Oktoberfest...wait...Junifest

Summertime in Tbilisi.  Summertime in Tbilisi is hot and nothing goes better with hot than beer.   And what better represent “hot” and “beer” than this?

Yes, that’s right.  Tbilisi’s very own “Beerfest.”   Never heard of it?  Why it’s world famous…in Tbilisi.  Ok, ok, …to be fair, this is a company and not city sponsored event and only the second or third year that they’ve had this (and not surprisingly, again without much success).   You see, a celebration of beer in Tbilisi is like a celebration of chow mein in Paris.   Not that people here are against the idea of a “beerfest” or beer in general mind you, but when you think of good beer drinking…you don’t think of Tbilisi – even when you live here.  Personally, I am also fan beer and “beerfests.”  In fact, I would love to have a nice cold beer on a hot day….know what? I think I’ll grab one now….

OK, I’m back.  So…I actually didn’t go to the “celebration of ale” (and and happily so as from what I understand the beer was tepid and expensive, the cups were filled halfway with foam, the live entertainment was awful and most importantly – there was no tall, leggy, Nordic girls running around in low cut German peasant girl outfits.).  “So why post it?” you might wonder.  Well, a) it gives me something to post and 2) it’s because it is a good representation of the dichotomies in Tbilisi.  

First of all, the woman on the poster is not Georgian.  In fact, she not a local Caucasian at all.  This is a tall, leggy, Scandinavian beauty with a “Yu vant zomting else mit yur beer” look.  At most, perhaps she is Ukrainian, but not a local girl and definitely not a common site in Tbilisi.  I have a strong and sneaky suspicion that they didn’t even bother to look for a girl here and simply took this picture from Internet (cheap bastards).  And the Bavarian/gypsy outfit?  Well, one rationale could be that it is when you see a sultry Nordic blonde in a German peasant girl costume is that this is an ad for German beer, but then again, there was no German beer there - only a Turkish owned local brew.  

My understanding is that the idea was when people think of beer, they think of Germany’s Oktoberfest, and when they think of Germany’s Oktoberfest, they think of Munich beer halls, and when they think of Munich beer halls they think of fanatics with little mustaches which explains why I’ve seen translated versions of Mein kampf being sold all over town recently, right?   Wait, wait…I got a little lost there….but going back to the outfit, I suppose that the German costume is to make people think of the beer drinking Oktoberfest, which of course is in….October and not June.  Granted, June may be a better time to have a beer festival because of the weather, but then that’s like having Santa outfits for Halloween and moving Christmas to October to justify buying clothes on sale, cheap candy and benefit from the autumn harvest for the holiday feast.  My point is that this is an advertisement for a local version of “Oktoberfest,” thus have it in October.  In fact, it would have been far better to have coincide with the real “Oktoberfest” so that locals are in town and not on holidays and people who can’t afford to fly to Germany and pay up to 10 Euros a beer (like myself) could still get into the spirit of the festivities, get the German Embassy involved, etc. etc. etc.  

Thus, the “Tbilisi Beerfest” should really have a local girl in a Georgian costume or just a mug of cold beer on the poster; espousing the greatness of Tbilisi beer and beer consumption, but wait…they won’t, which brings me to the next point.

Georgia is the “cradle of wine,” not the “homeland of hops.”  They have been producing wines for centuries – long before the Europeans.  Some wineries still produce wines in the traditional method of storing them in special clay vessels (kevris) and others have made some Georgian wines world famous.  Georgian beer on the other hand is, in my so humble Belgian origin opinion – not very good and is only “world famous” in Georgia.  Actually, I need to clarify that.  Georgian beer is fine, but most (not all) of the local swill is bought in the stores is actually now Turkish owned and they changed the original recipes.  In fact, I actually have become physically ill from drinking a glass or two of it.  Years ago, if you want really good beer from Georgia, you have to go to the beer factory and get directly from them – that was fabulous – now I’m not so sure (but should go soon to find out).  Yet I digress…There are no steins here, no giant “bier gartens”, no beer souvenirs of any kind.  In fact, when drinking beer, the only toast you are supposed to give is to your enemies (a WWII Soviet tradition). 

Anyway, probably the most interesting part about the “Tbilisi Beerfest” is actually that a new law outlawing consumption of alcohol in public places was put into affect two days before the festival was held.  Thus, they were able to sell it as long as people didn’t consume it (which really isn’t a problem, as I just stated above consuming it is almost impossible.)

So basically this falls under the head of “interesting idea – little planning.”  “Let’s hold a “beerfest” in a country whose main production is wine.  We’ll market it as an “Oktoberfest” to add foreign flair and show that we are European, but we’ll hold it in June and only have one kind of tepid beer sold in plastic cups.  We’ll further cut back on costs limiting the festivities, costumes, wait staff, etc. AND we’ll do all of this right after the government outlaws public consumption of alcoholic beverages.  Rock on and crack open the kegs now!”  Evidently, the overall effect was of a neighborhood block party gone bad.

On that note, I will retire this post and make my way to the fridge…    

People are talking about it

Last year, I was taking out the trash one day (not that taking out the trash is an annual event for us – we do that quite regularly) and I saw that there are several people dressed in black with flowers around the entrance of the apartment building. “Ah..well, it appears that someone died” I thought “but who?”  In Georgia, as in many Eastern European countries, the dead are still viewed for several days in the house.  There is usually a coffin lid in the outside corridor ready to close the casket when they will take the body away. What was odd though was that I didn’t hear of anyone in our building dying.  Nor did I see any coffin lid – then again, we live on the third floor so anything above us I pay little attention to.  In fact, I pay little attention to 99% of our neighbors in general.  Unless, I actually have a conversation with them and know their names, I really don’t care.

Anyway, after school, Maria (the 15 year old) comes home and asks

“Did you hear the news?!”

“I dunno, what news?”

“The neighbor died”

“What neighbor?  I saw people outside, but don’t know which apartment they went to”

“Nukri” (a man we know on the top floor of the building)

“Nukri died?!!” I almost fell over.

“No, no – his mother or mother-in-law or something like that”

Relieved “oh…well, that is too bad.” I had no idea that his mother or mother-in-law was living there “Where did you hear this?”

“people are talking about it”

Upon hearing this, my wife gets on the phone and calls up her relatives (mother, sister, and niece) who all agreed to come over in the evening so we could all go up and pay respect to the family. 

About 6pm everyone is at our apartment (mother, sisters, children, niece and husband (Giorgi), etc.) and has the women are getting ready, my niece’s husband, Giorgi and I are in the stairwell while he is having a cigarette.  Then my wife rushes out and announces that we don’t have flowers.

“flowers?” I casually asked “why flowers?  I don’t know who died.  Let’s just pay respect and get out of there”

“No! you must come with flowers.  It would be wrong not to”

“But that means running to metro stop to buy flowers”

“They still sell flowers now so you have time.  You two go and buy flowers while we get ready.”

“ok, ok…we’ll go get the flowers.  Not a problem”

So Giorgi and I go buy the flowers and get back to the apartment.  Now, in Georgia (perhaps in other places, I don’t know), it is taboo to bring flowers for the dead into your own apartment.  So Giorgi waits outside in the landing with the flowers, while I go in to announce our arrival and to hurry them up to get this over with.  I go back outside and to wait with Giorgi and he quietly asked

“Did someone else here die as well?”

“I don’t think so, why?”

“Well, if Nukri lives on the 9^th floor and the elevator works, why is everyone coming to pay respect taking the stairs?”

“Yeah, that is strange. Maybe someone else did die as well” and I go back in to see if anyone heard about this.

“Not that I know of” everyone answered.

Rather baffled by this, I jump in the elevator and go up the top floor where Nukri lives to investigate what the situation is.  The doors open and there is NO ONE on the floor.  Empty. No lights, no people, no open door, no coffin lid, nothing.  “What to do now?” I thought.  I mean I couldn’t just knock on the door and say “Word on the street is that that your mother…mother-in-law…or someone in your family is dead.  Is it true?  If so, my condolences” and leave.  It almost sounds like a mafia threat.

So I go back to our apartment and announce my discovery

“No one is up there. No one at Nukri’s is dead”

“What do you mean?” my wife asks

“what do I mean? I mean they’re all alive!”

“Well, what do we do?  We bought flowers”

“Yeah, the audacity of it.  We buy flowers and these bastards kept breathing!” turning to Maria “Who told you that Nukri’s mother-in-law died?”

“No one told me”

“WHAT?!” jaw opening and leaping back.  I began to feel my blood pressure rise “What do you mean, no one told you?”

“People were talking and I overheard them.  I thought they were talking about Nukri’s”

“Doh!” slapping my forehead “Well then, WHO the hell died?” 

“I don’t know”

“Well, go find out!”

This is when Giorgi –still in the landing holding the flowers – pops his head into the corridor and says

“The 4^th floor!  Someone on the 4^th floor died”

Turning back to my wife “who lives there?”

“I don’t know.  I’ve never spoken to them”

“Well what do you want to do now?”

“We could go and give it to the dead person’s family and pay respect to them” she suggested

“What?! Who died though?  We don’t know who died or their family.  We’ve never spoken a word to them.  You want to go to a house of people we don’t know, who don’t know us, and give them flowers and sit and talk?  What are we? Macabre thrill seekers who randomly go to strangers houses to view dead bodies? Should I bring the camera as well?”

“They are a neighbor.  We should pay respect.  Plus we have these flowers now.”

“What neighbor? We don’t know WHO died.  Pay respect to WHO? I’m not going there.”

“But you’re dressed for it”

“I can undress.  Have Maria run up and give them the flowers.  She started this mess”

“She’s only 15.  She can’t go”

“If you want to go, you go.  I’m not going”

“Well, we need to decide who should go”

“What? We need to “draw straws” to go to a viewing of someone we don’t know?”

“We have the flowers.  Anyway, we won’t be long.  We go in, pay our respects and leave.”

“Look, I don’t care who is going as long as it isn’t me.  I’m not going”

So there I sat, in some stranger’s apartment with my wife, my mother-in-law, and my niece, looking at some strange corpse and wondering when I would wake up from this surrealistic nightmare.  I’m not really sure if the forced whispered small talk with the deceased’s relatives (who not surprisingly were equally shocked and confused to see us) alleviated or increased the awkwardness of the situation.  Regardless, life’s little lesson that week…the phrase “people are talking about it” is not a legally binding term.  It is not “factual” nor is it usually accurate.  It is however, overused and can create a great stir in a matter of minutes.  So check out all the facts of a teenage girl BEFORE acting upon them.

Ju vant vat?

 When living abroad, you miss certain things about home.  Things that are comfortable and familiar to you.  Things that bring you a little piece and harmony to your life in a world of chaos.  More often than not, this is food – “comfort food” I believe is the new term for this.  For me, “comfort food” is divided several categories: mother’s food, your own homemade food, the childhood staple and the special dish that you just can’t get anywhere else.  Now to explain, “mother’s” food is food that only your mother can make and you will very rarely have it as you must be at your parent’s house to have it.  For me, it would be dishes like “waterzooi” (more accurately viszooitje and not kippenwaterzooi), “tutespot”, homemade pâté, etc.  Homemade food is something like homemade pasta and fresh tomatoes and chilies from the garden.  Sure, you can try and make it in any country, but the problem is that you can’t always get the ingredients that you want (i.e. mozzarella, romano, parmesan, etc.).  The childhood staple is something like macaroni and cheese.  Not the expensive KRAFT brand mind you, but the cheap “3 for a dollar” kind.  To this day, much to my parent’s dismay, I love sitting down in a quiet house in front of a movie and eating M&C from the pot it was made in and not sharing it with anyone.  And that last one, the special food category is something like a Carvel ice cream cake, mo shu beef from Carl Chow’s “Bamboo Garden” restaurant (before he became “big” and commercial) or a bagel, lox and cream cheese. Cream cheese!  Who can forget cream cheese?!  Trust me, cream cheese on a lightly toasted bagel with lox and a slice of a beefsteak tomato, salt, pepper and a spritz of lemon juice...I'd kill a man for that.  THAT is a gift from the Gods!  Oye veh - the things that one misses when they are far from civilization – or a good delicatessen.  

For example, every time I go to the States for business, I search out for a deli.  When I say “deli” I mean a real deli – a true delicatessen and not a “chain deli.”  A delicatessen where they make the pickles, and understand that a corned beef sandwich is served on rye bread with mustard and not on white bread with mayonnaise - something that is a rare find in the US nowadays.  A little thing, but I’m talking about a bagel and lox!  This important, so one must search out these places even if it means walking around all day in the hot DC sun!   After all, I can think of no better way to spend the morning than a quiet place, cup of coffee, news (or any reading material for that matter) and a bagel with lox. 

So one time in 2009, I was in DC and began my epic search for a true delicatessen.  Uptown, downtown, the mall, I made a perimeter search around the hotel so I would know how long it would take me to get from my hotel to the deli the next morning and what did I find: overpriced, over decorated, over-the-top chain delis.  Not one real deli.  Not even one that pretended to be a real deli.  Just…corporate delis that were now known as “coffee houses” with neon lit billboard sized menu with over 400 types of coffee on it: “coffee Argentine” “café au lait” “espresso” “espresso latte” “espresso with a half twist” “American coffee” “coffee Americano” (there’s a difference?), “Old World roast” “New World roast” “French roast” “Dean Martin roast”, decaf, half decaf (phh…why bother?), iced latte, decaf Jamaican/Bavarian blend with black forest torte open fire roast, hint of mint, sprinkle of cinnamon and oregano, and bottles of syrups and thickeners.  Why the hell would anyone want syrup and thickeners in their coffee?  Well, you get the picture; there was A LOT of really overpriced coffee.  Sigh.  Having little option, I found one that was nearby and looked reasonable.

The place in question that I found was owned by “Snapple” I think, as they had a huge refrigerated section with 40 types of “Snapple” and “Snapple” related products – waters, ice teas, sodas, lemonades.  There was a sandwich bar (promising) that made sandwiches to order (yeah – corned beef, white bread, mayo) and salads to go, vegan candies, etc.  Don’t misunderstand me.  It was a nice place and I’m not against sprouts and avocados, but just not in a deli.  It’s like being in Tokyo and walking into a Japanese restaurant and being served fish and chips. But hey, it’s the new millennium and times are changing.  I’ve lived abroad.  I can adapt…until I saw their bagel bar.

I wanted to cry.  It was more like a delicatessen nightmare. A counter lined with 20 variations of cream cheese: whipped cream cheese, pineapple cream cheese, cream cheese with nuts, cream cheese with mango chunks, rocky road cream cheese, etc. and 23 varieties of bagels: whole wheat bagels, strawberry bagels, fruit snack bagels, gummi bear bagels.  You combine any of those cheeses on any of those bagels and you have shmutz on a shingle.  A bagel is not meant to be a sweet confectionary.  You want sweet – you eat a doughnut or bears claw.  A bagel is eaten with a cold sour pickle – not powdered sugar. But again, to each his own.   My logic was that if they have the courage to market and sell THAT to the poor and unsuspecting public (where was the FDA when you needed them?!) then they would have the basics that could satisfy my humble taste.

It became like the scene from Steve Martin’s “L.A. Story” where everyone is ordering

So the next day, I woke up early, bought a newspaper and went to the deli for a coffee and bagel with lox and tomato to take back to the hotel to rest and read in comfort and privacy.  I go to the counter and am greeted by a sweet, 20 something year old girl from someplace like Honduras, Bolivia or Uruguay - and ordered a "bagel with lox and a cup of coffee."

 "Que? Ju vant vat?" she responded (read her quotes with a Spanish accent).
 "A slightly toasted bagel with plain cream cheese, slice of tomato and lox." I repeated.
 "Vat es "lox"?  Vi have non "lox"?"
 "You have no lox?!"  I about passed out.  My angelic expression turns to deadpan "How can you NOT have lox?!"
 "Vat es "lox"?
 "What is lox?" (and notice how my grammar was becoming like her grammar) "Why..."lox" is fish"
 "FEEESH?!" - as though I just ordered a bagel covered in bat blood. “ju vant feeesh on bahel?!!” she asked incredulously.
 "Well, yeah...fish...salmon, a pink fish...." I timidly responded now afraid of upsetting the wait staff any more than I obviously had.

 "Oh...ju vant saamoni!  Ok, vi have saamoni!" flashing a gorgeous smile

“And a cup of coffee please”

“Vat kind ju like?”

“Black, no sugar” (I’ve been trying to cut back)

“Non, non, I mean, vat kind coffee ju like?” pointing to the board behind her

Oh please!! It was way too early in the morning to decide on my “variety” of coffee “uh…I don’t know.  Do you have just black coffee?”

“oh jes! Vat blend ju like?”

“What?” I blankly stared at her while my head screamed “make the questions stop!!”

“Vi have thpecthial 30% blend full roast Ethiopian today”

“What?...Wait…sure.  I’ll take that”

And ran off to get my order.

30% blend?  What is that?  What is the other 70%?  As I waited there, I began to think "and what was the problem with the bagel and lox? I can't be the first customer to order a bagel and lox here, right? I mean, it IS a deli after all.  I order "lox" and explain that it is fish and she freaks.  I order "salmon" and she is kosher with it.  What the hell does she think salmon is?  Last time I checked salmon was also a member of the fish family, right? Soooo, what exactly is lost in the translation here? Did she believe that the salmon meat that she saw in the little tray was some sort of gazelle that lopped majestically across lofty fields before it ended up on a bagel?  Well, whatever...as long as I get it" and OH BABY did I get it.

After about 3 minutes, the lovely little Latino wrapped up my bagel, presented it and my coffee to me with a coy little smile that spoke a "muchos gracias senior" without actually saying it and I took it over to the cashier and paid and outrageous amount for my “café du jour” and beloved bagel with lox…I mean “saamoni”. Now back to the hotel for quiet time with the newspaper, coffee and breakfast.
  

By the time I reach the hotel, I'm salivating like Pavlov's dog.  I can't wait to eat this.  I rush up to my room, fiddle with the key trying to get the door open as my fingers shake with anticipation, turn on the news, open the newspaper, sit down, take a sip of coffee (and honestly, having tasted that coffee and other coffees in my life, I can honestly tell you that I wouldn’t have known difference between this coffee and any cheap fast food coffee.  Ethiopian blend! Hah! Probably just Maxwell House).  Then, the moment of truth arrived I carefully unwrap my bagel and sink my teeth into what I believed was a labor of love....to taste something… not quite right.  The bagel - excellent.  Lightly toasted on the outside giving it that special crunch, yet soft in the inside. Cream cheese - Philadelphia baby!  Not too much, not too little.  The tomato - I swear grown with a patience and oversight of little old Dutch farm ladies in Iowa, who tenderly harvested with their own hands so as not to bruise them.  The lox...was not salmon, but was SALAMI!

 Freakin’ SALAMI! "OH Ye in the heavens above, why?  WHY have you done this to me?!" I cried out.  What sort of sick joke was this?!!  Who the hell wants a salami and bagel?  And add insult to injury - I paid for a bagel and lox which is twice more expensive!  Gracia por de nada! 

If you read this, please help me create a cause to bring back the great American delicatessen to ensure that this sort of thing can never happen again…bagel and salami….oh the horror!

Those with children may board first….not anymore

In October 2010, my family and I were booked for a trip to the United States.  Nothing fancy mind you. Just some time with parents and at the beach.  Now flights leaving from Tbilisi to the West always leave early in the morning - around 4am, meaning that you have to arrive at the airport around 2am to check your bags and go through passport control, security, etc..  The problem with planes leaving at this time is that I never want to sleep before the flight for fear of oversleeping and missing the flight all together.  On the same token, I didn’t want to keep my children awake all night and allowed them to sleep so that they could rest before the flight (and let them terrorize the other passengers).

The time eventually arrives to get ready to leave and we wake and get the children ready.  No problem. Catch the taxi to the airport. No problem.  Check in bags. No problem.  Make to the security check line.  Slight problem.

Remember, now, it’s 3:30 am and the 5 year old boy Nicholas is tired, confused and well….rather a little cranky.  Not misbehaving terribly mind you, but just enough to rile my wife who kept hissing at him to behave as he wants to run around the airport.  But again, nothing major.

So we make it past through the security check and then are waiting in the lounge area.  Nicholas is now getting excited to board plane.

“Not now Nick, but soon.  Why don’t you play with your toys while we are waiting?” I tried to encourage him.  Reluctantly, he does.  Wanders over to a seat and looks at his bag while we go through ours.

“Passports? Check!”

“Diapers? Check!”

“Baby bottles? Check!”

“Snacks? Check!” (snickers – nothing more)

“What’s this? Empty soda bottle? Oh yeah, no liquid on the planes anymore.  Freakin regulations….” (grumble)

“Magazines? Check!”

“Huh?! Play dough? Did someone pack play dough?  Without the box? Why is this here?”

Etc. etc. etc.

Now in the “old days,” airlines used to announce and allow those with children and those who need assistance to board the plane first as they will require more time and space to get settled.  It is important to explain to you “why” this is. Even if you don’t have children, you have seen those who do and can understand this.  You never see a family calmly board the plane, look at their tickets, take their place, buckle up and calmly wait for the plane to take off.  It NEVER happens.  Instead, everything they’ve packed and re-packed in the airport into those children’s backpacks and baby bags MUST come out immediately once finding your area – not seat – but “area” as you will initially occupy more than one space on the plane (i.e. your seat, the neighbors seat, the corridor, the washroom, the galley, and sometime the cockpit – ANY free space you see, you will claim as yours).  The reason why this is (and I hope you are paying attention as there will be a test on this later on) is because you cannot touch your bags for the first and last twenty minutes of the flight as the plane ascends and descends and it is only THIS period of time that your children have decided that they MUST whatever is in their bag.  This can be snacks, toys, books, etc. all of which are promptly removed (or more accurately “dumped”) from the bag onto a seat for the child to pick and choose which ones are necessary for this time period and which ones are to be returned to the bag.  Basically, even the most dignified and calm of families who fly at 3:50 am bear a strong resemblance to worn torn refugees fleeing their country, squatting in the first area they see and setting up some sort of “sky camp.”  THUS, the need to allow passengers with children or who need assistance must board first.  This is very decent and actually very logical, which obviously means that they airlines have abandoned this policy.  

Evidently, many airlines have decided to do away with most anything decent and logical for reasons unbeknown to me.  The only reason I can imagine is that those without children have complained about preferential treatment and being forced to wait in the waiting area or not being able to place their bag near them in the overhead.  IF this supposition is correct, I wonder how they now feel about sitting near a family that places their bags on them while rummaging looking for the special toy, having the take off delayed even longer or having the disembark from the plane delayed as they now have forced the family to place their carry ons in various overhead bins scattered throughout the plane.   Fun now?

Yet, I digress… as we are going through thing and getting everything organized, we look up and realize that the plane has boarded and we are one of the last people there in the waiting lounge.

PANIC TIME

Yelling at each other, everyone jumped up and gathered their things, dashed over provided tickets and passports, ran onto the gangway to get to plane, and as we are running down I thought of the movie “Home Alone” where the parents are in the airport and as we were running to the plane, did a quick head count to discover that Nicholas was NOT with us.

“Where’s Nick?” I frantically ask my wife

Stopping dead in her tracks with panic in her eyes “I don’t know.  I thought he was with us”

“Did he make it before us and get on the plane already?”

“Find him NOW!”

We rushed to the door of the plane and asked the stewardess if a little boy has gotten on the plane already (trust me, with Nicholas this would not be a surprise).  He hadn’t.  Damn!  “He must still be in the airport!”  So we all run back up the gangway and into the airport to spread out looking for Nicholas.

We eventually found him sitting calmly, half asleep watching (ironically) our plane board and prepare for takeoff.  So we grab him and take off back down the gangway. 

Now referring to the above paragraphs about getting settled on a plane with children, let me come to our situation.  We were the last ones on the plane and are now trying to get settled with children ranging from 15 to 6 months. 

“Ok, you have your music player…great! Sit down.  You don’t have your sweatshirt?  I told you it was going to be cold on the plane.  Too bad.  Sit down.  You can ask the stewardess for a blanket once we are in the air”  Anyone over the age of six will have to wait before taking things from the overhead.

“Nick you have your toys? Cool” putting the bag in the overhead “George needs a bottle now…”

“Dad, this is the Mickey Mouse toy” Nicholas informs me.

“Yes, I see that” half paying attention while rummaging through another child’s bag

“I need the Donald Duck toy”

“What?...Huh?...Nick, you pulled that toy out yourself and I just put your bag in the overhead. The one over there.  I need to find George’s bottle now”

Now the steward comes over.

“Sir sit down.  We need to close the cabin doors”

“I know, one moment please the baby is crying and I need to get the bottle out of the bag and we have an issue with Mickey Mouse”

“Sir,sit down now.  We are waiting for you.”

“yes, I know, but…”

“SIT DOWN NOW”

Now this was on Lufthansa and I will unabashedly state that if you have the opportunity to fly with them…don’t.  Ever.  Now, I might have actually just sat down if he had offered to help, be more productive, spoken more sympathetically or simply shut his “pie hole” and just glared at me, but what added insult to injury was when he looked at the other passengers who began to protest his treatment of us and justified his behavior and said

“What do you expect? We’re German” and walked off.

What?!! That set international politics back 60 years in my mind.  So much for the “forgive, forget and move on” mentality.  At first I wanted to counter with a “oh yeah Hans, well let’s talk about the two world wars that you started.  How far did that attitude go then?” discussion, but honestly, I was shell shocked by what he said.

With the support of my fellow passengers, I am proud to say that I delayed the flight another 15 minutes more by ignoring him and getting the bottle and getting Nicholas comfortable.  HAH! That will teach them to rethink abandoning “the children first policy!”

 

off to Bishkek

In 2009, I was working in Dushanbe, Tajikistan and during that time I had a business trip in Bishkek, the capital of neighboring Kyrgyzstan.

Now, I don’t know if you have ever been to the “international” airport in Dushanbe.  If you have, you can follow along and understand the situation and if you have not, well let me explain this to you.  It was built in 1964 (I know this for a fact, it’s on Wikipedia) and therefore there is no actual gangway to board planes.  You wait in the waiting area and a bus comes over to pick up the passengers, they call your flight, and the bus takes you to the plane.  Simple, easy, no problem.  Not a bad system and to be honest, I applaud the city of Dushanbe for not trying to rush and update their airport beyond the need.  Yes, they are building a new one to accommodate Western flights, but honestly, if there is not enough traffic coming in and out of Dushanbe, then why screw with the system.  It does receive several international flights from neighboring countries as well as Turkey, Russia, China and sometimes Europe.  So basically it is being “updated” but still not “high tech” and “modern.”  Good?  Good.

So on my day to fly, I go it through security with little problem and go to the waiting area.  It was a beautiful early autumn day; bright, sunny, not a cloud in the sky. Perfect day for flying.  Now for this particular flight, I was booked on a local airline as because I was just going to Kyrgyzstan and this should be a short flight, it flew on the day I needed and it was cheap.

They eventually said something over the microphone and everyone in the waiting area got up to board the bus.  At first I thought it was rather impressive that we were all going to Bishkek, but then I realized that they had called several flights and that the bus would drop people off at their various planes.   

So as I’m on the bus, I’m watching the various planes that we pass on the airfield.  “Turkish Airways – 737, nice, very nice.  Aeroflot – new fleet, looking very good.  A Tupolev – largest cargo planes in the world, like a small city with wings” etc.  Of course, littered amongst the nice planes you there are always the “not as nice planes as well.”  The types of planes that developed countries give to developing countries so that they start transporting goods and passengers (or perhaps to kill off some of the local population as evidently there is no maintenance equipment or training that comes with the planes).  I’m pretty sure that “Air Afghanistan’s” entire fleet is made up of these sorts of planes. The interesting thing about the “Air Afghanistan” fleet is that it looks like it will fall apart in mid-air.  In fact, I’ve never seen an Air Afghanistan plane that wasn’t being worked on at an airport.  As soon as one lands, it immediately is shuttled off into a hanger for repairs.  There was once a situation that there was a banging noise during the positioning for takeoff and looking out the window of the plane – and I swear this is true- that a repairman was working on a wing because the flap was stuck!   My first thought was to start screaming “What is this? Abdul is still out on the wing!  He can fall and hurt himself!” then I realized that he was working on the flap and thought “My God! Don’t take off before he fixes the flap.  To hell with him falling and hurting himself!  Let him finish or we all die!  No moving the plane!  NO MOVING THE PLANE!” Yet, I digress….

The bus keeps driving around the tarmac and letting people off and eventually we arrived at our plane – sadly.  I write “sadly” as the “plane” was a vintage 1940’s – 1950’s twin propeller tin coffin held together with glue and rubber bands.  I don’t know the type of plane; it could have been a Yakovlev, a Sukhoi, or something confiscated from Göring’s Luftwaffe, but whatever it was it should have been decommissioned with the death of Stalin.  It’s not that I was expecting a 747 Boeing or anything, but I wanted to go OVER the Pamir mountain range, not zigzag through it or more importantly crash into it.

So as I stand in line to board the fast and mighty of Stalin’s finest, I look around and see a Russian pilot standing next to ground personnel outside the plane as passengers boarded.  The pilot – oh, let’s call him “Vlad” – is casually standing there, has half his shirt tucked in, taking long drags on his cigarette  and with heavy eye lids is checking out the female passengers. 

Ok, let me point out some things that I think are important about this flight and well, flying in general.  While I don’t work for the FAA, nor do I keep a maintenance and regulations book with me when traveling,  I’m pretty sure that smoking on the tarmac, next to a plane is…well…WRONG!  BAD!  NOT GOOD!  I personally do not want to die a fireball of death because “Vlad the inhaler” is a nicotine addict and won’t wear one of those “quick fix” patches at work.

Point two.  Instead of “checking out” the passengers…why not “CHECK OUT THE PLANE!?”  I mean, if anything, TRY to look professional just to humor the passengers.  Kick the tires.  Wipe the windows clean of the bird feathers that have smashed into the plane from previous flights.   Feed the gerbils so that they don’t stop running in their little wheels that will keep the propellers moving.   I can only assume that Vlad’s disinterest in the plane maintenance was based on a) his sincere and extreme confidence that “Old Olga” would get us there alive b) he had a secret death wish as his life was now denigrated to just shuttling people back and forth from Dushanbe to Bishkek and he didn’t care who he took with him to his grave or c) he a parachute with him in the cockpit, so to hell with the passengers.  Regardless, anything to install confidence in the poor bastards that will be ferried over the mountains of Central Asia would have been greatly appreciated!  

Beginning to question the decision of taking this particular flight, I decided to just relax and enjoy the occasion.  “This…this is an adventure” I told myself.  “This will be fun!  Enjoy the experience!  Why look at this plane!  It’s amazing!  This is a plane of history!  This is a plane that may have seen action.  This was a plane that must have been designed by the most highly decorated midget in the Soviet Union as the door and insides were much smaller than they looked from the outside.  I’m not a particularly tall man – not even 6 foot, but I could barely get myself and my backpack through the rabbit hole sized door and proved it as I damn near knocked myself unconscious trying to do so.

“Not often I have to climb through the window to board a plane” I joked with the stewardess as I tumbled into the plane rubbing my head.

Unmoved by my attempt at humor she stared at me “put bag in overhead and sit down.”  She actually said this in perfect Russian, but for effect I hope you are reading this with a Russian accent. 

The “overhead” that she was referring to was an open shelf above the seats that could accommodate a thin sandwich and perhaps four sheets of paper and nothing more.  Definitely not room for my backpack.  So I decided to try and put it under the seat in front of me.

“I said “put bag in overhead”” she explained to me again

“I know, but there is no room in overhead.  Overhead too small”

“Put bag in overhead!”

*sigh.  Ok, fine, I stand up to demonstrate the logistical problems of measurement with her request.

“Sit down!”

“But…my bag…”

“Sit down!”

So I sat.

“Put bag in overhead!” she ordered

So I stand to put bag in overhead

“Sit down”

So I sit

“Put bag in overhead”

Get the picture? We did this Abbot and Costello routine for about 3 minutes before she finally became so infuriated that she took the bag from me.  I initially thought she was going to throw it off the plane, but then she tried to put it in the overhead herself.  After several minutes of the stewardess playing “round hole – square peg” with my backpack, trying to cram the bag into a space that would make hamsters claustrophobic, she relents and gives me the bag back.

“Bag no fit”

“No kidding?  Any suggestions?”

“Put bag under seat in front of you”

“Good idea”

So, with “bag in seat in front of me,” I get ready for the flight.  Seat in upright position? Check! Fastened seat belts? Check! Vlad in the cockpit and not groping the passengers? Check!   I didn’t actually see Vlad so I assumed that he was in the cockpit not groping passengers or anyone else as I looked out the window and on my left I saw the propeller spinning at full speed.  Good – the engine is working.  Then I look out to see the engine on the right…sputtering with black fumes coming out – honest to God.   Glancing back and forth at the engines like a rapid fire tennis game, I came to the conclusion that something was amiss here.

“What the…?  Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Wait!  That’s not good!  It’s supposed to be the like the one left!  What’s going on?! We’re not going to try and take off now, are we? Nooooooo!”

And we did. 

The Pamirs from above

There are very few times that I have actually held the seat during a plane ride, but I can unashamedly you that this was one of them.  As we flew, my fingernails embedded into the armrests, I repeatedly looked at the engines; the good one on the left and the pinwheel toy on the right that was moving only because of the velocity of the wind forced it to.  When not watching the engines, I looked out the window at the Pamirs and thought “Beautiful.  Stunning. Amazing. Sullen. Barren. Devoid of human life. Nature’s black hole and if this plane goes down, I know that the only survivors are going to be me and “smokin’ Vlad” lookin’ for love in all the wrong places!  Momma when do we land?”  Best thing to do was just close my eyes and relax.

“Water!”  Oh joy.  The stewardess came back.

“s-s-sorry?” I sleepily stuttered.

“Water” she repeated.

Again, this is a situation where I’m not sure if that is a question or observation of the obvious.  Looking at her outstretched hand I wanted to say “yes, it is,” but assumed that she was offering it to me and took it, drank it and returned it.  Now to relax….

“BANG DIDI BANG BANG WAAHH IIIII NI!”

“What the HELL is that?!” I shot up almost jumping out of my seat.

Evidently there was onboard flight entertainment and for this journey was a CD of the best of Hindi classics from 1967 played at FULL EAR BLEEDING BLAST VOLUME!  I can only assume that it was played at this decibel to cover up the numerous engine malfunctions.

Eyes squinting with pain “can you please turn it down?” I tried to ask the stewardess, who was thoroughly enjoying the Hindi Super Hits of yesteryear.

“No.  CD player broken and this only volume”

“What? Well then, turn it off”

“No, passengers like it”

I looked around the plane to verify this only to see people giving the same pained expressions that I was. “Passengers not like this!  In fact, I think that man over there is having some sort of seizure from it. Passengers want to rest.  Turn it off”

She didn’t.

Admittedly, after an hour or so of having the windows vibrate from the blaring CD, the prospect of the plane going down and crashing into the mountains seemed much more appealing and the overall flight much less terrifying.

The time in Bishkek was equally interesting, but I’ll save that for later…    

coffee?...tea?....

In early 2004 I was working in Tbilisi, Georgia and the organization that I was working for scheduled a conference/retreat in neighboring Yerevan, Armenia.

It is important to note that at that particular time the roads in Georgia leading to Armenia were old, unmaintained and generally…bad.  Like potholes that would swallow a car sort of bad.  Drivers would dangerously swerve into oncoming traffic risking life and limb to avoid a pothole that would completely destroy the underside of a vehicle.  As a result, the drive to Yerevan was incredibly slow and long.  So it was decided that my friend and colleague – an American from Azerbaijan and a new colleague from the States would meet in Tbilisi and we would all fly to Yerevan on Caucasus airways.

On the day of departure, I meet my friend and the new colleague at the airport.  Have a quick bite to eat, something to drink before the flight to get to know each other and catch up.  Great weather outside and we really enjoyed the time, but not wanting to miss the flight we clean up and check in.  After we checked our bags, we went upstairs to go through passport control and security. 

Now I am generally a nervous person about time; especially in airports.  I really hate the thought of missing a flight.  I fully admit that I become impatient and rather persnickety about delays, waiting in lines, etc.  So when we reached passport control and had to wait 10 minutes…I’m not a happy camper. 

When I finally get through passport control it is off to security.  “Not a problem” I thought “I do this all the time…take change out pocket, turn off phone, no keys, etc. So I empty out my pockets and go through the metal detector to have the guard say

“Uh…you can’t take this with you” pointing to the television screen showing and x-ray of my bag.

“What?  What did I forget? What is it?” I asked careening my neck to see the monitor

“This knife”

“Knife?!”  I have a knife in my bag?

“Yes, this one.” She said opening my bag and pulling out a pocket knife “you can’t take this on the plane with you”

“Oh that! Well…what do I do now?”

“You have to go back downstairs and check with your luggage”

“Check it with my luggage?  But my luggage has already been taken away and this is a knife, it’s really not that important to me.”  The knife was not really the issue for me.  I just didn’t want to go back downstairs, wait in line to check a knife in, come back up and go through passport control and security again.  Time was passing quickly.

“You should give it to the airline and they will take care of it for you”

“Really, I don’t want it.  I’ll give it to you as a gift”

“We can’t accept it”

“Well, is there a trash bin around?  I’ll just throw it away”

“No, you need to check it in”

So looking at the clock I decided not to delay this any longer than I had to, I tell my friend that I will be right back and not to take off without me (as though this was in his power).  Then I went downstairs to airline counter with my knife.  After impatiently waiting another five minutes in line, I finally get to the counter

“Hi again, I was told by security that I couldn’t bring this on board” showing her the knife

“Of course not!” she gasps as though I pulled out dynamite and a timer.

“Well, it’s just a pocket knife and I forgot that I had it in my bag.  Anyway, they said to give it to you”

“So you want me to check this in?”

“No not really.  I mean…it’s yours if you want it…

“Oh no sir! I’ll check this in right now” scrambling for paperwork and tags for the knife.  “That was DuPont, seat 23 a…”

“Seriously, it’s not THAT important…”

“Oh no.  I will personally make sure that the captain has it in the cockpit with him”

“Uh...what?  Look, you can GIVE it to the captain as a gift from passenger DuPont. I don’t want the silly thing.  It came free with a magazine subscription.”

“Sir, rest assure that this will be safe”

“OK...ok, whatever…thanks” and shoved my “claim ticket” into my pocket.

the knife in question

I rush back up to passport control and danced in the passport control line waiting, waiting.  Again through security giving them the “thumbs up” and pat my pocket with the claim ticket demonstrating that the knife was successfully checked and all was right in the world.

After explaining the situation to my friend and colleague, we joked that I’d never see that knife again.  As if someone in baggage claim was actually going to wait for me with a sign and my knife.  “Kiss that goodbye” I thought. Well, it was one less thing for me to worry about for the trip home.

Now the flight between Tbilisi and Yerevan is only about 40 to 50 minutes, so it was a pleasant surprise to see the airline offering refreshments for the trip.  Completely unexpected.  I heard the stewardess going from passenger to passenger taking orders “Coffee? Tea? Cola? Coffee? Tea? Cola?” Then she comes to me and in a very loud voice says

“Here’s your knife sir” and produces the pocket knife out of her apron pocket!

Dumbfounded and shocked “uh…uh...what?” I stammered.  I was expecting coffee or tea, not small arms and weaponry.

First of all, I thought about jumping up and screaming “That’s right! Now turn this plane around!  We’re all going to Palestine!” but sensing that being in a plane in mid-air is probably not the best time to try out some new comedy material about weapons, thought twice about it.  Secondly, if you ever want to watch your fellow passengers get whip flash as their heads spin and they leap from their seats, just say the word “knife” on a plane.  Good fun.  You can make new friends – like with an Air Marshal – everywhere you go.

So I sat there with eyes darting back and forth between the knife and my fellow passengers who are now sizing me up – the little man with sunglasses, slicked back dark hair and wearing a dark suit in the back of the plane being offered his knife - and thinking who will take me down first.

“Uh...yes, that would be mine. Thank you.” Slowly taking from her and in a very “showy” way as not to alert the others and then in a much louder tone for everyone to hear “and I’m just going to slip that into my coat pocket now, where it will stay for the remainder of the flight. In fact, I’ll just fasten my seat belt and sit right here.  Coffee please”

So to recap. The airline wouldn’t let me take the knife onto the plane (for obvious reasons which I respect).  They wanted me to check it in instead (for reasons I cannot imagine).  They then returned the knife to me in mid-flight AND announced it to the entire cabin.  Moreover, they didn’t even check the claim tag.  The stewardess just took a chance that she was giving the knife to the right person.  Very nice.

As an after note, I believe that Caucasus Airways closed (unrelated to this incident…I think) and I still have the knife which I have never traveled with again. It just sits in drawer in the bedside table.