Divine Intervention

By Ariana 

Travel journalists and bloggers spend a fair amount of time and detail describing the exotic places we’ve gone and the exciting adventures we had while we were there but we all too often overlook everything that comes between our place of origin and our final destination.  We assume that the airport, the plane, the boat, the train, and the bus are places of little or no consequence.  They are the places that should be hurried through on the way to our next adventure, an adventure which we can all be sure will occur in a place that is far more exciting than a bus terminal.  That is not to say, however, that these places of transition and modes of transportation completely lack any interest whatsoever.  In fact, one of my most formative travel experiences occurred in an airport.

Directly following graduation from college I went on a trip to visit Europe with my friend Elise and stay with her relatives in Italy and in France.  We were supposed to meet in the Washington Dulles Airport and fly to Italy together, unfortunately, all did not go according to plan.  Elise caught the flight to Italy but I got stuck in the Dulles airport because of a tornado (yes a tornado, I had previously thought that much like the rain in Spain tornados kept mainly to the plain, but I was, apparently very wrong).

I convinced myself that it was fate that I was stuck all alone overnight in Washington DC because of the flight that Elise made and I missed.  I decided that the obese middle-aged man sitting next to me on the flight to Dulles, the one who spent the entire flight edging closer to me (on the pretext that he was trying to move away from the stench emanating off of the man sitting in the window seat), might just be my soul mate.  He had, after all, offered to buy me dinner when we got off the plane, perhaps this was a sign.  But he was not my soul mate because the customer service line beckoned and, irrationally, I decided to turn down free dinner and drinks with my "soul mate" because somewhere in the masochistic region of my brain I decided that waiting in a line that spanned several terminals of the Dulles airport was, actually, preferable to a free dinner.

It was just as well, because while I was waiting in this aforementioned line I met God.  I suppose that was a very imprecise way of saying it.  Now you are probably expecting me to go into some epic conversion story along the lines of Emperor Constantine.  Or you will argue with the phrasing and try to convince me that it was not God who waited in line with me but rather one of his messengers.  Or if you are a skeptic you will try to convince me that it was merely a coincidence and that I attributed his presence to a divine power.  Or if you are particularly religious you might tell me it was nothing of the sort and that even thinking that I had met God let alone telling everybody about it is irreverent and disrespectful and I will probably rot in hell.  And you may be right and you can call it what you will but I will call it my meeting with God and it occurred at approximately 6pm on the 4th of June in the year 2008 in the United International Flights customer service line at the Washington Dulles Airport.
God was of medium build and he had a mustache (but not a beard). He was middle-aged and if you are the sort to care about

Sitting on Elise's grandmother's bed in Marina di Pisa, Italy, wearing one of her grandmother's classy 80s-style puff paint shirts

ethnicity then I will inform you that God was Sri Lankan.  God and his wife and two daughters had missed their flight to India, which meant that they also missed their flight to Sri Lanka. God was (as you would very well expect him to be) incredibly profound. He was very calm.  God was (also as you might expect) the only person in the line who wasn't bitching and moaning.

His argument was that he would get there eventually, but there wasn't anything he could do to make himself get there faster so why bother getting all worked up about it.  I felt like God definitely had a point there.  As I stood next to him in line I had this strong desire to be more like him.  I decided that from then on I wasn't going to try to fight the divine will, or luck, or fate, or whatever you may call it for control. I was just going to float and see what happened and just have faith that things would turn out all right in the end (which is not really a departure from my previous belief, but this God in the customer service line just sort of reaffirmed it.)

When I finally arrived at Elise's grandparents' house in Italy without my baggage, I heeded the lesson that I had learned fromthis travel God.  I didn’t allow my lack of luggage spoil my trip.  I merely wore Elise’s grandmother's clothes (which were frightful in a hilarious sort of way) all around Pisa.

When WHITE Penetrates Mother Afrika

But perhaps I have jumped into things too quickly. I haven't really had much of a chance to explain that yes, I successfully made

Airport in São Miguel. Sort of classy for an airport, eh?

it though a wonderful week in the Azores (which I'm sure you all will hear plenty about, especially when I'm sitting in my lonesome back home in DC, whenever that is), arrived in São Tomé, learned how to type accents on my new computer, and, well, have just been having a heck of a time.
I took a plane from Ponta Delgada on the island of São Miguel in the Azores to Lisbon, then stayed with my cousins Marina and Sérgio and their adorable new bundle of baby, Santiago, for a couple of days. After getting a small preview of the awesome effects of Doxycycline if not swallowed under its very specific and rigid guidelines (I say "preview" because there was much more to come but two weeks later), I hit the airport again, bags ready to go, toting a spartan number of tank tops and shorts, a disproportionate weight of candy and books, and a really nice bottle of Azorean wine to give to my gracious host, Ned.

All this was in the forefront of my mind when we traveled from the little mini airport shuttle at nearly midnight towards our plane, an odd time for a flight and a totally disorganized system of boarding that even seemed a little out of the ordinary for Portugal, a country I once lambasted for its own lack of efficiency and charm. I couldn't help but wonder if Portugal and São Tomé were still on hesitant (if not hostile) terms.

My wondering was quickly floored by awe as we approached our plane, a once-a-week luxury of TAP Portugal, and, clear as anything else I'd ever read in my life, in letters the size of people, the name of the plane reads:

WHITE

No, this is not a joke. But you might think the following is: Below it reads:

Coloured by You

White, Coloured by You, courtesy of the White website- http://www.flywhite.eu

Good Lord, how I wish I could make this stuff up.

I could hardly keep myself from laughing. I'm sure people thought I was crazy. The plane is called WHITE? And it's colored by...what...a rainbow of singing, dumb Africans that somehow, at the right time, just showed up for the plane trip of their lives??

Well, what do you do?

You say, okay! We're getting on this huge, phallic machine called WHITE, and we're going to penetrate virgin Mother Afrika at 400 miles per hour.

My life in São Tomé has been peppered with little bits that make me laugh like this. What else CAN you do when a country's history of European control is so recent (they only became independent in the mid-1970s)? Not only this, but their whole home, their entire history began as an overflow zone for starving Cape Verdeans in an overpopulated island to contract into honest work, only to be deceived and thrown into slavery. How do you come to terms with that when it's something the Santomenses deal with every day of their life?

The STeP UP office

Among a few English classes, some translations, some great friend-making (I love standing out; I feel like people in the USA never remember my face but here everyone knows who I am) and other things, the thing that keeps me busy here (and what I originally arrived for) was to help an incredible NGO called STeP UP (São Tomé e Príncipe Union for Promotion) coordinate and work out the kinks of a very generous donation by the One Laptop Per Child Program to a local middle school in the capital. About 90 very excited twelve year olds were handed an amazingly efficient, durable, and inexpensive laptop computer that is complete with photo/video camera, microphone, a swivel frame, multiple USB ports and wireless internet access (you can buy one for yourself or any child for $250, and included in this $250 is the donation of a laptop to a child in a poor country as well- how about that!). I'm here to learn the OLPC platform and teach it to teachers and students alike, then facilitate a way for them to incorporate these computers in their everyday learning environment (both in school and at home).

Yesterday was my first day of class with the kids themselves. While we waited in hopes that the energy would turn back on

The kids wait for the energy to come back on in class. And go camera-happy while we wait :)

(something that is horribly unreliable and inconsistent, and often just doesn't work at all), the poor kids waited, say 75 of them, crowded into one classroom, for hours. I couldn't leave them there so I thought I would at least get their attention and play some games- whatever I could think of on my feet, really- 7 Up, red light green light (outside), and, my favorite, Hangman.

At least it was my favorite, until I suddenly wanted to simultaneously laugh and cry. Here I am, a white woman, of Portuguese descent nonetheless, teaching these African children a really great spelling game that incorporates lynching. I am certainly going to Hell.

Either the kids never picked up the reference, or someone Up There was on my side yesterday, because the kids actually loved the game and it occupied a solid 30 minutes of our time. But good grief, what a trip. I had played my own race card, and it was a wild card, and here I am in Africa, and, from now on, Hangman is going to be something much, much less violent.

Até Logo, DC

By Beth
And we're off, about 30,000 feet in altitude, somewhere between DC and Boston. From Boston it's a week in the Azores, and then two months in Sao Tome, a small island off the west coast of Africa, near Gabon and the Ivory Coast.
Thank God for in-flight internet, right? Way to go AirTran (but then again, what's up with the $15 baggage check fee? I will not stand for this!).
I am sitting just one seat behind business class. There is no one next to me so I'm stretching out and I don't think I could cover all the legroom if I tried. My heart is heavy- today I am officially single again. I thought it too much to worry about a young relationship while abroad so I left my boyfriend behind and encouraged him to date other people.
It weighed on my guy. He's from Mexico and only recently moved here (don't ask me how we communicate. I dare suggest I speak some odd language remotely resembling Spanish). He isn't used to having his girlfriend up and leave on him, and particularly not to go and work in a poor country on the other side of the world. He didn't know what he was getting into when he started to date me- a gung-ho feminist, a proud Wellesley Woman, happy to be my own Mr. Fix-It and carry my own bags. For the most part, he's adjusted wonderfully. But on the other hand, he was always able to stay with me and make sure I was safe. The idea of taking a break due to distance is a new and scary thing to him. Being the one left behind in a relationship, in fact, is a new and scary thing for him.
There's a lot to be said as a woman traveling on her own. Leaving her world behind. I'm not sure what exactly, but I know that whatever there is, there's a lot of it. On one hand, no one is helping me with my bags. On the other, I know I wouldn't have gotten this kind of legroom without that guy giving me my ticket being sort of cute (and also happening to share my last name). Hm.
I am now en route to the city I know best. And from there, to cities I don't think I could have even dreamed of before.

Aeroflot to Russia: Where Time Flies and Anything Goes

By Linda Smolkin, Guest Contributor

When I was planning my first trip to the former Soviet Union, I needed the advice of an Eastern European specialist. “What’s more important – cost or comfort?” the travel agent asked. When I told her cost, she quickly answered, “Aeroflot is the way to go. It’s much cheaper than flying with other airlines.”

For no good reason, I wasn’t crazy about flying the Russian airline. But, as long as I didn’t have to stand up or fly the plane, I was willing to try something new. Anyways, if something did happen to me, my mother would never have to work another full-time job in her life – I mean, that’s what life insurance is all about, right? I confirmed the trip and mentally prepared myself. What I could never prepare for, though, was an unusual, unforgettable adventure.

I called my friend Diane, who had visited Russia several times. I told her about my dream becoming a reality – I was finally going to Russia. She threw in some advice about where to go, but when I told her about flying with Aeroflot, suddenly there was silence. I could practically hear blini, Russian pancakes, drop. Finally Diane said, “Aeroflot? Don’t you mean Scare-a lot? I wondered about her comment, but then I thought, how many times had I read anything bad about Aeroflot? Not once. In reality, I had more chances of being struck by a car or by lightening. Or, being stabbed in the heart by future ex-boyfriends.

I received my ticket about two weeks before my departure. That was when I learned – or forgot to ask – about my seven-hour layover in Ireland from 3 a.m. to 10 a.m. I decided to stay positive. It wouldn’t be so bad. For seven hours I would entertain myself. I would read, people watch, drink Irish whiskey, and reapply my makeup 25 times.

My departure date arrived and when I walked onto the plane, I was warmly greeted by the flight attendant. At first, I couldn’t find the numbers, so I just picked an empty seat. Trying to sit down was almost impossible. I squeezed through a row of men and flinging limbs. “I’m not in the mood to play twister right now,” I mumbled under my breath. My carry-on bag fit halfway underneath the seat and my legs were packed to the side. Perhaps I could hang my legs outside the window. This would not only be more accommodating, but it could come in handy in the event of an emergency landing. I finally got situated, put my head back to relax, and finally found seat numbers. Of course, they were in plain view – on the ceiling about two feet above eye level. But, I hit my lucky number; I sat in the right seat.

When we were in the air, things started to really look up. As soon as the no-smoking and fasten-seat-belt lights went off, the passengers let loose. Forget the usual passenger-sized liquor bottles. The Russians were prepared to party. The man in front of me took out his own bottle of vodka and started pouring drinks for everyone around him. They toasted every shot and continued the camaraderie with friends and casual acquaintances. It was definitely a mix and mingle, but without the chasers. The flight attendants served dinner about an hour and a half after takeoff. They poured wine and then served a huge dinner with beef, potatoes, salad and a dessert that could trigger a sugar-induced coma. Not only do the Russians know how to drink. They know how to eat. After dinner, I slept for a few hours and awoke with only minutes to my first touchdown in Shannon, Ireland.

Everyone, except for me, continued to Moscow on the same plane. I had the dreaded seven-hour layover in Ireland. Time passed slowly as I started reading and people watching. With only three other people in the airport, my favorite pastime drew to an early close. I dove into a deep sleep and after awakening, I aired out my makeshift pillow and boarded my next flight to Minsk, Belarus. The second plane was much smaller, only able to hold about 50 passengers. But, I had no complaints; I was one of the seven passengers on the plane, including the pilot, co-pilot and two flight attendants. Russian music blared and I was getting really excited about my trip. I wanted to sing and dance up and down the aisle. I was ready to party Russkie style. They played great Russian dance music and served more food during throughout the three-hour flight. The best part of all – we landed in Minsk exactly on time.

After spending ten incredible days in the former Soviet Union with a last stop in St. Petersburg, I boarded my plane back home. I lucked out this time with an excellent seating arrangement, with my seat in the first row. Finally I could stretch out for a long flight. Once the plane took off, people began to party as no surprise. The vodka flowed, the food was served and the crowd was caught in a deep cloud … of cigarette smoke. What really caught my eye, though, was a man carrying a big bundle of joy. The bundle, which was at least 35 pounds and quite hairy, was no frequent flyer. The man was carrying his dog up and down the aisle while chatting with several people. Definitely not a lap warmer, the pooch was large enough to have her own seat and a Russian meal for two. But, nobody seemed to care. They were too busy enjoying life and having lively conversations.

Before I had time to miss all my new Russian acquaintances, we touched ground. As I walked through the terminal, I started to think about all the stories I’d tell my family and friends about my adventures – which included Aeroflot. I would tell them how the flight attendants had more personality than any others I’d seen. I would tell them how they offered tons of food, served free wine, and how the bathrooms were incredibly clean. The flight was unlike any other I’d encountered and was a trip I’d remember with a smile. That is, until I said those famous last words at the baggage carousel: where’s my luggage?