For the past few weeks, my trip was somewhere in the future, tomorrow. And then tomorrow came...
As soon as a person knows he/she is going to travel to another town, or country, or continent, he/she assumes that preoccupied look that is erased from the face only at the place of destination.
Before a trip, I:
1) fuss around a little and put on a preoccupied look and a few wrinkles appear on my face;
2) visit my dentist to pay her off for the good news that everything seems to be ok;
3) visit my barber;
4) try to sort out scores of little things that you have to sort out before you go;
5) try to finish up projects thatotherwise would be accomplished a year later or never at all because of item 4;
6) do some shopping.
When it comes to shopping, people fall neatly into two categories: those who love shopping and those who have not discovered it yet. They tolerate shopping as long as it lasts no more than a couple of hours and is accompanied by at least one bottle/can/glass of beer per hour.That's ok, time will come, and they will mature and learn the pleasures of shopping. Those who don't discover that shopping spirit at all are just killjoys, and I'm not going to write about them.
The fundamental difference between men shoppers and women shoppers is that men usually buy things because they have to, while women buy things because they want to. When a man prepares for a trip, he makes a list of things to buy, at least in his head, goes or drives to a shopping mall and buys them. Very utilitarian and somewhat unromantic.
When a woman prepares for a trip, she makes a list of things to buy, forgets it at home, and ends up buying something that was not on her list. One my friend whose name I won't mention out of discretion, although all my friends know I'm talking about Lena now, was once looking for a suitcase, and after a few happy hours in a shopping mall she bought... you guessed it? a swimsuit. Her third swimsuit that summer! Ah, well, it's commonly understood among us men that women have just two problems with clothes: they have nothing to wear and there's not enough wardrobe space for their outfits.
Anyway, when I had completed all the items on my list and six of my wrinkles had smoothed out, there was one more thing to do - to buy a few dollars to feel more reassured on the flight to Moscow and then to Washington , D.C.
In Russia, for one reason or other, you can buy Benjamins only. Why do our banks specialize in that particular banknote, overlooking a fact that prices for goods and services may slightly vary from $100? Your guess is as good as mine. But here is another poser for you: why is it that you can buy only new 100 dollar bills? I mean it. All Benjamins you buy are as new as if they have just been printed out. Curiously, they even smell of fresh paint.
What if you want to sell your dollar bills to your local bank? God forbid, if you have any old banknotes - and again I mean Benjamins only, because banks will be unwilling to buy any other banknotes, don't ask me why - or if you want to dispose of any second-hand dollar bills, or weather-beaten dollar bills, or washed-in-a-washing-machine bills. No way! You may spend there all day, begging an unsmiling lady behind a glass shield to please accept those bills because you have a family to feed. It's all for nothing. Save your breath. You may as well die there of starvation, having stashes of dollars in your poskets.
The dollar had dipped against the rouble, and when I counted and recounted my newly minted dollar bills, I felt not unlike uncle Scroodge on a payday.
Then a taxi came. Riding in the cab, I felt expensive and strangely important. I was a man on a mission. A man in a city of 1,250,000 citizens, according to the last census, and 750,000 more guest workers, students, and commuters, a man with a MISSION.
As we drove, I watched road teams repairing the highway to the airport - repairing that particular highway is a permanent hobby of our local authorities - I watched them and was thinking about all the good wishes, kisses, handshakes, and small parcels to be sneaked into the US that I had received during the past few days. Also, someone had stolen my cap. Or had taken it for his own. Good omen, I decided.
At the airport, the friendly cab driver helped me with my suitcase. When I rolled it on in the terminal, I could feel all the souvenirs I was carrying to my old Russian friends in America and my new yet-unknown American friends. I could feel them with all my heart and my soul, and some other organs, too.
On the plane, I set my watch 2 hours back (Moscow time), first time on my trip, but certainly not last.
The dollar had dipped against the rouble, and when I counted and recounted my newly minted dollar bills, I felt not unlike uncle Scroodge on a payday.
Then a taxi came. Riding in the cab, I felt expensive and strangely important. I was a man on a mission. A man in a city of 1,250,000 citizens, according to the last census, and 750,000 more guest workers, students, and commuters, a man with a MISSION.
As we drove, I watched road teams repairing the highway to the airport - repairing that particular highway is a permanent hobby of our local authorities - I watched them and was thinking about all the good wishes, kisses, handshakes, and small parcels to be sneaked into the US that I had received during the past few days. Also, someone had stolen my cap. Or had taken it for his own. Good omen, I decided.
At the airport, the friendly cab driver helped me with my suitcase. When I rolled it on in the terminal, I could feel all the souvenirs I was carrying to my old Russian friends in America and my new yet-unknown American friends. I could feel them with all my heart and my soul, and some other organs, too.
On the plane, I set my watch 2 hours back (Moscow time), first time on my trip, but certainly not last.
1 комментарий:
Hi Mikhail! I hope that you have arrived to the U.S. safe and happy. I have a first question for you: what was the best and the worst at a U.S. airport you arrived at?
Slava Sagakyan
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