Today I am sitting comfortably in the computer lab of the Невский Институт, enjoying my first opportunity to record this adventure of mine. I would venture to say that I've finally settled into a schedule and that things aren't nearly as nerve-wracking as they were a week ago. A week ago, I was in a very different place, certainly not sitting comfortable anywhere, and hardly knowing what was going on. To be more specific, I was standing in the apartment of a small, babbling Russian woman, clutching a small duffle bag and feeling as though the next seven weeks would be a maelstrom of confusion and frustration. I wish I could say that I wouldn't have believed it, if someone told me all the things I was in for in those days . . . but I felt I had it coming.
Megan dropped me off at the Minneapolis airport after a very pleasant afternoon exploring Fort Snelling State Park. It's a good thing we ate a big lunch that day, because it was going to be a long journey of airplane food, and we all know how delectable that can be. All went well at the airport . . . or so I thought. It wasn't until later that I realized I should have been a little more attentive as the bag-check man did his work. . .
After a long, but comfortable flight, I was probably much too excited to be landing in France for the first time in five years. I would have taken a picture of the gigantic "Bienvenue à Paris" sign, but I quickly became preoccupied with more pressing matters. (Morning over Europe.)
I was ever so proud of myself that I was able to communicate to some officer guarding the terminal transit bus that I did indeed know which terminal I was going to. It would turn out that the trip could be summed up in "Thank God I speak French." Upon arriving at the correct terminal, I was surprised to find no one there. Well, no one except an old Asian lady speaking some language to her daughter (?). I went up to the man working at the counter to ask him how to get on my next flight, since I didn’t see any flights leaving from that area. He told me that I was actually going to have to get checked through passport control into France, and then go to the ticket counter for my airline. When I tried to go through the passport check, I explained to the officer there that I had to go upstairs to my gate. I was pretty sure that repeated what the first guy said. Mr. Border-Check Man decided that I didn’t actually need to go through, but that I could proceed upstairs. Mr. Security Check Man upstairs aptly pointed out that I couldn’t go through the security check without a boarding pass and sent me through a door which ta-da! led me back to Mr. Counter Man. Mr. Counter Man was nice but seemed rather annoyed and said that I did need to go through the passport check, repeating his first speech. Second time around, I didn’t give Mr. Border-Check Man the option of telling me to go somewhere else and (rather abrubtly now that I think of it) shoved my passport at him. Ms. Burly French Customs Woman seemed a little surprised to see me popping in from America without any bags . . . again, funny that this didn't strike me as odd . . .
So then I was in Charles de Gaulle, looking at the masses of people, and the miles of possible check-in areas. Wee! I'm in France! The different airlines in Charles de Gaulle are not labled like they are in American airports, so I wasn't quite sure where to go for my ticketing representative. Ms. Information Lady told me that the Rossiya representative wouldn’t be there until 10:00. It was now around 8:00.
I went to a café and copped a squat for the next two hours. I entertained myself with Crime and Punishment until I simply couldn’t focus on the story any more . . . so about half an hour max. Then it was Spider Solitaire, pin-ball, and watching the children of the airport whiz around (one ran into me) until it was time to go. At one point, a man dropped off some trinkets, a keychain, a pen, on my table. I ignored them, not wanting to get caught up in a scam, until he came by later and collected them again.
So then I was in Charles de Gaulle, looking at the masses of people, and the miles of possible check-in areas. Wee! I'm in France! The different airlines in Charles de Gaulle are not labled like they are in American airports, so I wasn't quite sure where to go for my ticketing representative. Ms. Information Lady told me that the Rossiya representative wouldn’t be there until 10:00. It was now around 8:00.
I went to a café and copped a squat for the next two hours. I entertained myself with Crime and Punishment until I simply couldn’t focus on the story any more . . . so about half an hour max. Then it was Spider Solitaire, pin-ball, and watching the children of the airport whiz around (one ran into me) until it was time to go. At one point, a man dropped off some trinkets, a keychain, a pen, on my table. I ignored them, not wanting to get caught up in a scam, until he came by later and collected them again.
When 10:00 came around, I got in an already very long line to go through check-in. When it got to me, I handed the pleasant woman my passport. “Do you speak English?” “Yes, mais je parle français aussi.” So then to French, which I actually preferred, since I knew that they knew what was going on. I'd already been working in garbled unknown for most of the day, so why change the pace? She found my ticket, then she saw that I had baggage checked and asked for my baggage ticket. Hm, it would seem that Mr. Counter Man from Minneapolis, in his enjoyment of our speaking Russian together, forgot that important detail. I, in my pre-Russia anxiety, didn't think to remind him. Pleasant French Woman looked a little dismayed to hear this. It would seem at this point that there was no way to locate my bags, since there was no number.
I asked whether it would be possible to call Northwest and find out what might have happened to them. Pleasant French Man (with bad teeth) seated next to Pleasant French Woman took out what at first glance appeared to be his little black book. I still do not know that this wasn’t his little black book, but it contained some airline phone numbers. The number wasn’t there, so a third French person of the pleasant, though this time markedly hurried, persuasion ran over to the NW ticketing counters. She came back with a phone number and began calling goodness-knows-whom. Meanwhile, Pleasant French Woman #1 is processing everyone else’s boarding passes while I’m stuck awkwardly between PFW1’s line and Pleasant French Man (w/ bad teeth)’s line. Finally, a breakthrough. Hurried French Woman w/ Telephone told me that I should just get my pass so we could know that’s taken care of, and that she would search out my bags and get them on the plane. “Et si on ne les trouvent pas?” (And if no one finds them?”) “On les trouvera.” (“We’ll find them.”) Okay, back through French passport check . . .
. . . and sitting for an hour. I’m sure I dozed off a number of times while the Russians happily completed all their duty-free shopping. When the time came to board the plane to St. Petersburg, I was delighted to see that Hurried Woman and Pleasant Woman were both at the gate area. As the man processed my ticket, he asked whether I was the one who had the lost bags. I said yes, just as Hurried Woman started explaining that they had been found and that they would be sent to Russia, too. I thanked her a “thousand, thousand” times. I wanted to give her a hug, but I don’t think that would have gone well.
The flight was interesting. There was a free seat between me (aisle) and a guy about my age (window) who drank about three glasses of wine over the three hour trip. Then there was the screeching child who was not at all enjoying her trip. I was annoyed at first, but then considered that she might be in pain, with the pressure changes and all. I tried to sleep as much as possible, with moderate success.
And then we landed in St. Petersburg. It was raining. The first thing I saw when coming down the stairs onto the tarmac was a large woman in a green militia uniform. Looking ahead, I saw the word “Rossiya” emblazoned on a very drab building. Welcome to Russia. I made it through the passport check; though I think the lady there was hesitant on letting me in. She called over two of her co-workers so that the three of them could babble in incomprehensible Russian while looking at my passport. They passed me through, and I went to the luggage carousel. Then the fateful moment the luggage track started moving. I didn’t have to wait long until I saw the duffle, in fine condition, and was able to breathe a sigh of relief. “Yes, here’s one, the other is surely right behind it. I’ll walk out of this baggage area into the airport proper where there will be a nice-looking woman holding up a sign for me who will then whisk me away to my bubbly babushka’s charming home.” Irony, as one of my friends aptly put it, is a bitch.
The big bag wasn’t right behind it. After the belt stopped moving, I stood there for a bit, dumbfounded. What in the world am I going to do now? I’m in a Russian airport, without a contact, without anyone who speaks English, and I need to figure out where my bag went. Considering the complicated situation of having two airports forget my baggage ticket (and having been stupid enough to forget to ask again), I didn’t have much hope for getting my point across. I glanced over at the lost and found booth quite a few times before I mustered up the courage to engage the woman there. It didn’t go particularly well. She gave me two copies of the same form to fill out (in English, thank goodness) and told me to go talk to the customs agent, whom she pointed out. I gave him my forms; he had me fill out another of the same thing; and then I stood there for a bit as he stamped some dozen or so customs reports. He then took my new form and told me to go see the baggage claim people. First I thought to go out to where the greeters were. Mine was not among them. I went back into the baggage office alone, bracing for the onslaught to come.
Here begins a lot of confused, fast-paced babbling in Russian on the part of the baggage officer, and a lot of retarded stuttering on mine. The lady that was helping me to begin with was joined by another woman, and both asked me about five times each where my baggage ticket was. When I told them I didn’t have one, they asked me to look for it amongst my passport and other papers. They then pointed to the baggage ticket some lady at the next desk was holding. I told them I knew what a baggage ticket was and that I didn’t have one. Finally believing me, they tried to tell me kindly that my bag would not be found. I tried to ask some other way: could they call Paris, could they use my flight numbers, could they use the baggage ticket on the bag I already had? They asked me questions I didn’t understand, and I asked them to wait while I went to check one more time to see if my lady was there. She wasn’t. I went back in.
. . . and sitting for an hour. I’m sure I dozed off a number of times while the Russians happily completed all their duty-free shopping. When the time came to board the plane to St. Petersburg, I was delighted to see that Hurried Woman and Pleasant Woman were both at the gate area. As the man processed my ticket, he asked whether I was the one who had the lost bags. I said yes, just as Hurried Woman started explaining that they had been found and that they would be sent to Russia, too. I thanked her a “thousand, thousand” times. I wanted to give her a hug, but I don’t think that would have gone well.
The flight was interesting. There was a free seat between me (aisle) and a guy about my age (window) who drank about three glasses of wine over the three hour trip. Then there was the screeching child who was not at all enjoying her trip. I was annoyed at first, but then considered that she might be in pain, with the pressure changes and all. I tried to sleep as much as possible, with moderate success.
And then we landed in St. Petersburg. It was raining. The first thing I saw when coming down the stairs onto the tarmac was a large woman in a green militia uniform. Looking ahead, I saw the word “Rossiya” emblazoned on a very drab building. Welcome to Russia. I made it through the passport check; though I think the lady there was hesitant on letting me in. She called over two of her co-workers so that the three of them could babble in incomprehensible Russian while looking at my passport. They passed me through, and I went to the luggage carousel. Then the fateful moment the luggage track started moving. I didn’t have to wait long until I saw the duffle, in fine condition, and was able to breathe a sigh of relief. “Yes, here’s one, the other is surely right behind it. I’ll walk out of this baggage area into the airport proper where there will be a nice-looking woman holding up a sign for me who will then whisk me away to my bubbly babushka’s charming home.” Irony, as one of my friends aptly put it, is a bitch.
The big bag wasn’t right behind it. After the belt stopped moving, I stood there for a bit, dumbfounded. What in the world am I going to do now? I’m in a Russian airport, without a contact, without anyone who speaks English, and I need to figure out where my bag went. Considering the complicated situation of having two airports forget my baggage ticket (and having been stupid enough to forget to ask again), I didn’t have much hope for getting my point across. I glanced over at the lost and found booth quite a few times before I mustered up the courage to engage the woman there. It didn’t go particularly well. She gave me two copies of the same form to fill out (in English, thank goodness) and told me to go talk to the customs agent, whom she pointed out. I gave him my forms; he had me fill out another of the same thing; and then I stood there for a bit as he stamped some dozen or so customs reports. He then took my new form and told me to go see the baggage claim people. First I thought to go out to where the greeters were. Mine was not among them. I went back into the baggage office alone, bracing for the onslaught to come.
Here begins a lot of confused, fast-paced babbling in Russian on the part of the baggage officer, and a lot of retarded stuttering on mine. The lady that was helping me to begin with was joined by another woman, and both asked me about five times each where my baggage ticket was. When I told them I didn’t have one, they asked me to look for it amongst my passport and other papers. They then pointed to the baggage ticket some lady at the next desk was holding. I told them I knew what a baggage ticket was and that I didn’t have one. Finally believing me, they tried to tell me kindly that my bag would not be found. I tried to ask some other way: could they call Paris, could they use my flight numbers, could they use the baggage ticket on the bag I already had? They asked me questions I didn’t understand, and I asked them to wait while I went to check one more time to see if my lady was there. She wasn’t. I went back in.
The following few minutes consisted of awkward staring, broken up by one of the women typing something or other on her computer. Suddenly, a woman in a pink track suit, looking slightly confused, holding a clipboard about to lose its contents any second, burst into the office and asked something about a student from America. I said I was the student and I told her I was trying to find my bags. Her very helpful response was something along the lines of: “Okay, I’ll go wait for you to get done.” I learned shortly thereafter that she doesn’t really speak English, and she wasn’t actually the woman that was supposed to pick me up. The meeting with the baggage people ended with them giving me a small slip of paper with their phone number and a reference code. That was it.
I went out into the waiting area where that lady and I waited for the driver to show up. I kind of went into a shock-trance, thinking of what this meant, and what it would mean if the bag never showed up. First, I would have no clothing, except for the random things Ithrew in the other bag. I would have no toiletries. Plus, the bag itself wasn't exactly cost-efficient, if you catch my meaning. So, loss of bag, necessity of shopping, stinking . . . but above everything else, which could be remedied, although expensive, one thing had me close to panic: my bear was in that bag. I really wasn’t sure what to do with myself when I realized that.
Soon, the lady, whose name I still don’t know, got a phone call from the driver, who turned out to be a very thick-set, grizzly man smoking a cigarette. He reached out for my duffle to carry it to the car. Not really thinking, I still held on to it. By this point, I think I entered a sort of trance, where I needed to hold on to everything that was mine for fear of losing it. I told him, “I can do it.” He said, “So can I.” And he took it.
The ride to the apartment was the epitome of miserable. Between the cigarette smoke; the stench of diesel from the traffic; the abrupt starting, stopping, and change of direction; the fruity smell of the driver’s gum; the queasiness from airplane food; and the fact that I was exhausted, I felt like I was going to throw up. I almost told the driver that I needed to stop. By the time we had stopped, I had lost all feeling in my fingers, except for a strange tingling.
When we finally got to the apartment, I learned that there had been a mix-up, and that another student was already living there. When I walked in, Dan Bi, another Brown student, came out. It was quite a relief to speak English with someone. Katya, the "bubbly babushka" turned out to be about twenty years old; she lives with her mom, Galya. Galya asked us who wanted to stay with her, and who wanted to move just across the street to her friend Irina’s. I said that I would, since Dan Bi had already moved her stuff in there. Katya and her boyfriend Boris asked Dan Bi and
I whether we would like to go for a walk with them while Irina prepared her apartment. I agreed to, after I finished the tea Galya was so nice to offer. We went on a nice walk to the old part of the city, which took my mind of the craziness. (Left: Peter and Paul Cathedral, within the Peter and Paul Fortress, heart of the city; Right, spire of the Admiralty and the dome of St. Isaacs Cathedral, across the river.) Then it started raining, which has done off and on since I arrived.
I went out into the waiting area where that lady and I waited for the driver to show up. I kind of went into a shock-trance, thinking of what this meant, and what it would mean if the bag never showed up. First, I would have no clothing, except for the random things Ithrew in the other bag. I would have no toiletries. Plus, the bag itself wasn't exactly cost-efficient, if you catch my meaning. So, loss of bag, necessity of shopping, stinking . . . but above everything else, which could be remedied, although expensive, one thing had me close to panic: my bear was in that bag. I really wasn’t sure what to do with myself when I realized that.
Soon, the lady, whose name I still don’t know, got a phone call from the driver, who turned out to be a very thick-set, grizzly man smoking a cigarette. He reached out for my duffle to carry it to the car. Not really thinking, I still held on to it. By this point, I think I entered a sort of trance, where I needed to hold on to everything that was mine for fear of losing it. I told him, “I can do it.” He said, “So can I.” And he took it.
The ride to the apartment was the epitome of miserable. Between the cigarette smoke; the stench of diesel from the traffic; the abrupt starting, stopping, and change of direction; the fruity smell of the driver’s gum; the queasiness from airplane food; and the fact that I was exhausted, I felt like I was going to throw up. I almost told the driver that I needed to stop. By the time we had stopped, I had lost all feeling in my fingers, except for a strange tingling.
When we finally got to the apartment, I learned that there had been a mix-up, and that another student was already living there. When I walked in, Dan Bi, another Brown student, came out. It was quite a relief to speak English with someone. Katya, the "bubbly babushka" turned out to be about twenty years old; she lives with her mom, Galya. Galya asked us who wanted to stay with her, and who wanted to move just across the street to her friend Irina’s. I said that I would, since Dan Bi had already moved her stuff in there. Katya and her boyfriend Boris asked Dan Bi and
I whether we would like to go for a walk with them while Irina prepared her apartment. I agreed to, after I finished the tea Galya was so nice to offer. We went on a nice walk to the old part of the city, which took my mind of the craziness. (Left: Peter and Paul Cathedral, within the Peter and Paul Fortress, heart of the city; Right, spire of the Admiralty and the dome of St. Isaacs Cathedral, across the river.) Then it started raining, which has done off and on since I arrived.
When we came back from our little walk, it was time to move over to Irina’s house (apartment building at left). Enter scene in which I am ushered through a door, greeted by much excited Russian, and pushed around the apartment like a cow. Irina is a round, very bubbly person with a son who’s just graduating, and a husband I can’t understand. None speak English. It was a very confused evening. I broke the toilet, which was horribly embarrassing, but Irina fixed it. I may have nearly ruined the water heating system, which is controlled by a sinister-looking box in the kitchen in which flames are visible. Not much happened that night, as I was much too exhausted to even attempt conversation, but Irina asked if I couldn’t stay up a little longer to meet her son. I went to bed around midnight. And woke up again at four. This pattern has held for the short time I’ve been here.The following day was the first day of class. We had Russian for three hours straight. At this rate, I should think I’ll be able to improve by the end of seven weeks. Afterwards, I spoke with the professor from Brown to ask him to help me locate my bag. I gave him all my information and the phone number to the airport. He told me he would do his best.
After school that day, I came back to the apartment, ate some noodles Irina had made (she’s always feeding me!) and laid down for a nap. Irina woke me up a bit later to tell me "babble babble suitcase babble babble phone call babble." I feared the worst and sort of started shutting down. Then she said more "babble babble Galya’s house, babble babble, coming, babble babble, pick up." They found it?!? She said yes. Later that evening, I went over to Galya’s and found my bag. I was so happy to finally brush my teeth, shower, get new underwear, and give my bear a hug.
Since then, things have been going much more smoothly. The first week consisted mostly of Irina saying, "Don't be so quiet" "Why are you so frightened?" and "Eat more." Most of what I said over that period was "I don't know" "I don't understand" and "I can't possibly eat any more." But there are more stories than this, and more pictures, which will come soon.
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