don’t-remember-how-long, and I chose not to fill all that in because... well, because I travel too much.  And because the information demanded was very detailed, with addresses, dates and all.  And because what difference should it make?  (That’s my leftist Vietnam-era rebellious side coming out.)
     Anyway, I filled in the form, printed it out and set off to meet Vladimir and two or three of the French party at the embassy, which is a heavily protected bunker with no windows built right up against the Bois de Boulogne, the forest at the western edge of Paris, in the ritzy part of town (which I always found ironic back when Russia was the Communist USSR).
       It was all going slowly but swimmingly, although I was a bit nervous about Vladimir stating several times that I’m a journalist. I do have an international press card delivered by the French Ministry of Foreign Affairs, but I pretty much only write blogs nowadays.  And besides, perhaps an American journalist wandering the hills and dales of rural Russia wasn’t something they particularly wanted to happen.
       Nonetheless, the visa was finally approved - probably greatly aided by Vladimir’s dealings with them over all the years of his journalistic career - and I went up to one last window to pay.  I’d heard the others, the French people, and had prepared the fee they were asked to pay:  35 euros.  But mine - the visa for The American - cost 150 euros!  Which I didn’t have in cash.  So out came the American credit card... and they took it!  Welcome to the New Russia!
       One thing that worried me:  they keep your passport so that the very official visa - complete with photo - can be stamped in it.  Leave my passport behind?  That’s something I’ve been told never to do, and by the American government itself.  But it can’t be helped if I want to make this trip.  All I could do was go back with Vladimir to pick it up... and hope I didn’t need it any time during the week it would take.
       All went well and finally, visa in passport in hand, it’s off to the airport a few days later to meet the other willing victims.
       So to quote James Bond, or rather Ian Fleming, here’s “From Russia, With Love”.

.