New chapter from "Confessions Of An Art World Insider"

John is currently writing his book "Confessions Of An Art World Insider". Below is one of the chapters in the book:

Chapter 2: Arrival

Flying from Toronto to Moscow took 24 hours, including a layover in Amsterdam. By the

time we landed at Sheremetyevo Airport, I was exhausted, dehydrated, and not at all

prepared for what awaited me. Arriving at Sheremetyevo was like stepping into another

world. Signs for passport control and baggage claim were in Cyrillic, and while a few

universal icons were scattered around, they seemed more like hieroglyphs than helpful

graphics.

Perhaps your most pressing need is to find a lavatory, but unless you know that “туалет”

means toilet, you might be in trouble. Fortunately, a fellow passenger—who must have

noticed my look of distress—gave me a nudge in the right direction. The relief that followed

was like getting news your tax audit had been canceled.

Emboldened now, I followed the line of exhausted passengers toward passport control. The

signage here didn’t need translation: a red X over an automatic weapon, a snarling dog

sniffing a suitcase, and a hand held up, palm out—stop.

The lighting was dim, only a few bulbs flickering overhead despite it being late afternoon.

Everything looked faded, as if the entire airport had been washed in gray. We were split into

two lines: one for Russian passport holders, and one for the rest of us—Visa holders.

I stepped forward, watching the officer at the booth ahead. She was young, female, dressed

in full military uniform with epaulets and a peaked cap. She looked more like a figure out of

a Cold War propaganda poster than a customs official.

When my turn came, I stepped up and almost tossed my passport—with Soviet visa

carefully affixed—into her hands. She looked up at me with a flicker of irritation, opened the

passport, stared at my photo, then at me, back to the photo. Her hand hovered over the

stamp. She looked again.

Then she said something that made my blood run cold.

“Show me the money,” she said in broken English.

“What?” I replied, startled. “Here? Now?”

I hesitated. I didn’t want to reach into my breast pocket and reveal the envelope I was

carrying. Inside it were five hundred crisp $100 bills—a $50,000 cushion for buying

paintings directly from artists. Just before passport control, I had filled out a customs

declaration form, and one of the questions asked if I was bringing more than $10,000 in

cash or equivalents into the country. Many people might skip that box, but I knew better.

You can't take more out of the country than you declare when you enter.

She must have noticed my reluctance. Without another word, she stood up, closed her

window, and motioned for me to follow her. We walked to a tiny side room—bare walls, a

small desk, and just enough room for the two of us. She closed the door behind us.

Now, I’m a calm guy in most situations, but this? This was giving me the sweats. Was I about

to be accused of money laundering? Drug trafficking? Who knew what else they could throw

at me?

She looked at me with that Soviet resignation you see even in the young—like life had

already decided their fate and all they could do now was play their role. She repeated,

“Show me the money.”

I slowly opened the envelope and handed her the stack of hundreds. It was more than two

inches thick. She fanned through it quickly with her thumb, handed it back with a look

somewhere between disinterest and contempt, and without another word, returned to her

kiosk.

Back at the booth, she stamped my passport and said simply, “You can go.”

I walked through, trying to blend in. That’s something I always try to do when

traveling—especially in the former Soviet Union. But back then, there were no ATMs in

Moscow, no easy wire transfers. If you were going to buy art directly from the artists, you

brought the money with you.

I had learned to arrange the cash in advance with my bank, carry it discreetly, and answer

the customs declaration form honestly. The artists, for their part, had learned that hard

currency was their only shield against the economic chaos of the time. The ruble was

volatile. One day they could afford a week’s worth of groceries, the next day only a loaf of

bread.

Walking out of Sheremetyevo that day, I was reminded that being prepared is not just about

paperwork—it’s about understanding where you are, who you’re dealing with, and what

they’ve lived through. That envelope of Ben Franklins might have been just business for me,

but to the young officer, it was a glimpse of a world just out of reach—and a reminder of the deep divides still at play, even after the Cold War.

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