Me, Junior, and the Volcano

                There is an old Chinese curse that says, “May you have an interesting journey. “  While traveling, there is always the possibility that the dragon will win despite the fairy tale illusion of fighting it off with a mighty sword and a pocket full of magic beans.  The key to being a successful and thus happy traveler is the ability to make the best out of any situation, no matter how doomed it appears.  Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, and sometimes there’s a volcano.

                In April 2010, my colleague Junior and I departed for Chisinau, Moldova for a week long workshop.  Junior is a good traveler.  He likes to explore and check out the local culture… As do I.  The flight over was noneventful: Delta from Atlanta to Frankfurt, a seven hour layover, and then Air Moldova to Chisinau.  The only item on the Delta flight that stands out in my mind was that the old gentleman sitting next to me appeared to have died.  Three times.   Each time he quit breathing for about 45 seconds only to make a horrifying chortle and resuscitate himself.  Being the great humanitarian that I am, I quickly scanned the pages of both the Duty Free and the Sky Mall catalogues for a defibrillator.  No such luck.  The old man did arrive conscious and breathing in Frankfurt, and I had the bottle of Jameson Irish whiskey that I bought while perusing the duty free catalogue for the above mentioned medical apparatus.

Boulevard Stefan cel Mare

                In Chisinau, old Soviet reminders and traces of the 21st century coexist everywhere. From the hammer and sickle embossed into the iron gates and the sparking electric streetcars lumbering down the Boulevard Stefan cel Mare, to the Cosmic Bowling at the Sun City mall and the presence of a cell phone in most everyone’s ear.  The people dress much like they do in the rest of Eastern Europe.  Lots of black.  While the young women were very fashion conscious, wearing designer (or knock-off designer) jackets and high heel boots, others seemed to have walked straight out of the train station from "Doctor Zhivago".  That being said, most everyone I met or came in contact with was friendly and welcoming.  I know absolutely zero Romanian, and my Russian is crude at best, but with the help of universally accepted hand and arm signals, I was consistently able to order a beer and get a decent meal. 

Chisinau Street 

                Our big group dinner was held on what was supposed to be our last night there.  There was lots of food, music, and a local dance troupe, all at a local winery.  Notice I said “supposed to be… “  Little did we know that while we were drinking wine and eating some sort of cold fish loaf, deep below the surface of the earth a cauldron of hot lava had exploded through the Eyjafjallajokull Volcano in Iceland.  Yes, that is the real name of the volcano.  That’s probably about 873 points in Scrabble. 

Wine and cold fish loaf... Yum!

                When we arrived at the Chisinau airport at 5:30 the next morning for our flight out, my hangover wasn’t ready for the news: All flights have been canceled due to volcanic ash from an eruption in Iceland.  Did I really think anyone would believe that?  Did I believe that?  Does anyone have a Motrin?  It was one of those surreal travel moments where you foggily mutter “Why does my mouth taste like fish loaf?”  So it was back to the hotel and checked back in to the same room I had just checked out of;  a routine repeated two more times over the next week. 

                During those seven days, I felt like a cross between a castaway on Gilligan’s Island and a Desperado waiting for a train.  We filled the days helping the local team where we could, and walking the city.  Every once in a while, we would hear from our travel agency, or the Embassy, usually with some sort of goofy idea like, “OK… We can get you on a train to Bucharest, and from there you can maybe get to Athens…”  My first rule of traveling: When you’re stuck in a hole, quit digging. 

"If you don't like my driving, stay off the sidewalk!"

                A week later, we eventually got out.  With my sanity barely hanging on, we boarded a plane for Istanbul, then on to Tel Aviv, where we could finally get a connecting flight to the US.  In Tel Aviv we had a 23 hour layover, where Junior had the Mother of All Ideas: “Let’s get a hotel in town and see the city before we fly out.  What else are we going to do for 23 hours?”  It was after midnight when the woman at the tourist information desk suggested the Crown Plaza and we figured that it would be worth the money for just one night.  By the time we checked in, it was after 1 AM.  We cracked open the Jameson and sat on the balcony of the room.  Soon, the warm sea breeze brought the sunrise and there we were… overlooking the Mediterranean from the 7^th floor.  Wow.

Night view from the balcony

Morning view

                While walking the beach, the melancholy melody of Blind Faith’s “Can’t find my way home” lured us into a beachside bar for a much needed beer.  Later, we ate dinner at an Irish pub, and headed back to the airport.  We barely made it through the legendary gauntlet of security and boarded the flight to Atlanta.  I usually have trouble sleeping on an airplane, but not this time.  Not even a chortle.

“...Still I Can’t find my way home”

                The following week we touched base with the others that attended the workshop.  Some took a train to Frankfurt, some to Kiev.  Some got out through Athens, some through Moscow.  Some even took the earlier train advice and were still stuck in Bucharest.  Eventually, all returned home safely.  Whoever the Chinese guy was that first uttered that curse was right: It certainly was an interesting journey.  Another chapter in an interesting life.    

Lancico’s Note:  This blog is dedicated to my friend Junior, who just retired from a great 30 plus year career.  From Savannah to Tbilisi to Chisinau and everywhere in between, it was a hoot!