Airplane

June - 2009

I arrived in Moldova on June 12th after an exhausting flight that took us through Istanbul to the capital of Chisinau. We had our pre-flight staging Philadelphia, where I would meet the 60 or so prospective volunteers who had come in from all over the country. On the day of our departure, we got up early after a night out on the town, and piled into a plane headed for Istanbul. I sat with Isaac and Cailin, two other volunteers who I would get to know well later. As we waited for takeoff, we talked excitedly about going to Moldova, of our lives back in the states, and whether or not the wine served on the plane was really free. We were comfortable, and preparing for the trip of our lives.

I forget which airline we took, which is unfortunate. Unfortunate because the free alcohol was a huge plus and, as a result, I can only describe my flight experience as being very, very drunk. This is a common result, I’ve discovered, when you mix (some) Peace Corps Volunteers and free booze.

Now, airlines are supposed to limit how much alcohol they give their passengers, for obvious reasons. I’ve always considered the idea to be logical. Any number of unsightly things may result from serving too much alcohol on a plane. However, for reasons undiscovered, we found our hostesses to be unusually liberal with these limits. Pleased by our good fortune, we took full advantage. Isaac and I took turns fetching armfuls of mini-bottles from cabinets in the back of the plane, distributing to those in need. I like to think that the hostesses couldn’t resist our charm, powerless to say no to these young, charismatic volunteers. More likely, especially considering my patchy memory of the time, it was pity that permitted us to get bombed over the course of our ten hour flight.

“Where was it they said they were going? Moldova?? No, for god’s sake don’t stop serving them. I don’t think you can spend two hours sober in that country, let alone two years!”

Luckily for the other passengers, volunteers are a mostly harmless group of folk, if not particularly quiet. Suffice to say, I didn’t sleep much during the flight.

If my flight to Istanbul could be summed up as “drunk,” then our ensuing layover in the Istanbul’s airport could be described as “miserable.” My stomach was hosting the Kentucky Derby. My head the Beijing Olympics. Suddenly everyone was my enemy. Diabolical airport authorities had specifically designed chairs for unsleepabilty. Those hostesses knew about this place, knew what they were doing to us. They could have at least warned us that Istanbul’s airport is the worst place on earth for hangover recovery. I couldn’t even muster a smile as wide-eyed asian tourists took pictures of us. A sight we were, I’m sure. 60 miserable looking Americans muttering angrily at the floor.

As time went on, I began to feel a little better. Nonetheless, while sleep may have come for some, it didn’t for me. We had 5 hours for another round of ‘let’s get to know each other.’ And, as sleepy and miserable as we felt, between the card games and the guitars, we did. We had only known each other for 3 days, but there was a sense of something in our conversations, a mutual apprehensiveness I guess, but also of understanding. Understanding that this was a trip unlike that which most of us had taken before, and it was sure nice to know that we weren’t doing it alone.