Domo Dogo Airport, Kazakhstan, Moscow discussed on Stories I Tell on Dates

Automatic TRANSCRIPT

I arrived at Moscow's Domo Dogo airport with big instruction to look for a man holding us on with my name on the man was there, and he had a sign. Sure enough, but it turned out that Paul Shirley was the extent of his English aptitude using a variety of creative hand motions. The man made it clear that we are going to get my bags and take them to his car. So he could drive me across Moscow to be airport where I would connect. Because. What he didn't mention the car in question had floorboard so rotten that by the time we arrived at Sheremetevo airport. Two hours later my bags and their contents would be soaked with the melted. Snow that had worked its way into what was once dry space for luggage. Inside the other airport. The man handed me the Russian equivalent of fifty dollars can explain with his hands. That my flight wasn't until ten pm. It was currently ten AM in that. I would have to pay the money to someone for my luggage. I wasn't overjoyed to have a twelve hour layover in an airport filled with people who looked like they'd been cast off from the Cantina scene. As far as I could tell there was nothing to keep the angry looking socks and Tajiks from walking off with my bags security was not tight. But I couldn't help the next flight to Kansas City. So I waved goodbye smelly man and gamely found a spot on a bench where I laid out on the floor of the books. I brought with me there pages had taken the brunt of the snow's abuse. I went to the bathroom twice each time. I packed everything. I owned almost literally onto baggage carton took it with me eating presented a similar challenge with the added obstacle of the ceramic language, which made the word chicken look to my brain. Like, something Charlie. Brown's teacher would say. After my day of vigilance, I boarded a Siberian airlines flight to Kazakhstan no one had a rooster on his lap. But it looked like someone could have if they'd wanted to seats were missing the carpet looked like it had been transplanted from fraternity house floor in my seat mate. Wore the same expression, you see on death row inmates who've just been informed that the requests they've put in for their last meals have been summarily ignored. We landed in Kazakhstan at midnight this time I was met by someone a little more cheery teams general manager who apologized for the long day. I didn't do it in joked about Kazan's location, so far from Moscow, then I was bundled into the back of a windowless van and we set out for the city. The ride was bumpy in unsettling, and I was terrified the whole time. This turned out to be not only a pretty good description of the thirty minute trip from the airport to the hotel. But also my next two months in Russia. The temperature rarely rose above freezing no-one smiled. I couldn't come to terms with the harshness of the Russian language, which whenever it hit. My ears made me think someone was very angry with me. The next two months felt like six when they were over. It was time to decide whether I would stay for the remainder of the year. If I said, yes, I would be in Kazakhstan until may or June and everyone said springtime in Kazan was far better than wintertime in Kazakhstan. I would also make two hundred thousand dollars effectively doubling my career take as a basketball player and giving me some.

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