RUSSIAN ADVENTURES: Missed Flights, Moscow & Cultural Photo Dump

And here I sit, still a tad shocked that I am actually in Russia.

If you kept up with my Instagram story saga, you likely read some of this. Today, buckle up, because I get to unashamedly word shpill allll the blood, guts, and gore!

That’s me below, caveman eating a burrito after my first round of distressful (and denied) flights, another round of getting #Swabbed, and feeling a bit disassociated from reality. In one week’s time, I think I’ve indeed learned to be more open handed than ever before. I always thought I was travel savvy, calm, cool, collected, unfazed, go with the flow, and ultra flexible.

That is, until I stood in front of Delta’s check in desk.

My bags were checked, documents handed over, and I stood eagerly awaiting the attendant to hand my passport back and wish me on my way. His furrowed brow as he flipped through my passport and examined the VISA page did not exactly look promising. My parents waited just behind me on the lobby’s couches, probably anticipating a big, giant, emotional “GOOD BYE!” any moment.

“It looks like you’re unable to travel to this country.”

I was flabbergasted.

“Wait; what?? I literally have a Russian Visa!”

Apparently my connecting flight in Amsterdam was invalid via the Russian Federation. Yet, Delta somehow booked a flight from Amsterdam to Moscow?! Yeah; that one still baffles me.

What I thought would be a quick, easy fix, turned into a full HOUR – and then HOURS – of waffling around in Greensboro airport’s lobby, digging up more documents, handing this Delta attendant my phone to talk to the travel agent, witnessing an actual debate between said Delta receptionist and travel agent, being the awkward middle man, and same said Delta receptionist ghosting said travel agent and shoving my phone back to me. Apparently there is a whole list of countries that Russian Federation has halted travel from…and I just so happened to have a fully booked round trip through the Netherlands, which was on the *big, bad list* of banned flights. Delta could only book a direct flight, straight outta the USA to Moscow. Nothing more; nothing less.

The best part:

“We don’t have any direct flights until next week.”

Excuse me. Hold on. WHAT?!?!!?!?!??!!!?

It was quite climactic. And the REAL climax had not even begun. I was migrating between four different text messages and calls, JUST trying to figure out a solution:

The travel agent on the phone, the team leader in Russia, a friend in the Netherlands, begging my small group for prayer, and making intervals to update my parents, still waiting behind me in the lobby. Actually, Piedmont Triad Airport’s lobby check in was probbbbably more climactic than anything else – the short connecting flights, transfers from one airport to another, immigration, another Covid test, flying 5000ish miles away – those parts were chillax compared to check in.

Because my already negative Covid test would expire within the country’s 3 day-prior-to-travel rule (Ugh; flipping Covid rules), I had to get another one that same day, in hopes that I would miraculously receive another NEGATIVE result the following day, in hopes that I would miraculously catch every single flight and get every single document in the miraculous nick of time, in hopes that I would somehow, someway miraculously make it to MOSCOW…the next day.

The travel agent found a 5AM flight the next day, so from there, I had to book it in every form and fashion. Everything felt like a ticking time bomb.

Picture this: An AG and her parents – STILL IN THE DANG LOBBY – frantically google searching/calling any place nearby that didn’t close by 5:00 to book a Covid test. Every. Single. Call…was sent straight to voicemail. Most clinics closed by 5:00 – and here we sat at 4:45, searching for any morsel of hope in the form of a *gag* nasal swab. I feel dirty even saying that. *shudder* I gave up. My new plan? Let’s just drive SOMEWHERE, and I will walk in and hope for the best.

My parents – bless them and their patience (TRULY!!) – drove to three different clinics for a PCR test. I jumped out of the car, expectant for someone to be my hero, shove a twig up to my actual brain, get the results, and call it a day. Easy, right? Well, not so much. The first clinic did not do PCR tests. The second was closed. The THIRD…was my life saver. A nurse put on a bunch of fancy Covid gear that resembled a storm trooper if a storm trooper partook in Rona activities, took me outside (Because if I had ‘Rona, surely it might spray outta my nose from the swab and into the sterile atmosphere and pollute the interior, right??), and shoved that thing to what felt like the back of my eyeball sockets and brain. It was quite an unpleasant experience.

I told the receptionist and nurse of my travel urgency, and asked if there was any way there was hope for a result the next day.

“They can take up to three days, but we’ll see what we can do!”

Lemme tell ya: Women are awesome. We’ve got each other’s backs. Between the 5 receptionists, nurse, and literally getting the lab tech’s personal cell number, I was assured they would bump my test to the front of the line, and get the result ASAP. I could have cried. GO TEAM!

And yes – in my post swab paranoia, I did actually spend half an hour reading about signs & symptoms of a brain leak.

I’m happy to say that – a whopping 40ish minutes of total sleep later – I awakened to my 2:30 AM alarm, so I suppose you could say my brain remained intact. No cerebrospinal nose drip. *phew*

Once again, I slid on my my clothes, gathered my bags, and at 3AM we were out the door and en route to the airport. Once again, we prepped for some climactically emotional “GOOD BYE!” And once again, to my worst of nightmares…I look up at the screen in the lobby…to see that my flight from Greensboro to Charlotte is cancelled.

And because this flight was cancelled/redirected, it basically cancelled my last American stop/connection in NYC. Despite my exhaustion and shot adrenals, I had remained somewhat in one piece. Alright AG; just stay calm. Just go and ask the attendant about the next flight and book it. Everything will be fine.

“Excuse me, hi! I had a flight from here to New York City, and was wondering – “

“I need your ID, ma’am.”

I could feel my last morsel of any pleasantness and hope and patience melt into an RBF glare (-_-) I clenched my jaw, forcibly smiled before letting my mental exhaustion pounce over the counter or say something snappy (Slow to speak, AG, slow to speak), and returned with my passport, explained the situation, and mustered up a speckle of hope.

“I just need a flight to JFK. That is where my next flight leaves for Moscow at 7 this eve!”

“We don’t have any direct flights to JFK. Only LaGuardia.” And there I stood at 3:30 AM, wondering how the heck I was supposed to get to Moscow. I couldn’t even make it out of my hometown’s tiny airport!!

I contacted the travel agent. No answer. I contacted my team leader. He was on a flight and wouldn’t be available for at least 3 more hours. I took matters into my own hands and searched for ANY flight from any three of our airports that would make it to JFK in time. Nothing.

I will never forget this moment. EVER. Every piece of myself I’d held up strong and in one piece, clinging to every last thread of perseverance and patience, was gone. It legitimately felt like a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from, and I truly believed this endeavor was not supposed to happen. I felt the same emotions I did in Los Angeles – helpless, abandoned, and hopeless. It wasn’t that no one cared or wasn’t trying to help, but that life was presenting barriers no one could humanly do anything about.

I sat down in the floor and cried.

I could quite literally do nothing.

We drove back to my parents house, and my mom (the ultimate prayer warrior and encourager) insisted I purge any “What ifs?” out of my mind, close my eyes for at least 2 hours, think about NOTHING (BUT HOW???), and check my phone for a travel update after that. I felt numb. Overcome. Barely slept a wink in 48 hours. And as I pulled a blanket over to just try and see if sleep might come, I decided I was going to pull the plug. I truly had nothing left to give. I had no sanity and no energy and I lost all hope. I quit.

I am not going.

I laid there for a few minutes in my sleep deprived haze, and quite a few thoughts flooded my mind: Is this God’s wrath on me? Am I going with the wrong intention and just don’t know it? Is this punishment for past sins? Will my life narrative forever and always be a page full of “Almosts”? Am I doing the wrong thing?

Suddenly my eyes opened in a groggy haze – the kind where your body has been in deep rest and it takes a few minutes to come to. I could see the light illuminating from the little salt lamp. How long was I out for? I grabbed my phone to see that I slept a solid 2 hours away, and I had a voice memo from my team leader. I no sooner started reading the update and travel plan, than I saw my phone ring.

“Anna, there’s a flight to LaGuardia that leaves in two hours. You will need to catch a shuttle or taxi to JFK, but if all your other flights are on time…this gives you three hours to check in again and make it on that flight to Moscow.”

The thought of one added layer, even if but another airport transfer, sounded grueling. Typically I’d go for it and roll with the punches, but my mind immediately jumped to the “What if?” of not receiving my Covid test result in time, being stranded in NYC, having to figure out yet another test and another flight. I listened to this new travel plan, but I confessed my hesitations and thoughts of hanging up this entire endeavor.

“I just don’t know if this is God’s way of keeping me out.”

“We’re going to find a way to get you here. You just need to persevere!”

Persevere. That word stuck with me.

“It’s your choice. But if I were you – no matter what you decide – I’d be putting on my shoes right about now and planning to head to the airport.”

I told him I would think it all over and let him know in the next few minutes. I felt like I was in the last miles of a marathon. The miles where the FINISH line is so, so close…yet the grueling agony of running on dead legs and depleted glycogen stores and the brain screaming “STOP” make it feel so unattainable; so far.

This entire travel would have to be a miracle. Everything would need to unfold in the most perfect nick of time. I knew I was winging it with everything…but what did I really, truly, at the end of the day, have to lose?

I laced up my shoes.

“Mom…can you take me to the airport for the third time?” She had just gone out the door to go for a walk. She came back in grabbed her keys, woke up my dad, and the giant, emotional “GOODBYE!” we all anticipated TWICE, now had to be short, to the point, and time to get focused and yes, persevere on forward. I felt zero joy. Zero hope. And going to the airport for the third time felt unreal. I fully anticipated another delay or cancellation.

“I just feel no peace about this. Everything about it feels so wrong. It feels like being in that car accident four days before moving to Los Angeles. What if God is trying to keep me from this too? What if these are the closed doors?”

“BUT,” my mom reminded me, “The doors haven’t shut yet. You keep going through every open door until you can’t go through another one.”

Once again, we pulled out my bags, walked into (GULP) check in, but this time, everything changed.

“Enjoy your flight!”

Music to my ears. I pinched myself. Did I really just make it past CHECK IN?! I get to go through security?! It didn’t matter that my first flight was literally a 40 minute connection to Charlotte…still on my state’s soil I’d stomped on many a time and only but the first little stepping stone…I was just giddy to at least be on a plane. En route to somewhere. I hugged my mother “Goodbye!” and it really was not climactic and emotional as we all assumed. Not that we’d been at the airport two other times or anything. 😉 I think we were both so relieved and joyful that I’d made it past step one, that it made the send off a merrier affair.

This photo here – this was taken right at that moment. This was but the first of a slew of other nick of time moments that were to come, but for the first time in 24 hours, 2 cancelled flights, and my near voluntary cancel of the third, I actually felt like I was off for an adventure.

It was like God handpicked just the right people, at just the right time, in just the right moments after that. It started with the TSA joking with me and my conspiracy theory roots (#TinfoilHat) because I opted out of the scanner. 😉 (“Do you know the word spill by heart that we have to say for the pat down?!” “You basically give me informed consent that you’re about to give a full body pat down around personal regions and it’s totally ethical!” *HIGH FIVES*). I was able to talk to THE sweetest, most gracious lab tech woman over the phone, who said she would text and email me the result if the health practice did not release it to me first…

And DING DING DING! As soon as I stepped foot in Charlotte for my first connection, I saw this bare bones beauty in my texts. American healthcare never felt more like an ally until a bunch of women at an urgent care clinic put their brains together and managed to get this back to me within 12 HOURS! It’s like every single person I encountered was compassionate, kind, and reassuring…basically everything I did not feel 24 hours prior. My phone buzzed with people’s DMs and texts of prayer for me. I really cannot describe how Holy and comforting it was, and HOW much I quite literally felt the prayers. I had this moment as we touched ground in Charlotte where I could feel a twinge of anxiety. There are so many nick-of-time steps to do after this. What if I don’t make it? And as I looked out the window, just seconds before touching the runway, I had this moment where I could envision these people praying over me, what words they likely had said or were saying, and in an instant, it was like this still, small voice in my head said,

“It’s just you and me.”

And all throughout the day – and even now – I will still say that in prayer to the Father. It’s just you and me. And that is all I really need.

It might sound corny, but it was like this sudden moment of realizing that God was both my refuge AND ultimate adventure buddy. 😉 I hate watered down terms for who God is, but if I’m being completely honest, if He is BEFORE us and BEHIND us and ALL AROUND us…and if many of his children are sojourners…then He is not only the Holiest Author of our adventures, but He is WITH us in our adventures – blood, sweat, tears and all.

Things felt all the more real when my flight from CLT to NYC departed. I felt like I put on war paint and like it was truly GO TIME as soon as I got my bags from LG and found a ride to my final stop in NYC. Turns out? My driver was THE coolest Haitian guy who studied theology, had a wife who studied theology, and we basically had church for 40 minutes and talked all things from hot topics, to progressive Christianity, to some of our stories and testimonies. Out of all the drivers in NYC…and of course I would land the one who was a spiritual pal and had the radio on K-LOVE! Haha!

I even made it to JFK airport 20 minutes before check in for my airline even opened. I was pinching myself. So far, every. single. tiny. detail. Had gone without a hitch. Being in the international terminal felt surreal. It was this quaking moment of, “Oh, crap. This is actually happening. I’m doing this.”

“CANCELLED” was the constant theme of 2020 (as was the 24 hrs prior to this travel lol), and there were times I honestly wondered if leaving the country would ever be possible.

And then it happened. I sat at my gate. I could have kissed the dingy, carpeted airport terimnal’s ground. The sweetest relief washed over me when I plopped into a chair by the window, set down my backpack and $40 worth of a whopping 2 okay-ish airport sandwiches and 2 Clif Bars, and felt myself just breathe. I would be lying if I said I didn’t tear up and feel a lump in my throat when we lined up to board. I really, truly couldn’t believe I was actually making it onto the flight.

I looked around and saw no other American passports but my own. As we walked down the tunnel and onto the flight, I was in awe of how God took care of me through every step, mishap, setback, and indeed was the strength in my legs to persevere when I had nothing left.

“If I take one more step, I’ll be the farthest away from home I’ve ever been.” -SamWise gamgee

I shared a row by the window with just one other girl. She had short blonde hair, looked to be about my age, and looked like she lived in the city. We were both startled by the plane’s engine before take off and jumped at the same time, and from there, we became flight pals. I learned her name was Sophia, and she was trekking back to Moscow, her homeland, to see her mother for the first time in two years due to the Covid lockdowns. She had only lived in the States for two years, YET learned English fluently within that time span. We talked about each of our cultures and upbringings, politics, our love lives, ambitions, passions, high school years, laughed a lot, napped a lot, and somehow went from two strangers on a 9.5 hour flight, to taking this sort of refuge in one another.

“Russians LOVE butter. And cheese. We really just love dairy. And bread.”

Our first flight meal echoed her words.

We watched the sunset and the sunrise and no sooner shut our eyes than we saw the runway. We mutually held up a shaky hand to the other as we deplaned.

“I’m so nervous,” she said.

“Me too.”

It brought an odd comfort that someone who already called Moscow “Home” and was greeting a familiar face was also experiencing the same jitters. I’d only known my team through a quick video chat and a texting app. I love meeting new people and connecting, but I simultaneously get nervous butterfly-internal-organ-churning feels. We walked side by side through the sterile airport terminal to immigration.

“Well Anna, this is my line and that one right over there is yours!”

We wished each other off onto our adventures of reuniting + uniting firsts.

And an adventure from that day forward, it has been.

“Come on, Sam. Remember what Bilbo used to say: ‘It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no telling where you might be swept off to.'” -Frodo Baggins

“Am I actually here?”

I am pretty sure I said that to myself at least 20x each day. I tend to either get sick or experience a bit of a flareup when I’m sleep deprived and have been running on adrenalin/stress (such as my pre-travel saga;)), so I was a smidge worried – and even anticipated – that I’d feel like utter crappp the duration of the week. I mentally prepped myself that each day would feel like torture, I’d have no energy, and likely have to straight up endure every task and happening. Turns out?

I FELT AWESOME! 🙂

I was a little tired – and definitely was ready to go mentally off grid by 9 PM – but overall, I felt shockingly fantastic! I owe our raddest team leaders for that. They had an entire strategy for helping us to overcome jet lag within about a day. The strategy:

“Our intention is to wear you out!”

You could say we definitely got our feel for Moscow. 😉 As soon as I stepped foot out of the airport, we were on a train, Red Square, learning how to use the metro/public transport, and before I knew it, it was nearly 10 PM, and I was out COLD as soon as I shut my eyes. This was exactly what our team leaders had strategized (stay AWAKE and on the MOVE during the day; crash hardcore at nightfall), and I honestly owe it to them for keeping my circadian rhythm in tact.

The second day in? The 3 amigas were sent out on their own for The Amazing Race: Moscow Edition. 😉

Aside from a fluke with our maps not syncing to the correct metro lines, getting lost for 2 hours, and picking the hardest location on our grand quest’s list first and failing to realize the assignments were in a strategic order, it was a pretty fantastic way to break in the cultural experience!

We learned that: Crosswalks that take you – you know, casually across the street – don’t exist except every 923749823ish miles. After trekking almost a mile up the street to find a way to get to the other side (Not an outlandish request, right?!), we became convinced that Russians must A) Never cross the road B) Walk a thousand miles one way just to find a crosswalk to get to the other side C) Have some *secret passageway*, unbeknownst to 3 little American gals.

Olivia: “What if the underground staircases are the crosswalk?”

Me: “But that was where we left the metro!”

Olivia: “Maybe there’s another exit?”

It was quite the bonding experience among 3 girls who had only met the day prior.

Turns out there are DING DING DING! TWO types of these fancy underground staircases. Some for the Metro stops, and some for both metro AND exits for getting “across the street”…just the underground way. I SHOULD HAVE NEVER DOUBTED YOU, OLIVIA!!

Moscow reminded me of a Russian Los Angeles.

The people, places, hustle mentality, silent stare or scowl among pedestrians on the metro, desire to be seen, outlandish wardrobe and aesthetics, diversity in food and cuisine…there were so many trippy De ja vu moments. It’s like walking into this grandiose mood or vibe. It’s much like walking into your first day of high school, seeing all the shiny cool kids, and scouting out where you belong. This time, however, it was from the perspective of a girl who had PEOPLE in her life…not struggling solo, at the mercy of the endless hype and chaos, as I did in LA. Also, visiting vs. residency are entirely different. 😉

The more I’ve lived (and especially after living in a big city), the more I’ve realized city people often have this deep need to not just be SEEN, but to be KNOWN. They tend to build an identity by their city and things within it (fashion, career, social circles, etc.), yet at the end of the day, on the boring, bleh, mundane, humanly crammed metro ride to and fro…life suddenly has this sadistic way of making humanity believe they’re nothing but a mere number.

My American roots are accustomed to hotel breakfast staples being: Eggs. Bacon. Toast. Oatmeal. A bazillion types of bagel or pastry. Some sort of scramble. Naturally, I walked into the dining room anticipating the same ensemble. Whoops; srry, forgot I wasn’t in America! And lo, I was greeted by baby cherubim, celestial rays of light, and angelic voices harmonizing in splendor.

RICE. PASTA. CHICKEN. VEGGIES. NUTS AND SEEDS. A CHEF DESIGNATED JUST FOR THE EGGS. WHAT THE DUMP. IS THIS REAL LIFE????

I could have kissed the grounds. Or the egg chef. But seriously: Breakfast food is already a love language (espec. oatmeal and toast), but DINNER for breakfast…just might top the cake.

I learned that walking streets are pure, therapeutic bliss and the world needs more of them.

…And I also learned that Turkish food (and YES – I did in fact try the infamous, Narnian Turkish delight and it was simultaneously weird and chewy and oddly pleasing?) is baller.

My eyeballs fell outta their socket and into my lamb & rice skillet when it arrived.

It’s weird, because I keep waiting for the moment I feel overwhelmed and culture shocked. Obviously everything is brand spankin’ new and we are still adapting to this way of life…but it feels oddly normal? Anti climactic? Even fun?! I don’t say that with some chip on my shoulder like, “Pfffft; I’ve got this and am unfazed and have not struggled attt all.”

Believe me, THE STRUGGLE IS REAL! Language barriers are real! Wishing so desperately for my tongue to magically roll the correct pronunciations and just POOF! Understand and really CONNECT with this beautiful culture is real! Feeling the weight of being THE minority is real! Trying to maintain a sleep schedule and create a routine is real!

BUT. If I’m being honest, I felt more thrown to the wolves and culture shocked in Los Angeles – MY OWN COUNTRY – than I have (thus far) in the foreign grounds of Russia. In LA, I basically was forced to adapt overnight and do it 99.9999% on my own. In my time there, I also had to navigate some rather traumatic situations and also force myself to keep going…while struggling to pay bills, stay sane on a 12 mile, 2 hour commute to work (#WelcomeTothe405), AND battling a real deep depression from the weight of loneliness.

Basically: I’ve realized this cultural phenomenon + adaption really, truly has more to do with WHO you are with than WHERE you are. There is certainly a challenge – a HUGE challenge – to living in a culture different from everything you’ve ever known….but people? Oh my gosh; praise God for PEOPLE to do life with! I also believe having leadership (shoutout to our AH-MAZING team leaders!) has much to do with this. Our TLs have been insanely awesome with teaching us, equipping us, and then giving us free reign to actually get out in the culture and learn on our own too. I think a lot of people either err on the side of giving too much freewill and not enough instruction, OR too much instruction while keeping you co-dependent.

Our leaders are as ideal as it gets! They are equipping us to feel confident in society, but also allowing us the uncomfortable but necessary challenge of growth and independence.

We live on our own. We do our own grocery shopping + cooking. We get out. We’ve figured out a few very basic routes. I’ve personally felt (slowwwly but surely) more comfortable going for runs and exploring some new streets. There are no road signs for the names of roads…which, uhm…is probably THE biggest obstacle to my directionally challenged soul. But, it is getting better. 😉

Oh yeah…

Did I mention a certain, globally famous pathogen struck down 5/8 of us?

Despite having a plethora of Covid symptoms and disgustingness, I somehow tested NEGATIVE. I’m 99.99999% positive (hahahaaa pun intended?) I had our good ‘ole Rona pal two or three-ish other times last year, so I’ll just thank the manmade natural antibodies for that.

Here’s a pretty picture feat. my wilted bun.

The essentials (literally)…

High doses of Vitamin C….

The twins and I have been taking the OG of OJ shots by the hour. No; really. In 5 days, we finished carton #7. *cheers*

Anddddd high doses of Vitamin Sunny D.

Today marks 2 weeks of living in Russia and 1 week of being struck down by a good ‘ole, anatomical invader. Everyone is recovering, but my gosh, the post-strike-down-fatigue is insane. After experiencing it 3x last year, I know it is normal…but I will seize the day I wake up from a night’s rest and don’t feel a total crash 2 hours after. Or feeling winded after walking down the stairs, eating breakfast, and basic, human tasks.

PRAY that everyone fully recovers. We have found so much joy in different ways – and even found quite the humor in three 20 somethings feeling like 90 year olds at times – but we really need strength to persevere and ALL 8 of us (team leaders + their little girls) need the deepest healing.

“The Spirit is willing, but the body is weak.” Matt. 26:41

That is how I feel. Actually, I think it is how we all have felt at times. Mentally and spiritually, we are ready to move forward in many endeavors….but physically? It is just taking time. Lots of time. Patience. Even perseverance, in a weird sort of way. It’s been a plot twist just about every day here, but we’re starting to be pros at rolling with the punches and being open handed.

The most beautiful finale to a long week.

Life is hard.

And God is a good, good Father.