Paullina Simons: Six Days in Leningrad

Having just moved and not yet unpacked, I was trying to get some work done before we went to Russia, but not only was my mother-in-law visiting from New York for ten days, but my builder must have had every contractor in Dallas stop by my house at least twice in the three weeks between our move and my trip.

I made a firm commitment to myself that I would finish reading one of my Russian research books before I traveled, but that was before Eric, the-screen-door-guy, came to replace the screen door — twice. The painters hadn’t finished painting before we moved in, and a quarter of the power outlets weren’t working, including one my computer was supposed to be plugged into. The faucet in the kitchen was leaking. The icemaker upstairs wasn’t making ice, while the frost-free refrigerator was making frost.

I had an event at a local bookstore and a live TV interview in Austin, Texas, four hours away. We had to go overnight.

The door latches in the house were all breaking, the garage door keypad was not opening the garage door, and the concrete driveway was getting marks in it as if it were made not of cement but dough.

The fence was not finished and the dogs kept running out onto the road.

The grass was dying, which could have had something to do with the fact that it had been over one hundred degrees in Dallas every day for the past six weeks with no rain.

I wanted the prairie and I got it.

The days were too full for me to do my regular work, much less think about going to Russia. But every once in a while, my dad would call and say, “Are you ready for our trip?”

“I am,” I’d say. “But I have to go because the Rotor Rooter guys are at the door. We have an overflow problem in one of our shower drains.”

We built our house on the edge of a prairie. We have the last lot in our development, and the community’s property ends a few hundred yards past our house. There the prairie begins — just a field that disappears into the sky. A lone tree. Some bales of hay. The sun rises in the back of our house and sets in the front. Nothing mars our view of the setting sun. Nothing. There is just the burned out field and burned out grass and dead corn, and the sun. And coyotes. And rats in the pool.

I still haven’t seen a lasso.

Slowly time inched its way to 12 July, 1998.

My father told me to get a single room at a hotel and forget about a suite. “I will stay with Anatoly,” he said. “And you stay at the hotel for a few days. I will meet you there every morning and we will go about our business. Stay by yourself, getting a single room will be cheaper for you.”

It was. I booked the hotel for the six days. My father was surprised to learn I would be at the hotel the entire time. He thought I would be staying part of the time with him at Anatoly’s apartment. I was thinking of myself. How inconvenient to pack and unpack twice to stay in two places.

Besides it was only for six days.

The fare I booked was one of the cheapest. The travel agent was so happy when after an hour of looking — as I stayed on the line — she finally found something inexpensive for my exact dates.

“What airline is that ticket with?”

“Aeroflot.”

I wasn’t too sure about Aeroflot. When all the other airlines were quoting me a return fare of $1200-$1900, what was Aeroflot doing happily selling me a ticket for $530? I worried. “Is it standing room only or something?”

“No, no, it’s their regular fare. They don’t have a lot of seats left. And it’s a non-stop flight.”

Now I was excited. The other airlines were refueling in Paris, or London; here was a non-stop flight. Aeroflot did not need to refuel! I found it fantastic.

“Non-stop all the way from Dallas? Wow.”

“No, no,” the travel agent hurriedly said. “Not Dallas. JFK. New York.”

I hurriedly pointed out to the travel agent that I did not actually live in New York, I lived in Dallas, and as such would be needing a ticket from Dallas.

“Yes. I don’t have a ticket from Dallas. Well, I do, on Air France, with a three hour layover in Paris, for $1900.”

I remained silent.

“We’ll have to find you a connecting flight.”

I knew it couldn’t be that simple, and it wasn’t. My Aeroflot flight was leaving JFK, New York at 1:15 PM on Sunday, and my American Airlines Dallas flight was not arriving into New York until 11:30 AM.

Into LaGuardia .

Which would give me an hour and forty-five minutes — assuming my first flight was on time — to get my luggage, get a cab, drive across town, and check into an international flight — check-in time for which was strictly three hours before departure.

“I’ll take it,” I said to the travel agent.

I told Kevin I would bring only a garment bag and take it as carry on. How I was going to fit a week’s worth of clothes — and shoes — into one garment bag?

My father had given me suspiciously specific instructions about when he could meet me.

Of course I did it all wrong. Apparently I was arriving too early. “I told you,” he said, “don’t come before Monday, July 13th.”

“But I am coming Monday, July 13th.”

“Yes, but you’re coming in at 5:30 in the morning, and I can’t be there that early.”

“So come when you can and meet me at the hotel.”

I could tell he was frustrated. I couldn’t understand why. Maybe he wanted to meet me at the airport. “I can’t be there at five in the morning,” he repeated.

“Okay,” I said. “Come to my hotel when you arrive. You don’t have to meet me at the airport. I can take a taxi.”

Two days later he called me, “You won’t take a taxi. I will have a man meet you. Viktor. He will meet you holding up a sign with your name on it. In Russian. You know how to read your name in Russian, don’t you?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Pay him. Pay him like thirty rubles. Look, and if something happens and he’s not there, take a taxi then. There are plenty of taxis. Just negotiate the fare in advance. Because if you get in and say you’re going to Grand Hotel Europe, they’ll take all your money. Negotiate in advance. If they quote you a hundred rubles, don’t go. If they quote you fifty rubles, talk them down to thirty.”

“Okay,” I said, but I must have sounded hesitant, because my father quickly added, “But Viktor will be there. He will be there most assuredly.”

My father is nothing if not a planner. It’s a control thing, having been a manager of people for twenty five years. “I will meet you at the hotel, probably around 3:45 PM. Be ready at 3:30, though, just in case I’m early. Don’t go anywhere. Maybe go for a short walk, but better yet, sleep, have a nap for a few hours, but whatever you do, be at your room and ready at 3:30. Understood? We’ll go for dinner at Anatoly’s. They’re very excited you’re coming. Then on Tuesday we’ll go to Shepelevo.” He paused for effect. He knew how I felt about Shepelevo.

“Great,” I said. “How will we get there?”

“Viktor will drive us. We will have him and his car at our disposal for the whole trip.”

“Great,” I said, but not enthusiastically. I didn’t know this Viktor; why would I want a total stranger coming with us to Shepelevo of all places? It made no sense. I wanted to take public transportation. I said nothing.

“On Wednesday we will go to Piskarev cemetery,” Papa continued. “Friday is the funeral of the Romanovs. It’s a historic day, and I got you and me a press accreditation. It’s impossible to get in, but I got it for you. You’ll see history being made.”

“Wow.”

“I don’t know what else you want to do.”