To Russia and back...but only just

With the remarkable landing, recently, of a US Air flight in the Hudson River and the survival of a plane load of people, I am reminded of an occasion in the early nineties when I seriously doubted my own safe return to terra firma.

I had been invited to Moscow to attend a series of events specifically for Camp Directors to aid in hiring summer staff. Never a nervous traveler, I thought little of joining a small group of strangers for a 10 day working holiday in a very foreign country where the language is completely indecipherable, both spoken and read, to most and particularly to me who has no propensity for foreign language.

Flying on Aeroflot would never have been my first choice or even my last but it came with the package. Embarking in New York for the 10 hour flight, my companions and I appeared to be the only non-Russians and certainly the only non-smokers. Suffice it to say that the flight was unremarkable apart from the fact that we were vibrated, starved, slightly inebriated and our lungs were filled with smoke by the time we arrived. This was nothing compared to the return trip.

Just two others from my group took the flight home together. Some had gone on to more distant lands while others just evaporated. I suspect that they changed their flight arrangements to avoid another Aeroflot experience. If I had been a gambler I might have decided that the odds were against me and made a similar decision.

Too late now! Seated together near the front of the plane we were surrounded by middle aged men and a cello. The three seats directly across from me were occupied by the owner of the cello, the instrument itself and a man already well into his cups. The usual safety rules for take-off, such as fastening seat belts, stowing the tray table and placing the seatback in the upright position seemed not to apply. My seat would not lock into place and my drunken neighbor had a bottle of vodka and a shot glass on his table.

Once in the air the musician began complaining loudly to the fight attendant. Of all the passengers he looked to be the most harmless but soon it became apparent that he feared for his cello and was demanding to be moved to a new seat. Quickly he and the cello disappeared into ‘first class’ leaving me a clear view of the now semi-conscious traveler who, to my horror, was vomiting all over himself. Obviously this was not an uncommon practice. The three men directly in front of him were engaged in a lively card game punctuated by the refilling of their own shot glasses and paid no attention at all. The flight staff continued passing out bottles of vodka, none of these little one drink-size miniatures you normally get but whole fifths.

Our food trays had just arrived when one of the card players began yelling at the man in front of him. Who knows what started this argument but in no time he was out of his seat and face to face with his tormentor. Bam! In a flash he took a hard fist to the face and fell to the floor in the aisle right next to me. Egads! Blood was pouring from his nose and upper lip as he struggled to his knees. My napkin was still on my lap so I passed it to him as a temporary measure, fully expecting a fight attendant to come to the rescue. It appears that you don’t mess with these Russians since the attendants were all in the galley peeking out around the curtain and not making a move to help.

Much subdued, he crawled into the seat that the cello payer had vacated and quickly passed out. Now that whole row was unconscious.

Somewhere over Western Europe the pilot announced that we were going to make an unscheduled stop in Shannon, Ireland. Was this to remove the 2 unconscious passengers and others in a similar condition or were we having mechanical problems? We were instructed to disembark on landing for a period of an hour. Now might have been a good time to re-think the continuation of this particular flight. However, without luggage and already desperate to get home we soldiered on. Back on the plane our 2 sleeping row-mates were just where we left them. The one guy’s lip was fatter and his nose more swollen and the other certainly didn’t smell any better but otherwise they hadn’t moved. Lack of sufficient fuel to make it across the Atlantic seemed to have been the problem. Don’t you wonder how that happens?

As we began our descent into New York the now sleeping travelers began to reorganize. Our potted friend hauled himself to a standing position, dragged the sweater, that was loosely knotted around his neck and strewn with dried vomit, over his head, added a rather nice leather jacket and made himself quite respectable-looking. He then removed several metal parts from the overhead bin, took a wrench out of his pocket and proceeded to reconstruct a suitcase trolley right before my eyes. Once assembled, this pre-war, rusty, two-wheeled deadly weapon had to stand in the aisle during landing.

Fat Lip also managed to look decent as he exited but one look in the mirror might have surprised him. I wondered how he explained that to whoever was meeting him.

Needless to say we did make it back but if a flock of birds had crossed our path I don’t believe even Sully could have saved us.

Gas Station Antics

Finally the iPhone has come to Vermont. I resisted for 10 days but being the gadget junkie that I am, could hold out no longer. This slim, magical piece of technology is now residing in my purse and I am ecstatic. It is slick!

Back a few years I experienced a rather unfortunate incident that might well have been recorded on someone’s cell phone had most people had cell phones at the time. That morning the whole town was without power causing all gas stations to be temporarily out of commission. En route to Burlington I stopped in Waterbury to fill up my gas tank where I met many Stoweites doing the same. We chatted as we pumped and reconvened inside to buy coffee for the trip. Back outside, more conversation ensued and then with a hearty wave I drove off to my destination some 30 miles away.

The radio was playing as I travelled the required 65 miles an hour down the highway. After overtaking a number of cars I glanced in my passenger side rear-view mirror where to my horror I saw, not only had I failed to close the gas tank door but had also failed to remove the nozzle. The accompanying 10 feet of hose was flapping in the wind as I sailed down I-89!

What to do now? I wanted to crawl under a rock in embarrassment. How many people had seen me already? Should I pull over and try to rectify the situation and risk being seen by even more amused passers-by? It had to be done. Parked on the shoulder I proceeded to remove the hose and nozzle, screw the still present gas cap back on and close the door, all as cars whisked by. Now I was faced with another dilemma. What to do with the hose. I seriously contemplated heaving it over the bank but instead stored it in the trunk.

Visions of the chaos I had created back at the gas station loomed into view. Spilled gas, fire trucks, emergency evacuations, police cars dispatched to track me down……!! Dare I return? An illegal u-turn and 20 minutes later I pulled into a very calm and normal-appearing gas station. People were still pumping gas except at pump #4. There the dial was still where I left had it. Anyone could have continued pumping gas on my credit card, that is, if they had their own hose and nozzle.

Without removing my contraband, I cornered an attendant and as quietly as possible, admitted to my dastardly deed adding “I’ll pay for repairs.” “Not to worry’” she responded loudly, “it happens all the time. The break-away connections were installed for that very reason. Just bring back the pieces.”

One more sighting was documented as I removed the offending hose from my trunk but otherwise, I was scot-free. Personal humiliation was all that remained, I thought, until I opened the Stowe Reporter the following week. In the section called Seen Around the Mountain there was a full accounting of my antics. I suppose it could have been worse. With today’s technology I might have been The Best of You Tube!