Saturday
Wake up call at 5.30 am. Stagger out of bed, and do a final check of my suitcase, making sure I have not forgotten my lecture notes. I am to be a visiting professor at St Andrews Biblical College, the new, progressive theological institution in Moscow. My wife and I walk in the pitch black from our London flat to the Bayswater Road and hail a taxi to Heathrow. Most of the passengers on our flight appear to be Russian, including a large number of adolescents. Presumably, they are the children of the new capitalists returning from their English boarding schools for the winter break.
On arrival we join our Intourist group at the airport, and file into our bus to go to the hotel. Five minutes later the bus comes to a sudden halt. We have a flat tyre. The driver parks in the middle of the motorway and gets to work; half an hour later we set off again. As we approach Moscow, the bus breaks down a second time, and now, to the amazement of us all, the driver changes his clothes in full view and puts on an oily boiler suit to work on the engine. There is another 20-minute delay, but we finally arrive at our destination in a state of famished exhaustion. The guidebook describes our hotel as a notorious haunt of prostitutes, but I am too tired to know or care.
Sunday
Our first day in Moscow. After a sumptuous breakfast, including a stack of blinis (Russian pancakes), sour cream and jam, my wife and I set off for Red Square and shopping in the Arbat. Envious of all the men in their splendid furry hats, I purchase my own from one of the new practitioners of the market economy. My wife insists on driving a hard bargain, but we part with smiles and my head is considerably warmer. The rest of the day I am constantly addressed in Russian, but am unable to reply. The only consolation is that at least I no longer look like a tourist!
In the evening we are collected by one of our Russian friends. He published a book my wife and I wrote which was translated into Russian just over a year ago. We are taken to the flat of the translator who has arranged a party for all of those connected with the enterprise including the cover designer, eminent minimalist Alexandr Yulikov. Crowded together into the flat, we repeatedly toast each other with vodka. My wife warns me not to drink too much, but I am carried away with the joy of reunion and feel very merry. Finally the publisher returns us to our hotel, hooting his horn, skidding in the snow and seeming to ignore the heavy traffic. I am convinced I will be killed and compose a really rather touching obituary for myself.
Am disappointed to be safely back in our bedroom, but cannot get to sleep; too much excitement and too many good things to eat and drink.
Monday
9.15 am: await arrival of the guide from the college who will take us to my lecture. Assume he will drive us, but he turns out to be a student and suggests either taxi or metro. We bravely opt for metro and my ever-practical wife fishes out three metro tokens from her pocket. We descend into the bowels of the earth on a disconcertingly rapid escalator. Since I assumed we would be going by car, I left without my smart new hat and have to resort to my umbrella to keep the snow off. Appear to be the only person in all Moscow to own one of these useful objects and am a source of considerable curiosity to passing Muscovites.
On our arrival we are greeted warmly by the college rector and meet both staff and students. I am told that the college is stricken by an epidemic of flu and therefore only a few are likely to attend. Nonetheless by 10.15 the lecture room is full. Am uncertain how good their English is and also whether they know anything about the subject. Decide to speak slowly, but half way through realise that I have made the topic far too simple. It is clear from their questions that they are all extremely knowledgeable. One member of the audience mentions in passing that he has a doctorate from Harvard. I am convinced my lecture was a disaster, but am partially reassured when one of the teachers congratulates me afterwards...or is this simply Russian politeness?
Tuesday
Our final day in Moscow. In the morning we set off to do some more shopping and sightseeing. Lunch proves to be a disaster. We are presented with a menu in Russian by a waitress who knows no English. The only word we can decipher is "tea". In the evening I set out on my own to lecture at the college. My wife has decided to go to the circus, and I have to brave the metro alone. Clutching my map and instructions, I find myself at the right station. A further peril lurks; it is dark and I have to cross a deserted field to get to my destination. I trudge through the snow fearing the worst. If I am murdered by the Russian mafia, will I be recognised by the Church as a martyr? However, I meet nobody and arrive without mishap. I speak for two hours to a small audience with the aid of an interpreter. Everyone is very kind and appreciative. Eventually I tear myself away and rush back to the hotel. At midnight we are due to catch the overnight train to St Petersburg. As we arrive, the snow is gently falling, and the train whistle signals last call. I settle into the compartment feeling I have done my bit for perestroika.
Rabbi Dan Cohn-Sherbok teaches Jewish theology at the University of Kent, Canterbury.