14.9.09

One week ago at this time I was most likely sitting in Moscow waiting for the last leg of my trip. I was pretty tired, since I was accustomed to sleeping at that time of day on the other side of the world. Perhaps it was fortunate I had such a long layover in Moscow, for I needed a few hours to realize that I was waiting in the wrong terminal, where my plane had arrived from New York. I checked my itinerary, and indeed it stated that I needed to switch terminals before boarding the last plane.
I asked a woman at the information desk how to get to the domestic terminal. She explained me the way, shortly after which I was accosted by several taxi drivers who wanted to take me to my terminal. Where they standing nearby as I asked at the information desk? Maybe the information desk was giving out hints about whoever came by.
I escaped the taxi drivers and made it to the shuttle which was supposed to go between the two terminals of Sheremetevo airport. It turned out to be free. What a deal!
I didn't wait long in the domestic terminal before wishing that I hadn't come so soon. I sat there dreading the few hours I had left to wait in a rather grim looking building packed with people. It was raining outside, there was a chill in the air, and all I really wanted was for someone to watch all my luggage for half and hour so that I could sleep.
I fell asleep anyway, but I had my luggage close enough to me that anyone trying to steal something would have to be extremely careful not to nudge me awake. Maybe such care would appear suspicious in a place packed with people?
It didn't matter, I was going to fall asleep whether I wanted to or not. I was like my mom watching a good movie after a few glasses of wine. You could've put hot coals on my feet and I would've dosed through it. So the proximity of my luggage was really a bluff. Anyone could've brushed me arms off and taken what they wanted without me noticing.
The neat thing about that kind of sleep - the kind that's not alcohol induced, but caused by prolonged lack of rest - it's very efficient. I think I didn't sleep for more than a few minutes, but by the time I woke up, I felt slightly recharged. I needed the charge, because getting through that terminal requires a lot of attention. They were constantly making announcements about flights boarding. The sound system was not the best, so even though they repeated whatever they said in English, it was difficult to understand.
Fortunately, all the upcoming flights were listed on a TV not far from where I had found a seat. I got up periodically and quickly walked to where I could see whether they had called my flight or not, then returned. I was concerned because there were two flights listed that were checking in passengers but that took off after my flight. Why wasn't my flight doing check-in yet?
I don't know what I would've done if the flight had been cancelled. The next flight probably would've been until twenty four hours later. Taxi drivers would've loved to give a foreigner a lift to a far-off hotel in Moscow. I would have sooner slept with my backpack strapped to my shoulders, laptop in my arms, and my suitcases holding me off of the cold, wet cement floor.
It didn't come to that. I had just decided to look for an information desk when they finally announced my flight. I got in line.
It was a horrible feeling to realize that the numbers that were shown on the screen after the announcement didn't refer to the numbers on the doorways through security, but to numbers of the desks behind the security stations. It seemed I should've already gone through security! And here I had been waiting I don't know how many hours for them to tell me which security line to get into.
I asked around, and there was another person in my line who was flying to Rostov too, but it seemed to me that he was also a foreigner, so I wasn't quite relieved. Luckily, it didn't take too long to get through security. A large Russian woman wanted to look through my suitcase and backpack. I appeased here with a chess-set and some socks filled with change. I put my shoes back on and proceeded to the counter to check in my suitcases. I sighed with relief when I saw how short the line was. I checked in my bags, got my boarding ticket, went to my gate and waited.
I had never been seated in an emergency exit row before. It's really nice. The other five men in the row were no smaller than I. There were two Europeans among us, one of them about two meters tall (about six feet five inches) and the other much taller than the first (almost seven feet). They spoke a language that sounded a lot like German, but that I hope wasn't - I like to think I would've understood more if it had been. I didn't bother to inquire. I was too tired.
We arrived in Rostov on time, at 11:50 Monday night. My boss was holding up a Language Link flyer in front of her. I walked up to her and introduced myself.

The next day I was to see the school for the first time and become slightly acquainted with how things work there. I was going to give my first lesson the next day (to an individual). In the meantime, upon my inquiry, one teacher showed me were a pool was located, another showed me how to get to the chess club.
The city chess club is not two blocks away from the school. The teacher who was accompanying me there asked a chubby man behind the desk for information, he answered and she translated, but seeing that she wasn't translating much that I didn't partially understand already, I addressed the man myself in broken Russian. I think I offended the other teacher. All of a sudden she wasn't so special anymore.
I returned the following evening to watch some people play in the weekly tournament. There was a very friendly old man there who seemed pleased to have an American visitor. He showed me around, and every now and then directed my attention to players, many of them younger than myself, who had recently won one award or another. Evidently, there are many people with a rating of 2200 and higher at the club. (I think you're a master with such a rating.)
A stocky man in a green tweed jacket arrived. The old man was quick to point him out to me. If I understood correctly, then he's the local grandmaster (with a rating greater than 2500). The old man told me that he had come to watch his students play. I watched the grandmaster watch his students for awhile, then thanked the old man for the tour, and left.
I didn't see the grandmaster's face until yesterday, when I returned to take part in a blitz tournament. I know that face. The face itself resembles that of Robin Williams, but the man's eyes are quite remarkable. As far as I can tell, from a direct glance his eyes are a typical blue, but seen from an angle, they look like jewels. Besides Herr Zimmermann, my first Russian teacher, I haven't seen anyone who has eyes like the grandmaster's. I wonder if it's a gene particular to Russian people. Herr Zimmermann, by the way, also had a face like Robin Williams. Does Robin Williams have jewels for eyes?
The blitz tournament was fun. Grandpa would be proud. I played nine games, lost them all, and didn't throw one temper tantrum.
Chess, like music, like many kinds of art I guess, resembles a language. Everybody expresses themselves differently when they play chess. If I can make any excuse for such a dismal showing yesterday, it's that for the past several years, I've had conversations in chess primarily with my eldest brother. I shouldn't expect to be a match for many people when I've been interacting for so long with only one person!
At least I managed to gain the respect of a few of my opponents. One pimple-faced young man mentioned that I would've won the match had I pushed my pawn instead of my bishop to g6. Following a transparent queen sacrifice, I would've had him (that g5 pawn would've become a queen). In another match, I seemed to have my opponent pinned in every which way. It only took him three or four moves with his bishop, practically the only piece he could possible move without losing material, to manage what must have been his only attack possible, to which I was sadly oblivious.
There might have been another game or two where my opponent had to be careful for a few moves, but for the most part my apparent strategy was to bore my opponent to death with such simple play. Oh well. I'll return next week, if not for the chess lessons, then for the Russian practice. Unlike the club in Vladimir, the players in Rostov really enjoy heckling one another during informal play. There's a lot of cursing going on - that's material you can't learn in any textbook.

They had told me before I arrived that my ATM card would work at the Russian machines. It had worked in Vladimir, no reason why it shouldn't work here. And indeed, it works. I withdrew five thousand ruble, that's about one hundred and fifty dollars, from my American bank account. Then I bought a guitar for about one hundred dollars, and a mobile phone for about thirty.
I tuned the guitar as best I could and took to remembering the few songs that Sasha had taught me when I lived with him in Vladimir. That didn't take too long (I don't know that much). I also have a book with lessons and songs for beginners. We'll see if I have time to make any progress in the next few months. The mobile phone also functions as a radio. I think I have everything I need to get through another year.