Every Jewish press trip I’ve taken has had its share of minor calamities. So it was no surprise my expedition to Russia last month would evoke a touch of Murphyski’s Law, in which whatever could go wrong did.

• In my Nizhny Novgorod hotel room, TV reception was limited to a handful of Russian-language stations and one from Canada, a Trinity Broadcasting Network outlet that exclusively programs music singing the praises of Jesus.

• The maid, who had obviously cut all her training classes, didn’t make my bed, empty the overflowing trash can, change the wet towels or replenish the half-roll of thin, ultra-narrow toilet paper.

• Reconstruction hammering began at the hotel too early every morning, rendering any other wake-up calls meaningless.

• Breakfast, so graciously included in the room price, featured an off-color piece of liver from an unidentified animal.

• My driver made sure I arrived for my flight back to Moscow at 4 a.m., in plenty of time to sit in the dark at the unopened, deserted airport.

• On that flight, via a small, antique Aeroflot jet, I was sardined by a macro-muscular German team that transformed the aisles into an obstacle course, with gym bags and hockey sticks jutting every which way.

• In New York, before heading to Russia, I decided to visit an acquaintance of my daughter. Train service was halted because of overhead wires dangling near the tracks. And the driver of the substitute feeder-bus didn’t bother announcing any stops.

• My neurotic need to arrive at the airport an extra hour early, to deflect any potential problem, was met by this response from a clerk at JFK: “You sure left yourself plenty of time — your flight doesn’t leave until tomorrow.”

• Delta Airlines’ inflight glatt kosher meal by Weiss may be the nastiest I’ve ever spit out. But I figured that even the vengeful God of the Bible couldn’t be so cruel as to make me chew or swallow it.

• Once in Moscow, the magnetized card to open my hotel room door failed. I had to shlep my heavy luggage down an endless corridor and to the front desk, where an unsmiling clerk gave me another that worked.

• The next day, my camera battery fell out in the room, but I didn’t discover it was missing until well after the touring van took off. I missed what undoubtedly were the most colorful pictures of the trip.

• No one learned to spell my name right. A Moscow clerk came closest, but he somehow Scandinavianized it — to Weingaarten.

• In St. Petersburg, I accidentally took a sleeping pill before embarking on a tour. Maybe I’ll catch the sights next time.

• Because of prior warnings about bad food, I shlepped half a salami plus heavy cans of fruit and tuna all over Russia — and then all the way home to California, where they still reside in my refrigerator.

• And because of prior warnings of a cold spell, I shlepped a heavy parka, a wool scarf, a wool ski cap and padded leather gloves all over Russian in weather that ranged from the high 70s to the low 90s.

Ah, that Murphyski.

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