Suddenly, I’m back in Russia, and it’s as though I never
left and the past four days were just a dream. The next three months stretch
languorously ahead of me and all I can do is count off the weeks and hope that
Christmas is a lot quicker in coming than it’s threatening to be. The trick is,
I’ve found, to break the time down into smaller sections and make sure each
section has something in it I can look forward to. Today we talked about our
Reading Week plans again and talked about going to St Petersburg in a few
weeks. These kinds of things will keep me sane.
I don’t want to give off the impression that being here is really
awful – in all honesty, most of the time things are really good; I have a
really good group of friends, an interesting university course and things to do
in my spare time. The problem is simply that, of all the things I’ve done and
all the places I’ve been, I’ve never felt so far from home as I sometimes do
here.
Last night was a case in point. My flight actually arrived
early, meaning that instead of landing at 18.05 Moscow time, I was already
through customs with my baggage by that time. Having ordered a transfer, and
not seeing anyone with my name on a placard in the Arrivals area, I called the
number I had been given for my driver, Sergei. He spoke in extremely fast,
mumbled Russian but I managed to ascertain that he was on his way and that I
should wait where I was. I waited where I was for over an hour.
Numerous phone calls and several frozen fingers and toes
later, my originally calm acceptance of the situation was beginning to give way
to panic, particularly as the increasingly short-tempered Sergei was no longer
even answering his phone. Finally I did the only thing I could think of left to
do and texted my mum – my reflex reaction in all crises, despite the fact she
is usually on the other side of the world at the time. Just at that moment my
phone started ringing – an unknown number. It was someone from the transfer
company, who explained I needed to walk towards a large Audi billboard and wait
there for a blue Mercedes, registration 831, which would arrive in fifteen
minutes. Two minutes later I received a text confirming the car details and the
driver’s name (no sign or even a mention of Sergei).
The relief I felt when I saw that van is indescribable. I
asked the driver his name, remembering that you should always ask questions
only the registered staff could know, rather than questions which anyone could
answer convincingly with a ‘yes’ or ‘no’. He confirmed he was in fact Maxim,
but that he wasn’t taking me to Yaroslavl – something about another van. I
nodded numbly, reasoning that this was the car that had been sent for me so
must eventually be taking me to the right destination.
We sat in Moscow rush hour traffic for over an hour before
pulling over on the hard shoulder. I worriedly looked around at the other
passengers, who were all sitting calmly and quietly. Finally I plucked up the
courage to ask the obvious question, and a kind-looking lady travelling with
her grandson explained that we were waiting for another transit vehicle to take
us on to Yaroslavl. Baffled by the whole process but glad to know what was
going on, I settled down to wait, texting my mum to reassure her I hadn’t
actually been murdered and would soon be on my way.
An hour of sitting in the cold and dark, and another minibus
finally showed up. We were ushered on, and now the real journey began. It was
12.30 before I was finally dropped home – right to my door, thank goodness –
and the journey had been unbearably long. The driver’s manic speeding over the
bumpy Russian roads had meant I hadn’t been able to sleep at all and had an
attractively backcombed section of hair from where my head had been repeatedly
banged against the headrest. Nevertheless, I’d made it, and in one piece.
Lyudmila answered the door straight away, and it was a strange comfort to see
her smiling at the door. I entered my room to see fresh sheets and towels, and
best of all – the heating had been turned on. It was all going to be ok.
No comments:
Post a Comment