Flying high, Russian style
There are consequences to booking cheap flights with Aeroflot, Russia’s national carrier. One of those consequences is an inevitable lay-over at what is surely one of the world’s worst airports. Another is the flight itself.
I’ve just got back to Hong Kong (it’s 3am, I missed the ferry to Lamma and there are no sampans around so I’m writing this from the office, waiting for the 6.30am ferry) after a 24-hour trip from Bodrum, via Istanbul, via Moscow (with lengthy lay-overs at each). The last 10-hour leg was especially eventful.
I was crammed into a blue leather window-seat in economy, beside an ebullient Russian man the size of large prop-forward. He had long brown hair pulled back into a pony-tail and was travelling with two female companions, who sat in the seats behind us. All seemed in high spirits.
As soon as the plane was stable in the air, my Russian neighbour — who must have been in his mid-30s — ordered four small bottles of duty-free whiskey. The purchase turned out to be a (transparent) front for a larger bottle of Glenfiddich, which he smuggled stealthily down from the overhead compartment, only to indiscreetly flash it around the cabin to show his friends.
After a quick couple of stiff shots, chased by Pepsi, a flight attendant spotted the bottle. Yes, yes, yes, he would put it away, he appeared to say in response to her admonition (the interchange took place in Russian). True to his word, he did put it away — under a cushion tucked in beside his left hip.
The Russian gentleman knew approximately one English word, and it always came with an exclamation mark: “Drink!” Brandishing the bottle, he extended the invitation to me and two slightly frightened-looking Arab guys sitting opposite and seem perturbed when all politely declined, as if the thought of not drinking on a plane was unfathomable.
“Too early,” I offered, pointing to my wrist, which, had I been wearing a watch, would have indicated that the time was 10:30am. He chuckled.
By the time breakfast arrived, my friend had downed at least five strong pours — though it was hard to keep track, such was his stealth and quickness of hand. Ten minutes into the meal, his tray-table resembled a crash site. Piled on it was his meal, two of his friends’ unwanted salads, a stack of four empty plastic cups, an overturned cup with the remaining drops of a spent whiskey, a half-drained can of Pepsi, half a cup of orange juice, and a cup of tea with a slice of lemon floating on top. His belly pushed against the flimsy table from underneath.
With the tendrils of drunkenness firmly ensconced, he set about unpicking his foil-enclosed meal of fish and potato balls. He dropped the butter, fumbled with the cutlery’s plastic wrapping and eventually, with meal held at chest height, reclined and fell asleep. He stirred only to put his food down before sinking into deep slumber.
His companions, a little tipsy themselves, took great delight at this turn of events. One, a pretty strawberry blonde in her mid-30s with slightly bucked teeth and a hint of acne high on her cheeks, produced a digital camera to capture the moment. For the front-on shot, I leaned over and held two fingers up in ‘V’ sign by the man’s head. It wasn’t until she sat down, giggling, that I realised I was utterly trapped.
A lull. Then the Russian sat up with a start. His mouth blurted, as if a rat inside had suddenly made a desperate dash for freedom. I knew in an instant what was happening and rushed to grab a paper bag from the seat-pocket in front of me. In my panic to open it, I tore it slightly down the side. (By this stage, the man’s table had been cleared, save a couple of napkins, the orange juice and the Pepsi.) I shoved the bag into his hands just in time. Most of his vomit met its target; the rest dribbled down his front. As he leaned forward, he knocked over juice. Remarkably it didn’t spill over the sides. I hurriedly summoned an attendant and retreated as far as I could into my corner.
The attendant, clearly unimpressed by the man’s escapades, wasn’t in a hurry to help out but eventually brought over for some hand-towels for the clean-up mission. Somehow the drunkard managed that himself. As he was settling back, I took the opportunity to escape to the bathroom.
On my way back I found a better seat by an aisle and with more legroom. I deliberately chose it because it was beside a quiet, middle-aged couple. I soon fell into a happy sleep. Two hours later, I awoke to find them cracking open a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label…
2 comments September 24, 2007
