| What
better way to start this than with the story of my own demise?
See, I was pulled (head first) out of what I then called my
‘Hellenic Uterus’. I was cold, wet and screaming,
not to mention, somebody kept slapping my ass.
I had lived in Greece--a country of much beauty and culture,
for well over 13 years, and now the authorities said I had
to go.
Back there.
Back where?
To Russia.
When I left at the age of four, I hoped never to return to
this miserable, pigeon-infested quarry of a country. Russia
was cold; it was plagued with problems both domestic and economic;
the people talked in a tongue I was only loosely familiar
with. I’d spent the last 13 years hearing rumours about
what went on there: “one in every seven minors sold
drugs to the six in seven minors who took them,” “there
was more crime in Russia than sand on a beach,” “vodka
flowed through the pipelines straight into the mouths of the
crooked politicians,” etc.
Shit, I was afraid that by the time I stepped off the plane,
I’d be beaten senseless by a horde of flesh-eating baboons
that were after my tennis shoes.
This story is actually before I faced these things.
This story is about my plane ride there. You know what old
saying: “Like a communist airline?” It basically
applies to anything you don’t really have much of a
choice in. The Soviet Union had only one airline, which, for
some reason, they choice to advertise.
Yes. Advertise the only airline in the country. The competition
must have been murder. Cow or plane? WHAT TO CHOOSE?!?
 The
airline in question is Aeroflot,
which still operates to this very day. It also happens to
be the airline I chose to take me ‘home’. And,
BOY, was I ever sorry.
I still break out into cold sweat whenever I think it. They
spent 20 minutes scanning me with their hand-held metal detector,
which found much *buzzing* pleasure around my groin area.
Most degrading minutes of my life, I tells ya.
But, I’ve decided, if there’s anything worse than
irritating experiences at the airport, it’s reading
about them on the internet. So we’ll just skip the procedures,
'kay?
We got on the plane… or suicide trap--that’s good
too. The paint was chipping off the plane door, and if that
wasn’t what got me worried, the smell of concentrated
pig urine and horse manure sure had something to do with it.
It was like that airplane Indiana Jones flew in. Oh, how we
laughed! Look at Indy! He’s flying in a plane full of
animals and poop!
Shit, I didn’t think it was so funny.
To make matters worse, ‘C’ class had boarded every
single baby on the goddamn planet that day.
The thing that took the cake, though, were the windows. The
little round airplane windows that old planes hide behind
little smelly curtains. I pushed one of said curtains aside
to see CRACKS. Cracks running up and down the window. Cracks,
strategically placed, as if part of the latest in airplane
window designs. Cracks that made me feel insecure. Cracks
that were evil and wanted my soul.
I was certain of it: at one point during the flight, my window
would blow out, and the only thing saving the passengers from
a terrible death would be my big head getting sucked into
it.
My Last Will and Testament clearly states that I want my skull
to be sold as an ashtray to a rich Arab, so this ordeal could
have seriously jeopardized my social plans for the afterlife.
I damned Aeroflot under my breath.
You want lowbrow? You got it! I made the obligatory shit trip
at one point, only to see that the airplane’s bathrooms
had successfully nurtured their very own healthy population
of flies. I was rather compelled to step out with my magic
marker and write ‘The Worst Toilet In Scotland’
on the outside, but decided not to, for lack of courage (Russians
are violent, didn’t you know? The stewardesses could
have pinned me down while the captain punched me in the stomach).
Seriously, it was like some kind of mutant creature with assholes
all over its body had attempted to take a shit in there…
I went back to my seat, and held my breath until I passed
out.
One non-destruction-and-chaos-causing flight later, I awoke
to find myself in Russia. Cold, bitter Russia. It was barely
1 am, but my father somehow insisted on getting lost and we
spent the better part of the next two hours driving around,
looking for my grandmother’s house.
…a grandmother so crazy that I now wish we could have
kept driving that first night, like somebody in a perpetual
driving binge… in a car that never runs out of petrol.
Heck, we could have gotten our own reality series.
“The Stupid Family of Assholes”--who drive around
in their car to avoid having to face any of their real-life
problems. I can just smell the money rolling in. |
