The First Lady rocketed her little two-seat convertible down the broad Washington avenues like she was piloting a tornado. We’d left the embassy Cadillac and both the Soviet and American security patrols behind at the first stoplight; it was all I could do to hang on and try to follow her English. Were presidents’ wives allowed to do this? I tried to imagine Comrade Stalin’s wife (should he have one) zooming around Moscow like an unescorted missile, and my imagination failed utterly.
