3 April 2004
Our flight took seven hours overnight from Toronto to Frankfort and, after several hours of layover, another 3 hours to Moscow.
Set aside for a moment the weeks and months of preparation for this journey, the practices, the prep talks, the pep talks, the Visa process, the individual fundraising. My first impressions of Russia began with the landscape as we flew in low on our approach. I kept looking out the window at the huge forests and long, winding rivers, at the long, straight, two-lane roads and the still-idle farmland -- all still in the lingering grip of winter -- waiting for a first glimpse of Moscow, a city I knew well but didn't know at all. Then without ceremony we landed. Just like that. We were in Russia.
Moscow airport at that time was smaller than expected, aging and decaying, with an air of old communist years lingering. Dark, sad, austere. We waited in the passport line with many other foreigners, working our way slowly toward one of three uniformed officers who had to verify each passport and visa via computer, be sure the paperwork was complete and in hand, and stamp the works. Our officer was a rather boyish looking man in an army uniform. He was very serious about his work, silent and unsmiling; efficient and deliberate, but not especially fast.
We had been told to have our paperwork ready and to stay on task and, importantly, to avoid the common American tendency to joke around in line or to chat up officials as they did their jobs.
Eventually, we all made it through to baggage claim. There were dozens of bags strewn around waiting for their owners who had yet to be processed. It was easy to find our bags since we had marked them all with pieces of yellow CAUTION tape before leaving Houghton.
Some of us found a public bathroom while we waited for the last of our group to be cleared. The restroom was small as I remember -- one stall, one sink. A white-haired old man with weather-reddened face and a bottle of hard liquor was vomiting loudly into the sink. We took our turns at the stall and went out quickly, using bottled water to wash our hands in the corridor.
What can I say about these first experiences in Russia with Russians, so different from each other and both so very serious. My heart and mind were being filled and wrenched at the same time. It was not possible to know, then, what was a singular experience and what might be typical.
We moved our bags through customs without a hitch. A middle-aged heavy man with dark hair and a Stalin-like mustache, also in uniform, waived us through without getting up from his chair. "Your uniforms are not good!" he joked, "you'll freeze!"
Just beyond the customs area was a half-glass wall/corridor and several hundred people in winter clothes waiting, some holding up signs for particular travelers. Ken Blake and a young woman named Anastasia were waiting for us. Ken was the field director for Global Partners in Vladimir. Anastasia was the first of three or four translators we used in country.
Once outside it was clear new facilities were being built to replace the old terminal. The sun was shining. Ken phoned the bus driver who arrived quickly and we set off for our temporary home in Vladimir.
