T A B L E_T A L K Discuss the charming aspects of travel in China in Table Talk's Wanderlust area   Find a world of travel books -- new, rare and out-of-print -- at barnesandnoble.com Search by:  Keyword Title Author     R E C E N T L Y Ground zero By Ellen Meloy Excerpt: The Last Cheater's Waltz (01/24/99) Death in Ghana By Tanya Shaffer A simple succession of events in an African village leads to a tragedy -- and a traveler's haunting sense of hopelessness (02/23/99) Walking on silk By Thomas Golembeski A massage teacher in Thailand changes a Westerner's life (02/22/99) This week in travel Wanderlust's select guide to the top travel-related news stories from around the globe (02/19/99) Don't go near the mountains By Dawn MacKeen From narco-tours to daily chit-chat about kidnappings, a stay in Cali, Colombia, is a plunge into the surreality of a pleasant nation engaged in an endless war (02/18/99) Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives Wanderlust's Official Travel Book Partner		ESCAPE FROM TASHKENT | PAGE 1, 2, 3 - - - - - - - - - - When I left the hotel that evening the autumn air was layered with the smoke of burning leaves. My Lada taxi rocketed down the deserted avenues of the center and picked up a road heading out of town. A half-hour later we reached the Zvezdopad Café. No Anastasia. I waited inside the car as instructed. She came running up from behind and threw open the back door and jumped in beside me. "The restaurant in Chilanzar district!" she told the driver, breathless. We peeled out. She snuggled up to me. She picked up my hand and examined my fingers. I felt her heat as her flesh warmed to me. The restaurant was a labyrinth of private booths, plastic pagodas and Uzbek thugs with Russian hookers. It was, in sum, one of the classier joints in Tashkent, and we ordered a multi-course repast. Anastasia sat next to me in the booth and poured out her life story. She told me her parents had fled Stalin's purges, coming here in the '30s from a village near Tambov. She had worked as a seamstress in Soviet days but the factory had closed; her girlfriends were all leaving for Russia. Now, she was 27, lived alone with her mother and was afraid the Uzbeks were going to kick her out of her job because she was Russian. My life, a mishmash of solitary wanderings over Eastern Europe, the Arab World and a few other places, sounded magical to her. When I tried to explain how uncertain, even disconsolate, it had all been, she wouldn't hear of it: "Oh no! It's so romantic! What have I seen? Only Tashkent!" Our food came. We gorged ourselves on caviar, we feasted on sturgeon. We drank sparkling goblets of champagne and toasted and ate more caviar, more sturgeon. Our despair and passion soon swept us away. I was a wanderer and she was a waif, everything was lost, life was grief! We drank champagne. We kissed, and her lips were full and rich as fresh strawberries. We finished our caviar and started in on our chicken Kiev. She took a bite or two, then put down her fork. As her lips found mine again, there was a knock on the booth door. It was the waitress. She called Anastasia outside. A few minutes later Anastasia returned, her jaw clenched. "What's wrong?" I asked. "What could be wrong?" she said. "Nothing's wrong. How's that chicken?" She stabbed at her fowl. Grease squirted onto her dress. I got up and told her I would get some cold water. "No! I mean, you stay here. This is a woman's task. I'll be right back." She left me again. I waited a second, then followed her out and saw her slip into the ladies' room. When Anastasia came back this time she was more relaxed. She stuffed the chicken into her mouth and, looking dreamily into my eyes, began chewing more lustily than ever. We kissed and wiped the grease off our chins. But there was another knock on the door. "Psst! Psst!" Anastasia stiffened. I got up. "Look, what's going on here?" She kissed me and pushed me back into my seat. When she returned I demanded to know what was going on. "It's nothing. Just a tiny problem." "What kind of tiny problem?" "Oh, you see there's this man I used to date. I just moved out of his apartment. He's a bit jealous and, well, he gets a little crazy at times. He's outside the restaurant. He's making a scene, you know, being threatening and all." She batted her eyes. I got up to look. She pulled me back. "There's no reason to go near the door. I tried to calm him down -- I told him to get lost, to get the hell out of here, that I hate him and all -- but he's a bit out of control." "You just broke up?" "Only the other day he packed his bags and left me." "You said you left him." "Right." We finished our meal in silence, but with more goblets of champagne we loosened up again. We left the restaurant arm-in-arm, and there was no boyfriend on the street. I hailed a cab for her place. We arrived at a pitch-black alley, a tunnel of poplars, and got out of the car. I wanted to walk her to her door. "No! Please, I mean, just go back to your hotel. "I want to see you safely to your door." "I live with my mother -- it would be embarrassing for me." She took my face in her hands and kissed me, then hurried away into the tunnel. I lost her to the dark. Nonplused, I walked to the main road in search of another cab. N E X T+P A G E | "So, you're screwing that guy's wife!"   _________________________________ For more information: _________________________________