We concocted wild stories about trading blue jeans and other goods we had brought with us from West Germany for several famous magnificent Russian lacquer boxes. We invented tales about a party with Soviet Army Officers, buying them champagne and vodka in exchange for their unique military watches. I inserted all the numerous silver proof-ruble coins I had purchased with black-market rubles into display folders to appear more like a collection because no one was allowed to remove Soviet currency from the communist country. Leaving from Saint Petersburg, our tour bus approached the Finnish border at Vyborg, and this was when Rilda and I had begun to perspire and breathe a little heavier.

Our driver, Heinz, pulled the bus up in front of the customhouse, turned off the engine, exited the bus, and helped unload all the suitcases. I had one of the two small coolers we had with us, long since devoid of food and snacks brought in from the West Germany, now filled with exposed film, and used tape cassettes. Illegal imports filled our suitcases, leaving no room for the film and cassettes.

While waiting in a long line, Rilda swallowed dryly and then asked meekly, “What do you think, Jules?”

“Don't like the looks of it,” I said nervously. “Look over there.” I motioned to a table where a customs official was opening suitcases with reckless abandon, searching for anything of value they could confiscate. An Air Force Officer was reluctantly handing over his pocketful of rubles to a customs officer who smiled broadly as he shoved them into his own jacket.

I clutched our entry papers from the border at Uzhgorod where we had declared items of interest and hard currency cash money we were bringing into the country, along with our exit declaration, already moist with perspiration. All too soon it was our turn. With extreme apprehension I approached the table, stacked our suitcases on it and set the little cooler atop the luggage. My hand trembled a bit when I handed the papers to the customs official. Wearing a black jacket and gray slacks, she was pleasant-appearing at first, but as she perused the documents her expression became harsh. Callous faced, she glared at us with piercing eyes, called over two male comrades, and the three of them scrutinized the declarations for what seemed like an eternity.

Then she scowled at me and uttered a diatribe of Russian sentences, none of which I understood. I said pleadingly in English, “I do not understand.”

One of the male officials snatched the papers from the woman, and rattling them in front of my face asked gruffly in English, “Where's the rest of your film and tapes?”

I pointed to the papers the official was holding as I explained, “This's what we came with, and that's what we're leaving with.” I looked up and we locked eyes. Then I murmured, “The rest we used.”

The official's brow furrowed as he bellowed, “You used?” He grimaced and said belligerently, “To sell in Moscow, I suppose?”

My eyebrows flew up, beginning to understand the problem, and a feeling of exultation swept over me. I held up both hands toward the trio and said exuberantly, “I can explain! Let me make it clear.” I touched the cooler with my index finger and said pleasantly, “Please. Open it.”

The grim-faced official shrugged and sighed. But upon opening the cooler his eyes widened to the size of saucers as he stared at all the unaccounted for exposed film and cassettes. I had suddenly realized that I had completed our exit declaration incorrectly. The used ones were missing from the exit declaration statement, creating a tremendous deficit the officials assumed had been sold in the USSR, a strictly forbidden practice

Because Rhoda and I had consumed so much time in the extremely long line, the frustrated and impatient official slammed the cooler closed, carelessly marked our unopened suitcases with a white chalk X, and waving his hand dismissively, impolitely gestured for us to leave.

I extracted three packs of Marlboro cigarettes from my pocket and placed them in plain view on the table, handed the cooler to Rilda, snatched up the luggage, and turned toward the exit. I did not wait to see the Marlboros magically disappear.

Heinz had barely crossed the heavily guarded border into Finland when he pulled the bus onto the shoulder of the road. Our guide, Ingrid, produced two bottles of the finest black-market Russian champagne that black-market rubles can buy, and a sleeve of paper cups. With seventeen cups filled to the brim, Ingrid raised hers in the air. “Here's to our "Great Russian Adventure." Nostrovia!”

The group responded in unison with the Russian expression for cheers, “Nostrovia!” Heinz returned to the road to drive into Helsinki. Except for a little confiscation, and relinquishment of a few black-market rubles, the group came through customs nearly unscathed. Even with a fantastic amount of Soviet smuggled goods hidden in our suitcases, Rilda and I passed through without a single scratch.

The bus rolled into Helsinki, rapidly passing through on its way to the ferry to Sweden. Ingrid reassured the group it was good not to remain in Helsinki long, because Finland's prices were in outer orbit. Besides, the group was still languishing in the afterglow of their Soviet bargains obtained during the “Great Russian Adventure.”