Holdovers and Leftovers

Hotel Dostuk is an obvious holdover from a bygone Soviet era if ever there was one.  It's a giant monolithic wall of stone which happens to have rooms in it.  It's also a shell–formidable on the outside, with presumably little going on within.  My first impression of it gave credence to my presumption, as the front doors were in complete disrepair, the lobby was filled with scaffolding, and the elevators were about the size of a bathroom stall (not the handicapped variety).  I half expected to have to use a crank to operate the elevator, but once I reached the 9th floor, I stepped out to discover a very nicely kept hallway, and an equally pleasant room.  Not as much of a shell as I thought.  And the view from my top floor balcony isn't half bad.

My first visit to the FEBC station in Bishkek proved to be a nearly identical experience.  Rudi and Janysh led me into an ancient building, with plenty of character (but the lifeless, Communist type of character), through a maze of cold and dark concrete hallways, and up an elevator even smaller and more dilapidated than that of my hotel.  Janysh rang the buzzer of the 5th floor office, and we were ushered into a pristinely modern, and very well decorated office with a waiting area, a conference room, a shower and bathroom, and of course, a broadcast studio.  The station here in Bishkek is called 'Radio OK', but the English transliteration of the Russian spelling reads 'Paguo OK', and I believe I shall refer to it by that name.  After a quick tour of the office, we took the elevator up to the roof and climbed out four floors higher into a network of dishes, towers, and wires.  The roof of the Paguo OK building provides an absolutely exquisite 360º view of Bishkek and the mountains to the south.  I bored Rudi and Janysh to tears climbing around the roof taking pictures before they dragged me back downstairs.

Rudi's wife Anni had tea and little pastries waiting for us when we sat down in the conference room to chat about our plans for the next few days.  I immediately spotted one of my favorite delights; cigarette-shaped wafer cookies with hazelnut or chocolate filling (I refer to them as Pirouettes, because that's the brand name I know them by, but I don't think that's the actual name for the wafers).  I eat them by the canister at home.  Naturally, I mimed smoking it like a cigarette for a moment before attacking it like a whale attacks plankton.  Naturally I didn't expect it to contain peanuts, because back home, it wouldn't.  Naturally, when I discovered moments later that it had indeed contained peanuts, I stopped breathing like a normal person and instead spent some quality time over the sink.  Some time later, after I had recovered enough to think about leaving the sink, Rudi and Janysh took me back to the hotel where I could recover some more–ideally from the long plane flights, but really, just from the peanuts.

The following morning, I went down to breakfast at the hotel.  I knew it was in an adjacent building on the ground floor, but when I stepped into the building where I expected to find some sort of familiar-but-strange-in-a-foreign-sort-of-way, I instead found myself in an empty foyer.  I was in a large deserted entryway with several doors which looked to be concealing rooms that were bound to be even larger and more deserted.  I stood there for a moment, pondering the prudence of marching headlong into some cold, foreboding, former-Soviet room where I would surely find myself interrupting a KGB interrogation and wind up in an even colder and considerably more foreboding prison.  Normally I'd have walked right in, a slave to my sense of adventure, but I wasn't looking for adventure at the moment, I was looking for breakfast.  And I wasn't about to face prison without breakfast first.  One set of double doors was straight ahead, and more prominent than any other feature of the entryway, because in large embossed text above were hung the words "Arizona Room".  Perhaps you can imagine my confusion.  I wouldn't expect anything in a former Soviet state to be remotely American, unless devoted to anti-capitalist propaganda, and I could be wrong, but I'm fairly certain that 'arizona' does not translate to 'cafeteria' in Russian.  After I waded through the initial flood of incoherent thoughts, I found myself wondering if behind these doors I might find some sort of memorial for the USS Arizona sunk at Pearl Harbor, or more offensively, a celebration of it's sinking.  But that would have been before the Cold War, during a time when the USA and USSR weren't at odds, so I put that out of my mind.  Next, I wondered if the Arizona Room might be some sort of Russian Area 51 (thinking that Arizona in general is adjacent to New Mexico, where the actual Area 51 lies).  After all, Russia is by far the largest country on the planet, and it was even larger before the USSR dissolved, so the odds are good that when the aliens landed, they landed here, and not in the USA, despite what every science fiction movie ever has had to say about it.  Finally, I decided to stop wondering what mysteries might lie in the Arizona Room, and I entered the Arizona Room.

Inside the Arizona Room, I found the familiar-but-strange-in-a-foreign-sort-of-way cafeteria I was expecting.  It was a dining room with several tables, nicely furnished, all centered around one larger table with plates of food from which to select a meal.  I bypassed the cucumbers in some sort of cream sauce, the mixed mystery vegetable platter, the unidentified cheese sitting in a puddle of unidentified cheese juice, and the beets in some sort of beet sauce, instead grabbing a dinner roll even though it wasn't dinner, and a few pieces of salami even though I am not a 4th grader opening his lunchbox.  I didn't eat much, partly because I was expecting to get some more food when Rudi came to pick me up, but mostly because I just didn't trust what was available.  Continental breakfasts are always suspect when you're on another continent.  I wouldn't guess that the hotel is booked up, so I would guess that they'll have plenty of leftovers, even if they can find people who are interested in eating the food I didn't try.  I ate quickly and headed back up to my room because I was expecting to be picked up soon.  After some time had passed, I got a call from Rudi saying they'd be a little later because Anni wasn't feeling well, and I should find more breakfast on my own.  By this time, the continental breakfast which I was no longer interested in was no longer being served, so I walked down the block to the supermarket.

It's amazing how trusting we are of food.  Outside the USA, I won't buy something if I don't' know what's in it.  I'll eat cooked food from a restaurant, but at the supermarket, I'm wary of everything (even though it's likely that the preservatives and processed chemicals in American food are far worse than the stuff that goes into food elsewhere).  Here, the problem is compounded by the fact that the lettering is all Cyrillic, and I can't even sound it out, let alone read it.  I almost bought some Muesli, but I wanted it with milk, and I couldn't tell whether the many containers of white liquid I was looking at contained yogurt or horse milk or goat milk or any other substance.  I would have no trouble sampling any of these things, but I'm not about to spend money on an entire container before I know whether or not I'll actually consume it.  I walked around the supermarket for 10 minutes before I came to the realization that no matter how long I stayed there, I wouldn't buy anything.  I headed back up to the room with nothing to hold me over til lunch.  God bless dinner rolls and salami.

History, Myth, and Monuments

My first impressions of Bishkek turned out to be significantly skewed from reality.  Bishkek is a city of about 800,000 people, and twice that many if you include the surrounding areas of the Chuy region.  But after we left the airport around 5:30, I don't think we encountered more than a dozen; one person serving traditional snacks from a roadside food stand, and eleven sweeping the streets with enormous straw brooms wearing orange safety vests.  Somewhere, eleven witches are deprived of transportation.  We picked up some breakfast, and then Rudi and Janysh took me on a walking tour around the deserted city, because I wouldn't be allowed to check in at my hotel for several more hours.  I felt very much like a paleontologist exploring a treasure trove of relics and ruins left by an extinct society.  Like many European and Central Asian cities, Bishkek doesn't really start bustling until 8:00.  But once it starts bustling, the bustling is irrepressible.  In a matter of a few short hours, I wouldn't be able to turn my camera in any direction without finding someone staring back at me.

The city sits at 2600 feet on the edge of the vast high plains of Central Asia, which occupy most of Kazakhstan to the north, as well as Russia, Mongolia, and parts of China.  Providing a backdrop to the south are the Ala-Too mountains.  The Ala-Too are part of the Tian Shan range which extends east along the Kazakhstan border into China, and Southwest toward Tajikistan to connect with another set of mountains you might have heard of–the Himalayas.  These mountains are kind of like the foothills of the Himalayas, but since the Himalayas are so mind-bogglingly, mythically enormous, even the Himalayan foothills are impressive.  The highest peak in the Tian Shan range, Jengish Chokusu, is about 24,400 feet, located considerably further East on the Kyrgyzstan-China border.  It's the northernmost 7,000+ m (approx. 23,000 ft.) peak in the world.  By comparison, Mount Aconcagua (22,838ft.) in Argentina and Mount McKinley (20,322ft.) in Alaska are the tallest peaks in South and North America, respectively.  Nowhere else in the world are mountains this monumental.  And these are just the runts of the broad Himalayan litter.  There is an expression in Kyrgyzstan; "When God created the world and divided the land among all peoples, there was none left for the Kyrgyz people, so He gave them some of the land He was keeping for Himself."  I might agree.

The main square in the city also bears the name Ala-Too but there is another name here that is more ubiquitous.  Manas, for whom the airport is named, is a folk hero considered to be the ethnic patriarch of the Kyrgyz people.  He has also managed to get his name on several streets, squares, monuments, government buildings, and breakfast cereals (unconfirmed).  The story of Manas is derived from a 500,000 line epic poem (arguably the longest epic poem in existence), which was passed down orally in typical epic poem fashion, just like Homer's Iliad and Odyssey, before it was transcribed in the 1700s.  It's called, unsurprisingly, The Epic of Manas.  The Epic of Manas tells the story of a young warrior from a nomadic tribe who rose to avenge his people against the brutality of rival tribes and establish his people in the region.  The epic continues to include the feats of his son and grandson.  Strikingly similar to Genghis Khan.  The actual historical figure of Manas isn't officially documented, but he probably lived during the latter portions of the Mongol empire.  Some have tried to manufacture support for the idea that Manas was actually Joseph's son Manasseh from the Bible, and his tribe originally was one of the twelve tribes of Israel.  The most prominent monument to Manas sits in Ala-Too square.  It was left by the Soviets in typical Soviet fashion, probably designed to make the Kyrgyz people feel like they're important while at the same time assimilating them subliminally into the Soviet system.  Janysh looks upon it with a mixture of pride and disdain, remarking "All wrong. See the face? Too Russian. Too short the legs. Should be more Kyrgyz."  Sure enough, this depiction of Manas looks more like Stalin sitting on a horse wearing really old armor.

Technically, the Kyrgyz people are their own ethnological group, and not really a mixture of races, ethnic descendants of any other nationality, or immigrants from any other area.  Culturally, however, this area and these people represent a collision of cultural influences unlike any other.  Long ago, they were nomadic and closely related to the Mongols, because thanks to Genghis Khan conquering everything everywhere, everyone in Asia is somehow related to the Mongols.  Kyrgyzstan's modern influences are equally as fascinating.  I cannot think of three cultures more different than those of Russia, China, and the Middle East, yet in Bishkek, I see strong connections to each.  Speaking in incredibly broad generalizations, these people are culturally Russian and Asian, racially Asian and Middle Eastern, and spiritually Middle Eastern and Russian.

When the Soviet Union dissolved, there was a great movement of Russians out of Kyrgyzstan and the country was mostly left to its native people.  According to Rudi, Bishkek is about sixty-percent Kyrgyz, twenty-percent Uzbek, and ten-percent Russian.  The Kyrgyz and Uzbek peoples look very much alike to my unfamiliar eyes, and so almost everyone appears to me to have a mixture of Chinese and Persian descent, aside from the easily-distinguishable Russian ten-percent.  Yet the memory of Soviet Russia still lingers.  The grid infrastructure of the city, its many impersonal and monolithic buildings, its paradoxically spiritless vitality, and even its innumerable monuments clearly hearken back to the days of the Communist regime.  Furthermore, from a developmental standpoint, it's not unlike Mexico or Kenya where I've spent significant time.  The city is built up and although it's not comparable to an American or European city, it offers a moderately high standard of living. The rural areas immediately surrounding are quite poor.  Most people here live on a dirt road, either in a one-room house with their family, or in a large, poorly-kept apartment high-rise.  The public city mini-busses, called marshrutkas, are remarkably similar to the African matatus, the traffic is chaotic and lawless as it is in Nairobi, and they serve a national pastry here that almost exactly resembles Kenyan mendazi.  The countryside, both in natural appearance and sociological development, resembles a slightly greener Mexico or a slightly dryer Kenya.  It's fascinating to me that we still often think of countries in terms of first, second, and third-world; terms which derive their context from a nations affiliation with either Capitalism, Communism, or neither during a Cold War which never really amounted to anything and has been over for decades.  Technically, this would be a second-world country, because it was part of the USSR during the cold war, but most Western visitors would have a decidedly third-world opinion of the country, despite it's mildly European atmosphere, and despite the fact that thinking of the world in the terms of 'worlds' really doesn't apply any more.  But for the sake of simplicity, I'll say that Bishkek shares many traits common to third-world countries.

Spiritually, Bishkek is more closely related to the Middle East, but that connection isn't incredibly strong.  Whereas in the Middle East, Islam has an almost unsupplantable foothold, in Kyrgyzstan, the Muslim majority is quite nominal.  Overtones of Russian Orthodoxy still remain, including a general acceptance of the idea of Christianity, although most of the devout Orthodox believers left with the Russian migration.  Yet because of the lingering Soviet outlook, people here generally value reason and education above religion and practice, meaning that they may not cling so tightly to their nominal Muslim faith.  This makes radio an excellent vehicle for reaching them, as radio meets people on an intellectual level.  Russian is still the language of conversation, because when the Soviets left, their indelible stamp remains, but the younger generations especially are beginning to return to their ethnic Kyrgyz roots, and so having a radio broadcast in Kyrgyz is crucial for the nation's youth, who represent the first generation of Christians in Kyrgyzstan.

Winged Horses

In the morning, Erin and I walked to the supermarket to grab some food for an authentic German breakfast back at her apartment.  Muesli, salami, cheese, and assorted breakfast pastries that you fish out of the coolest pastry dispenser ever, not unlike one of those arcade games in which you use a claw to try and pick up a purple stuffed gorilla.  Then she guided me with mythical swiftness and grace through the network of trains and busses to Schoenefeld International Airport.  Erin graciously stayed with me all the way through the preliminary security check to the Pegasus Airlines ticket counter, just in case her German could be of use.  I checked my bag, hugged Erin goodbye for now, and headed through the second and more official security check.  Arriving at my gate, I discovered the waiting room for the gate behind a third security check where they check your passport and boarding pass from behind plexiglass before allowing you to enter the actual holding area for your flight.  Yet despite the three levels of security, Schoenefeld is a fairly small airport.  It's the awesome kind of small airport in which you walk right out across the tarmac and up the portable stairs to get on the plane.  Each Pegaus Airlines plane has its trademark winged horse painted on the upturned tip of each wing, and as the plane lifted off the runway, it was strangely comforting to look out the window and see my little friend Pegasus flying along.

At Sabiha Gökcen International airport in Istanbul, I stepped off the plane onto the tarmac, just as at Schoenefeld, but this time, they had metro-style busses waiting to take passengers to the gate.  My impression (which could easily be incorrect) is that Sabiha Göcken is like the Burbank Airport of Turkey–it's not the biggest airport around, or the most convenient, but by golly, it has airplanes.  So operating based upon that potentially false presumption, I expected stepping into the airport to be more-or-less like stepping into an Ottoman bazaar where people are milling about everywhere and bartering for goods and all of the rugs and incense and hookah are duty free.  Instead, what I found inside the doors was a place with all the pandemonium of a turkish marketplace but without any of the old-world charm I was hoping for.  Worst of both worlds.  It was actually very clean and modern (both in design and tidiness), and I appreciated that, but there were still crowds everywhere, and no one seemed to have an understanding–much less, an appreciation–for the concept of a line.  With chaos all around, and all nationalities of confused people, I simply headed straight where I needed to go every step of the way, and spoke maybe a total of 10 words to anyone (speaking English probably wouldn't have profited me much, but the point is that I didn't have to try).  I reached my next gate without incident through a security check, the crowded and confusingly signage-rich shopping area, and up and down levels 5 different times.  If I hadn't stuck out like a sore Caucasian thumb, I'd have seemed to belong there.  It was as if I was riding through the airport aboard an actual pegasus.  I navigated that place like Ferdinand Magellan, if Ferdinand Magellan had a map of the airport, a turn-by-turn guide, spoke perfect Turkish, and had been born and raised inside the airport.  If you think I'm letting this go to my head, don't worry – I haven't forgotten that I already missed a flight in my own confounded country.  When I got to my gate, I grabbed a bite to eat, went to the bathroom, and then didn't leave for the next 2 hours.

Four hours and a very uneventful, sleep-filled flight later, Pegasus Airlines flight 8040 landed at Manas International Airport in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan right on time at 4:20 in the morning, which is a time that shouldn't ever be referred to as 'on time'.  Manas International doubles as a US military base because it's a short hop to Afghanistan from a country that doesn't require US citizens to obtain a visa.  This was very apparent when we arrived, because there were dozens of planes already on the ground, and every single one of them was painted gray-green and bore the label 'United States Air Force'.  There were no planes of any other variety, and I'm not sure whether that was due to the fact that it was 4:20 in the morning, or to the fact that it's an airport in Kyrgyzstan.  After making it through the short customs line and grabbing my bag from the carousel, I emerged into the cool morning air of Kyrgyzstan and was greeted by… a throng of taxi drivers.  Cheerful vultures masquerading as winged horses waiting to ferry you 'magically' to your destination.  The trouble was, I didn't really know my destination.  Rudi had emailed me the address, but I had just kept it in a file on my computer in the event that he wouldn't be able to pick me up.  And I had told him that I'd be happy to wait at the airport so he wouldn't have to come so early in the morning.  He had assured me that he would come to pick me up, but when I didn't see him, I was glad to think that perhaps he took me up on my offer to come later.  So I waited on the curb for an hour with at least one of the vultures (usually three) perched on my shoulder the whole time, waiting for a fare.  Eventually I pulled out my computer to look for the address, and discovered with a rush of surprise and delight that the little Manas International Airport in the oft-forgotten country of Kyrgyzstan not only has internet, but has free wi-fi.  So in addition to looking up the address, I also sent Rudi an email saying basically "I'm here, but please take your time."  No sooner had I closed the computer than I found Rudi walking up to me with a big smile on his face.  He was accompanied by Janysh, the FEBC station manager in Bishkek.  Apparently they had been waiting for me almost as long as I had been there, and we must have simply missed each other when I came out and was swarmed by the cab drivers.  With a hug and some lively conversation, we piled into the car, and Janysh drove us into town with the mythical swiftness and grace of a pegasus.

22,000 Miles in One Minute

Old Friends and Peace of Mind

Since I've been drawing comfort from probabilities, and it hasn't worked out for me yet, the odds are good that if I continue to draw comfort from probabilities, it's bound to actually prove comforting.  I figured that since the worst has already happened, the odds aren't good of it happening again.  I knew there was a possibility of missing my connecting flight in Munich, because our flight from Chicago was delayed by some colossal imbecile whose bags were loaded onto the plane but didn't show up.  What's more, I only had 30 minutes to begin with to make the change from plane to plane.  But this time, I really wasn't worried about it.  The odds were in my favor, and even if history repeated itself, it couldn't be as harrowing as it was yesterday. When we landed in Munich, I checked the departures board and found my next flight, changed to a new gate that required me to exit downstairs through customs and go upstairs through security again.  So much for changing planes in 10 minutes.  At least I was only an hour's flight from Berlin now, and there was almost no chance of missing my flight from Berlin to Bishkek via Istanbul tomorrow afternoon.  I had booked my travels in two separate round trip tickets: one round trip to and from Berlin, and another round trip from Berlin to Bishkek to Moscow and back.  I left a day in between just in case something like this were to happen, and it's a good thing I booked the way I did because it afforded me the freedom to be a total idiot.

So I missed my connection by a mile, but this time it wasn't my fault, and Lufthansa was more than helpful with rebooking me on a flight leaving an hour and a half later.  Apparently German airline employees are much happier when in their own country.  Even though I didn't feel responsible for the delay and subsequent missing of yet another flight, I still wasn't about to approach the next hour and a half with my typical cavalier outlook.  After I got my second new ticket, I went straight to the gate, and did not leave there until boarding, even though I was famished from having slept through breakfast on the flight from Chicago to Munich.  I did take a quick moment to use the restroom and have a face-to-face meeting with my old friend, deodorant.  So maybe it was more like a product-to-armpit meeting, but nevertheless, I still felt like I had been transported to a more mannerly time that smelt of vanilla and musk (honestly, I don't even know if those are ingredients of this deodorant…).  The flight from Munich to Berlin was quite short, and I managed to doze through much of it, so before I knew it, I was on the ground again.

The Berlin Tegel Airport–or at least my very limited experience of it–is the most common-sense travel arrangement I have ever encountered.  I walked up the gangway from the plane to find the baggage carousel right there in front of me.  I was surrounded by glass on all sides.  Behind me, I could see the plane, and the baggage being offloaded.  On either side, there were other gates with baggage carousels of their own, and presumably all of the same logistical arrangements as mine.  And in front of me was a short exit with a customs window in case I had anything to declare.  Beyond that, the outside world.  No long hallways to traverse.  No complicated mazes of velvet ropes.  Just the street, a bunch of busses and taxis, and the city of Berlin.

And Erin.  As I was waiting at the gate, I was delighted to see Miss Erin Underwood waiting just outside on the other side of the glass doors.  She has been in Berlin since last October, engaged in an 11-month ministry connecting with people and working on business-as-mission projects to help reach a very secular culture for Christ.  After the travel I'd had, a familiar face was just what the doctor ordered.  I motioned to Erin that I'd be just a minute, and headed around the baggage carousel to the other side of the glass room in order to peer out at the plane and watch for my bag.  There was no small amount of consternation in hoping to see it emerge from the plane, considering that it had been through a day about as bad as mine.  It was loaded in LAX, loaded in Chicago, offloaded when I missed my flight and loaded again on the next one, loaded in Munich, offloaded once more when I missed another flight, and finally loaded aboard my correct flight to Berlin.  It contains several items of expensive equipment for FEBC, let alone most of my stuff.  And I had not seen it with my own two eyes since Los Angeles.  When I saw it gliding down the baggage chute from the plane, tossed aboard the baggage cart, driven over to the escalator taking bags up to the gate, and eventually emerging onto the baggage carousel, it was like greeting another old friend.

I wasn't originally planning on seeing Erin today, since I have another flight leaving tomorrow and I'm essentially viewing this as just a long layover.  But for so many reasons, I'm glad it worked out.  Since she's been here for so long, she is quite familiar with the metro system and I didn't have to worry about navigating my way to an entirely different airport tomorrow afternoon.  She was able to offer me her couch, so I had a rent-free place to spend the night.  I was in dire need of some familiarity and friendship after a long day on my own full of mishap after mishap.  And of course, it was just splendid to see her again after 9 months.  She gave me a big hug as I exited the gate, and we chatted all the way back to her apartment aboard the bus and the subway.  Then, when we arrived, she fed me, and proved to be invaluable in checking in for tomorrow's flight.  I had tried to call Pegasus Airlines from California, but couldn't get through, and they don't offer online check in.  Since I booked with a foreign booking agency website, I had no way of really knowing if the airlines themselves had my flights confirmed.  We found the German number, which Erin was able to call using her German phone, and then she basically did all of the work confirming my flight for me using her German skills.  Safe in a friend's apartment with flights confirmed and tomorrow planned out, I was able to settle down for a nap while Erin ran off to a meeting.  When she returned, we went out for Kebabs (she lives in a heavily Turkish district), walked around her neighborhood a bit, talked about missions, and returned to settle down for a nice long sleep.  A nice long sleep in a horizontal position.  With the peace of mind that comes from knowing my flights are confirmed, the couch I'm sitting on belongs to a friend, and the Lord is in control.

Paranoia

May I offer this simple proposition in my defense: IT'S NOT PARANOIA IF IT REALLY COMES TRUE.  Turns out I didn't have to wait long for those aforementioned ills to take shape.  Not long after I finished my previous post, counting the ways I was comforted by odds that the little tragedies I was witnessing weren't likely to befall me… tragedy befell me.  Around 3:30, I began to feel suspicious that my flight had not been announced, my name had not been called, and the gate at which I was waiting was serving another flight.  I had already checked with the counter three times to make sure I was in the right place.  The first time, the United personnel told me that I'd have to wait for the Lufthansa personnel to take over.  The second time, a Lufthansa attendant informed me that it was probable that my flight would come to this gate because no other flights were lined up to take it's place.  And the third time, I was informed that yes, my flight would be boarding from this gate.  Even though it was only 3:30, it felt later.  It didn't feel like my full 4.5 hour layover had transpired, but it did feel like I'd been here longer than 2.5 hours.  Yet the clock on my computer–which I had been watching like a hawk with a video camera–read 3:30.

Then I discovered that the clock on my computer was incorrect.

The time was, in fact 5:30.  I had sworn that my clock was set to update according to the time of my current city, but apparently it was not.  That explains how the 4.5 hours which felt like 3.5 hours that I thought had only been 2.5 hours, had passed.  I asked another Lufthansa attendant where the Dusseldorf flight was, and if it was delayed, and he pointed me to the next gate over, adding "They have been calling you for quite some time."  I heard nothing.  I rushed to my seat in a panic and grabbed all of my gear, scampering to the counter and begging to be let aboard.  The plane was still right there (departure time was scheduled for 5:35, so I figured that with 5 minutes to spare, they ought to still let me on), and the gangway was still resting neatly against the fuselage.  I begged and begged.  "It's right there!"  But I was told by at least 3 different attendants in the most condescending German-accented tone they could individually muster "I'm sorry, but we have called you and called you and you did not come."  I was then informed that my bag had already been offloaded.  Even though the plane was right there, and I was certain that despite the load I was carrying, I'd be able to dodge the 5 flight attendants and the labyrinth of velvet ropes to dart down the gangway and onto the plane, it would be to no avail.  So I was ushered to the Lufthansa ticketing counter to a stereo soundtrack of "We paged you 20 times, Mr. Payne."  And as I was walking away, I enjoyed the eerie experience of watching my own plane taxi and take off.  I often wonder if I'm in a movie.

Thus the shortest 4.5 hours ever became the longest 8.5 hours ever.  At the Lufthansa ticket counter, I waited.  And waited.  Apparently their system has recently undergone a planned retrogression back to the 1970s, and all information must be input manually, every time, without the ability to save a search while looking at other options.  I don't really know, but it took a crazy long time.  My first sojourn to their kiosk was somewhat expedient, as the lady operating the computer seemed to understand the new old system, but she wasn't very amenable, and presented me with an unwavering $2500 cost to book a new flight, without giving me much of an understanding break, and without being willing to check for other options.  I think there was some vindictiveness there because the offloading of my bag had caused the original flight to be delayed.  My fault, to be sure, but no need to be vengeful about it.  She recommended that I visit the United counter (since my ticket was booked through United but operated by Lufthansa).  At the United counter, they were much more willing to track down alternatives, but none of their available flights would get me there with time enough to spare.  So I trudged back over to Lufthansa with the sad Charlie Brown music playing in my head, prepared to fork over the dough.  Both to my delight and my chagrin, the original woman was no longer there.  This meant that I would have someone much more agreeable helping me, but it also meant that they had to start from scratch, and this young lady was seriously overmatched by their outdated software.  I called several other airlines at the suggestion of my very helpful and amazing and supportive girlfriend, who was back in California searching for flights for me, but none of them were able to help.  Finally, after another hour they got me ticketed on the original $2500 flight, except that it only cost me $1000.  Now I'm routed through Munich, instead of Dusseldorf.  By this time, it was nearly 8:00, and my flight was scheduled to leave at 8:50, and I was on standby, and I had to go through customs and security again.  I rushed off, paranoid about missing my new flight.

I arrived back at the gate… THE SAME GATE I HAD WAITED AT FOR 4.5 HOURS and showed them my standby ticket.  They told me they'd announce me.  The problem was that everything over the loudspeaker was nearly impossible to hear and absolutely unintelligible, even when you could hear it.  I listened like a hawk with a video camera to every name that was called, paranoid that I'd miss it, and even then I still rushed up to the counter 3 times to be told that whatever it was that she had announced was not, in fact, my name.  I felt vindicated that there was no way I'd have been able to hear them "paging me and paging me and paging me" from two gates away, when I could barely hear it from right there.

Finally, the unintelligible name they called was mine, and I strode up to the gate with my real ticket in hand.  The attendant scanned my boarding pass and the machine yielded a loud and ominous beep.  Clearly not a good sound.  The digital readout displayed the words 'boarding denied'.  More paranoia.  By this time, however, the initial shock had settled, and I was able to respond with something that resembled levity, "Ooh, now that's not a good sound."  This guy had no idea just how badly I didn't want to hear any sounds that were not good.  He chuckled and typed something and scanned my pass again.  "You've just been upgraded to business class."  "Ok then," I responded, "maybe not such a bad sound after all."  Silver linings.

Aboard the plane, in my luxurious business class seat that reclines almost flat and has its own power outlet and a troupe of stewardesses just clamoring to present me with as much wine and orange juice and hot towels and delicious meals they can possibly find, I waited for quite a while.  Eventually the captain announced over the PA system that we were delayed because a couple of passengers didn't show up and their bags had to be offloaded.  Irony is a cruel mistress.  At least I get to enjoy Irony's sister, Business Class.  As I waited, just thankful to be on a plane again, I opened up my Bible without much of a plan, and was led to Ephesians.  I read the whole book, and honestly, nothing could have been more encouraging and uplifting.  Go read it, and as you read, imagine how it would sound to someone who had just been through an incredibly stressful and paranoia-filled few hours of wondering "Why?" and "Am I even supposed to be here?"  I was filled with a sense of grace.  Perhaps more will come of this ordeal (most of which I brought on myself), and I will discover other reasons the Lord may have had for allowing this, but even if it was only for the sake of leading me to a place of brokenness and filling me with a sense of my need to rely on him, it was all worth it.  I knew I had not had the time to prepare my heart as I wanted to, and showing up $1000 too late to my flight forced preparedness–or at least willingness to be led–upon me.  Now I have a new paranoia.  A good paranoia.  A state of constant alertness to and expectation of the Lord's hand working and guiding.

Down The Rabbit Hole

There's nothing like a long layover to force you to come to grips with a journey that you're about to take.  For the past couple of weeks I have been on absolute overdrive trying to accomplish everything that needed to be done before leaving.  In the midst of the work and the preparations, the reality of this trip never truly had a chance to sink in.  And now I'm sitting in Chicago O'Hare International Airport for 4 and a half hours with nothing to preoccupy myself from the onslaught of emotions that inevitably accompany a journey of this magnitude.  Furthermore, I'm piecing together a teaser video chronicling the details of my trip, and writing this blog post to you all.  Neither of these activities are advisable for someone trying not to think about the million and one things that could possibly go wrong over the next three weeks.

I do have one source of comfort, however.  Looking out the window of the terminal, across the expanse of tarmac, something is on fire.  I have no idea what it is, but it's rather large.  Most of me hopes it's not a plane full of people, but there is a terrible part of me that entertains that thought, because the odds of my plane bursting into flames are a lot lower if it's already happened today.  (Yes, statisticians, I know that it doesn't work quite like that, but even you have to admit that you'd feel safer standing next to someone in an electrical storm who has already been struck by lightning.)  So the poker player in me feels comfortable crossing 'plane bursts into flames' off of the list of possible mishaps.

The flight attendant working at the next gate over just got on the loud speaker and delivered the following address: "All passengers flying to Omaha; there will be a slight delay as maintenance crews are working on your aircraft.  Please stand back from the doors as they will be going in and out.  I don't know what the problem is, but I will provide frequent updates as I know more, and we'll get you in the air as soon as possible."  Excellent.  Now I can cross 'mystery airplane malfunction' off of the doomsday list.  More probability-derived comfort.  I'm feeling better already.

To give you a sense of the logistical labyrinth I'm about to embark upon, which has been giving me these fits of mild paranoia, here's a rundown of my next three weeks.  This morning, I left LAX for Berlin with layovers in Chicago and Dusseldorf.  I arrive tomorrow morning at 11:45 Berlin time, at the Tegel International Airport.  I have a day in Berlin and then leave on July 11th from a different airport, the Schoenefeld International Airport by way of the Sabiha Gocken Airport in Istanbul to arrive at Manas International Airport in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan a day later on the 12th, at 4:20am.  Between the 12th and the 22nd, I'll be working alongside Rudi Wiens with Far East Broadcasting Company, traveling between Bishkek and Almaty, Kazakhstan, documenting the two young radio stations FEBC has in Central Asia.  On the 22nd, I leave from Bishkek for Moscow, by way of Istanbul, but I'll be going through Ataturk International Airport in Istanbul, not the same airport in which my previous layover took place.  I land at Vnukovo International Airport in Moscow that same day, on the 22nd, and I'll stay at the FEBC station in Mosow, having an opportunity to see what a station looks like that has been up and running successfully for many years.  On the 24th, I hope to take the night train to St. Petersburg to spend one day there visiting the St. Petersburg FEBC station and seeing the city before returning on the night train the following evening.  Then I leave–once again from yet a different airport–on the 26th from the Sheremetyevo International Airport for Berlin.  I have a long layover in Riga, Latvia, and I hope to have a couple of hours to catch a shuttle and go see a bit of Latvia before returning to the airport.  I land at the Tegel International Airport in Berlin (the one where I will have landed on the 10th, but not the one I will have left from on the 11th), and I'll spend 3 full days in Berlin visiting a close friend who's been there doing ministry of her own for almost a year.  Finally, I leave from Tegel International by way of Frankfurt and Dulles International to return home, technically the same day, but since I'm flying West, the travel time actually totals more than 20 hours.  Perhaps now you can empathize with my psychosis.

Recently, I discovered that the O'Hare Airport was named after Butch O'Hare, who was the Navy's first flying ace.  I recommend you look up his story, because it's pretty awesome, but basically he single-handedly took out an entire squadron of enemy bombers headed for his aircraft carrier.  Also, O'Hare's father was a key lawyer on the case that put Al Capone away for tax evasion, and he was later gunned down by the mob.  (Honestly, it seems like everyone famous in the old days was related to someone else famous in the old days.)  Though I now know the true origin of the airport's name, I still can't help thinking of it as I did when I was younger; as being named for an Irish rabbit.  I imagine Mr. O'Hare was a dingy white jackrabbit from Killarney, whose neighbors Mr. O'Badger and Mr. O'Fieldmouse were always worried that he never kept well enough care of himself, and in the end, they were right.  So Mr. O'Hare's family moved their warren to Chicago with all of the other Irish rabbits when he passed and there was no longer any reason to remain in Killarney.  Years later, an airport was built upon their hovel, and now instead of rabbits multiplying like rabbits, it's people that multiply like rabbits.  People in Chicago honor Mr. O'Hare's memory by emerging seemingly from holes in the ground to collect all in one place.  Seriously, where do all these people come from?

So I sit, one rabbit among many, waiting to go fly deeper into my own burrow, and suffering from paranoid delusions of what ills may befall me, dare I continue.

Since I started writing, the fire across the tarmac was contained, and now has started up again.  Sweet.  Looks like I can cross 'plane bursts into flames TWICE' off of the list too.  (once hard)