Although the Whitehouse was oblivious to where or what Afghanistan was, the Kremlin was well clued-in, and as the aircraft carrying me touched down in Moscow on a snowy night the Soviet invasion was launched. My connecting flight out of Moscow to Kabul was just not going to happen.

I was totally ignorant of what was going on. So was the Whitehouse, Greenhouse, Brownhouse and all the other houses who were going to have to get out their maps and magnifying glasses to find this place that only existed because Moscow was after it. Moscow hadn't confided in me either.

With no information about any flights being communicated I at last tracked down a matronly-looking woman and demanded to know where I should go for the flight to Kabul. She feigned ignorance of English, but when I wouldn't let go of her sleeve she gave in and said crossly “Go out that door over there”, pointing at an ominously blank-looking door with her big, stubbly chin.

I obeyed. Outside snow was falling heavily from a very black sky and the air was drenched in fumes of aircraft fuel. A line of Ilyushin jets, about 20 of them, stood in line obviously waiting for take-off. None had a big sign reading Kabul. Officials, passengers, soldiers, snow drifts … what was a 19 year old non-Russian speaker to do?

The solution was obvious - follow someone who looked kind. There were no such people around so I tagged on behind a posse of civilians. Someone said “Kabul” along the line so that encouraged me a bit, but not overly.

At the bottom of the steps passports were checked again and destinations asked about and it was then that I found out that there was a problem with the flight to Kabul and I'd been bumped onto one for Delhi. If I'd picked the next plane in the line as some people had, I'd have been for Karachi, the next for Vienna and so on, but I'd picked Delhi. I was going to India.

India arrived under the aircraft's wheels six hours later and in the baggage hall I discovered that my baggage had not come with me.

Five days later it turned up having travelled from Moscow to Karachi then back to Moscow before following me on to Delhi.

Disaster? No.

It felt rather bad at first and there was no-one available to blame which is always a bit of a disappointment, but it was really no inconvenience at all. My style of travelling lent itself to that sort of thing. All I needed was a blanket. I knew Delhi well and had a great time there and moreover I received $US 20 compensation!!!

The best part however was going to a very upmarket hotel for lunch. What a hotel, what a lunch! The Prime Minister of Malaysia was also there along with diplomats from everywhere (not the Soviet Union though). At the end I walked past the pay desk and said with confidence and command, and without stopping, “Charge that to Aeroflot”.

Second time my baggage was “mishandled” (their euphemism, not mine) was with easyJet on a flight from London to Turin, but I'll tell you all about that some other time when the compensation comes through.

The Shaoshan Chong restaurant is situated in Nanning, China. The restaurant served to remind the China people of the cultural revolution during the Mao Zedong era. The waitresses who serve the local delicacies to the patrons are dressed in the Red Guard uniform. Red Guards are actually the army units formed by Mao Zedong to wipe out the revisionist and Western influence in China.

2. People's Republik

The People's Republik bar is a Soviet Socialist themed bar situated in Central Square in Boston. The interior is decorated with funky socialist and communist propaganda posters. This bar is a favorite hangout for the college students nearby. It serves good food and drinks at affordable price.

3. Lenin's Mating Call

This is actually a Soviet themed restaurant and bar located in South Nevsky, Russia. There is an iron curtain that hangs overhead near the entrance of the restaurant. The dining hall is divided into two halls- Soviet room and the other, anti-Soviet room. The Soviet room has Lenin portraits on the wall and offers a classic Soviet menu with the local Russian favorites.

The anti-Soviet room has parody posters and references to liberalization, sex and drugs. The anti-Soviet offers bourgeois dishes such as fondue and crab. The waitresses are dressed in sexy Communist Party Pioneer uniforms with naughty red high heels, red fishnets and the soviet symbol "hammer and sickle" garters.

4. KGB Bar

In the 1940s, this place was once the local headquarters of a radical left wing Ukrainian socialist party, situated in New York city. Living up to its name, the KGB (Soviet Intelligence) Bar was opened in 1993 with propaganda posters and portraits of the earlier party leaders decorating the interior.

Now, the KGB is better known as one of the best New York literary venue establishments, with reading sessions almost daily where a great get-together venue has established for struggling writers to share their work and ideas - but even more importantly, to get noticed.

5. Stalin's Bunker

This is one of Stalin's actual secret tunnels and has a bunker built in 1939 during the Great Patriotic War in Moscow, Russia. Just above the secret hide-out, was an athletic field or type of stadium as a facade. Now, the bunker is a part of the Central Armed Forces Museum with a Georgian Restaurant that is decorated with Stalin's memorabilia, suitable for private parties.

6. Khmer Rouge Experience Cafe

This cafe is located near the once Khmer Rouge interrogation and torture chamber (better known as the Killing Fields) in Phnom Penh, Cambodia. The Khmer Rouge Cafe is meant to remind the public of the genocide in 1975-1979 during Pol Pot's era. The waitresses are dressed in the local guerrillas black uniforms. Most visitors may not be able to even stomach the food as the "Khmer Rouge detainees set menu" includes rice water, corn mixed with water and leaves, dove eggs and tea, which costs $6 per set.

7. Hitler's Cross

In 2006, a controversial Hitler themed restaurant was opened at Kaghar in Mumbai, India. The name actually refers to the symbol of the Nazi regime, "swastika" which was also the sacred symbol in the Aryan civilization. Although the restaurant's owner claimed that his restaurant has no intention of promoting Hitler and his Nazi party, Hitler's portrait was displayed at the entrance of the restaurant and the interior of the restaurants are decorated in the Nazi party colors - white, red and black.

However, after much public criticism, the restaurant was renamed the "Cross Cafe", the swastika symbol was replaced with multicolored bands, and Hitler's name as well as his portrait was taken down at last.

Rilda and I had brought one of our daughters, Pat, along on three-week journey that began in Budapest and ended in Helsinki.

Skirting Czechoslovakia to the south, the bus entered Hungary and drove past Gyor and Tatabanya to Budapest, Paris of Eastern Europe. The city consisted of the community of Buda on the elevated western bank of the Danube, and Pest spreading out on the eastern bank.

Rilda exclaimed jubilantly, “What a magnificent sight.”

Pat replied just as excitedly, “Never seen anything like it.”

We stood in the shadow of the Citadella, a fortress built by the Hapsburgs atop Buda overlooking the Danube River, able to see all of Pest.

“How about that Chain Bridge?” I asked. “One of the longest suspension bridges in Europe.”

“Don't forget about the fireworks planned for tonight,” Pat said. Then she said glibly, “And I think you're great, Dad, to arrange for us to be here on Hungary's Independence Day.”

I smiled smugly. “Think nothing of it, Pat. Anything for you.”

At Gundel's, waitresses in colorful gypsy dress served a typical Hungarian dinner, accompanied by lively Hungarian music supplied by strolling violinists. We stuffed ourselves with all the traditional paprika-laden dishes.

But the restaurant was on the eastern edge of Pest and we were late for the fireworks. I hailed a taxicab, explaining our problem to a young Hungarian, who replied, “Nooo problem,” in a Hungarian accent. With sreeching tires, the young Hungarian spurted to the west toward the Danube River and the Chain Bridge. I sat stiffly in the front passenger seat, squinting my eyes throughout the entire trip. Rilda and Pat huddled together in the rear seat and kept their eyes tightly closed. The young man drove 80 miles an hour through the streets of Pest, bumping up on sidewalks when at a stop light, and skirting cars with the horn blaring continuously. When I suggested we were not in that much of a hurry, the young man replied, “Nooo problem.”

With squealing brakes, the cab jolted to a stop at the edge of a crowd huddled before the Chain Bridge. I handed the driver a handful of Hungarian Forints and a pack of Marlboro cigarettes. The man ignored the money and stared lovingly at the American cigarettes. He must have said, “Thank you,” at least ten times.

The magnificent display of fireworks over Buda, as seen from the Chain Bridge, was indescribably fantastic. The dazzling explosions of color against the night sky over the Danube River reminded me of those over the Charles River in Boston on July 4th when Arthur Fiedler once conducted the Boston Pops Orchestra in the 1812 Overture.

The nice young Hungarian man patiently awaited them for the return trip. I explained to him, “Please. Do not drive so fast. We're in no hurry. You understand?”

He replied with, “Nooo problem.”

The return was smoother and slower, so when they arrived at the Hotel Mercure Korona, we waved to the driver and in unison said, “Goodnight.”

He waved his second pack of Marlboro cigarettes high in the air as he drove away and again shouted, “Thanks.”

The next morning our tour bus crossed the Great Alford and the Carpathian Mountains on its way to Uzhgorod on the Ukrainian border. I thought we would spend all three weeks in Uzhgorod where it took hours for Soviet border guards to search the bus and its passengers, count money, and inventory jewelry, film, tapes and videocassettes.

We purchased a few Soviet rubles at the state bank $1.50 per ruble. We had agonized for weeks prior to the trip about buying black market Soviet rubles. I finally said, “Too risky. Can't take the chance of being caught. We'll have to make do with the inflated exchange rate.”

Finally, we made it into the USSR,the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, the Soviet Union on our way across the Ukraine Mountains to Lvov. I was always perplexed when watching an international sports event, that a Soviet uniform was emblazoned with CCCP. I would ask myself, What the hell does it stand for? Why not USSR? During this trip to the USSR, I learned that in the Cyrillic alphabet, S=C and R=P. In Russian, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics translated to Soyuz Sovetskykh Sotsialisticheskikh Respublic SSSR. I nodded and sighed, SSSR equates to CCCP.

The following morning, Rilda asked guardedly, “Going to do it, Sweetheart?”

I shrugged and said dismissively, “Imagine the headline, "American Army Colonel arrested by the KGB in Lvov for purchasing black market rubles." I don't think so.”

“Gee, Dad,” Pat persisted, “our guide, Ingrid, says everyone does. If you won't, give me your money and I'll do it.”

Rilda, Pat and I descended the stairs and while I was still agonizing over making such a purchase, an extremely obese man with a cherub-like face and pink cheeks approached me in the lobby of the hotel. With an Eastern European accent, he whispered with a raspy voice in English. “Mister. Want to purchase rubles?”

Rilda and Pat were smiling angelically, so I shrugged, glanced at the ceiling for a moment as if in prayer, and then acquiesced by nodding to the fat man. The extremely well fed man crooked a finger at me to follow him to his tiny car, a Traubie. This hulk of a man was a Pole who smuggled rubles and western currency across the Polish border. Western currency bought Polish zloty in Poland¾90,000 zlotys to the U.S. dollar.

The giant flicked open the passenger door and motioned me into the wee car. Then he plodded carefully around the rear of the car, glancing about stealthily. I watched him suck in his huge gut and hold his breath while he wedged himself into the driver's seat.

When the Pole stretched across me to the glove compartment, I felt a wave of terror well up from my belly and beads of perspiration erupt on my forehead. Thoughts ran through my mind at a mile a minute. Does he pull out a gun to rob me, and then drive off? Or does he show me his KGB identification and drive me to the nearest police station? Next stop, a gulag in Siberia.

The glove compartment door sprung open with a click that sounded to me like a pistol shot. I recoiled, and then stared into a cubbyhole stuffed with paper rubles, crammed into every nook and corner, with no room left for even a single kopeck coin.

“How many?” The rather large man asked gruffly as he gestured with an open hand to the cubicle.

I hesitated while my heart rate returned to normal, and answered hesitantly, “Uh. Don't know.” The human version of King Kong grimaced, so I quickly said meekly, “How about ... uh ... twenty dollars?”

The Pole frowned deeply and said, “Well, my friend. A twenty-dollar bill gets you ten rubles to the dollar.” He reached into the glove compartment and grabbed a fistful of rubles.

I quickly calculated that from $1.50 per ruble at the official government rate to ten rubles for a dollar, I would have a fifteen-fold increase in purchasing power while in the USSR. I paused while thinking, Suppose they're counterfeit? Headlines. American Colonel arrested for passing counterfeit rubles.

The Pole said authoritatively, “Don't worry. They're real.” Then he smiled contemptuously at me as he waved the fistful of rubles in front of my face. “An American one hundred dollar bill will get you fifteen rubles for a dollar.”

Upon hearing that offer, I didn't need a calculator and did not hesitate to extract a $100 bill from the wad of bills in my pocket.

The Polish Godzilla licked his thumb and index finger and carefully counted out 1,500 rubles, not creating a gap in the fistful he had removed from the compartment that had not made an indentation in his monumental supply.

The Pole and I shook hands, both of us smiling broadly, nodded to each other and I stuffed his fistful of rubles into my pocket before scooting from the car. I swaggered back to the hotel where Rilda and Pat eagerly waited in the front door. When they saw my huge grin, their faces also illuminated. I looked up the staircase at them and announced proudly, “We've got enough rubles for a while.”

“Let's see,” Pat said, bouncing with excitement.

“Not here,” I said warily. I looked around furtively, and when I saw no one possibly resembling the KGB, I let out a long sigh of relief.