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I left San Francisco almost 3 weeks ago and by Saturday morning, I was in the Sheremyetevo airport in Moscow. I always find the entire reentry process amusing. It has been 2 years since I was last in Russia. Warm feelings of nostalgia mingled with the drab and oppressive passport control lobby and stale Russian cigarettes. I bantered with an American engineer as we patiently waited our turn in line. The pudgy female face on the other side of the glass with pursed lips in a bright fuscia color and stern heavily made up eyes glanced back and forth between my documents and me. Trying to lighten up the drab funeral parlor atmosphere, I jokingly asked her if there was a resemblance. Ten years ago, I would have been scared to death to even make eye contact; but now, I feel challenged to get them to crack a smile. I haven't yet decided whether it's easier to get a man or woman to smile back.
The cost of a luggage cart was $2, in rubles. The woman on duty wouldn't give me a cart because I only had dollars and she accepted only rubles and of course, the exchange office was only available after you go through baggage claim and customs. As I began to walk away without any hope, visions of myself dragging my 80-pound duffel behind me, I realized that her shift was changing. I turned back to the new man on cart-duty and asked him the same question. He looked over at the security guard, who was facing the opposite direction at the time, shifted his glance back to me, and with a hushed guilty look, made a hand signal to pass him the bucks quickly and quietly. Uncomplainingly and relieved, I traded bucks for wheels and went back to the still silent baggage converter belt.
The red channel or the green channel? Do two bottles of Skyy vodka constitute declarable goods? Do I want them to see how much chocolate I have in my bags? I chose the green channel, turned the corner to leave and I was free! Or so I thought. Through the glass doors, the corridor of bodies continued like a paparazzi feeding frenzy, "taxi Madam." "Taxi, taxi, taxi.." Every cab driver in Moscow seems to be fixated on the Delta flight from New York. I quickly found my name on a paper held up in the hand of a tall quiet man. He immediately took my bags and handed me a letter in silence. He spoke no English and assumed I spoke no Russian. "Welcome to Moscow." It read in English. It continued that I owed the driver $40 for the ride and $214 for the ticket he was to give me to go to Tomsk that evening. Of course, I had no change from the $20s, $50s and $100s I brought with me and still had no rubles.
We scurried out past the hagglers, still calling from behind "taxi" and I waited patiently on the curb while he returned with the car. Would it be a BMW? A Mercedes? An SUV? Or a pyatiorka? My cream-colored Volga awaited. Silently and efficiently, the driver heaved my 80- pound bag into the bottomless trunk and we were off. I had a mere eight hours in Moscow as I transitioned through to Tomsk. What would I do? Where could I sleep? 20 hours and I was still not at my final destination.
Jill looked as lovely and perky as ever as she sat with her friends in the local American diner, sipping bad American coffee and planning the future broomball season. Her Saturday morning diner ritual lingered well past 3 hours as she awaited my arrival. Against my experienced advice, we transferred the bags from car to car and went back to her flat. I suggested we follow her so that this tall strong man could help carry my bags up to her apartment. Like two merchants at a flea market, we scrambled up the concrete steps to her entranceway, squeezed through the three sets of thick glass doors and dragged the bag like a dead body across the lobby and onto the elevator.
Upstairs in the warmth of a plush Stalin-style apartment, Jill and I made tea and sat talking all afternoon while the rainy gloomy day drifted by. Her cats, Kinza and Kosmos enjoyed hopping in and out of my big duffel as I rummaged through for the necessary items to take to the banya. After all, what else is there to do on a rainy cold Saturday in Moscow? The rest of the afternoon was spent primping and reminiscing, two girlfriends catching up on a distant past.
The ride to Vnukova airport was pleasant as the aftereffects of the banya coupled with the cheese and wine I had before departing Jill's put me into a semiconscious stupor. This made for quite an interesting series of dreams. In and out of consciousness I went, never really sure where exactly I was and what language I was speaking.
On the plane, the service was impeccable. I thoroughly endorse Siberian airlines for those planning their next vacation to Siberia. The food was piled high on the tray with two kinds of salads, hot fish and rice, two kinds of bread and a cookie for dessert. Drink options were limited but I requested as much water as possible and they graciously complied and gave me my own 2-litre bottle.
At 5 a.m., we made a bumpy landing in the quiet, snow-laden dawn in the outskirts of Tomsk. My journey was almost over. Alexei's friendly face was a joy to encounter when he finally arrived one hour late. He had forgotten about the time change. We drove into town and parked outside a typical five-story Soviet style apartment complex. With true Russian chivalry, Alexei graciously climbed five flights of stairs with this same 80-pound duffel heaved over one shoulder and a 20-pound carry-on tugging at his other hand. I trotted behind with my 10-pound rucksack. That extra 3000 miles makes the difference between a Muscovite and a Tomich. In any case, I am grateful to be female when I travel, as I haven't yet learned the art of traveling light.
At the top, Olga opened the door and sleepily peeked out at us. She slowly let us in and after a few moments of introductions, Alexei left the two roommates on their own. I decided to unpack first and sleep later, after all, it was only 6:30 a.m. Could I sleep on the lumpy lopsided sofa bed? Absolutely! It would need to be a bed of nails for me to experience insomnia at this point. Traveling 35,000 feet above the ground, 10,000 miles away through 14 time zones, on 3 airplanes and through five airports, I had no doubt I could sleep on anything. I only wondered, what would these dreams be like? Would I know where I was when I awoke? Falling into that bed, I immediately drifted into heaven. Good night, good morning and good 'morrow, may you wake up happily in your own bed!