Closing the Circle – From Saint Petersburg to Washington

Apologies for a text only post but it’s the last day

22 June.

It didn’t take long this morning for me to realize that indeed our fellowship was reaching its end. Although we managed a few moments together in the common room it was clear that we were, to some degree, all working on our own schedules. The single unifier applied to those of us who were departing Saint Petersburg today. Erin, Lu, and Ana were on the same flight to Frankfurt (I believe on SAS). I was also flying to Frankfurt but on Lufthansa and scheduled to depart just over an hour after them. We’d already agreed to transfer to the airport as a group and we had booked a car through the hotel for a flat fee of 900 rubles which when split four ways made the fare exceptionally low.

As for the remaining four, Groud was staying behind for two days before taking charge of the speed tour retracing most of our route from Saint Petersburg to Beijing. Rose had booked an extra day in Saint Petersburg and planned to visit the Peterhof. Anne and John had also booked extra time in Saint Petersburg before they would set off for some additional European touring and a visit with their family in the UK. Since they had several days left in the city, they planned to take a break from touring to rest and simply relax.

Knowing I had a long day of travel ahead, I was in my room slowly packing after my morning shower. Rose knocked on the door. She wanted to be certain we shared a proper goodbye and she was about to set off on her day. I was happy she did.

When I’d finished packing, I wandered out to the common area and overheard the desk clerk telling two other guests that if they planned to visit the Peterhof they should do so today as the weather forecast for Sunday and Monday called for rain. I passed this along to John and Anne when they joined me in case they might want to change their plans and go to Peterhof today while saving their rest for tomorrow.

Eventually, the seven of us gathered in the common area and the desk clerk told us our driver had called and said he would be delayed about fifteen minutes because of traffic but assured us he would get us to the airport by noon. We all went down (the four baggage laden travelers in shifts in the tiny elevator while John, Ann, and Groud used the stairs) to the courtyard where we said our goodbyes to John and Anne and walked out to Nevsky accompanied by the ever-vigilant Groud to meet our driver. Fifteen minutes turned to twenty and when twenty to half an hour we grew ever more nervous. We finally decided to hail a cab told Groud to try to recover the money we’d paid the hotel while we, having spent down our cash, pooled our funds to cover the new 1100-ruble fare to the airport. (We didn’t think she’d succeed and, since the driver did show up at some point, she didn’t. Apparently, this is an instance where the Russians aren’t quite as rigid.) The cab driver seemed to sense our urgency and the ride was, how shall I put this, an adventure best taken with our eyes closed. But we arrived at the airport in one piece and on time, if slightly nauseated.

Saint Petersburg is served by two airports, both called Pulkovo and differentiated by the numbers 1 and 2. As nearly as I could tell, Pulkovo 1 is for domestic flights and Pulkovo 2 handles the international flights. Pulkovo 1 must be (at least I hope it is) the newer of the two terminals because Pulkovo 2 is creaky and outmoded especially for a city the size of Saint Petersburg. In keeping with the omnipresent security obsession, you pass your bags through the first security checkpoint simply to enter the airport. We all got our boarding passes and said what I thought would be our final goodbyes. This proved not to be the case. The airport is small and though it has two fairly large and reasonably stocked duty-free shops, other than a T.G.I. Friday’s, the amenities, especially dining choices, are rather spare.

I wandered through both shops hoping to find a shot glass for a friend who collects them and, because there’s essentially no place else to go, inevitably bumped into the three women. Somewhat unsurprisingly, Ana stayed behind shopping after the three of us left. She must have then gone ahead to the gate while Lu, Erin and I ended up in Friday’s for a bite. When we finished lunch, the goodbyes were indeed our last.

While Lu and Erin had to pass through a security checkpoint to get to Terminal A, in Terminal B the checkpoints are at each gate. This means once you go through security to the gate’s waiting area, should you need to use the toilet, you will have to pass through security again to re-enter. But wait, there’s more! When the passengers on the incoming flight deplaned and the flight crews changed, we were confined to the waiting area behind a locked plexiglass door reminding me of (to borrow a term from my friend Melissa) the “smokequariums” in the Frankfurt airport. Fortunately, I had three weeks of train travel behind me. This was child’s play.

Most three-hour flights are relatively easy and flying Lufthansa usually makes any flight easier. Then, as we were taxiing to the gate came the announcement, “Passengers connecting to United flight 933 for Washington Dulles please see the Lufthansa representative…” I was hoping this would be good news and that proved to be the case.

We had a minimal amount of time to make the connection and Lufthansa had a bus to transport just those of us joining that flight to the proper terminal. We also had our own personal security gate apparently set up only for those passengers making this connection. Now, why we had to go through the baggage scan and magnetometer was a bit puzzling to me. Think about it. We got off the plane, were led onto a bus accompanied by airline personnel, and were taken off the bus by those same people to a security checkpoint. The only way anything could have changed from passing through security in Saint Petersburg was for all of the passengers to have been in a conspiracy with our Lufthansa escorts (and probably the driver as well) to execute some terrorist plot. Really?

The nearly-nine hour flight home went smoothly. I tried to sleep a little and to write a bit but didn’t do much of either. Instead, I spent some of the time watching a documentary on George Mallory who led the first three British expeditions attempting to summit Mount Everest and whose body was discovered on the mountain by an expedition in 1999 some seventy five years after Mallory disappeared. I spent significantly more time processing the events of the past three weeks.

Before I fully close the circle, I want to say that I hope you have enjoyed taking this journey with me. I also want to offer my congratulations to anyone who has read every post. You have read an almost novel length account of my trip – more than 39,000 words. (Okay, maybe just a novella.) And if you’ve looked at every photo (including the fuzzy ones), that count surpassed 1,200. Thus, I think, congratulations are certainly in order.

At the end of the day, the flight landed safely at Dulles a few minutes ahead of schedule. I passed through customs and immigration a bit more quickly than I expected and without consequences (particularly since I had neglected to declare my half-eaten Twix bar). I took the shuttle to my car and drove home. I changed my clothes, sat in my chair, put my not so little cat Zicomo on my lap,

drew a deep breath and said, “Well, I’m back.”