The silver Aeroflot jet taking off in front of us slides down the runway, right to left and back, zig zagging, trying to gain speed for takeoff on an icy runway in the middle of a blizzard, then giving up, cutting power and taxiing back to the terminal.   A de-icing truck, a Russian flat bed truck with a jet engine mounted on the back, its silver pipes and tubes exposed and its exhaust chamber pointed down, has been sent out, and is driving up and down the length of the runway, burning off ice, one strip after another, like mowing a lawn, the jet engine screaming.   This is typical Russian innovation.  Dave nods in the direction of the truck, “American ingenuity. What we used to have.”   It is 1991, the first winter of the Yeltsin era.  Dave and I are American diplomats traveling in Magadan, a frozen Siberian mining city of 300,000 located across the Bearing Straight from Alaska.  We are on our way back to Vladivostok, to our new U.S. consulate in the region.  We have a four hour flight ahead of us.

Finally, it is time for another try.  It is our plane’s turn.  The runway has been de-iced as much as possible.  As usual, there is no apprehension on the part of the Russian passengers.  Dave and I are looking at each other, wondering.   We are turning onto the runway.  No safety briefing.  The pilot revs up the engines to full power, releases the brakes, and we gain speed, sliding a bit to the left and right as we go, but gaining speed and moving forward, although not as fast as usual due to the slippery surface.  Hopefully, the pilot can break off before the point of no return.  No, we are going for it.   The engines are screaming.  It is deafening.  We have never taken off like this before, not even on Aeroflot.  The Russian passengers are still chatting over the noise, and the flight attendant in her jump seat seems unconcerned.  I am looking out the window at the passing airport landscape, lights, and runways, and snowy fields. The plane is shaking and rattling, and then there is the quick lift off, the plane sucked upward suddenly as in an air pocket.  The shuddering subsides, and the ground at the end of the runway falls away.  I can see the rivets on the aluminum wing and the flaps moving up.  The landing gear has already retracted with a “whirr. “  I repeat a quiet prayer.  The Russians, most with little religion, only Russian fatalism, always seem to be less afraid of death.

It is now smooth and we are ascending rapidly, the terminal and highway far below, small, and now the frozen sea below us, white.  There are thin streams of clouds which we pass through.  The horizon is pink and the sun weak.  The plane banks steeply to right, south, towards Vladivostok.  Just as suddenly, the wings level again, and the sun comes back into play.  I sigh.  Dave looks over at me and smiles.  There seems to be more chatter in the cabin, some relief.  The couple across the aisle continues conversing through the entire takeoff.   I hear one conversation behind me, two men talking about the high price of tires in Vladivostok compared to Magadan.

Directly in front of me, I can see the flowery scarfed head of a Russian grandmother.  She is lecturing someone with that grating “babushka” voice, emphasizing her words.  Somehow the banality and assuredness of the babushka in her scarf tied under the chin, a natural survivor, gives me comfort.  Nothing would happen to her.   The plane, I notice, begins to smell like vinegar.  They are preparing lunch in the back.

We are now cruising above a solid layer of clouds, no land or sea visible, the sun shining level with us, straight out my window,  through a haze.  The heaters are blowing, making a rushing sound in the cabin.  They serve the usual rolls, greasy chicken thighs, and sticky rice on a plastic tray, with tea following.  The flight is routine.

I am feeling good about Russia, about the people, nature, the culture.  We land later that afternoon in Vladivostok, and Inna, my Russian assistant, is waiting for us at the airport with sandwiches which she and her mother made.  The Consulate driver, Volodya, my pal, gives me a bear hug and shakes Dave’s hand.  Its like being with family again.  Inna sees an old high school girlfriend, and runs over to hug her.  They kiss three times, on each cheek, and we are off in our Consulate SUV, passing small Russian cars jammed with families, also off the flight, sandwiches being unwrapped in their cars as we pass.  Kids are riding on mother’s laps.  Suitcases and bundles are tied to the roofs.  Outside it is getting darker.  Brightly painted wooden “dachas” with carved shutters and lace curtains stream by.  The lavender sea is on the right side of the highway, appearing occasionally as we pass through pine forests.  The amber lights of cottages are coming on, dotting the countryside.  You can imagine the smell the tea from their samovars.  You can smell smoky wood from their chimneys.  We pass one car with tires tied to the roof.  Magadan tires are cheaper after all.