2010.11.30: Goodbye Home, Welcome ... ?

The first half of my flight to New Delhi would be operated by KLM and end in Moscow. Part two would be handled by Aeroflot. Aeroflot? Yes, Aeroflot, you heard that right. No, I haven’t got a sudden death wish. Yes, I’ve read those. No, I don’t take those Internet comments too serious. No, I’m not worried at all. Ehmm… Yes, now I’m in Moscow. Why? Do you really have to ask? Well, I’ve got a delay of almost ten hours and no one can say with certainty that my flight will depart tomorrow. You were right. Happy now?
Luckily, Aeroflot, being the fine company that it is, arranged a hotel for the transit passengers without a visa for Russia too. We arrived at two o’clock in morning and the hotel had a wake-up service scheduled at half past four. However, there were food and drinks present and our host even served them at that late hour. As a matter of fact I’ve been a little preoccupied with food since last night when my mother made a delightful pizza.

This morning KLM offered me this cookie:

The cookie led me to question a great deal of things. Since when is it that traditional homemade things are being made in a bakery and since 1880? How come the cookie is broken? Vandalism or terrorism? Was it a coincidence, intent or an accident? There was too much time to think it over. Only with one hour left I started to wonder what I should do once I arrived for my transit in Moscow.

One recurring aspect of the many possibilities I imagined was that I should drink vodka. After all, I would be in Russia. Shopping for this spirit turned out to be quite awkward. The terminals were modern, clean and empty. It seemed that in the afternoon there were more shop attendants present than passengers. No one however replied to a smile. Women just stared into nothingness with an icy look. Some men were more responsive, but with a look I could only translate as: “Are you gay or is something else wrong with you?” But that wasn’t all. The terminals were set up in a way that one had to pass a great deal of shops. Most of the many shops were called “Duty Free Moscow” and sold exactly the same products.

Some shops were identical twins and others only differed in size and floorplan. On too many shelves the same luxury articles were attempting to seduce me. The little choice between things to buy made me think of the Soviet Union. Only now everyday products, that must’ve been of at least some real benefit to humanity, were replaced by “Johnny Walker Blue Label” and “Chanel No. 5”. Repulsed by this senseless repetition I bought only a small and cheap bottle of vodka not any caviar. Well, caviar was a whole bloody lot more expensive than I wanted it to be anyhow. Instead I decided that eating pickles was the Russian thing to do. Of course there were no pickles to be found, that would be something normal people might buy. I settled for pickle-flavored chips.

Had I become a sad lonely alcoholic? Killing time by sipping booze out of mini bar bottles? I don't know, but I would've drank mods had I already known about my impending doom. I had just finished my pickle flavored chips when a two and a half hour was announced due to a “defect”. The additional seven hours of delay where announced when the two and a half hour had passed. Now the plane would now leave at seven in the morning. It was a minor nuisance that we didn’t receive anything to drink or eat in the more than four hours we had to wait before we got to the hotel. The politeness, or lack thereof, of the Aeroflot staff was something else.

“No English” “go here” “go there” “wait” “just wait”. “Why do you ask me?" "Ask someone else!” I once read somewhere that people who don’t speak English very well may sound impolite, because they just don’t know enough words to communicate in anything else than commands. Here everyone’s body language left me in no doubt: the language barrier was no issue here. No wonder, I figured, the Kalashnikov was invented in this country, so many people to shoot at and so little time.

Of course there were many positive things to my unanticipated interruption. First of all I went outside while it was claimed to be at least minus thirty-five degrees Celsius. I’ve never been in a such a cold in my life. Everyone was omitting a lot of smoky heat as if we were all wandering cigarettes. At the hotel bar, while I was writing this, a travel agent approached me from Belgrade, Serbia. After reading two or three sentences he concluded that I wrote very nicely about food, as good as a journalist. It was very very very good, by the way his name was Alex. He was in Moscow to attend a basketball game and gave me his e-mail and website at least three times. When we left the hotel he and his buddies were still drinking in the hotel lobby, singing native songs and saluting to Mladic.

It was clear to me I was abroad in strange territories. More important though, than meeting drunk promoters, I met a few other stranded passengers. It’s true that I mostly made small talk, but the collection of French, Czech, American, Dutch, German, Canadian and Indian people I spoke with reassured me. They reassured me, with their humor and stories, an adventure was about to start.


P.S.: I just arrived in New Delhi

P.P.S.: The Aeroflot staff on the airplane were actually rather kind, although still not smiling.


Click here for an overview of all posts about my time in India
It's no secret: I love your feedback!