The lady sitting in front of me is yelling at me in Russian. I can’t understand most of what she’s saying, but I’m pretty sure it has something to do with the meal I just dumped on her head.
Let me put this in some context.
I’m somewhere over the Baltic Sea, halfway between London and Moscow. Dave, my traveling companion, is sitting to my right. He’s about my age, a social-studies teacher from the Poulsbo area, and he’s sound asleep with his mouth hanging slightly open. To my left is a young Chinese guy. He’s very cool: iPod, hipster glasses, Abercrombie wardrobe. He’s also asleep, but he’s cool enough to keep his mouth closed.
I’m in the middle, and I am wide awake. I wish this weren’t the case. I have tried using my tray table as a pillow, but it smells like fish. I think about leaning over and putting my head on Dave’s shoulder, but he twitches in his sleep, and probably wouldn’t make a very comfortable pillow. I briefly consider the hip Chinese guy but I quickly realize that the same rules that apply to high-school apply to Aeroflot: you don’t snuggle with your social superiors.
I’m about to resign myself to a sleepless flight, but then the stewardess comes by with dinner and it all looks so Slavic that I decide to eat. I have my choice of lamb or fish, and because the two look positively indistinguishable I just point to one. I’m pretty sure I’ve chosen the fish. I’m not sure though, because as the stewardess hands me my tray Dave twitches in his sleep, elbowing me in the ribs, and I drop my dinner on the head of the woman sitting in front of me.
This is when the yelling starts.
My one year of college Russian is limited to such useful phrases as, “I see the brown dog,” and , “What time is it in Minsk?” Nevertheless, it’s quite clear to me what she is saying. I smile weakly and try to help dab the tarter sauce from her hair.
It’s going to be a great trip.
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