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their hand baggage. But on the edge of Red Square the bus picked up speed and shot past the mammoth hotel, heading instead for a bridge over the Moscow River. Chopyk sat up and scrambled out of his seat, confused. They could hear his voice above the rumble of the engine but could not hear what the driver was saying in reply. Once over the bridge, the bus entered an older, shabbier part of town. There were not so many gargantuan buildings here although the open cobble stoned squares still dwarfed the vehicles. On the corner, a shop sign announced bakery and pastry. Crowds of shoppers were exiting, smiling and chatting, with bulky bags packed with loaves of bread. A stout elderly woman in a cloth coat—though the day was warm—ran out onto the street by Jennifer’s window apparently on a suicidal collision course with the bus. At the last moment, the bus swerved as if the driver had seen her all along even though he was engaged in earnest conversation with Chopyk. The driver slowed, appeared to answer Chopyk, sometimes lifting his hands off the wheel perilously to make a point.
Tension was paralyzing her, she knew. Just two weeks ago she would have been the first one to run to the front of the bus if something had gone awry or just for the excitement of it. Now she didn’t trust herself, and for once Chopyk appeared to have stepped up to the plate. Finally she gave in to curiosity and went up to the front.
Just at that moment, to everyone’s surprise, the driver pulled up in front of an ornate grimy square building that looked as if it had seen duty under the czars. He jammed on the brake and began to gather his belongings as if this was the end of his trip. To Jennifer’s surprise, they were back at the river again, actually still within sight of the Kremlin and the very bridge they had crossed earlier. They had done an elaborate block circling, snaking their way through endless one-way streets to arrive at the front door of…of what? “Hotel Bucharest” a sign proudly proclaimed.
“Well, that takes the cake,” fumed Chopyk, turning to speak to the group. “It appears that we will not be staying at the Hotel Rossiya tonight.”
There was a chorus of sighs but some giggles, too.
“I have just recently, very recently, been informed that we have been booked into this hotel—the Bucharest, which, as we all know, is the capital of Romania. You won’t find the establishment in your Michelin Guides, but no doubt our Romanian comrades find it very comfortable.”
Libros Libertad 