To Sing Frogs Chapter 17d

Winter picture of Vlad Motor Inn

I was sure I recognized the area as near to the place where we had visited Katya two months prior. It turned out I was right. We were only a mile away from Camp Volna when we left the main highway and entered the gated community of our hotel. Stass said several local people of consequence had homes in the area. A fence made from black iron framing and contrasting green panels enclosed it. This was where foreigners—and especially Americans—preferred to live when in the region. He told us there was even an American school in the community.

“That’s it?” I asked. There was no glass and stone like the Hyundai. The two-storied building was covered with wood siding painted in medium gray with darker gray accents. The wood deck with patio furniture had me feeling like we were standing in front of a pre-fab-like Canadian lodge rather than a Russian hotel. Eleven flags (almost half from English speaking countries) hung from the building out over the wooden deck. I felt like I should be grabbing my fly rod and heading for the float plane destined for a week of fishing in the Yukon.

“I know it’s not as fancy as the Hyundai,” Stass said. “Trust me, Americans love it.”

I was trying to convince myself not to judge the book by its cover as we pulled our luggage toward the entrance.

“Yes. Mr. Simmons. We have your reservation,” the woman with short dark hair and European black-framed glasses said. “I’ll need your credit card and passport. Could I please get all of you to fill out these forms?” The three of us handed over our passports and we went to work on our individual clipboards. It was all routine stuff. No surprises, until she handed us keys with directions to our rooms.

“Yeah, thanks,” I replied. “We need to get our passports back.”

“Oh, stop by the desk in a couple of hours and I’ll have them for you.”

“Um, maybe not.”

“Excuse me?”

“We need to hang onto our passports.”

“Sorry Mr. Simmons. I need your passports to register you with the local police.”

Turn over my passport? Everything ever written about international travel tells you to only turn over your passport when they pry it from your cold dead fingers. Then again, maybe Russia was the exception. Russia the exception?It was more likely Russia was the rule.

Stass jumped in. “They have implemented some new international registration requirements since your last visit. Theoretically you could go and do it yourself. You don’t speak Russian though and you don’t know the system. Besides, the police really don’t want to deal with you and it would be very difficult. The hotel has made special arrangements so they can take care of the registration requirements for you. They will need to take your passports to the police station. Don’t worry. They do it all the time.” His assurance didn’t provide me with nearly as much comfort as it was intended to.

Amy seemed unruffled as ever. Bill and I walked away feeling as if we had been told our male anatomy parts would be in the freezer and we could return for them later. We stumbled away wide eyed while Stass reminded us that he and Anya would pick us up at eight the next morning. Then we would drive to Partizansk.

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