I recently visited Estonia, where locals fear that Russian tanks and soldiers will one day pour across the border, as they did decades ago. I had in my mind that if the Russians invaded and locals fought, I would join them on the barricades.

I got the idea of joining in from Hemingway’s great novel For Whom the Bell Tolls. The hero of the story volunteers to fight against the fascists in the Spanish Civil War. Injured after completing a mission behind enemy lines, the hero has no hope of escaping or of being taken alive. So he sets up his machine gun on a hill in the hope of ambushing the enemy and killing as many of them as he can before he is killed.

In my three days of potential heroics in Estonia, no Russians came, except to compete in an ironman event. Just as well — I do not understand Estonian, and I fear that I would have not understood important orders, like to get down or to retreat. Also, it might have turned out that I lack the courage of Hemingway’s fictional character.

Another fictional character I like is an intelligence agent. When asked his name, he says: “Bond. James Bond.” 

I thought of him recently when I found out one day that the university course I teach, Behaviour Modification, qualified for an award this year for having high student satisfaction and low attrition. In the course, I teach student how to use methods such as modelling and role playing. I asked myself how James Bond would celebrate if he accomplished something in his work — something like saving the free world.

James would put on a tuxedo, go to a casino, and order a martini, shaken, not stirred. As it turns out, I don’t own a tux, and I don’t like gambling or drinking. So I decided to put on a sports coat, go to a pub, and order ginger ale, no straw.

James would be approached by an exotic beauty dressed to kill. I did not rate highly the chances of that happening, but, emulating James Bond, I could not back away from a challenge.

That evening, as I sipped a ginger ale at the pub, a non-exotic beauty wearing track pants strode over to me and said: “I took a class with you, but I don’t remember your name.” I smiled and replied: “Malouff. John Malouff.”

[Photo by Chris Barbalis on Unsplash]