Trip to Russia. Departure Day — Arrival Day. From Ridgewood to Moscow

Our firm plan was to fly a red-eye. Direct. JFK to Moscow. Nine hours and some. We did get a few sympathetic words from friends about night flight hardships.

The plane was scheduled to take off after midnight NY time and land in Sheremetyevo early evening. The red-eye idea was to get tired enough from the day to sleep on the plane — even if for a few minutes. The poor quality rest would keep us tired enough to turn off for the night in Moscow. By the time we’d get to my apartment, there should only be enough strength to unpack, have a snack, quick hello with my dad, and collapse. 

With no luggage to check, we started our trip around the world at the local bus stop. Thanks to the advice of my friend and support of Tom’s mom, we all were stylishly outfitted with Away carry ons.

NJ Transit passed us on to NYC subway E train to Jamaica.

In its turn, NYC transit took us to the Airtrain to JFK. One might roll one’s eyes at public transportation, but we all prefer it — something like commuting to work and ending up on the other side of the globe. And people watching.

At the airport, we did encounter an hour delay. But these days, technology helps overcome minor hardships. 

Our redeye plan worked — for the most part. The part after landing.

During the flight, Tom and the girls slept. For me, there were moments I wanted to open the door and get out. First, I couldn’t sleep at all — I might have fallen into unconsciousness for a few moments once or twice. My mind was so worked up, I could neither focus on books nor movies. “White Crow” about Rudolf Nureyev defecting to France did hold my attention as there was some relevance. Neither “Vice” nor “Widows” worked. The legroom was unusually tight. Besides, Tom, with his ability to sleep suspended upside down with an orchestra playing along, took an unusual diagonal position ending up with his back on my arm. I tried to keep still not to disturb him. You might have to suffer one way or another — either on the plane or after. It’s better to suffer on the plane.

We landed. Hit the airport bathrooms and moved towards passport control.

— Get your passports ready, — said Tom.

We reached into our bags and suddenly Charlotte dropped everything and ran back towards the plane without saying a word. Our only thought was she could not find her passport and ran back to look on the plane.

— Mom, don’t you want to help her. She doesn’t speak Russian, — Lizzie pointed out my parental inadequacy.

I followed.

The plane was still there. It is a weird feeling knocking on the door that a few moments ago has been awash in air currents at forbidden altitudes. They opened the door, but didn’t let me in. Flight attendants searched the plane — no passport. And no Charlotte. Heading back. Oops. The door out of the jetway is locked. Pushing buttons — none work. Back to the plane. Other end of the jetway is locked now, too. No buttons to push. Back and forth — no way to get out. At least in The Terminal, Tom Hanks was stuck in the airport with bathrooms and water at his disposal. I am locked in the jetway.

After a few raging bull attempts at both sides, I settle on the floor by the out-of-the-jetway glass door thinking what charges could possibly be pressed against me at this point. Suddenly, Tom’s figure appeared on the other side. His facial expression — we’re waiting for you, what’s going on. A few bull’s attempts from his side, and he realizes that the fault is not mine, he waves to hold on and disappears. (In the back of my mind: was it his elaborate attempt to get rid of me? Finally. A good one — after all these years.) But Tom comes back — as he always does — with an English-speaking attendant who sets me free. We reunite. Hug.

Charlotte forgot her phone in the bathroom.

The rest of the border crossing was uneventful. Besides Tom and the girls diverted by Sheremetyevo personnel to register for the flight back to New York instead of crossing the border to Moscow. As a Russian citizen, I was in a separate line. Somehow, they made it out the right way.

Tanya and Sergey. It’s like when you fall into a cloud. They were there to pick us up — literally and figuratively. Right there and then, at the airport we had our SIM cards installed — communication, Troika cards — all means of public transportation covered, Yandex cab rides — taken care with prepaid card. And flowers. I hugged Sergey — he was my classmate after all and the primary connection. But Sergey honestly pointed — it’s Tanya. How could I have been so dumb… Tanya…

Our taxi ride took us right by the place where I spent the few first years of my writing career at the Health magazine. The “PRAVDA” sign has been taken down from the top of the building but some windows were lit. The business goes on.

At home, my dad set the table with antique family china. He went all out with a variety of smoked fish to impress us. Unfortunately, it was just him and me who knew the true meaning of that spread. Some things you just have to live through to appreciate.

We butchered that exquisite Caspian Beluga sturgeon, the one that provides the world with priceless black caviar, in five pieces with a dull knife and devoured with hands. It brought one memory back.

I was probably seven or eight years old. My brother was 15 or 16. To surprise my dad, one of his colleagues visiting from the Caspian area brought — yes, people could carry that back then on a plane — live baby beluga sturgeons. He wanted to impress us with Hoe, a dish of Korean origin favored by Soviet Koreans forcefully transferred by Stalin from the Russian Far East to Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan. Today, I’d compare this dish to a Peruvian ceviche.

In those days in Moscow, when there was live fish for dinner, we’d fill the bathtub with water and let the fish swim until mom would get home from work to deal with it. That’s what we did — filled the tub, let the fish swim. Dad and his colleague went to work, I went about my life.

Then, after a soccer game in Neskuchny Garden adjacent to the courtyard of our building, my brother came home with his teenage buddies. They were hungry. In the tub they saw the fish. They heated sunflower oil in a pan and fried the fish.

That story has been retold and rubbed in many times.