Cockpit Chronicles: Ukraine

Meanwhile…

Ukraine is in the news, bringing back memories of my four trips there—one to Dnipro and three to Odessa. Getting there generally took about 33 hours. I always traveled in uniform to help smooth the way.

My trip to Dnipro took me through Moscow. Memories of Reagan calling the Soviet Union the “Evil Empire” were rattling around in my head as I nervously made my way through Customs.

Once clear, I rounded a corner, ready to immerse myself in Russian culture.

The first thing I saw: Brad Pitt and Julia Roberts on enormous perfume and cologne posters.

Hungry, I headed for the food court.

Burger King. TGI Fridays.

Ack.

I ended up in a souvenir shop.

Eventually, I connected to Dnipro on Aeroflot, the Russian airline. I stopped by the cockpit to say hello to the pilots and was graciously welcomed aboard.

For the return, I had hoped to spend my overnight connection exploring Moscow. But obtaining a visa would have meant surrendering my passport to the Russian Embassy in Washington, DC for three weeks—impossible with my flying schedule.

So I experienced Moscow from TGI Fridays until about 4 AM, then found a chair at a gate and waited for sunrise.

Not quite the cultural immersion I had envisioned.

Odessa was another story. Odessa is a beautiful Black Sea port, with grand 18th century European architecture and tree-lined boulevards. I enjoyed an evening at the opera, and—unsurprisingly—a visit to a wine shop.

There, I discovered aged Bordeaux for $15–$20 a bottle.

I bought all I could carry.

At airport security, I placed my suitcase on the X-ray conveyor and hoped my pilot’s uniform would help. I knew the bottles might be a problem in a carry-on, but I was afraid they would get broken in checked luggage.

The soldier watching the screen whipped around and addressed me in Ukrainian. Or Russian.

I gestured that I didn’t understand and asked if he spoke English.

He tried again.

I apologized again.

He sized up my uniform, waved me through, and turned back to his machine.

I grabbed my bag and off I went, lovin' that uniform!

Next: Mendoza, Argentina.

Seventeen bottles of Malbec. A border crossing high in the Andes. And an airport inspector in Santiago touching each bottle as he repeated:

“No. No. No.”

That story, next week.

Cheers,

Lorenzo