Behind The Glass Partition
Domodedovo Airport, Moscow, the Russian Federation. I got up from my seat and dragged my weary body out of the plane, where I had sat for almost five hours of a peaceful flight from Dubai. Pacing myself, I walked straight to the long tube that led to the long queues, which led to the immigration officers who would stamp my PILIPINAS passport, granting me access to enter this bolshoi nation—a place I sometimes fondly call Mother Russia.
Moscow that evening had a welcoming temperature of -3 degrees Celsius, and I thought that it was not so bad, coming from +27 degrees back home in Manila. As I stood there acclimatizing myself to the weather, I realized that the temperature inside the airport was actually rather toasty, as always. I stared at the people's expressionless, perfectly contoured faces and tried to mentally rehearse what to do next when my turn came. First, I would remove my eyeglasses; second, I would approach the immigration officer and give her a polite but expressionless dobriy vecher (good evening) to establish the impression that it was not my first time in Russia. I had been through this many times over the course of almost five years, but I still had not gotten used to this so-called expressionless Russian courtesy and hospitality. If you are a first-timer from sunny Southeast Asia, you will be surprised that they won't smile back at you at all. But you have to take it with a grain of salt—or a spoonful of sugar. In their hearts, they are sincere and kind once they warm up to you. I had to rehearse this thought in my mind over and over until it sank in. Because to be honest, the flat affect still terrified me, even though I always traveled with proper documentation. I should be fine.
As I stood there, I knew all too well that getting through that glass partition was at the mercy of the prekrasnaya (female) immigration officer waiting for me to hand in my passport. She examined it like a scientist observing a specimen under a magnifying glass. She mumbled something. My heartbeat raced. What could go wrong? "Sorry, nyet (no) po-russki, only English, pozhaluysta (please)?" She immediately reframed her question: "Is this your first time here?" "No, madam. I've been here many times already." I was tempted to add, 'we have an apartment here,' but I was quick to hold back any extra words, because one word could lead to more questioning. "Did you come here to work?" "Nyet, madam. I'm here for a vacation. My husband works here. If you want, I can show you my old passport. Here, I have it with me. And I also have my return ticket if you want to see it." I think I tried to smile from ear to ear at that point.
I was all too familiar with this kind of feeling. I would be asked a few more questions to verify the legality of my trip—definitely. The immigration officer was just doing her job, profiling me perhaps for my nose, my eyes, or the color of my skin. I'm sure most, if not all, Filipino women go through the same experience with immigration in Europe. I had to stay relaxed and composed. She leafed through the pages of my old passport; she counted every single page forward, backward, and back again, perhaps looking for a ripped page. She mumbled yet again as she paused on one page, "Ah, US tourist visa." At that moment, I wanted to say, "Yes, ma'am, never been used since I got it six years ago," but I kept it to myself. She never asked why I had it. She half-smiled, and that look on her face gave me a sigh of relief. She then handed me my passport and proceeded to furnish me with a migration card—a very important, puny little slip of paper that I had to guard with my life if I didn't want to get into trouble with the authorities during my stay. Like my passport, I had to bring it with me anywhere I went and return it to the immigration officer upon my departure. I was thankful that it was small enough to be inserted into my passport jacket.
Just Like in the Movies
The moment the immigration officer pushed the button to let me pass through the automatic swinging glass door, all of my fears dissipated. I could never get used to this. This was Moscow, the city I loved next to Manila, but I had issues with the people's expressionless faces. As the escalator gradually descended to the arrival lobby, I started looking for a man with a full head of jet-black hair, wearing a collared polo shirt and a pair of washed blue denim jeans. It wasn't hard for me to do that. I immediately saw my husband, who was craning his neck, looking for his five-foot-tall wife in a sea of towering white people. Our gazes met. What had transpired earlier at immigration was automatically thrown over to my short-term memory. Aaaaah, we were back in each other's arms again. We kissed, naturally, just like in the movies. Then he gave me a bunch of sweet-smelling, dark, velvety red roses, which he had purposely hidden in the outside pocket of his black backpack. And we lived happily ever after.
Where Really is Home?
"There's no place like home," goes the famous saying. But where really is home? Manila? Moscow? Batangas? Mindoro—Calapan City or Puerto Galera? Sometimes, too much traveling messes up one's brain. But I don't mean it in a complaining way. For one thing, when you're traveling, your body is subject to speedy motion, and if you're not a hard shell, you will be scattered, leaving a bit of yourself along the way. That is why it is valuable for somebody like me to have the understanding that as a traveler, I am not a settler; I am a pilgrim. What C.S. Lewis said resonates with this thought: "If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world." I set this in stone: I was made for another world, and traveling as a way of life has come about only for a season. I'm just passing through. My real citizenship is in heaven—my final destination.
In a perfect world, my travel narrative would have been the same for the month of March, April, or May. This is the best season to travel because the snow has thawed, the ducks with their teal-colored wings waddle into the pond and zipper across the chilly water, and the overcast skies move out, upstaged by cerulean blue skies. Flowers are in bloom with their majestic colors—it's springtime. But real-life situations occur regardless of the season. The COVID-19 pandemic hit. Lockdowns were enforced. People were quarantined. It was not business as usual. My sweet reunion with my husband was put on hold. My little happiness bubble disappeared into thin air. Reality kicked in. I don't think that traveling will be the same even if lockdowns all over the world are lifted. It will take a while before the dust settles, and until then, I will have to take it one day at a time.
