it's the little things

Ukrainian Airlines, pic from wikipedia.org

Ukrainian International Airlines. Their motto should be: “It’s about what you can expect from the name.” Now I’m not saying Ukrainian products or services are bad, it’s just that they’re not very well known for them, and the airline stands as a clear example. Starting in Prague, we sat one hour in the plane. Now, I thought this was just a fluke. We arrived in Kiev for the transfer and were already thirty minutes late on a 2-hour layover, so there wasn’t much room for error. We ran to the transfer security desk, where they were calling out for other flights, trying to find other people who were in a similar and worse situation. But the line moved okay, with Ukrainian airport staff barking orders in Russian, while Americans and British seemed to be a bit confused at everything. “She said go over there, there’s another security line behind that wall,” I let one older couple know. “But where does it go? There are no signs!” they replied. Indeed, where did it go… 

I leant to me wife—“Do you notice all the staff are all speaking in Russian?” Which was strange, given the current situation and the dramatic shift away from Russian culture that Ukraine was trying to undertake, at least publicly. Most of my bud’ laskos were even met with pojaloistos, so even an attempt to throw in something in Ukrainian fell on deaf ears. You’d think with the pivot to the West, they could afford a few English teachers at the airport. But that’s another story.

We made it to the gate in time. We were lucky even, since they had only just started flashing the “WAIT UNTIL BOARDING” sign. A sigh of relief. Relief that was met by an even longer wait, which was met by groaning. One lady, with a long red cape, black dress, hat, doing her best villager Cruella deVille impersonation, but failing awkwardly by only buying cheap Turkish clothes, came into the line from the side. She was speaking loudly in Russian on the phone and either completely oblivious to the fact that there was a line past her or just not caring. So I did what any rational, approaching middle-aged red-blooded American man would do—bitched and moaned, just loudly for her to maybe hear me. “Ungh, no respect for lines means no respect for civilization!” She also didn’t notice my continued grumbling, so score one for passive aggressiveness.

The Princess’s efforts were made in vain though. We had another thirty minutes on the ramp, on which I pondered loudly, “Why would anyone even want to cut in a line to get onto an airplane? It’s not like you’re going to miss your seat.” Really, it’s best to be one of the last on the airplane, even better to be one of those people who the airplane has to wait for ten minutes on, so that you can zero down your standing in line time. But this lady was in a hurry!

We were seated after some time, and then back to waiting on a runway. I believe it must be some sort of Ukrainian Airlines policy to wait on the tarmac for an hour or so, just to let you remember what exactly has recently happened for passengers flying over Ukrainian skies. That’s right, let the fear settle in. There now, here’s how to buckle your safety belt and we’re off!

More Russian speaking from the flight staff. “Sandwiches? Would you like some sandwiches?”

“Ah, yeah, I’m starving!”

“5 dollars for a half!”

“No thanks!” How much did we pay for this flight again?

The flight landed without disaster and the Princess was the first to squiggle on out past everyone. She had somewhere to go! And clearly no one else did. But the last laugh was on her.

As we got to the baggage claim, we all gathered around our conveyor belt—it’s not too hard to find in the Tbilisi airport, as there are only two. Ours was shared with Tel Aviv, who was also still on the sign despite having been served 20-minutes prior. Then the conveyor built moved. Our luggage was coming!

Ten minutes.

Twenty minutes.

It stopped. No luggage. Everyone raced to the other conveyor, maybe it was there!

It wasn’t.

I went to a worker there, speaking in Georgian:

“What’s up? Where’s our bags?”

“Do you speak Georgian?” she asked me. “I don’t know English.”

I repeated in Georgian, “Where are our bags? We’re from the Kiev flight, thirty minutes ago.”

“Just wait over there, they’ll come.”

“When?”

“Just wait.”

“Maybe you can call someone?” I asked.

“No.”

Ah, how sweetly I remembered Georgian customer service. Later, as a crowd of protestors formed around her, making a fuss, she acknowledged the situation. “The manager doesn’t want to come down to talk to you. There’s been, ahem, some technical difficulties. It’s the Ukrainian Airlines’ fault.”

Now, I’m not sure what sort of technical difficulties could happen toting luggage from a plane 10 meters away to one of two luggage pick-up stations, but it must have been serious, since another 45 minutes passed. But no problem, I had my accordion. Laid down, it made a great pillow/backrest, at least that Princess was forced to wait as well. It’s the little things.

Awww, welcome to Tbilisi, the city that loves you! Maybe the city, but certainly not the airport.