I am a huge fan of ice hockey. During eighties and nineties, many of best players were Russians. In interviews, they almost always talked about learning English by watching television. If it worked for them, it would work for me. Not exactly.

As Grae showered, I flipped through eight available channels. Sitcoms were a non-starter, but I eventually found a news channel. I see images. I know what images are. I hear words being spoken by reporters. I have absolutely no idea of what words go with what images. Okay, let’s back up. What words do they use over and over? Damn, do they have to talk so fast? After 30 minutes, I have learned nothing, nada, zippo. My respect for Russians playing in NHL has never been higher.

Might as well sleep on it. Yes, day three of trip was finally done. My original prediction of a 2-day trip was out window. Still, we were in Russia, so how much longer could it take? Pull out a map and take a look at country. It is twice size of U.S.

Next – When Stairs Attack…

The airport terminal was pretty industrial. That is to say, no effort was made to sell you fast food, booze, ice cream, “Khabarovsk Hard Rock Café” shirts or duty-free crap you really didn’t need. Frankly, it was a relief.

Russian customs worked pretty much same way as customs at any airport. You grabbed your bags, bummed pens off of strangers to fill out forms and stood in long line with other tired travelers. Eventually, you got to front of line and tried to see how person standing eight feet in front of you did it.

Unfortunately, my turn was also my first chance to experience Russian language. I passed my passport, custom forms and visa through little window. I also tried an innocent smile, which worked about as well as smiling at an IRS agent. Everything went smoothly until customs agent started speaking rapidly and pointing at my customs form. Something was wrong, but I hadn’t a clue as to what. I turned to Grae with a quizzical look and he came forward to interpret.

All international travelers quickly learn a fundamental rule. The “wait here” line at customs is sacred. To prematurely cross line is to commit an act of war. Russian customs was no different. Grae was loudly instructed to get behind line and wait his turn. The customs agent then gave me a stern lecture. To this day, I can’t tell you if he was discussing my forms or weather, but tone was definitely stern. The lecture was capped by universal customs agent expression known as “stupid foreigner…why did I take this job…I really wanted to be a painter…”

Eventually, issue with form was resolved. I would like to tell you that I took an active role in this, but I basically stood there while agent grumbled and aggressively stamped documents. I did actively pray that stamp wouldn’t explode, but that was about it. Grae moved through customs without incident and we walked out into cool, wet air of Khabarovsk, Russia.

To be continued…