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Day 8

March 12, 1997

 

     The third batch of fries goes into the fryer. Another beer goes into the mouth. The third videotape goes into the VCR. It's after midnight and we're still on a roll, watching images and talking about my experience in Chita. Zoya is still devouring the information I've returned with. I can see that she truly misses her hometown; places, people, smells and other icons that gave her former life structure and meaning. Zoya's not a woman given to regretting her choices in life, but I see a look in her eyes that seems to ask if it was wise to leave her birthplace, her proud heritage, and move across Russia to the urbane environs of Moscow.

     Katya is now sleeping and Zoya, John and I file into the kitchen. Another beer is opened and we speak quietly about the plans for tomorrow. John leaves and returns with a portable alarm clock. He is quite entertaining when he cycles through the alarms, searching for the one that will most certainly wake me up in three hours. Three hours!

     I hope that the alarm will be loud enough to roust me from such little sleep. I crawl into bed and find that sleep does not come easily. I turn and try to find a comfortable position but my head is too full to allow room for unconsciousness. An hour passes before I slip into darkness.

     John's choice of the alarm on his portable clock is an excellent one. Almost as aversive as the trolling evangelists back in New Jersey on the clock radio next to my bed. I sit bolt upright and stare at the clock. If I possessed telekinetic powers, that clock would have been reduced to dust. Suddenly, I'm feeling the effects of sleep deprivation in my body. After a week of living on very little shuteye, my body is finally launching a protest, and it's a loud one. My limbs ache and most of my joints feel fused and incapable of movement. My head seems filled with cold, hard mud and my nose has been stuffed with huge concrete blocks. Undaunted, I gather my wits and prepare for my early morning transit to Sheremetyevo. Zoya and John and I share some pelmeni and tea and last sentiments before we hear Victor's car arrive. There's an air of sadness in the kitchen as none of us want this visit to end. Reluctantly, I head for the door. We hug, long and hard, and I head downstairs.

     Victor is smiling and has the trunk of his car open as I enter the brisk Muscovite morning. I throw my items inside and climb in the car. Victor takes off like a rabbit. Our conversation is light and we pass the time on the road listening to Russian rock and roll. At the speeds that he's traveling, I almost expect another encounter with the authorities. The journey, however, is uneventful and we are soon walking to the terminal at Sheremetyevo. Although I try to explain to Victor that I can handle my bags by myself, he insists on helping me drag the bundles to the check-in gate. After a hearty handshake, he departs. Once again, the check-in process is relatively short and painless and I've got lots of time on my hands. I wander about for a time but, at this hour of the morning, there's simply nothing open and nothing to do at the airport. I return to the waiting area and watch the sunrise through the huge glass panes of the terminal.

     I sleep all the way to the airport in Frankfurt. After we land, I see that I have several hours until my next flight departs. I purchase a Eurail pass for the day and take the escalators to the train tracks. My destination is Zweitausendeins, a highly recommended record and CD shop in town. I am still a little sleepy but can't wait to see this fabled store. The train arrives and I board taking my seat next to a window so that I can enjoy the countryside as we head towards Frankfurt. I pin my Europass on my collar.

     The next thing I know, I am awakened by a sudden lurch. The train is leaving a station, Blearily, I walk forward until I find a rail employee. I ask her where we are and rather than walking to the map of Frankfurt and vicinity, she strolls over to a map of Germany and points.

     "Wir sind hier angesiedelt," she says, pointing to a spot about halfway between Frankfurt and Leipzig. Roughly translated, she said we are here and you are SCREWED! She tells me that I was asleep for over two hours and, because I had my Europass pinned to my collar, she assumed that I was going to East Germany or Poland! I hurriedly explain that I have to catch a flight in four hours in Frankfurt. She pulls out her schedule and announces that I am in luck as a train returning to Frankfurt will be available at our next stop. She tells me the number of the train and assures me that I have plenty of time to catch my flight back home. So much for my record buying excursion!

     The conductor was correct. The train to Frankfurt arrives five minutes after I disembarked the train. Once aboard, I order coffee from the cafe car and watch the German countryside drift by. It is quite lovely farming country will soft rolling hills and distant snow capped peaks. I stay awake and do not miss the airport train station.

     The boarding of the flight to Newark is mostly uneventful until this horde of bustling German teenagers enters the plane. The noise and chaos level rises significantly and it is somewhat amusing to watch the flight attendants dealing with this mob. They certainly earn their keep today! Two boys are seated to the left of me and a young woman (whom these fellas apparently have designs on) is seated to my right. After the Obligatory Candy Toss back and forth they seem to settle down. However, I feel as though I am seated next to Beevis und Butthead on Flight 402 as I watch their responses to American Looney Toon cartoons. When a cartoon character gets smacked on the head, for example, these two boys look at the young woman and then smack themselves on the head, say something (apparently only funny to them) in German, and fall about in hysterical laughter. I am glad to see the cartoons come to an end and, yes, I admit it, I am glad to see Barbara Streisand appear on the screen because the minute she did, the two fellas look at the young woman seated next to me and fall asleep.

     I follow suit and we all snooze our way over Europe and the North Atlantic.

     We arrive in Newark and I am ready to face the barrage of questions and inspections by the U.S. Customs officials. I had my passport to the uniformed official.

     "How was your trip to Russia?" she asks.
     I reply that it was a grand time.
     "Welcome home. Next!" she says and that's it. No inspections, no further interest in me or my belongings whatsoever. Puzzled, I walk through the airport and and go to the terminal gate where Janet is waiting for me. We exchange hugs and walk to the car which is in a nearby parking garage.

     Janet is behind the wheel of our car as we leave the parking facility at Newark International airport and are drawn into the traffic flow of the New Jersey Turnpike heading south. Although this terrain is familiar to me, it seems different and a little alien at this moment. The traffic is orderly and, for the most part, stays between the lines on the road. The industrial madness of this section of New Jersey looks well kempt today. Home, home again.

     Despite the thrill and excitement of seeing new vistas and making new friends, there's nothing like waking up in your own bed to let you know that life is good.

     I roll out of the bed and head downstairs for a cup of tea and some toast. Everything in the house looks different, a little sharper. Yet, this is the same environment I left only a week ago. It's funny how travel can give you a new perspective on things. Well almost everything. Now I face...unpacking.

     I marvel at how much I've returned with versus how much I originally packed. Despite losing several pounds in dictionaries and other gifts, I still have about the same amount of bulk stuffed in my bags. After spending an hour or so putting things in their respective places, I hop in the car and drive to Le Camera to return the telephoto lens. As the interior of my house looked strange this morning, so does the Garden State this afternoon. It doesn't seem to be the same state I left. It doesn't look...Russian. This is true. I almost expect the cars, the buildings, the people around me to reflect the look I've grown accustom to over the past few days. I've been home a mere 18 hours and already I miss Siberia, the Maltsevas, Moscow. I sit in the car for a long while and wonder when I'll again touch Russian soil.

     I next drop my film at the lab and then return home.

     Janet is upstairs sleeping and I'm sitting in my favorite chair in my music room, reflecting on this most incredible journey.

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