Two weeks in old, verdant Saint Louis... cool, fragrant rain on daffodils, dogwood, red bud, forsythia; block after block of red bricks and gingerbread; sister in her little brown peanut butter kitchen with a baby on her hip; chuckling Dad, up and walking and miraculously well again. I had a million errands to complete while in the States but somehow almost every one was a pleasure, and a visit to some remembered place. I feel flush with visions of plenty, with springtime and nostalgia, and resurgent family love. When of course we underdressed for our walk outside today, unaccustomed to the harsh cold still lurking in the shadows here, I discovered I still had some warmth stored from Saint Louis.
Still, today, Moscow is difficult to accept. I wept with my forehead against the taxi window coming in from the airport yesterday, as we crawled deeper and deeper into the city, through gridlock and soot and the dismayingly familiar landscape of kiosk shantytowns clustered around hideous, monumental buildings. Grim faces everywhere.
After twenty hours of solo travel with two toddlers, a cat, and a colossal amount of baggage, I had arrived at Domededovo Airport pretty tightly wound, unprepared for cultural differences that immediately reared their heads. The American pilots of our 767 carried my stroller down a long flight of stairs from the gate and two flight attendants from Chicago helped with the babies, as a Russian airport official (who had explained there was no wheelchair exit or elevator) simply waited, bored, absently tapping her pen against her clipboard and her high heels on the tiles. When I had collected all six of my checked bags, the cat in the kennel, two car seats, and reassembled the double stroller and piled the carry-ons and the children inside -- all of which amounted to three large wheeled carts that needed pushing -- I dug deep for the right Russian terms and tenses and asked for help crossing the baggage hall over to customs -- in all a 200-meter distance. Another airport official with a clipboard, heels, and a two-way radio shrugged and said that no porters are allowed in the baggage area (?). I was sure somebody would help if I could be clearer and so I asked if I might speak English, and she said no, since we were in Russia we should speak Russian. I said I understood, I said I was trying, and I asked if someone else might have twenty seconds or so to cross the room with me, anyone (gesturing toward the half-dozen men standing around in uniforms and reflective vests), just a pair of arms, just to help me get out of her hair? and she looked away and said simply, "It's not my job" and walked away.
We will leave again soon for warmer climes and, I feel sure, saner infrastructure, but as I looked out at this brown and gray wasteland with fresh eyes yesterday, I decided that I will go on the job market in the fall, and find a feasible way out of here before another year passes. Life is too precious to fritter away here.
No comments:
Post a Comment