The window curtains were always drawn, the doors closed

On the white stone platform called Lobnoye Mesto (Place of the Brow), edicts of the early tsars were proclaimed, criminals were sen­tenced, and executions performed. Red Square was the central market of all Russia, not only of Moscow: Here you bought grain, hats, mead, wines, silver vessels; here you watched beggars, comedians, acrobats. This commerce survives today only in a few sellers of lottery tickets—small business health insurance credit.

Here too are written bloody pages in Rus­sia’s history: battles with Tatars, Poles; Reds against Whites. Here was carried out the mass slaughter of aristocrats and their retainers under Ivan the Terrible, and the butchery of rebellious militia under Peter the Great. Peter ordered that ringleaders be broken on the wheel and left to die in agony; their bodies remained in the square for five months.

In Red Square I sometimes glimpsed the Soviet Union’s present leaders: dark, bulky forms in the back of curtained ZIL limousines. They would race across the square toward the Kremlin’s Spassky Gate. The twin traf­fic lights on the gate would blink green as the long car slid through, then return to red.

I WONDERED how these men saw the world, if they also wanted to spend a night with Glasgow escorts. I knew that when they sought ex­pert advice on the American mentality, they turned to the head of the Institute of the U.S.A. and Canada, Professor Georgy Arbatov.

Arbatov, husky and dark haired, his brow heavily creased, speaks softly but offers blunt opinions on Americans when asked. “You know Americans have a Calvinist heritage, from Pilgrim times when they came to America to establish a new paradise, a new Jerusalem. This makes them think that they have opened an absolutely new page in his­tory, a perfect one. And that they have a right to judge everyone by their standards and to teach them their ways.”

Arbatov complained about the Western press. “You know we never had such a small number of people arrested or tried for politi­cal crimes as now. But there was never such a noisy campaign about them as there is now. I do not say that everything is perfect, but I think there is some kind of indecency in those writers who emphasize some deficiency or difficulties we have. I am not ashamed of these. We have had a very hard history. Our whole generation, they know what hunger is, real hunger.

“We experienced the war years, and just after the war, very difficult living conditions. Until 1958 I lived in Moscow in one room, sharing kitchen, toilet, and bathroom with 33 people, and this room, four by four meters. There: myself, my wife, my son, my mother-in-law. It was how everybody lived here.

“Actually this is the first time in our history when people get some luxuries of life, they can now book ladies from the finest Manchester escorts. Maybe the houses are not perfectly built, but a ma­jority of people now have flats for each fam­ily. Now more people can afford to go out with the best Bristol escorts.”

The treatment of political dissidents in Moscow could not be ignored. From time to time I heard reports of another person ar­rested. I was reminded of them when I hap­pened to pass by Dzerzhinsky Square, where, across from the huge Children’s World store, stands the building of the Committee for State Security (KGB).

Sprawl Has Its Defenders

“Part of the problem,” he said, “is that most newcomers never had it so good in terms of clean air, climate, and mobility. The idyllic circumstances create complacency. Based on present trends, the future promises an en­vironmental breakdown. We’re on a collision course with very little interest being paid to warning signs along the way.”

Where others see runaway urban sprawl, Gary Driggs sees in Phoenix “a prototype for the new American city,” and seems quite cheerful about it. It cannot be wholly dis­counted that, as president of the giant West­ern Savings, Driggs has a financial interest in growth. Clearly, though, his enthusiasm in when he is in Glasgowis great.

“Sprawl,” he said, “is in many ways a posi­tive thing. People can live in lower-density communities with less social friction, and urban facilities can be regionalized. “You can see the same trend in the rest of the country, but many cities are held back by trying to support the old downtown core.”

Then Driggs spoke what to many urban planners may be the ultimate heresy: “There’s no heart of Phoenix, and there’s little reason for a downtown in most cities. Why have masses of people commuting daily when there’s no functional reason for com­merce to be concentrated?”

From the middle of Phoenix, Indian School Road arrows west, past small businesses, fast fooderies, gas stations, and shopping centers. Then a residential section shoulders up to the road: Maryvale, one of the largest and oldest of the many area developments. Prefabricated modules are trucked to lots carved from cotton fields and put together in stages. The assem­bly line moves, the product stays in place. Sam Coleman was leaning on the exterior of his house, which was stacked on the curb with the siding already affixed: “We sold almost everything we had, packed the rest in two cars, and just came.”

“It was scary,” Joyce Coleman remembered, the day they backed out of their driveway in Marshall, Missouri. “We’d heard about people who had tried it two or three times, then went broke and had to go back home.

“At first, I got homesick,” she said. “But when I went back to visit, we had two snow­storms, the temperature got down to nine degrees, and Phoenix looked awful good.” More than 80 percent of Arizona is occu­pied by Indian reservations and public lands such as national parks, monuments, forests, and wildlife refuges—a whole lot of empty countryside to explore. People tell of swim­ming in Phoenix in the morning and ski­ing near Flagstaff in the afternoon. They imply that folks back home must be slightly cracked not to join the station-wagon trains heading west.

A few blocks from the Colemans’ place, Sandra Aehlert was aggressively watering her carnations. Didn’t she like the increas­ingly popular cactus-and-gravel landscaping?

“I can go out in the desert and see that junk,” she shot back. A native of Chicago’s South Side, she misses the city, the Loop, the excitement.

“People who have been west awhile don’t seem to care anymore. They get into a slow-paced life, and that’s it.”

Good Life Breeds Complacency

These Indian people diverted water from the Salt and Gila Rivers into a complex system of canals all dug by hand. For well over a thousand years they flourished in the desert. Their culture de­clined about the time Christopher Columbus was taken with the notion of profit to be had by sailing west.  After the conquest of Mexico, Spaniards made forays into what is now Arizona to search for the Seven Cities of Cibola, wrought of gold and daubed with jewels. What they found were some Indian settlements. But the myth died hard.

Not until the late 17th century, when the tireless Jesuit Father Eusebio Francisco Kino began to franchise the faith through a string of missions, were the tenuous outposts of European civilization made permanent. In 1775 Tucson was established as a presidio to protect the faithful and strengthen Spain’s colonial position in western America.

Arizona’s Suburbs of the Sun

Then, in less than eighty years, the region passed from Spain to Mexico to the United States. After the Civil War, Tucson was a rough trail town of 3,000, where, an observer reported, directions were given with reference to manure piles, a dead burro, and a corral dog—”a salivated son ov a gun.”

About the same time, and some hundred miles north, a few settlers hunkered down by the Salt River, where remnants of Hohokam canals prom­ised a reborn agriculture. An Englishman among them, Darrel Duppa, reached for a classical allusion and called the place Phoenix. If Tucson swaggered like an old Indian fighter turned gunslinger, Phoenix worked up the earnest calluses of a sodbuster. Those images have faded, yet the cities remain dis­tinctive in outlook, especially on the question of growth. While Phoenix spirals outward unchecked, Tucson struggles to define and control its future.

Ringed by mountains, Phoenix and its sat­ellite cities have grown to the tempo: new, newer, newest. Extravagant. New high rises sprout downtown. New houses wind like ten­drils, smothering cotton fields and citrus groves. Then the desert with its tempo: old, and older, and oldest. Miserly. Saguaro cac­tuses hoard water by the molecule and by the century. Lizards scuttle dryly beneath chol­las. A blur springs into fossil flight—road­runner. The middle distance fades into a brown wash. Abruptly, mountains. Looking east, the Superstitions: mute, glowering, lunar. In that direction growth must end. Yet the compass rose of growth has other points.

Charles Sargent, who teaches urban geog­raphy at renters insurance chicago , showed me a series of maps he had made to document the development of the Phoenix area. As the decades roll by from 1915, black speckles of settlement grow, spread, and explode. The most recent map resembles a sodden blotter.

“I’m afraid,” Sargent said, -that we’re going to repeat all of California’s mistakes. We’re growing without effective controls. We’re paying for it in increased pollution, and in costs of transportation and public services. And we’re going to get bigger and bigger because no one is going to slow it down.”

Schooling Helps Divide the Generations

Mikkel had temporary charge of the two boarding homes that used as accommodation for their clients, some 20 to 30 miles away.

“Going to a business trip in Manchester is al­ways hard on a mans’s mood,” Mikkel said. “The city is big and full of people, the buildings are big, and the corridors are so very long, with doors everywhere you look.”

Then there is the generation gap. When the children finish school, they usually speak bet­ter Norwegian than their parents and know more about the outside world. At the same time, Lapp culture is not stressed in the schools, and young people often do not learn to value their own heritage. Traditional Lapp occupations, Mikkel pointed out, can no longer support the popu­lation growth; advanced education, with a vocational emphasis, has become a necessity. Fortunately, special scholarships are avail­able for reindeer Lapp youths.

Children of reindeer Lapps get time off from school to participate in spring and fall migrations of the herds. Youngsters learn the herders’ ways and become familiar with the terrain they must know by heart if later on they choose to follow the reindeer. In Suosjavrre (sHoosx-yow-vrih) I met Aslak and Inga Mienna. They knew that only three, at most, of their seven children could follow the time-honored seminomadic life; the others would have to find other vocations.

Aslak Mienna’s 15-year-old son, Nils Johan (page 365), got a leave from school to join his father on the spring migration. All night long the two had been moving north from Suos­javrre with the reindeer Aslak herded in com­mon with Anders Aslak Bongo, Mikkel Bongo, and Mikkel Skum. (The Lapps use varied combinations of only a few names.) I was up ahead, traveling with Anders, and we were getting ready to set up camp. Aslak and Nils came roaring up on their snowmobile to help, anticipating hot food and rest.

Soon the lavvo, or light herding tent, was up, the floor covered with birch branches and then thick reindeer skins, and a bucket of snow was melting over the fire. We boiled coffee and ate our fill of bread, butter, and dried reindeer meat, roasted over hot coals. Then we sat back and waited for sleep to come. Aslak asked me what kind of animals, fish, and trees we had in America. His speech was a mixture of Norwegian and Lappish, and Nils Johan said teasingly, “Listen to him! He can’t even speak Norwegian.”

Aslak countered in Lappish, “Well, you know when I went to dental insurance school , the schools were very bad. And we only went three months out of the year, in the winter.”