Skajateh Pajalsta, Gdyeh Tel-Aviv?*
* Tell me please, where is Tel Aviv?
June 21, 19:00
Oleg drops me off at the train station. It is my last evening in Moscow, and my flight back home leaves at 23:55. We look at the train schedule, and figure out that I need to take the one that leaves at 21:00. I buy a ticket. He shows me where the platform should be. Everything seems simple enough.
19:10
I have a couple of hours to kill. Left to my own devices, I step outside the station and look for a Shokoladnitza. Shokoladnitza is a chain of cafés in Russia, and if you stand at just about any point in Moscow, raise your head and look around, you will see one. Labeled by yours truly as "Sarah-Friendly" a couple of days earlier, they actually have English menus, which actually have a few vegetarian options on them. Unbelievable, I know, but it's true.
Sure enough, there is one across the street, so I go in for a last blini. Since it is my last day and all, I decide to spoil myself with the chocolate-filled one, described on the menu as "legendary".
19:30
Blini good. Chocolate good. Legendary good. Oochen khrasho.
20:30
I pay the bill, bid Shokoladnitza farewell and cross the street, back to the train station. It's still early, but better too early than too late, right? I get my suitcase out of luggage storage and make my way to where the train was supposed to be. There are stairs. I seem to remember Oleg telling me to go up the stairs.
20:35
Out of breath from dragging my suitcase up the stairs, I find myself in a busy hall, with many people rushing about. There is a sign hanging from the ceiling, in English - 'Train to Airport' - with an arrow pointing down. Down, at the middle of the floor. I stand underneath the sign and look down, but all I can see is my feet. Definitely no train. What does the down arrow mean? Straight ahead? Surely it cannot mean 'downstairs', since that is where I just came from. I walk straight ahead, and arrive at a platform. There are 5 or 6 trains there, and I have no idea if one of them is the one I am supposed to take to the airport. Okay, I will somehow figure this out. I look around and see another 'Train to Airport' sign, this time pointing to the left. I walk to the left and find myself outside the station. There is another sign, this time pointing at the entrance. I go back in.
20:40
There is a staircase with another one of those signs above it. 'Train to Airport'. The arrow is pointing down again. You have got to be kidding me. I drag my suitcase back downstairs, follow a couple more signs and find myself right back where I started. Okay, I must be missing something here. I will try again. I follow the signs again. Heavy suitcase goes up the stairs again, heavy suitcase goes down the stairs again, and I am right back where I started - again. It's like The Blair Witch Project, but in a busy train station where you can't understand the language. WTF?
20:50
I find the information booth on the first floor. "Do you speak English?", I ask the woman sitting there.
"Nyet."
"I am looking for the train to the airport. You know. Train. Airplane". I try to make 'train' and 'airplane' signs with my hand.
She stares at me blankly. The thing with non-English speakers in Moscow - it's not just that they don't understand a single word you're saying - they stare at you as if they have never seen a tourist before. It's awkward and strange. I don't know how to say 'train' or 'airport' in Russian and I don't have time to go digging in my suitcase for my phrase book, so I run off to find someone else who might be able to help.
20:55
Most young people in Moscow speak English. That's what everyone says. I approach a dozen or so people who look "young".
"Do you speak English? Ve panemayteh pa-angliski?"
"Nyet."
"Nyet."
"Nyet."
"Train? Airplane?"
"Nyet."
"Look - sign language? Airplane? Please?!"
"Nyet".
20:58
OMG, no one is going to help me and if the train doesn't show up somewhere soon, I am going to miss it. It must be here somewhere. IT MUST.
How difficult can this be?
Upstairs. There were trains upstairs. Surely, one of them must be my train.
I drag my suitcase back upstairs to the platform. There is a security guard standing there. "Ve panemayteh pa... oh, FORGET IT."
21:02
Wherever the freaking train was, I have missed it. I still have no clue where the platform is, but even if I find it, the next one won't be leaving till 22:00. OMG. I am going to miss my flight. I am going to be stuck here on Planet Russia. I really, really just want to go home.
I call Oleg, on the verge of a panic attack. "I can't find the train and I missed the nine o' clock one and the next one doesn't leave till ten, not that it matters because I don't know where it is and I am going to miss my flight and I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO!!!"
Calmly, he tries to give me directions to the platform, but I have zero sense of direction and can't follow this kind of thing even when I'm not on the verge of a panic attack.
"I followed the signs. They take me around in a circle. The train is not here. There is no train. I AM GOING TO MISS MY FLIGHT."
"You need to find the platform..."
"I am standing on the platform. There are 6 trains here but I have no way of knowing which one it is. Everything is in Russian."
"It should be a white train", he says.
"There is no white train. The trains here are all green. But wherever the white train is, I HAVE ALREADY MISSED IT. I am going to miss my flight."
"You can get on the 22:00 train", he says. "You won't miss the flight. It's a very fast train."
"But I can't find the very fast white train. There is no fast white train. I'm going to miss my flight."
"Why don't you try asking someone there..."
"NO ONE HERE SPEAKS ENGLISH."
"Have you tried asking..."
"YES. THEY DON'T SPEAK ENGLISH. I AM GOING TO MISS MY FLIGHT. I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO."
21:18
At some point I calm down, figuring I'm going to miss my flight anyway, so there is nothing more to lose. I try to follow Oleg's directions again, and finally, I find the right platform. The train leaves at 22:00. The ride is supposed to take 40 minutes. I guess I might as well just give it a try and see what happens. I buy a bottle of diet coke, take a few sips, stick it in my bag and sit down to catch my breath and wait.
21:50
I board the white train. As I am getting settled in my seat, a man comes up to me, asking me something in Russian. The last thing I want to do right now is talk, to anyone, in any language. "I DON'T SPEAK RUSSIAN."
"Is this the train to the airport?" Of course, this has to be the only person in Russia who speaks English.
"I'm not sure. I hope so."
He giggles. "You are on this train with a suitcase and you're not sure if it's going to the airport?"
"I'm not sure about anything anymore. I think it is the right train. It's white." I roll my eyes.
"Where are you from?" he asks.
I am so desperately not in the mood for friendly chit-chat. "Israel." I stare in the other direction, hoping he will take the hint and go away.
"Where?"
"Israel. Is-rael. Tel Aviv."
"You are from Israel?
"Yes. Israel."
He laughs, again. "You live in Israel, where there are so many Russians, and you don't speak Russian?"
Oh my fucking god. SHUT THE FUCK UP.
I bite my tongue, shrug and raise my eyebrows.
"Have a nice trip", he says, and to my delight, walks away.
22:00
Finally, the train starts moving. Maybe this isn't the right train after all, I begin to wonder. Maybe I am going somewhere else right now... like... ummm... Kazakhstan, or something. Yes. With my luck, this is probably the train to Kazakhstan. Where the hell IS Kazakhstan?
There is nothing I can do about it at this point, but sit back and try to enjoy the ride.
22:30
The train slows down and comes to a halt, mid-track. The doors remain closed. I look out the window and there is no station or anything, just trees and a few log cabins. It is the middle of nowhere, definitely not an airport, and the train - which I am now convinced is headed for Kazakhstan - is not moving. I am curious as to what the hell is going on, but English-speaking-guy is gone and there is no one to ask. Everything is silent, till someone in the car begins hiccuping loudly. The whole situation is so absurdly surreal, that I have to giggle quietly to myself.
22:45
Kazakhstan Express, which, theoretically, should have reached the airport five minutes ago, begins moving again.
I am SO going to miss my flight.
23:04
Incredibly enough, I arrive at the airport. It doesn't look like Kazakhstan. I look at the screens to see where the check-in line for my flight is... or was? Counter 4, simple enough. I check to see what number the nearest counter is. 106. One-hundred-and-six. Of course, it would have to be 106. GODDAMMIT.
I grab my suitcase and run across the hall like mad.
23:07
Counter 4. El-Al. Here, at least, people speak English. The check-in is still open.
"I packed my own suitcase, no one helped me, it was with me the whole time, no one gave me anything to take with me, no one suspicious approached me at the airport, I don't have any knives or anything sharp in my hand-luggage, I don't have any guns, bombs, missiles, tanks, weapons of mass destruction or manicure scissors, I'm not a terrorist, I know you have to ask for security reasons, CAN I PLEASE STILL GET ON THE PLANE? Please tell me I'm not too late. PLEASE."
"We were just about to close the check-in", she says. "If you go to the boarding gate right now, you can still make it."
I sigh with relief, grab my boarding pass and RUN.
23:15
Passport control.
Normally, when headed home after a trip abroad, this is the point where I start to feel the going-home-blues. Israelis are known to be really bad at standing on line, and this is most evident and frustrating when you're at the airport, after spending some time in a foreign country where people are civilized. But, as it turns out, Russians tend to be exactly the same way. Whether you're standing on line at the metro station or at the museum, you might as well be invisible. It's not really a line; the fact that you were standing there first bears no importance - it's just a race to the finish line. You can try to protest all you like, but if you don't speak the language, all you will get is a "Shto?" (what?) and a rude, mocking smile.
Same for passport control, obviously. I'm not much of a pusher, so the people standing behind me make their way to the counter before me, while I wait behind the yellow line like an idiot. The clock is ticking. My heart is racing with stress and frustration. No one cares. Shto?
"Flight 616 to Tel Aviv is now boarding", says a voice on the loudspeaker. "All passengers, please arrive immediately at the boarding gate."
Fuck.
Eventually, I somehow manage to make my way through passport control.
23:30
Now for security, my favorite part of the airport... NOT.
"This is the last call for passengers on flight 616 to Tel Aviv", says the voice. "All passengers, please..." Oh fuck off.
In front of me, there is an old man who has been asked to take his shoes off. "Please, I need to get through", I tell the security lady, only to get another one of those blank stares. I point at the time on my boarding pass and at the ceiling, where the announcement is coming from. "I am going to miss my flight."
Blank. Stare.
When my turn finally comes and I walk through the gate-thingie, it beeps. I forgot to take my stupid belt off. I take it off and walk through again - no beeps this time, but the lady is saying something to me in Russian.
"English? Angliski?"
"Nyet."
I want to scream, at the top of my lungs: YOU WORK AT AN INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT!!! HOW COULD YOU NOT SPEAK ENGLISH?!?!
Instead, I bite my lip. Security people at airports scare me. I am always afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing and somehow being perceived as a terrorist - or, of looking like I am trying too hard not to say the wrong thing, thus being perceived as a terrorist anyway. I have no idea what they do with people they suspect as being terrorists, but I have always imagined a small, dark interrogation room, where they lock you up for hours, strip-searching you, asking you questions, possibly torturing you for information - then, of course, they throw you in jail and don't let you go home, ever. Or something.
"I don't understand what you are saying", I tell the woman, rapidly losing it but trying to look as calm as possible. "My flight is leaving in 15 minutes and I am going to miss it. What do you want? What? WHAT?! WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO?!" Calm down, Sarah, this isn't helping.
"Vada", she says.
"Vada?!"
"Vada." She points at my bag.
"Vada? WATER?! WHAT?!?!"
"This is the last call for passengers to Tel Aviv..." the voice says again.
I try pointing at my boarding pass again. "PLEASE."
"Vada." She points at a water bottle on her desk, then at my bag again. "Vada."
"Ohhhhhh." I finally understand that she is referring to the weapon of mass destruction in my bag - the diet coke bottle from the train station, which I had totally forgotten about. Don't even get me started on stupid arbitrary airline security regulations. I take the bottle out of my bag and leave it in the damn tray, along with the small change and whatever crap was in my pockets. I grab my hand luggage, my belt, aggressively push past some people who are standing there (when in Russia, do as the Russians do) and run. Run. RUN.
23:45
All sweaty and out of breath, I make it to the boarding gate at the last possible second. The plane is leaving in 10 minutes, and I am the last one to board. Never in my life have I been so happy to get on a plane back home.
"Brucha Haba'a", says a flight attendant - 'welcome', in Hebrew.
"Toda". I smile from ear to ear, feeling so incredibly relieved to be back in a place where I can communicate with people.
---
Later on, when they serve hummus and pitas as part of the meal, I feel so... well, just happy. Food is familiar again, people understand me again, and I am going home.
Don't get me wrong - I had a wonderful time in Moscow. I met some wonderful people, saw some wonderful places and learned a whole lot, and I am grateful to have had the opportunity to be there. Hell, I will probably be going back again next year - at least next time I will know what to expect. There are many good things I could say about this city, and I will write about those tomorrow.
But for now - seriously - there's no place like home.
I was crying! That gay, Oleg, supposed to take you right to the gate. I speak Russian very well and believe me I would be lost and so scared there!
But I am so happy that you've made it. I am so so happy for you!
See you in Florida in July! Many kisses,
Rimma
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I was hoping this post would make people laugh, not cry... oh well. Sorry about that.
See you in FL!
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Sarah
I'm only laughing because I recall similar odd experiences in Russia and not being able to penetrate the language barrier or work out what was going on... but that I was committing some kind of sin.
I tried to get my suitcase on the city bus to go from Shermeteyvo 1 (domestic) to 2 (international) and the bus driver would not move the bus and said something to me I could not understand. I asked what was wrong in broken Russian. "Chemodan." Suitcase. Eh? Thankfully some local person knew just enough English and intervened to explain I needed to pay a fare for the suitcase, not just myself.
A week before, I took the same bus the opposite direction, no such issue. Go figure.
It was on a later visit to Moscow that I discovered there's a free shuttle bus between the terminals. Just no signs for it at the domestic terminal. Maybe I'll find them in another five or six years.
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Sarah you are a scream!!
I can soooo understand your frustration. Years ago my husband and I went to Thailand to visit my brother in law who was living there at the time. One day we took off across Bangkok to explore on our own. Had a fabulous time and saw some truly amazing sites...and then it was time to make it back to the apartment. All of a sudden, not a soul in Bangkok spoke English or could read a map. We could not get a SINGLE taxi to drive us back across the city. We trekked back ourselves, with the sun beating down at around 100 degrees and oppressive humidity. Close to our destination we found a fancy hotel and dragged our sweaty, disgusting bodies inside; ice water never tasted so good. Turns out we were trying to get a taxi during the 3:00 shift change. Even if the drivers spoke English, we had a zero chance of getting them to drive us because they all wanted to go home. It was an experience we'll never forget...and you won't forget yours either! It does make for a lot of great stories though, especially the further away you get from the experience!!
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Ah, Sarah. Laughing so hard, I'm crying! I have the same problem with arrows here in Hong Kong. I DON'T KNOW WHAT'S UP WITH THAT!!! I've circled many a time without a deadline. It's so annoying. I'll let you know if I ever figure the arrow thing out.
I also love the sentence, "I have no bombs, WMD, or manicure scissors." Those things somehow are hysterical in a sentence together.
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Sarah, your story was hilarious! Sorry you had to go through that though, terribly freightening I am sure! Isn't it terribly that the time we live in now that when we are in a hurry and panicking inside that we also have to then be worried that we could be taken as a terrorist?! I remember a time when you had to worry about no such thing! Ah, it wasn't THAT long ago, but now I feel old. Anyway, glad you're back to your home sweet home!
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Seriously, Sarah, you must consider a new career as a comedic writer...... i was in stitches reading this...
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OMG, Sarah, you had my heart racing right along with you. So glad you made it to the plane, FINALLY!
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