In 1995, you taxpayers—who pay for the United States Information Agency—sent Margaret and me to Russia. My mission: advise Ural State University journalism department how to revise their ‘propaganda’ curriculum. This university lies in the center of Yekaterinburg, Russia’s third largest city, two times zones east of Moscow, 28 miles west of Siberia. We spent four snow-covered months there and never saw soil until May.
I wrote a ‘Texan in Russia’ column and emailed this copy back to the El Campo and Wharton bi-weekly newspapers.
I went to the Russian birthday party tonight. Everybody there, I thought, was ‘journalistica.’ But one woman declared she wasn’t employed on the Ural State Journalism faculty.
Margaret, who has learned some Russian language, asked the tall, full-bodied woman wearing all black–the wife of Alexander, the designated driver–what she did?
“She’s a small businesswoman,” interpreted a journalism professor who had spent half a year in South Carolina.
“What’s your ‘magazine’ (Russian for ‘shop’)?” Margaret asked.
“I operate a sex shop.” Actually, she sells lingerie, we found out later, but something always gets lost in translation.
I couldn’t resist her revelation.
“Tell her it’s the world’s oldest profession,” I suggested to the interpreter. He did. She answered in Russian and he interpreted.
“She says it’s the world’s second oldest profession–after journalism.”
