OmnibusThursday, April 21, 19885
Flight across cultural barriers
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Photo courtesy of Iskusstvo Publishing House
The Cathedral of St. Basil in Moscow
By JON RUST
Managing Editor
I don't know who I am to be writing
this story about the Soviet Union, it is a
personal story a tale of a trip whose
possibility sprouted in the cold of Christ
mas break because of a phone call, a
supportive father, a hope that the days
in a country of the language I had begun
studying might somehow make my future
clear. I went in March. To go I skipped three
weeks of classes.
I thank my father for his support. I thank
my teachers for understanding. And I
thank my friends for listening.
As I stepped into the Aeroflot jet in
Helsinki, Finland, for the two-hour flight
to Moscow, a veteran traveler ahead of
me remarked, "Each country has its own
smell." A moment later I was surrounded
by the fragrance that is Russia - an
Oriental mixture of sweetness and
warmth like blueberries, cinnamon and
melting butter - which reminded me of
the childhood days spent in the guest
room of my great grandmother's house.
My journey to Russia had begun.
The flight was bumpy, and I was
cramped. The cabin was sparse, without
overhead cabinets. And I knew that my
left knee was pushing into the back of
the man sitting in front of me because
I could feel a knee lodged in my own back.
On my right sat a teacher from Ontario,
who was leading a group of Canadians. On
my left, quietly filling in a picture-study
book of the Russian language, was one of
his students, a 1 4-year-old boy lost in his
own thoughts even when he wasn't
scribbling away or gnawing on the end
of his pencil. The teacher and l traded
stories about our nomes.
There were not any Russians sitting
around us. The small number of heavily
bundled men talking Russian who climbed
the stairs to the plane with me had sat
together at the back of the cabin. And
so l studied the stewardesses as they
walked past, offering wine and water, and
serving our in-flight meal. Sadly, the
hurried sights of them supported the
stereotypes of Soviet women perpetu
ated in Wendy's hamburger commercials:
big boned, fur-hat-like hair, ruddy-white
faces, and a discourteous manner.
Determined to try to speak simple
Russian as often as I could, I ordered my
drink from the hostesses by saying the
Russian word for tea, cha-i. instead of tea
the stewardess gave me coffee. The next
time around when l wanted water she
gave me wine. When I didn't take it and
said in English that I wanted water, she
said, yes, water, and then proceeded to
pour me another cup of wine. Meanwhile,
both the teacher and student on my left
and right, who ordered only in English,
received what they had asked for.
Before my trip, I pledged to try to look
at everything I saw in the Soviet Union
on its own merits. I didn't want to fall
into the bias of comparing pv srything to
the life and luxuries I had grown up with
in America, it would have been unfair to
the Soviets, whose past I have not
inherited. But I could not avoid comparing
the Soviet air-hostess to the women and
men who had served us on our Finnair
flight from New York. There was no
comparison.
The view through the window was
washed in ink. The jet was cruising high
and it was night. Only when the pilot
suddenly swooped the plane down
toward the landing field could we see the
earth. The lights were bright in the
distance. But beneath the wing they were
clustered haphazardly, a splotch here, a
bigger, gleaming patch of white there.
The landing was hard, and the roughness
of the runway caused the plane to bounce
heavily until it stopped. A platform was
pushed up to the door, and we all stepped
down it into wind and a light snow. At
the foot of the steps everybody milled
about, watching the attendants checking
the tires and the wings, and eyeing the
guards, who emerged from the black.
There was no place to go. We waited for
a bus, the rest of my group huddling
together for protection against the cold.
I stepped around a wing to look at the
airport. A soldier glanced at me to see that
I didn't have a camera - taking pictures
of airports and airplanes is forbidden.
There is something magical about
airports at night - and something
secretive. Here in Moscow the white lights
of the tower sliced through the darkness
in well-defined beams, making lines across
the sky. The blue-lit concrete slab that our
plane just landed on faded into a distant
point. Snow rested on the ground. And
nothing moved. The other planes, big
brooding Aeroflot jets and a couple, svelte
Finnair and Lufthansa jets, sat in pools of
light, alone.
One bus came. There wasn't enough
room on it for everybody. I stayed back
and peered into the dark, looking for
another lone figure on the runway. I had
this feeling that I would see Humphrey
Bogart, hand stuffed into his raincoat
pocket, staring at a small passenger plane
disappearing into the night. A moment
later he would be surrounded by soldiers.
I didn't find him. It wasn't the right time,
l suppose, but it certainly felt like the right
place.
Another bus did not come, so a tall
woman wearing a long, wool coat ushered
the rest of us across the runway to the
terminal. We curled around the baggage
men who were finally rushing out to grab
the luggage from the belly of our plane.
Two of them were still pulling on their
gloves.
Within the terminal those of us on Flight
458 were coursed blindly through several
bare halls and corridors. We didn't see a
soul. Finally, we emerged into a large room
and walked past three glass booths before
opening into the baggage claim area. I
waited in line until it was my turn to step
into a booth. I did, sliding my passport
under a glass shield to a waiting Soviet
Army soldier. He leafed through it for a
minute or two and scratched something
on a piece of paper before looking up.
When he did look up I could tell he was
comparing my face to the likeness in my
passport. He checked it a couple of times,
frowning, then made a brief phone call.
Before finally giving it back, he tapped
something out on an old typewriter and
then sent me off with a bored flick of
his wrist.
I lifted my bags from the conveyor belt
when they emerged and walked over to
customs. I wasn't worried, because I wasn't
smuggling anything. While the guard
searched through the bags of the two
people in front of me, I filled out my
declaration form. On it I listed all of the
valuables and money that I had brought
with me. This declaration form would be
as important to me as my passport when
l departed, so l was specific.
When it was my turn to be searched,
the guard asked if I had any literature with
me. I said I had some books. He asked to
see them so I laid them on the table. He
peered at them for a while, glancing at
my Russian language book and then
picking up my Russian history text.
"I'm sorry," he said, "it is not allowed
to bring this in." Realizing that I should
have known better, I still tried to explain
about missing classes and needing to
study. He said he was sorry again,
shrugged his shoulders, and told me that
l could sign a form if I wanted to get it
back when I left. Sacrificing the book, I
declined, not wanting to sign anything I
couldn't understand fully. He was kind
enough to send me through without
looking at anything else.
I was in.
The flight was just one episode in my
trip-, unfortunately, one story cannot hint
at the diversity of the Soviet Union. And
I am almost sorry that I wrote about the
least typical of my experiences there.
Except for entering and leaving I found
quite a bit of freedom to move about
the streets, talk to the people, and to
photograph.
On the next two pages I would like to
introduce you to some of the friends l
made, in their faces you will find more
than I could ever say.