Arrival

Sheremetyevo. The airport is largely what you would expect of a major international airport; unsmiling and uncommunicative passport control, a rather confusing experience at customs trying to declare my computer and other valuables – the guard x-raying my luggage and talking to other travelers while his back is turned to the monitor displaying the contents of my 2 large bags, crowds of taxi drivers waiting for fares and occasionally getting chased off by the militsia. In some ways, hard to imagine I was back in Russia after a 9 hour flight from JFK.

But then, I went to the bathroom. Tucked behind a little corner of the arrival area, the public restroom has that indescribable smell that all Russian public bathrooms have. The smell of neglect and carelessness and way too much cleaning solvent applied too late to have much effect. To get to this oasis, however, you walk past a little casino – a bank of slot machines opposite the bathroom doors. Dark suited men in dark shirts, chain smoking and hanging around – gambling intermittently and chatting on cell phones. Ahh – now that’s the Russia I came looking for!

The trip in to the city was a rolling briefing. I got my apartment keys and cell phone, and a package of information and papers that held all that I would need to know in the practical realm of living somewhere new. It was a warm and very well organized welcome.

The view from the window of the van is of exurbs, populated with strip malls and megastores and auto dealerships. Bright, shining commerce and bright, shining parking lots jammed with cars on a Monday morning.

Sergei, our driver, gives us a bit of an impromptu tour. He’s about 35 or so, a huge man, and a former policeman in Moscow. He has the sense of humor and easy rapport with others that is born of long interactions with the public. He drives us to each of our apartments and drops us off. We help each other with the luggage. When he gets to one place, he opens the van, takes stock of the enormity of luggage that one girl has brought with her – a mountain of overstuffed black canvas duffels – and pops a cigarette into his mouth. “Well”, he says looking at the two remaining men, “Go ahead. I’ll watch the van.” He uses his enormous hands to pass off the bags.

My apartment is listed cryptically as being on the “last floor.” I understand what that means soon enough. The elevator goes to 5, but I live on 6. The best of both worlds - but the apartment more than makes up for any perceived slights. It’s in a 19th century building a stones throw from the boulevard ring, a park that circles the inner sanctum of Moscow. The apartment is beautiful and totally renovated. I can tell, because the guys doing the renovation are currently on the floor in the kitchen with what looks like a heap of appliances in the middle of the room.

“Damn”, one of them says, “He’s early”.

One worker runs out to get parts that the other needs to finish connecting the sink to the wall and plumbing. He apparently gets confused and has to keep calling back. This begins to irritate the very friendy, but gruff, guy I’m talking to in the kitchen. He answers the phone each time in a more and more agitated state. “Allo”, he shouts. “Nyet, ne tak.” Another ring a moment later. “Allo! Nyet. Ya uzhe tebe skazal!” The really funny part of all this is that the gruff guy doing all the shouting has programmed his ringtone to that Mancini tune the “Baby Elephants Waltz”. DOO de doo doo DEE doo DOO doo DOO doo. Then hoarse shouting in Russian.