Roberta Goes To Russia

So today at noon, I check out of the Aquarium Hotel and ride a taxi to Sheremetyevo International Airport to throw myself on my face in front of the Russian consul to beg for an exit visa. A slight exaggeration. Begging won’t do any good if the diplomatic machinery has not sufficiently turned its inner machinery to indicate “yes”.

Probably I will be able to blog from the airport. The internet access I bought at Domodedovo (and yes, I spell that airport’s name differently each time I write it, but this time I looked it up) should work at Sheremetyevo, and, if things go well, I’ll be there for probably 18 hours waiting for boarding of Northwest (actually KLM) flight #7727 at 5:50 am tomorrow, 8/11. Why not come back to the hotel? Entirely irrational. Being at the airport is closer to home than being at the hotel.

I will then fly to Amsterdam, spend a couple hours there, and board Northwest (actually Delta) flight #763 for Portland. Oregon. Home.

Why do I feel if I write that down often enough I have a better chance of getting the visa? Superstition arises when people feel they have no control over important parts of their life, and they find ways to feel they have more control. So: flight #763 to Portland, Oregon.

Or not.

Watch the eastern horizon. If — when I get the visa, you will see a distant, but brilliant sparkle of fireworks wending their way joyously into the heavens. The fact that it is physically impossible for you to see anything fired heavenward from halfway around the world is, in this case, irrelevant.

And please understand: I am not leaving Russia, I am going home. The books I’m taking on the plane are “Russian Slang” and “93 Untranslatable Russian Words”, though I may buy something trashy at the airport for distraction. Right now, my TV is tuned to a fashion show in Russian (anyone who knows me will not believe this), and I’m feeling sad that I won’t hear this language as often soon. I’ve got Vladimir Vissotsky in my computer’s DVD drive so I can listen to him en route if I need a shot of concentrated Russianness.

But: flight #763 to Portland, Oregon. And in less than 48 hours (I think, my internal time calculator is on the fritz), home.

This entry was posted on Monday, August 10th, 2009 at 11:15 am and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.