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Dear Readers,
Here is a two-fer. I feel bad that I haven't posted in a while and this experience is definitely blog worthy.

Last night I got back from a quick trip abroad. I landed in Sheremetevo II at about 7:15 pm. I did the experienced travelers mad dash to the passport control lines. I get into a line about 8 folks deep, pretty good as passport control lines go, but I have still estimate about a hour's wait. To my right are two very short lines, "For holders of electronic passports" and "For diplomats". I am for sure not a diplomat, but because I have a bar code on my year-old passport, maybe I do, in fact, hold an electronic passport. I ask the nice lady in the green uniform and she says (to her credit), stand in any line. I take her to mean any line but the two aforementioned lines.

However, I keep scanning the electronic line to see if there are any Americans over there. If so, I am going to make the jump. At that moment, the perky blonde with a ponytail and tortoise-shell glasses at the head of the electronic line, pulls out a passport in that unmistakable US-only dark blue. I am slipping, I should have pegged her as American 20 minutes ago. I move over into my new line, 3 back from the front, instantaneously bypassing 5 folks in my old line. The two Germans behind me line jump as well, so now the electronic line is beginning to fill up. 4 smarter Germans, decide to take their changes and jump to the now empty "Diplomats". They get through, good information to have, but like everything else in Russia, that rule may not hold the next time I go through passport control.

Back to me. I make it to the passport desk and get Ivan "I do not want to be here and I really don't want you in my country" Ivanov. I say hello in Russian, he ignores me. Well, at least I didn't smile at him. Now we play the "how-long-can-I get-you-to-stand-here-while-I-ask-inane-irrelevant-questions-because-I-can" game. After the 3rd question, he is up 17-3. He claims he cannot speak English (working passport control?, okay).
"Where do you live?" -- Moscow-- eyebrows raise above his forehead.
"What are you doing here?" - I am a Fellow.
"What is your professional specialty?" -- Marketing.
"What flight were you on?" -- 220.
"From Stockholm?" -- No, from your Aunt Rita's house (I said that to myself).

Then he just sits there doing nothing, waving my passport back and forth. After the third wave, he notices that the cover and the picture have started to separate.
"What happened here?" -- It got wet.
"What happened?"-- IT....GOT....WET!!
"So what happened?" -- WET, WET, WET. I spilled water on it and it got wet.
"Well, we have a problem." I am sputtering mad -- we have a problem? I just left this god-forsaken country 4 days ago, no problem. No one wants to voluntarily come to this country. Why, why do I always get a hard time at passport control? I showed my US drivers license, dude I am an American citizen, all the paper work and my multi-entry visa are in order, I have been traveling for 25 hours. What is the bleeping problem?

Let me re-phrase: "What is the problem that I can resolve at 8 pm at night standing in front of you at passport control?" Either we don't have a problem or send me back (gladly I would go) to civilization, meaning the US via Sweden (beautiful, glorious, cultured, Sweden). He shows the offending passport to his "menedzer" who fingers the passport for another few minutes, then hands it back to Ivan. Stamp, stamp, stamp. Flings the passport back to me and says "You need to get your passport fixed." Thanks, Ivan. Only in Russia.

I make my way to baggage claim to find utter chaos. The conveyer belt is stopped, no airport personnel to be found and bags are literally everywhere. On the floor, on the belt, on the other side of the conveyer belt, still in the back, behind the curtain. It looked like they let the monkeys from the Samsonite commercial loose on our luggage. I see my luggage on the other side of the conveyer belt. Retrieving my luggage necessitates me climbing up and over the belt, praying all the while that it does not restart in mid-climb. I get my bags and make my way to and through customs. The customs guy just waves me through and I am off to find a taxi.

Official taxis cost R1300 ($50) from the airport to the city but you can get as low as R700. I try for R800 and get no takers. I have two wheeled luggage pieces, a big bag and a purse. I am fast running out of options. Finally, a guy with a really manic look in his eye agrees to my R800 offer.

He takes my big wheelie and starts sprinting towards his car. I am having a tough time keeping up. He passes about 30 cars and leads me to a dark corner of the building. Damn, I don't have my mace and this fool is about to jack me for my paper. He knows that I have at least R800. I am getting real nervous when he hits the stairs and starts climbing. I get it now, he just dropped someone off and is going to double-dip with me, which is why he agreed to my price. He picked up his fare on the incoming passenger. Anything he gets from me is gravy. OK.

We get to his car, a dirty, dusty, wheezy Lada of indeterminate color. I conspicuously get the license plate number while he is loading my bags into the trunk and send an SMS to two of my fellow Fellows. I may be going native, but I am not going crazy; precaution whenever possible. We get in the car and I notice that the guy does not have any icons in the car. Well he doesn't seem drunk, more like high, just plain crazy or hyper and he does know where my street is. Off we go. About 35 seconds into the trip, he tries to pull into a gas station, but it is closed. I look over at the dash to see how much gas he has, and every, single light was blazing. Damn, damn, damn. 'Cause if we run out of gas, I will most certainly have to walk.

We wheeze along for another few klicks or so until we come to a lit gas station. Cabbie pulls in, gases up and the fumes must have done something for/to him because now he is in full manic glory. He floors the poor Lada, which, amazingly eventually responds. Now, at the Lada's top speed, Cabbie starts looking for a cigarette lighter. This search entails long moments with his head under the dash board. I spend these same long moments praying to God that the other cars just seem that close. After a while he finds a lighter and I start breathing normally, but not for long. This guy is an unbelievably ballsy driver. With cabbies that can drive like this, why isn't NASCAR, IRL, etc overwhelmed with Russians. This guy has the wheezy Lada screaming top speed down the Leningrad Shosse, through tunnels and underpasses and all I can think about is he better not Princess Diana me. I am not sure how much of his life he is interested in preserving, so that fact that he would go out with me is probably not a deterrent.

Anyway, we make it to big train station by my house. Cabbie pulls over to "consult a map". I am on the phone with my husband. I tell Cabbie that I know the way, and while I am still on the phone, he jumps out of the car and -- no lie-- takes a whizz right next to the cab, in the middle of the street, in the middle of 4 lanes of traffic!!!! No, he didn't. Yes, the hell he did.

He jumps back in to the cab like a new man and proceeds on to my house. I am five minutes from home and I spend this time thinking how I can I get my bags out without him touching me or anything I own. Damn, damn, damn. We make it to my street and I jump out of the car, real quick and cat-like, but it was for naught. The trunk is stuck and Cabbie has to fitz with the lock. I reach for both bags but he, too, is cat-like and grabs the big one before I can reach it. Right before he puts the bag down on the street, he spits right in front of the truck. The wheel of my suitcase misses the spittle by centimeters. My adrenaline glands are completely empty by now. I feel wrung out and shaky. I pay Cabbie, smile my goodbye and let myself in the front door. Only in Russia. Only, only in Russia.