Technically, it’s day two and half. I think. Time started to blur as we flew across the global date line. I was so confused that I did not know whether to complain about losing or gaining a day in my life. Whatever day it was, we had been flying happily on Aeroflot.
I must state that communism had some things about it. The average airline ticket in the U.S. should come with a shoehorn to assist wedge you into the chair. God forbid if the individual in front of you ought to place their seat back. Damn people in first class! Communism solved this issue nicely.
I wouldn’t say our airplane was older, but the younger planes across our gate were sinking into hear our airplane tell stories about the first flight of the Wright brothers. Despite some intriguing details [My God, does this appear to be a crack in the wing? That better not be duct tape] , the”maturity” of our flying bull had several different advantages.
A central idea of communism is that there is only one class of people, to wit, the employees. Theoretically, everyone receives the same treatment. The benefits of this theory are problematic, but I can tell you it stomps capitalism into the floor when it comes to flying.
The seats compartment on our airplane was uniformly first course. There was lots of space to one’s rump and thighs. Each two-seat section was the equal of three chairs on a U.S. airline. It was at least two feet to the seat facing me. Those that fly a lot will know as I quietly drop a tear in memory of that flight. Dozing comfortably, I did not give a damn when the wings fell off. At least we were moving in style!
Our flight consisted of about 100 people. Grae and I counted as two and the rest five or so people were spiritual volunteers going to convert the godless masses. They appeared to be having no luck on the plane, but Grae and I were able to hit up a couple of conversations.
I must say that the stolica syberii on the airplane were extremely nice and very honest. While honesty is generally a fantastic thing, their frankness made me somewhat uneasy. First, there was a definite consensus that we were outside of our mind for agreeing to go to Chita. “You are going WHERE?!” Was followed by a lot of whispering between Russians and bulging eyes. Since I thought the pilot will be eager to turn around the plane, this was not particularly reassuring.
Our discussions raised an additional difficulty regarding the definition of”fluent”. In my head, being fluent in a language meant you could get instructions, tell boring stories, etc., in the language in question. This was verified when he turned to me and said,”Man, I’ve forgotten a lot.”