Pashovsky Airport

Pashovsky Airport

July 27, 1996 ~ Pashovsky Airport, Krasnodar, Russia

Lauren had booked a flight on a newer plane, a Russian YAK-40, instead of a train from Moscow to arrive in Krasnodar as fast as possible.

Lauren waited in the gate area surrounded by sweaty passengers, tobacco smoke, and cheap perfume. The waiting passengers pushed against her and made her squeeze her satchel into her body and grip the lock on the front flap. It contained everything she needed, notarized, and apostilled dossier and certified documents, all held together by a shiny brass clip that Renée had given her for good luck, U.S. passport, emergency contact numbers, rubles, maps, a bottle of water, a smashed peanut butter sandwich, a flashlight, a tattered Russian language book, a laminated list of Russian phrases, and a bag of M&Ms. She never let the satchel out of her sight and kept it close to her body. It had served as a pillow on her twelve-hour flight from Los Angeles to Moscow.

 The U.S. government travel warning, which she had stuffed into the front pocket of her satchel warned of kidnapping and stolen passports, and in the event of a war, riot, injury or illness, the State Department brochure recommended immediate travel to the closest American Embassy. Lauren had checked the map; that would entail an 835-mile trip north, back to Moscow. She imagined herself trying to evacuate along with the large population in Krasnodar, regarded as the southern capitol of Russia and the closet major city to the war zone with Chechnya. Good luck with that.

Russians did not trust Americans. So, Lauren had blended with the international visitors in Moscow. But in the heart of southern Russia, almost everyone was local. So, she had tried to dress like one, with a flowing, knee-length skirt, white cotton blouse, heels and more make up than usual.

 She stepped into the forty-two-seat aircraft, and passed the galley where coffee brewed. There were no seat assignments, but from prior experience, she shook each aisle seat until she found row seven firmly bolted to the floor, with clean seat cushions, and both ends of a seat belt with a functional buckle.

She settled into the right window seat with her satchel under her arm. As the plane taxied out to the runway, the pilot made an announcement, but the only word of Russian that Lauren understood was arrival. A late arrival? The plane soon jetted down the driveway. As it gained altitude over the winding Moskva River, golden onion rooftop domes disappeared into the distance.

She opened her book and breathed in the smell of the pages. Her seatbelt sprung open.

She tried to attach it again, but it refused. A few minutes later, yellow oxygen masks dropped and dangled over the seats two rows ahead of her. She glanced around the aircraft. Two flight attendants stood in the galley, talking, and laughing. Other passengers seemed unaware, even though a faint smell of fuel drifted inside the cabin. Adrenaline raced through her body. A malfunction?

She checked her watch. The one she had bought at Thrifty Drug Store for $10 before the first adoption, four years ago. The facilitators had warned to not wear expensive watches or jewelry. She tucked the necklace with a mustard seed in a small glass ball under her blouse.

Once she arrived in Krasnodar, she planned to check unto the Hotel, reserve a call to home, grab something to eat, shower, crawl into bed. At home, Nataly and Siena were asleep in their beds. Safe. What story had Mom read to them?

Tomorrow she would meet little Melia. What was she doing this morning?

Two hours later, at 9:30 am, the plane touched down, taxied on the runway, and parked on the tarmac. Lauren relaxed her tense shoulder and neck muscles. Through the porthole-sized window, the gold Cyrillic letters on the front of the terminal Pashovsky Airport sparkled in the late morning sun. Arrival announcements in Russian streamed through the aircraft. The few seat belts that worked unsnapped and clicked open. She was one of two Americans on the flight. The man was in his thirties, in a black suit like the other men, but the Newsweek magazine tucked under his arm had flagged him.

Lauren cradled her black satchel on her lap and waited with the other passengers while the male flight attendant rotated the front door outward until it rested against the fuselage. A blast of hot humid air blew into the cabin like a sauna with a smell of jet fuel.  

 Passengers plunked down the metal stairway, scrambled across the tarmac, and elbowed into the terminal like herded sheep. The hot and stuffy terminal and baggage area, smelled like a locker room. My god, how do these people breathe in here? She fanned herself with her stiff sheet of Russian Phrases and breathed through her mouth.

Ear-splitting announcements sounded from speakers overhead. Baggage handlers in stained blue overalls and sweat streaming down their reddened faces tossed suitcases and boxes into a pile against the wall. A mob of friends and family with bouquets in their arms merged to greet arriving passengers. A young girl with long braids pushed through the crowd squeezing flowers to her chest and stopped in front of a woman standing with a cane. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed the woman's wrinkled cheek.

 Meeting Katya should be simple. How would she find her in a terminal crammed with people pushing and shoving in different directions? Katya had sounded like a middle-aged woman, like half the women in the building. A wave of stupidity, then panic washed over her. How did she forget to choose a specific meeting place? She could get trampled and disappear forever. Drips of sweat trickled down the back of her neck and between her shoulder blades.

She had sent Katya, via Federal Express, copies of all the documents needed to hasten the adoption, so she has a copy of her passport with a photo. But, after hours of travel, and very little sleep, who resembles their passport photo? She hoped Katya would recognize her. She shouldn’t have tried to hide her American-ness.

 She stood with the other passengers and waited for her suitcases and stroller. In a few days, or as long as it took for Melia to feel comfortable with her, she would carry her out of the orphanage and then introduce her to a stroller. An umbrella stroller with red and white stripes like a candy cane.

The American man, without his magazine, must have ditched it. His celebrity smile drew stares. He pushed a luggage cart toward Lauren, turned the cart around, so the handle faced her and whispered close to her face, “Here, you'll need this, and they’re hard to find.” The scent of his after shave, Baron.

She whispered back. “Thank you.” He must have spotted her in the Moscow airport checking her bags. How did she miss him? She must have been attaching her seat belt when he boarded. He tapped his manicured hand on the cart, “Stay close to the others.” He turned and sauntered toward a black leather bag in the stack of luggage, hefted it, and bumped shoulders as he disappeared into the crowd.

She took his advice and stood close to two Russian women. The older woman wore a babushka over her hair. They stood with arms locked together and spoke with their faces close. With her thick hand, the mother smoothed her daughter’s hair. Lauren compared the length of her own skirt and the height of her heels with the younger woman. She matched. But nothing would conceal her American walk, direct eye contact, polite smile, or American English. So, she stood still, watched the shoes walk by, didn't say a word, and pressed the satchel with her arm.

 People meeting passengers crowded all around her. The noise level was insane. Where in the hell was Katya? Lauren lifted her suitcases onto the wooden cart and arranged them lying flat, handles inward. Harder to grab them. Again, she scanned the baggage claim area for a woman shoving her way through the crowd toward her. No one. No Katya anywhere. She pulled the necklace out and rubbed it between her thumb and fingers. Safety, please.

 When Lauren was a child, her mother told her, “If you get lost, stand still. I’ll find you.” She stood as still as she could, even with the crowd pushing around her like a roller derby. It seemed like an hour, but her trusty watch showed only fifteen minutes.

Lauren searched the crowd again for a middle-aged Russian woman who dressed like a university professor, spoke English, with an all-business expression. She spotted several, but she scowled when Lauren made eye contact. Maybe Katya waited outside. She weaved through the crowd toward the exit. She peered through the glass doors and grabbed the metal handle.

A shrill voice echoed. “Halt!”

 Lauren yanked back her hand and froze. What happen? Set off an alarm?

A teenage girl touched Lauren's arm. “Do not go outside. Danger.”

Danger? Lauren took a step back and gripped the cart.

The girl's long blonde hair cascaded in loose curls down her shoulders whispered, “You are American, yes?”

 Was she that obvious?

“Please follow.” She motioned with her hand and carried a canvas bag over her shoulder stuffed with books and notebooks as she turned toward a group of well-groomed teens, in stylish clothing, standing near a pay phone. Was this a setup? She leaned close to Lauren. Her eyes were the color of an autumn blue sky. “Do you wait for Professor Babeshko?”

Who was this girl? Why did she care? “Yes. She will be here soon.” Lauren scanned the crowd behind the kids. No Katya.

“We will wait with you. You are not safe alone.” They gathered around Lauren. What

did they want? Lauren had traveled most of her life to major cities and remote regions around the globe, she’d never felt so vulnerable as she did at that moment, standing in a Russian airport, in front of a group of Russian teenagers who offered to protect her. Did they want money?

A few minutes later, behind Lauren, a female voice hollered over the crowd. “Lauren. It is me, Katya.”

 A middle-aged woman smiled and waved her arm over her head. Lauren felt the same relief she had as a child when her mom found her standing still and called her name. She’d run into her mom’s open arms and cried on her shoulder.

But the adult Lauren greeted Katya. “Hello, Katya. I am pleased to meet you.” Warm brown eyes met Lauren's. They shook hands. Katya's face transformed into a gentle smile, crinkling her eyes, and revealing dimples. A Sandra Bullock look-alike.  She wore a coral sun dress, the color of peach sherbet, and heels.

 “I am pleased to meet you, too.” Katya glanced at the teens surrounding Lauren. “I see my students have provided security for you.” She nodded at the group. “You have practiced English, yes?”

 Katya's smile faded when she checked her watch. “I apologize for my tardiness. My husband stopped the car for petrol.” She rolled her eyes. “You must be tired. I will take you to the Hotel Touristo. But first, we must go to the government building, The Ministry of Children. You know this, yes?" She peered over her glasses. "You will receive final documents.”

Katya hugged each student. "Thank you. Please continue your studies."

The girl with long blonde curls smiled at Lauren. “I wish you success here, in Krasnodar.”

“Thank you.” Did they know she had traveled to adopt an orphan? Would their reaction have been the same? "Thank you for staying with me."

Katya looped her arm through Lauren's, and they walked toward the glass doors, each with a suitcase in hand. Lauren carried the stroller under her arm next to the satchel.