Diary. July 6

I'm sitting in a motel in Brooklyn, July 6, 2000, in a room where the bed creaks like an old closet, and outside the window a neon "Motel" sign with a falling off "M" is blinking. It smells of dampness and cheap soap, and my head is a mess from everything that has happened these past few days. New York is buzzing outside the window like a huge beehive, and I, Sukhov, with my shabby Halloween cape, feel like either a hero or a clown in this future. It all started on June 29, when I boarded a plane at Pulkovo, and I still can't believe that I'm here, in America. I'm writing conscientiously, as I promised myself, until my head explodes from impressions. Damn, this is another world, but the people here are not gods, they are the same as us, eating, drinking and pushing in lines.

At Pulkovo on June 29, I stood at the check-in counter, clutching a suitcase with a cracked handle and the ticket that Major Ivanov had thrust at me. My Halloween cloak hung on my shoulder like armor; without it, I probably would have fled back to the Khrushchev-era building. The airport was buzzing: women with bags were yelling at children, the smell of coffee from the kiosk mixed with the stench of sweat, and the loudspeaker was wheezing: "The flight to Moscow is delayed." I almost screamed from nerves - well, Sukhov, you're almost in the States, and here there are delays! Mark T., that American in a jacket, was grinning next to me as if this was all a picnic, and Ivanov, like a tank, was checking my papers. When they announced boarding, I almost tripped over my own suitcase, my heart was pounding like it was under fire in Afghanistan. The stewardess, with a hairdo like the saleswoman from Produkty, looked at my ticket and muttered: "Come on in, Sukhov, 12A." I dragged my suitcase into the Tu-154, narrow as a minibus, and plopped down by the aisle. My raincoat got caught on the armrest, I cursed - so much for a hero, Dmitry. Mark sat by the window, and Ivanov was already snoring two seats away. The plane hummed like an old vacuum cleaner, and I thought: "Well, Sukhov, hold on, you're flying into a new world."

The flight to Moscow was short but nerve-wracking. The plane, an old Tu-154, hummed like a tractor, and the cabin smelled of kerosene and someone's cologne. The stewardess, with a face like a saleswoman from a kiosk, handed out food: a rubber chicken with buckwheat and a plastic cup of tea that smelled like tea from grandma's cupboard. I picked at the chicken, ate a cabbage pie from a package - it was cold, but familiar, from St. Petersburg. Mark was sitting next to me, leafing through a magazine with an ad for the Nokia 3310, and mumbling something about America. Ivanov translated: "Mr. Mark says that a new world awaits you in New York." I just chuckled: "A new world? Let's see if it eats me up." In the porthole there were clouds, grey like the St Petersburg sky, and I suddenly thought: what if I don't come back? The Neva, the pigeons, the stalls with "Java" - all of this seemed to dissolve with every kilometre.

In Moscow, at Sheremetyevo, it was even worse. The airport was like a bazaar: crowds, queues, the smell of sweat and cheap cigarettes. Mark, Ivanov and I waited for about five hours at the transfer. I bought coffee in a plastic cup, as bitter as at Pulkovo, and thought: look, Americans are people, they drink the same crap as we do. Mark, however, ordered some kind of turkey sandwich, wrapped in paper with a logo, and chewed it as if it were a delicacy. I looked at him and thought: well, definitely not a god, just a guy with a sandwich. Ivanov, as always, was calm as a tank, checked our tickets and said: "Sukhov, don't talk nonsense, everything is under control." I just nodded, sweating in my raincoat, and thought: damn, I'm really flying overseas. My head was spinning: skyscrapers, Times Square, like in the Van Damme movies, but I'm Sukhov, with a soldering iron and a hangover.

The flight across the Atlantic was something. The plane, some kind of Boeing, looked newer than our Tu-154, but still hummed like a vacuum cleaner. The cabin was packed to the brim: businessmen in suits, women with children, a couple of hippies with long hair that smelled of something herbal. I sat by the aisle, Mark by the window, and Ivanov dozed, his head resting on the armrest. The stewardess, this time an American, with a smile like in a toothpaste commercial, handed out food: a slice of pizza, a salad in a plastic box, and juice in a carton. The pizza was strange - the cheese stretched like rubber, but I ate it all, because my grandmother's pies had run out back in Moscow. The juice was sickly sweet, with the inscription "Tropicana", and I thought: here it is, American abundance, but it tastes like compote from kindergarten, only in a beautiful package. This was the first sign that Americans are not gods, but the same people who drink juice and eat rubber pizza.

In the window there was an ocean, endless, like in the movies about Columbus, and then clouds, illuminated by the sun. I looked and thought: I'll be damned, Sukhov, you're flying to America like some astronaut. Mark was droning on about New York, showing me photos in a magazine: the Twin Towers, the Statue of Liberty, yellow taxis. I listened with half an ear, and imagined myself walking along these streets, in my Halloween cape, like a hero of some action movie. But my chest was aching: what if I'm a nobody there? At least in St. Petersburg I knew where to buy Baltika and how to persuade Aunt Zina not to yell at me for the dirt in the entryway. And here? A new world, a new me - or the same Sukhov, with a beer belly and dreams of Afghanistan?

About eight hours later - I don't know, I lost count - the flight attendant announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, we're approaching New York." I nearly jumped. Mark pointed to the window: lights were burning down there, like stars that had fallen to earth. New York, for fuck's sake! As the plane began to land, I gripped the armrests - it hadn't shaken like that under fire in Afghanistan. The wheels hit the ground, and I exhaled: we'd landed. July 3, Kennedy Airport, evening. The crowd in the terminal was buzzing like Palace Square during the White Nights. It smelled of coffee, hot dogs, and something sweet, like donuts. People were running, yelling, dragging suitcases, and I stood there like an idiot, clutching my battered suitcase and raincoat. Mark grinned: "Welcome to America, Dmitry!" I just nodded, but in my head there was a carousel: this is not St. Petersburg, this is another world.