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Most people travel quietly, with a plan. Somehow, my plans never quite work out as I would wish them to. Ever. I was a Peace Corps Volunteer in Liberia, West Africa, for just over two years. When I realized that I was one-third of the world away from my parents’ home in Washington state, eight time zones, I came up with the idea of travelling the other two-thirds around the world after my close of service. Somehow, I came up with the concept of taking the trans-Siberian railroad, with some stops to see friends and family members in Asia. I had a plan. I flew from Monrovia, Liberia, to Bamako, Mali, and spent a week - including a day trip up to Segou on the Niger River, for their fabulous market. It was very hot and dry, being in the Sahel region. On the ride back, our taxi stopped in a small village and we all drank some not-so-clean well water. (It was that or suffer with heat stroke. I figured the water was safer.) I travelled onward to winter in Moscow, and spent about two weeks there. On my last day, I felt absolutely horrible - a fever, a horrendous headache, a sick stomach - it felt like malaria. I knew I needed something more than just resting, so I went to the hotel doctor. (They had them back in 1984 USSR.) The doctor heard that I had been in West Africa, looked at my fading tan, and figured I had something horrible like cholera - and immediately sent me off to some hospital in an ambulance! Everyone was talking to me in Russian, which I didn't understand, and I was escorted into the hospital through an outside door directly into a private room, avoiding contact with other patients. Eventually a doctor came in with an entire medical school class, and he spoke a little English. He tested me for cholera, and explained that they had to be very careful so that I didn't spread some disease and start an epidemic. They all left, and I just sat there for a while, maybe napped. After a while I was feeling a bit better, and pounded on the windows to the hallway to get someone's attention. Another doctor came and told me I didn't have cholera (which I knew), and that I probably just had the flu and I could rest in the hospital for two weeks. That was when I realized this was me being quarantined in the USSR. Soviet Russia. 1984. Uh huh. I don’t get scared, I get angry and pro-active. I started looking around for a way to escape. The door was locked, the windows had plastic sheeting, weather stripping, and storm windows. I was afraid I was stuck. After another hour or so, someone came and brought lunch, putting it in a sort of cupboard between the hall and my room. They knocked on the door and motioned to the food tray. I went over to see what was there - and there was a key! I silently took the tray out along with the key, drank the milk, and tried the key on the door to freedom. It worked! I quietly put on my coat, hat, mittens, scarf, grabbed my pack, and slipped out. Walked down the road, with no idea where I was, and hailed a taxi - gave the driver the business card to my hotel, we negotiated a price, and off we went. I got back to my hotel and packed, and left as planned the next day, taking the train across Siberia. And all the way across Siberia, with stays in a few towns, I kept imagining some guy named Igor or Sasha who'd show up to arrest me for escaping from quarantine at this hospital in Moscow!