Getting along on impulse power...

Town trips do not appeal to me, much. On the few of them I've participated in, I've played the role of, well, the fellow who's along in case something happens. The one notable exception was a trip, arranged to take a customer's representative to the (presently closed) Luna Club, which actually turned out to be a good time - even though I was there in my role as interpreter - because a table had been reserved in the back room of the joint, so our group was away from the hurly-burly and the noise on the dance floor.

Originally, I had not planned on going into town at all last night, both because of my aforementioned lack of interest and the fact that I had been assigned the early shift for today, but when Victor called at very nearly 8 pm to ask how things had gone with the transfer of the ascent unit to the hall where it will be integrated with the launch vehicle, he then asked if I was planning going into town.

I reminded him I was on the schedule as this morning's interpreter, whereupon he tells me it was going to be pretty quiet in the office today, so if I wanted to go to town, I should feel free to go. It was very nearly time for the van to swing by and pick up folks at the Fili, so I figured I'd go along if the van hadn't left yet, за компанию, as the Russians say (for company). The van hadn't even arrived, so after a quick trip up to the room to freshen up, I joined the group as it headed out.

We arranged for our small band of revelers (all five of us) to be dropped off at the Palermo, where we ended up at the same table as a couple of fellows I didn't know who are working the Boeing campaign that's going on over on the other side of the base. One of these gents was a gangly fellow who has been working campaigns since about 1997 and whose Russian was rough, but ready.

Soon, llike two big raindrops on a window, we and a group of four Russian engineers at the next table over inevitably merged, and the Russians - hammered as they were - bought us Americans a bottle of cognac, which we used to toast to the usual suspects: the friendship of nations, our joint efforts, and the lady in our midst.

After a while, this one rather large and thoroughly wasted Russian kept coming over to our table - first to me, and then to R.- with some wild idea that we arm-wrestle, or something. I was able to get rid of him after one approach, but R. - who stands out in the crowd here because he's black - was pestered again and again, because (a) R. is a naturally affable guy (he ended up trying to teach a couple of thoroughly plastered Russians a 'brother" handshake) and (b) the Russian either wouldn't take "no" for an answer or had forgotten what the answer was between orbits to and from our table.

Our party eventually ended up at a place called the "Vostok," where the music was cranked up to a sound level that fell just short of the threshold of physical pain. Fortunately, I had come prepeared with earplugs (a tactic I had learned back in the day when I carried a press pass at COMDEX in Las Vegas). A fine time - more or less - was had by all, and we were delivered back at the hotel in the wee hours of the morning.

I have been told the Pleiades meteor shower is on and will peak over the next couple of days. If I hadn't been so tired, I would have been tempted to sit outside for a while and gaze at the sky. As it was, after the van let us off, I turned and paused for a few moments to gaze up at the sky, and it was positively alive with stars.

Cheers...

Panning for nuggets...

During a lull in the proceedings the other day, one of the other interpreters played a parody of the venerable Shocking Blue classic Venus. It grabbed my attention because there is mention of the Baikonur cosmodrome in the first line. So, I cadged a copy of the song, listened to it a few times and, with help, eventually arrived at the following lyrics (with my translation that simply relates what is sung):

Покоритель космоса (Space Conqueror)

На космодроме Байконур, Пятиминутный перекур. И кто-то бросил свой бычок Прямо в топливный бачок. Гагарин! Летит Гагарин! На ракете, к другой планете, летит Гагарин! Планета красоты Венера Красавица со всех сторон, Но пролетает как фанера Американский "Аполлон" Гагарин! Летит Гагарин! На ракете, к другой планете, летит Гагарин! На орбитальном доме Мир, В залатанном совсем додыр, Закрыть забыли как-то дверь, И вакуум стремится в щель Гагарин! My baby, Гагарин! На ракете, к другой планете, спешит Гагарин! (I'm your Venus, I'm your fire, летит Гагарин!)

At Baikonur cosmodrome, Smoke breaks are five minutes long, And someone threw their butt Right into a tank of fuel. Gagarin! Gagarin's flying! On a rocket, to another planet, Gagarin's flying! Venus, the planet of beauty Is gorgeous from every side, But the American Apollo Came by and missed the boat. Gagarin! Gagarin's flying! On a rocket, to another planet, Gagarin's flying! Aboard orbiting Mir station Worn completely out and patched, A door somehow was left open And vacuum's coming in the gap Gagarin! My baby, Gagarin! On a rocket, to another planet, Gagarin's speeding! (I'm your Venus, I'm your fire, Gagarin's flying!)

As you might expect, this is not (nor, would I venture to guess, was it ever) anywhere near a top-40 tune, especially not in these parts, where there appears to be a genuine air of reverence about matters space-historical. There is, I think, a realization on the part of everyone who works here, Russian and otherwise, that we here tread on hallowed ground, in the footsteps of pioneers.

The lyrics make little sense and tell no story (except possibly to poke fun at the space program), and I might not even have mentioned this song had it not been for the curious expression "пролетать как фанера" that occurs in the second verse. The Russian is an abbreviated version of "пролетать как фанера над Парижем," which literally translates as: "to fly by like plywood over Paris."

I can only count my blessings that I encountered this expression in this out-of-the-way nook, and not at some high level meeting, because it's one of those expressions that defies any kind of analysis and extrapolation. At first glance, it has the sound of what I have begun to call a "Texas simile" - a notable example of which is "as busy as a cat trying to bury crap on a marble floor" - except that most such similes actually make sense, in their own little twisted way. But plywood flying over Paris?

Good old Wikipedia! It turns out the origins of the expression are moot and likely explanations have been deemed to be urban legends or coincidental, but the fact of the matter is that the expression has come to mean a missed opportunity to obtain something or perform some action, to be at loose ends, or to suffer a setback.

It just goes to show that you can find new tidbits in the oddest places!

Cheers...