Brezhnev shared my enthusiasm. Impulsively, after a late lunch, he invited me to accompany him on a tour of Vladivostok. We climbed into the back seat of a long black limousine and headed toward the city, thirteen miles away. The local commissar, a large, dark-complexioned man wearing a thick wool coat, sat in the jump seat in front of Brezhnev, and the interpreter, Victor Sukhodrev, sat in front of me. Our conversation was natural and uninhibited. How many people lived in Vladivostok? What was the main industry? And was it always this cold? Twenty minutes later, we drove down a steep hill, entered the city and swung around the main square. A small crowd was there, and even though it was dusk, they recognized the car and applauded. The city itself reminded me of San Francisco, and I wished that I'd had more time to explore the place. But it was starting to get dark and we headed back toward Okeanskaya.

[…] olde men long nusled in corruption, scorning them that would seeke reformation […]

Men in grey robes slowly boom the drums of death.

From the ground, Colombo’s port does not look like much. Those entering it are greeted by wire fences, walls dating back to colonial times and security posts. For mariners leaving the port after lonely nights on the high seas, the delights of the B52 Night Club and Stallion Pub lie a stumble away.