The flight to Moscow was a pleasant surprise of civil Aeroflot service and fresh-smelling, designer-clad passengers. Their relaxed faces emanated indolent comfort – a welcome change in Russian spirit. As we buckled our seatbelts the flight attendants politely advised us not to drink our alcohol on the plane. This I thought was a rather cruel disservice to my neighbors who were quietly nestling bottles inside their breast pockets, and for the entire flight were existentially suspended over earth without butylochka’s consoling comfort. Upon landing the flight attendants handed out migration cards typed in both Russian and English with large “Given Free of Charge” watermarks writ only in Russian. I wondered if this was a bribe prevention measure, but with no English translation for obvious bribe target tourists, it must have served as clarification for those Russians who automatically assumed than nothing was free unless stated otherwise. Perhaps it thwarted suspicious babushkas from thrusting rubles into flight attendants’ hands, “But, dochenka, this paper doesn’t say that it’s free anywhere! How much does it cost? Please, take my rubles!” I surreptitiously snuck an extra into my hoodie.
At Sheremetevo we paced the glass labyrinth that encircled the entire circumference of our arrivals terminal. One of the few passengers traveling past Moscow, I paced the labyrinth at least four times and was referred to five different transit desks before finding the one for Samara. Here I was quite shocked by the courteousness of transit personnel, who didn’t bark at me like they had some years back, and addressed me in English. When I responded in slightly accented Russian, their fresh buttery faces melted into flusters and smiles. The passport controller approved my passport expressly, and even gave me advice on how to register in Samara – a pretty young blonde, she didn’t seem affected by the suspicious Soviet mentality of elder officers, who had on previous occasions poured over my passport as though it was counterfeit. The Blondie directed me to an escalator, at the bottom of which I discovered a glass customs door labeled Green Line. I gave the door a push – it was locked. A linear formation of a luggage scanner, four chairs, and a locked exit door nested under the escalator – my waiting nook. The machine was off and wires haphazardly dangled from the ceiling, coiling toward a lonely archaic camera which was honed in on the scanner. I wondered if the bathroom nearby was locked like everything else. Surprisingly it wasn’t.
The first to arrive in this nook, I settled into a chair and with much pleasure began the observation of others’ puzzlement upon descent. Initially, all passengers engaged in a short-lived struggle with the Green Line door. Looking for a way out, they finally turned around, only to be confounded by the wiry agglomerate of the scanner. The camera’s scrutinizing eye prompted them to hurriedly dump their luggage on the belt, but realizing that that no one was there to scan it, they hauled it off, heaving tired relief. Resigning to this nook, the passengers craned out their necks in search of unoccupied chairs in the back – the chairs were occupied. The general look was one of raised eyebrows and muttering under the breath “This is it?” Indeed, it was – the adjustment to the Russian reality, or rather negation of orderly Western rationality for less logical, but surely fraternizing spaces. The Russians, of course, treated our close companionship with humor. A round dame in tight stretch jeans bounced toward the bathroom on her four-inch stilettos, lighting up in a good-natured laugh, “Kak po rossiiski vse zaperto!” (Everything is locked, Russian style!).
The rest of our transit consisted of being herded to and locked in a variety of small spaces: the bus, a security area, a waiting corridor, an outdoor corral, and outside the old Tupolev. Each step of the way severe personnel inconspicuously dressed in lay clothes, but armed with walkie-talkies, awaited command center clearance. We finally boarded the Tupolev, which looked exotically antique next to the Boeing, but felt quite sturdy at take-off. The Tupolev was like a bigger version of the dirty, ill-smelling private jet I once used on a road show back in the glamorous banking days, which also had the laziest flight attendant. The Tupolev’s flight attendants were exceptionally polite on the other hand, and even went to extra lengths in procuring ice for my juice, while the Russians down my row raised their eyebrows at the insensible idea of mixing drinks with ice cubes, the first of my many slip-ups. A dim yellow bulb faintly flickered on behind snapping Soviet commands: “Ne kurit!” (Don’t smoke!) “Zastegnut remni!” (Fasten seatbelts!) – a change of tone after the Boeing’s verbose entreaties of “Please fasten your seatbelts while seated.” Drab gray carpeting lined the walls while checkered gray curtains dressed the windows. Tiny cracks in my window’s interior frame became a make-shift air conditioner, growing mossy with frost and oozing out a light cooling draft under my rib. Nevertheless, the dim lighting, rusted seatbelts and worn-out gray made for a certain nostalgia of times past, but never lived.
The Tupolev was taking us to Samara, a car manufacturing center in the south, also known as the “Detroit of Russia.” I wondered if this Western comparison was meant for foreigners, but the only Americans on our Russian-filled plane were a group of high school volunteers. The obvious alternative thereafter, was an overseas comparison for Russians – in Samara, the American dream could be lived just as well Russian-style. In fact, Samara comparisons didn’t just stop with America, but also took Europe as a measuring stick, boasting the longest European beach, largest square and deepest World War II bunker. Learning about these landmarks from my future Samara colleagues, I began to question the foreign news coverage that trumpeted Russians as Western wannabes as a gross under-estimate of their history conditioned desire to surpass, not merely measure up to, the West.
00:53: the flight landed and we hustled off to arrivals. Having received multiple assurances that I would be met by a driver, I emerged from the terminal eagerly searching for the welcoming sight of my name on a plaque and compulsively weaved through the tiny arrivals crowd. The crowd encircled a fenced-off cage, the luggage carousel, which could only be entered after thorough inspection of one’s passport, ticket and luggage tag by a platinum blonde in uniform and killer spike stilettos. As the carousel began to move it occurred to me that my driver would not come after all, and all I had were some futile assurances – no emergency number, nor address. Survival instincts kicked in and I began to gravitate towards the lonely Americans in gray “Service” T-shirts. I meandered over to one of their leaders, a muscular hulk of man with blue eyes bulging out of his large head, “Hi, I noticed that you were speaking English earlier. I’m Adele, also arriving from the States.”
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” bellowed the man, engulfing my thin hand in his enormous one, “I’m Bob from Virginia and we’re doing some church volunteering at a religious camp near Samara.”
“How interesting, I didn’t know that Samara was popular for its religious activity.”
“Yeah, this is the second year we’re coming here. Some of these kids have volunteered in other countries too, those two over there have lived abroad as missionaries like me and my wife.”
“Bob, I am so sorry to impose myself on you, it’s just that you are the only ones speaking English. My organization assured me that they would send a driver to pick me up, but didn’t give any emergency phone number or address. I still haven’t seen any driver with my name plaque out there and the taxi drivers look so scary. I don’t have a clue as to where I could spend the night. Maybe if I could come with you and check in at whatever hotel you are staying, I would really appreciate it.”
“Don’t worry,” Bob reassuringly patted my shoulder, “our translators are coming. They’ll have information on where we’re staying tonight. You can spend the night with us if you wish. Don’t be scared, we won’t leave you alone. Did you say you were from New York? Gina is also from there,” he pointed at a tall blonde girl who was hauling her bag from the carousel.
“Thank you so much Bob,” I breathed out in relief, “this makes me feel so much better about the whole night-time adventure.” Seeing that Bob’s eyes were anxiously darting around the carousel for bags, I moved over to Gina.
When Bob’s Russian translators arrived, they measured me up suspiciously, “We need to see some documents, a business card at minimum to know what she’s doing here,” they issued their ultimatum to one of the American girls who was somewhat fluent in Russian. Assuming that I didn’t speak Russian, the girl turned to me and translated the sugar-coated version of this demand, “They want to know if you have a business card, or some phone numbers you could call, or perhaps an address… so they can get in touch with your company.”
Of course none of these things happened to be in my possession as I had just quit one job and haven’t yet started another. It was pure luck that the translators assumed I didn’t speak Russian. Had I admitted to it, I would have been left alone for sure – at least so nagged the gut feeling inside. I continued with the English charade, “Oh I have an office number and address,” I took out a piece of paper with the company’s official phone number and address, “do you know where this office is?”
One of the translators glanced at the paper and shook his head, “This is not Samara center, too far, give me the phone number.” He took away my paper and started to dial the number on his cell. After a few minutes he shook his head again, “Not good – answering machine.”
“Yes, they are only there during work hours,” I chimed in, “They promised that they would send a driver to pick me up. I asked many times for the driver’s number, or at least an address where he was dropping me off, but they wouldn’t give it to me. Now, I’m stuck here with no driver and no clue where to go. Could I please come with you and check in at whatever hotel you all are staying tonight as well? I just need a place to stay for the night until I can call them in the morning.”
“We’re not staying in hotel,” the man replied, “stay here, I’ll be back.” After more sideways glances and another chat with Bob the translators finally capitulated and returned with a proposal for me, “Because we are staying in an apartment, you can’t stay with us – there is no space,” the much friendlier girl translator explained, “we can take you to a hotel on the way near the train station.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to inconvenience your large group. It would be much better if you could just drop me off at a hotel on the way. I really appreciate it. As long as it’s a safe hotel that you recommend, I don’t mind the rest. It doesn’t have to be nice.”
“We’ll take you to the hotel at the train station. It’s expensive, but I think it’s safe,” replied the girl. At this we gathered our trunks and rolled them to a “marshrutka” public minivan that was waiting for us outside. I doubted that any public transport at all went to the Samara airport in the midst of the night, and the marshrutka must have been arranged by the translators. We piled in and set off into the Samara night. In our casual chatter I discovered that the two teen missionaries with us once lived in Kyrgyzstan. I perked up, excited to chat about Bishkek, then caught myself just in time, “Oh, that’s so interesting, did you live in the capital?” Still, it came out overly enthusiastic.
“Where are you from, Adele?” asked Bob, perhaps sensing my cover-up.
“Oh, my parents work for the UN, so I’ve been pretty much everywhere, Pakistan, Kenya, now they are in Switzerland, so that’s my home for the moment.”
“Yes, but what nationality are you?” Bob was becoming impatient, “What kind of passport do you have?” Here I had to pause for had I revealed it to them right then and there, my trunk and I might have been left on the side of the road. “Oh, I’m French-Japanese. My father is French and my mom – Japanese,” I sheepishly lied, hoping that these wholesome Americans neither spoke French nor ventured into the Far East on their missions. Still, it didn’t sound convincing. “They live in Switzerland now, and like it very much, because we can all speak French there in Geneva,” I added, incredibly grateful for the night which hid my blushing shame.
“So you’re fluent in French,” exclaimed the translator, “One of my friends is studying French in Switzerland.” As conversation resumed, my nationality trials were put to rest. Eventually, our exhaustion got the better of us and we grew quiet. Outside, the air cooled down after a storm, and our warm humid breath blurred up the windows. Dark forests and fields stretched all around as we solemnly bumped over pot-holes for what seemed like hours. I imagined riding in a shabby taxi with no idea of a safe place to go, and was ever so thankful for the Americans.
At last we arrived at my hotel. I jumped out of the van with my suitcase and profusely thanked Bob for not leaving me to the mercy of criminal-looking taxi drivers. The Samara train station stood out a towering glass conglomerate against the sky, and was much cleaner and emptier than the crowded, dirty stations of New York. My hotel entrance was stowed away somewhere inside its bowels, and as we naturally got lost on the way, I tried very hard not to read the direction signs above my head. Anticipating registration with my clearly Kyrgyz passport, I attempted to get rid of the translator, but, alas, she insisted on accompanying me to the concierge.
“Does anyone here speak English?” she asked the over-weight attendant who was bent over some dish towel embroidery, which very much resembled the towels I once embroidered with grandma for her death preparations. Grandma had been preparing for her death ever since I was born, embroidering and crocheting little decorative piles for what she claimed should be her proper burial. These death preparations must have been spurred by her fear that we, in our Soviet and thereafter Western laity, no longer knew the proper way to bury people, and I suspected that she had the entire ritual carefully recorded somewhere for the black day. However, as she continued thriving gloriously in excellent health, grandma’s death preparations found their way into life, and our entire extended family dried their dishes with those death towels of hers, which she eventually gave away as presents. The hotel attendant however, did not look like she was preparing for her black day and instead of answering, shook her head no, much to my grief.
“They don’t speak English here, I’ll help you check in,” said the girl.
“All payment must be made upfront at registration,” the attendant retorted, further aggravating the situation. While the girl was translating what I already knew, it had dawned on me that I didn’t have any rubles.
“Oh, no, I forgot to exchange money in Moscow,” I told her, “but I have dollars. How much is it in dollars? Can I leave her a dollar deposit and then pay in rubles tomorrow morning as soon as the exchange office opens?”
The attendant was rather displeased with my translated proposal, but after some haggling they did agree on the dollar deposit after all. The attendant demanded my passport together with the deposit, and once more the feared moment had come. Nervously fiddling with it inside my bag, I began to concoct a series of long-winded assurances, “Well, I think I have it under control from here on. It’s just giving in my papers and shouldn’t be too much of a worry,” looking at the clock on the wall, “Gosh, it’s already three o’clock! I don’t want to hold you up any longer. Thank you so much for all your help, I don’t know what I would have done without you.” I clapped my hands together and hid behind a grimace of upward-stretched lips picked up on my previous job from a certain banker.
The translator hesitated at this litany of excuses, her lucid blue eyes re-filling with questioning mistrust, but after an awkward silence finally left. I silently counted to three to make sure she was gone, and quietly handed over the passport. We switched to Russian in hushed tones. Mother had later suggested that the girl was expecting a tip for going out of her way to take me to the hotel, but I liked to believe that she was just being a good Samaritan, my first welcome to the city’s people.
The attendant and I embarked on a short-lived voyage to my room, where she led me through various mazes of musty carpeted hallways. “You know, this hotel is very expensive,” she harped on, testing my reaction.
“Of course!” I exclaimed, “A hundred dollars a night, that’s ridiculous! My organization was supposed to send a driver to take me to my apartment, but apparently they forgot. And on top of it, refused to give me his phone number, or even some address. By the way, are taxis safe to take here at night?”
“Oh, yes, taxis are pretty safe, but also ve-ery expensive,” said the attendant.
“How nice of Americans to give me a free ride in their van. I’m so glad they were on my flight, I really had no clue where to go until their translators suggested your hotel. But don’t worry, I’m not paying for my organization’s mistake.”
At this she opened my door and wished me goodnight. I rolled my trunk into a long empty entrance area which led to a vacuous space in the middle – the room. Russian-style, all furniture was stacked against the walls, while the bed was a squeaky steel cot in the corner. I noticed a mini-bar under the desk, which suddenly awakened my thirst, but turned out completely empty. As the shabby door lock didn’t seem trust-worthy, I propped myself on the cot and attempted consciousness in a half sitting position. Empty trains arrived and departed to methodic announcements of a woman’s voice over the loudspeaker. The cuckoo clock on the wall monotonously ticked away time, yet another distraction from losing consciousness, but my battle to stay awake was snow-balling down hill as bouts of dozing stretched longer and my body grew numb to clocks and trains.
