A few friends have asked about my recent trip to Baku, Azerbaijan. I went there on business, to consult on the environmental clean up of old oilfields, but in a few scattered moments got a wonderful memory of the city and the beautiful people there. Here's some scattered thoughts from my travel notes:
Continental flight from Houston-
They canceled the flight to Amsterdam, so this one to London is filled. I am in the middle section of seats, and a lovely Pakistani girl just sat down beside me. I notice that she is giving medicine to her toddler, and smile a greeting. She replies that the medicine is because her 3-year-old has an earache. It is to be an eight-hour flight, and I think briefly about just ending my life right here and being done with it. Actually, the kid isn't bad at all; the meds knock him right out, and we both get some sleep and drool on ourselves.
Taxi ride from Gatwick to Heathrow, London -
We're so careful with history in America; we've got so little of it to cherish. But here, they treat it with careless abandon. It's simply left lying about, everywhere one looks, like careless roadside litter - the glorious detritus of men's centuries on these emerald fields.
Baku airport, Saturday night arrival near midnight -
The cold hits us with a blast in the little corridor as we leave the heated plane. We are the last ones off the last plane for the night and by the time we have processed our visas the whole airport is empty. Even the soldiers who had been loitering near the girls at the passport desks have gone. The soldiers are all young and handsome in uniforms of rich fabrics the color of dark loden green. One helps us find the visa office, offering his welcome with a brilliant smile. It starts to snow again, and the lobby echoes with the squeak of our luggage wheels. The hotel hasn't sent a car, so we rent two taxis, making the drivers momentarily wealthy, since it is snowing and since we are obviously rich and dumb Americans. Still, the streets are beautifully empty except for the lights in the trees and our two lonely little cabs.
Park Hyatt hotel, Baku-
Ali is the young, late-shift Bell Captain. He is 19 years old and has taught himself English with the help of CNN on the television. He questions me about the best place to rear children in America. He is curious about American women, of course, and we agree after some discussion that every culture, everywhere, delights in spoiling their girls. I try to assure him that Azeri girls are the most beautiful, and I believe he appreciates the thought.
Farida is my waitress this morning in the hotel cafe. At 6 a.m., everyone else is sleeping late on a snowy Sunday. I order coffee first, to set a lingering pace and try to rid the cobwebs of 27 hours of jet lag. After two cups, my head is spinning slightly. Did I mention that they like their coffee strong here?
They have no breakfast pastries to go with my coffee, but I begin to get the caffeine shakes, so I order the 'English' breakfast; they don't seem to offer a more indigenous selection. No one else comes down to breakfast. I would love to call my wife; it's 10 p.m. back home. 'Back home' - what a lonely phrase. I miss her at breakfast; she loves strong coffee.
My eggs come with a side dish of green and black olives. Oh yeah! I'm gonna like it here.
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My travel notes fail at this point, as I become involved and devoured by business meetings. For eight days, I see only the inside of the hotel, the inside of taxis, the inside of meeting rooms, and the windswept desolation of the contaminated oilfields. We stop for one hour, to see the ancient 'Maiden's Tower' and get to buy some silk scarves for our wives. The young guy selling them is named Samir, and speaks English very well. He shows us ancient carpets and gives us an impromptu education on the qualities and distinctions of them. He knows we can't take them out of the country, but shows them to us anyway. I think he is truly proud of his heritage, and is so typical of the other Azeri people I meet along the way.
The return home is very much the same. I remember how much I hate air travel. I'm supposed to get a long afternoon and overnight layover in Dublin and plan to see a few sites. Then in London, the airplane behind us crashes on the runway and we're delayed, waiting three hours on the tarmac. When we finally land in Dublin, it's dark and raining. I get a pint of Smitties in the hotel bar, and go to bed early.
I leave Dublin in the dark and rain the next morning, and stop briefly at New York. I see for the first time, the famous skyline and the lady in the harbor. I've never been here before, yet feel strangely comfortable. The guy sitting beside me owns a coffee company in County Cork; we trade email addresses.
I land in Houston to find the Irish rain has followed me home. My ears won't unstop for twelve more hours.
The one enduring thing I've learned about travel is that a stranger's smile can salvage even the soggiest trip. My visit to Baku was rushed, tiring, chilly, and absolutely filled with the smiles of strangers. I hope to return soon.