Aselin

Back in 1989 I stood in a line for over two hours to see the embalmed body of Vladimir Lenin. To this day, I’m not sure why I did it, I guess it was something tourists to Red Square just did.

Russians like their lines. My sense, after seeing lines in every city I visited, was that lines helped them feel a sense of purpose. There were lines to get into the grocery store, lines to enter various buildings, and lines to see deceased, mummified leaders of state.

I’ve never been a fan of lines or the dead, so after finding myself in line to see a guy who died in 1924, I should have thought the whole thing through a little better.

As the line wound back and forth on itself, the tourists were intermingled with Soviet line/Lenin lovers. We all displayed appropriate reverence and hushed tones. It was certainly unlike any of my other touristy line experiences.

Upon entering the creepy black stone mausoleum, a chill encompassed my whole body. It was real-life tales from the crypt and the heebie jeebies were crawling up and down my spine. Instinctively I placed my hands in my pockets.

Suddenly the hush and the decorum of the room exploded. An angry guard threw me up against the cold wall ramming the side of his machine gun against my chest and screaming at me in Russian. In a panic I lost track of where I was and he aimed his gun at my face with a continued barrage of verbosity.

Confused, consumed with alarm and being the object of attention I stood frozen as one of my fellow line standers helped me out and reached past the guard pulling my hand out of my pocket. I followed with the other hand, holding my palms awkwardly out in front of me. Somehow this small movement appeased the guard and he fell back into stoic place.

My heart was pumping at 400 beats per minute and I had peed my pants a little so I tried my best to just blend in. I moved along with the line and peeked at Lenin’s leathery blue-gray hand and his torso that fell flat after his rib cage. I couldn’t bring myself to look at his face.

The line finally began ascending the stairs, my lungs gasping for the fresh air and freedom the sunlight brought, I couldn’t speak for many minutes. My instinctive self-preservation had caused international incident, and disrespect to the corpse. How was I to know Lenin disapproved of pocket use.

Now, I know it was disrespectful to place my hands in my pockets, to draw into myself as I felt uncomfortable, but there is nothing more instinctive than the desire to feel safe. Descending into the darkened tomb naturally put me on edge and I suspect I wasn’t the first unsuspecting tourist to break protocol. Protocol is very important but we should have some sort of protocol primer when entering areas with armed protocol enforcers.

Many years later, having broken protocol more than a few times, I’ve learned that while protocol is important, there are too many situations where the enforcers just seem to be waiting for someone to mess up. Waiting to point out the mistake.

For instance, the hullabaloo this week when our new Secretary of State gave the Russian ambassador a special button she had made and inscribed with the word “reset,” to represent the resetting of their diplomatic relationship. Who would expect that the State Department could have translated that tricky word “reset” correctly? The chuckling Russian ambassador explained that they had actually inscribed the button “overcharged.” Oops, protocol violation.

Or the British press going bonkers over the generous gift our new President gave the visiting British Prime Minister. Even 10 Downing Street can use the Costco DVD collection of 25 movie classics including The Wizard of Oz and Star Wars. What ever did Gordon Brown do for fun before this? Oops, protocol violation.

Now, we all make mistakes. We all have used the wrong fork, offered a hand when our Asian guest politely bowed, pointed out a garish hat to a man married to its wearer. Social gaffes are part of being human. I’m just hoping that none of the International Protocol Enforcers feel inclined to demonstrate their displeasure at our gaffes with their guns in our face.