Hell Ride Continued…

The plane takes off and sounds like what I can only describe as the Empire State Building being dropped into a cement mixer. After about four years, the heat kicks in with the smell of alien fossil fumes. And then, as if on cue, all of the fat, scruffy, round faced men seated around me start to simultaneously pick their noses. Gross! Meanwhile, a giant monster has grabbed the plane from outside and is shaking the hell out of it – well, at least that’s what it feels like to me!

I am usually not alarmed by turbulence but this was just nuts! It felt like we were in a beater pick-up truck speeding along on a backwoods gravel road. But no one else seemed alarmed. I glance around. Nope. The men are still digging for their brains through their nostrils as if nothing is wrong. My outer thighs have gone numb.

I am officially ready to jump out of my own skin. I keep muttering under my breath:
Oh God Help Me! as I try to not check my watch again. The flight is seventy-five minutes. I had a seven hour layover to catch a seventy-five minute flight. Life seems so unfair.

The plane all but belly flops on the runway. I extract myself from the vise grip of my seat and deplane. And I am shocked by the amount of snow… on the tarmac. We slip and slide to another bus. I hoist my bag up the eight foot step to enter – I don’t know what a handicapped person does on Air Baltic to get on one of their freaking buses – and hang on for dear life for yet another harrowing ride. We are driven to the gate where we skate over to ascend yet another 3,000 stairs – me lugging my now ten thousand pound carry-on up all the way.

I am near death as I emerge from the arrivals door to greet my host: Zigis.

As I am the only black coming out of the gate, I am easily spotted by Zigis. He calls out:
Leen?

I recognize his voice. He’s a big bear of a man – actually more like a Saint Bernard – in his mid fifties, with a perfectly crafted french braid. He has a beard and mustache and crazy eyebrows. He reminds me of some X – hippie, mountain man. But he’s a gentle giant. We exchange pleasantries and he whips up my big suitcase like it’s a lunch bag. I reach for my carry on and he grabs that too.
No, I am man, I carry. You are woman, you no carry!

I exhale. Finally, some relief! I climb into his van and start picturing my hotel bed.
… I hope it’s a king sized one like he promised…

when his words broke through my reverie:
… First we go to club. Make [eat] food (the club is also a full service restaurant), then to the guys for make band rehearsal.

I am stunned into silence and fight back the urge to burst into tears. I start to mutter under my breath:
Oh God help me!

and away we go…

Next up: The club and the Latvian Blues Band.