![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
LJ Idol 7.8: First world problem
Jan. 7th, 2011 01:16 pmIn 1955, the site of what was to become the Baikonur spaceport in Kazakhstan was selected because it was remote, close to railroad transportation, remote, situated near a major river, remote, in a seismically stable region, remote, and enjoyed around 350 days of sunny weather annually. Today, all of that is still true, especially the "remote" part, so in planning to spend any length of time at Baikonur—as I do, from time to time, as part of my work as a translator and interpreter—you must bring along whatever you'll need, improvise, or do without.
One April evening a couple of years ago, the setting sun was turning the sky all sorts of pretty colors as our little group emerged from our hotel's dining room to sit in the garden out front and talk, have a drink, and maybe even smoke a cigar. A group of technical specialists had arrived earlier in the day, and it was time to renew old acquaintances and make new ones.
"So, I had no idea how international this project is," said Sven, an engineer from Sweden who was in Baikonur for the first time. "Russians, Kazakhs, Americans, French," he extended fingers as he counted, "Germans, British, an Italian, and me, the Swedish contingent—quite a collection!"
"Yeah," said Eddie, a veteran member of the propellant team, "and to think we're all here to put six metric tons of satellite into an orbit that takes exactly 24 hours to complete, allowing it to remain forever above a point—uh—" He paused and raised his eyebrows in puzzlement.
"Somewhere in Africa," said a voice, "right on the Equator."
Wendell, the campaign safety engineer, took his cigar out of his mouth and sighed. "You guys think on a whole different plane," he said, and held up his drink, which looked like a wine glass filled with water. "Me, I'd really like to be able to enjoy my martinis properly, in a martini glass." He took a sip.
"Just a couple of hours ago you were telling the 'fresh meat' the water was safe to drink and not to step on manhole covers," said one of the security guys, referring to what Wendell had said to the newly arrived campaigners during the mandatory safety briefing. "This ain't Kansas, y'know."
"I am most definitely aware of that," said Wendell. "In fact, I am reliably informed that the 'middle of nowhere' is ten clicks thataway." Wendell waved a hand in the general direction of the horizon.
"So what's the complaint, Wendell? You want eggs in your beer?" said one of the satellite technicians, with a laugh.
"No," replied Wendell, in mock seriousness. "I'd just like my martini in a martini glass."
About a week later, during the next trip into town (the city of Baikonur, which is located about 60 kilometers from our work area), I ran some errands and then stopped by my favorite eatery—a restaurant that bills itself the "Palermo Pizzeria"—and happened into Wendell, who was just sitting down at one of the outside tables. I joined him and we placed our orders.
As we ate, Wendell told me of the latest excitement, involving a member of the French team who had escaped injury earlier in the afternoon when a leg of the plastic chair he had been sitting in at a café down the street had collapsed, spilling the unfortunate Frenchman to the ground, along with his stein of beer.
"There was broken glass all over the place," said Wendell, finishing the tale, "but the main thing is, nobody got hurt."
"Did the management ask the guy to pay for the stein?" I asked.
"It's funny you should ask," said Wendell, "because the owner did want the poor guy to pay for both the stein and the chair. What's with that?"
I explained how, in my experience, it was common for restaurants and hotels in former Soviet countries to be fairly aggressive in having customers pay for damaged items. "Back in the mid-70s, when I first started working with tourists in the USSR," I said, "one of the people in my group was climbing into his tub to take a bath and leaned on the bathroom sink while doing so. The sink fell off the wall, broke into pieces, and cut the guy on the leg. Believe it or not, the hotel wanted him to pay for the sink."
"That's crazy. What happened?" asked Wendell.
"I told the hotel manager the same thing, that he was crazy, and that if anyone should be made to pay for the sink, it was the crew of incompetents who installed it, along with the staff of the hotel that allowed such a hazard to remain unaddressed."
"So how'd it all end?"
"Our group left without paying. When we got back to Moscow, the powers-that-be told me that I had been out of line, and that things weren't done that way, but that was it."
By this time, our plates and glasses were empty and our stomachs were full. Wendell glanced at his watch and motioned to get the attention of our waitress. "We better get going. The bus back leaves in about a quarter of an hour."
Our waitress, who had served us many times before and whose name was Nargul (which means 'flower of light"), came to the table and asked, in Russian, if there was anything else she could do for us. I asked for the check, and then, struck by a sudden idea that popped into my head, added: "Listen, if I were to break a dish or a glass here, would I have to pay for it?"
Nargul didn't quite know what to make of the question. "I—I guess so. Why? Did you break something?" There was anxiety in her voice.
"No. But if I did break something, like, say, one of the martini glasses you have in the rack above your bar, how much would I have to pay for the damage?" Nargul looked at me as if I was crazy.
Seeing Nargul's reaction, Wendell shot me a quizzical look. "Is there a problem?"
"No, no problem. But I'm working on solving one of yours." Then, to Nargul, again in Russian: "Could you bring me a martini glass and find out, please, how much I would have to pay if, by some misfortune, it were to be broken? And please bring the check, won't you?" Nargul smiled uncertainly and left.
"What's going on?" asked Wendell once Nargul had gone inside.
"You know how you're always complaining about not having a martini glass and how they don't sell any here in town? Well, I'm finding out how much I'd have to pay if I broke one of the bar's martini glasses." Wendell started to say something, but I held up a finger to pause our conversation as Nargul came back with a martini glass and the check.
"The fine for breaking a martini glass is 150 rubles," she said, as we paid the bill. About five dollars, I calculated mentally. I took the glass from Nargul and gave it to Wendell.
"Due to our clumsiness, Wendell," I said, in my best nudge-nudge-wink-wink voice, "that martini glass you're holding right now fell on the ground and shattered into a million pieces. Nargul just told me her boss requires reimbursement for the broken glassware, in the amount of 150 rubles. Why don't you dispose of that glass—say, by putting it in your bag—and then pay the lady?"
Wendell carefully laid the unbroken glass in his bag and reached for his wallet. "Please convey my apologies for being such a fumblefingers," he said. There was a big smile on his face and proper martinis in his future.
One April evening a couple of years ago, the setting sun was turning the sky all sorts of pretty colors as our little group emerged from our hotel's dining room to sit in the garden out front and talk, have a drink, and maybe even smoke a cigar. A group of technical specialists had arrived earlier in the day, and it was time to renew old acquaintances and make new ones.
"So, I had no idea how international this project is," said Sven, an engineer from Sweden who was in Baikonur for the first time. "Russians, Kazakhs, Americans, French," he extended fingers as he counted, "Germans, British, an Italian, and me, the Swedish contingent—quite a collection!"
"Yeah," said Eddie, a veteran member of the propellant team, "and to think we're all here to put six metric tons of satellite into an orbit that takes exactly 24 hours to complete, allowing it to remain forever above a point—uh—" He paused and raised his eyebrows in puzzlement.
"Somewhere in Africa," said a voice, "right on the Equator."
Wendell, the campaign safety engineer, took his cigar out of his mouth and sighed. "You guys think on a whole different plane," he said, and held up his drink, which looked like a wine glass filled with water. "Me, I'd really like to be able to enjoy my martinis properly, in a martini glass." He took a sip.
"Just a couple of hours ago you were telling the 'fresh meat' the water was safe to drink and not to step on manhole covers," said one of the security guys, referring to what Wendell had said to the newly arrived campaigners during the mandatory safety briefing. "This ain't Kansas, y'know."
"I am most definitely aware of that," said Wendell. "In fact, I am reliably informed that the 'middle of nowhere' is ten clicks thataway." Wendell waved a hand in the general direction of the horizon.
"So what's the complaint, Wendell? You want eggs in your beer?" said one of the satellite technicians, with a laugh.
"No," replied Wendell, in mock seriousness. "I'd just like my martini in a martini glass."
About a week later, during the next trip into town (the city of Baikonur, which is located about 60 kilometers from our work area), I ran some errands and then stopped by my favorite eatery—a restaurant that bills itself the "Palermo Pizzeria"—and happened into Wendell, who was just sitting down at one of the outside tables. I joined him and we placed our orders.
As we ate, Wendell told me of the latest excitement, involving a member of the French team who had escaped injury earlier in the afternoon when a leg of the plastic chair he had been sitting in at a café down the street had collapsed, spilling the unfortunate Frenchman to the ground, along with his stein of beer.
"There was broken glass all over the place," said Wendell, finishing the tale, "but the main thing is, nobody got hurt."
"Did the management ask the guy to pay for the stein?" I asked.
"It's funny you should ask," said Wendell, "because the owner did want the poor guy to pay for both the stein and the chair. What's with that?"
I explained how, in my experience, it was common for restaurants and hotels in former Soviet countries to be fairly aggressive in having customers pay for damaged items. "Back in the mid-70s, when I first started working with tourists in the USSR," I said, "one of the people in my group was climbing into his tub to take a bath and leaned on the bathroom sink while doing so. The sink fell off the wall, broke into pieces, and cut the guy on the leg. Believe it or not, the hotel wanted him to pay for the sink."
"That's crazy. What happened?" asked Wendell.
"I told the hotel manager the same thing, that he was crazy, and that if anyone should be made to pay for the sink, it was the crew of incompetents who installed it, along with the staff of the hotel that allowed such a hazard to remain unaddressed."
"So how'd it all end?"
"Our group left without paying. When we got back to Moscow, the powers-that-be told me that I had been out of line, and that things weren't done that way, but that was it."
By this time, our plates and glasses were empty and our stomachs were full. Wendell glanced at his watch and motioned to get the attention of our waitress. "We better get going. The bus back leaves in about a quarter of an hour."
Our waitress, who had served us many times before and whose name was Nargul (which means 'flower of light"), came to the table and asked, in Russian, if there was anything else she could do for us. I asked for the check, and then, struck by a sudden idea that popped into my head, added: "Listen, if I were to break a dish or a glass here, would I have to pay for it?"
Nargul didn't quite know what to make of the question. "I—I guess so. Why? Did you break something?" There was anxiety in her voice.
"No. But if I did break something, like, say, one of the martini glasses you have in the rack above your bar, how much would I have to pay for the damage?" Nargul looked at me as if I was crazy.
Seeing Nargul's reaction, Wendell shot me a quizzical look. "Is there a problem?"
"No, no problem. But I'm working on solving one of yours." Then, to Nargul, again in Russian: "Could you bring me a martini glass and find out, please, how much I would have to pay if, by some misfortune, it were to be broken? And please bring the check, won't you?" Nargul smiled uncertainly and left.
"What's going on?" asked Wendell once Nargul had gone inside.
"You know how you're always complaining about not having a martini glass and how they don't sell any here in town? Well, I'm finding out how much I'd have to pay if I broke one of the bar's martini glasses." Wendell started to say something, but I held up a finger to pause our conversation as Nargul came back with a martini glass and the check.
"The fine for breaking a martini glass is 150 rubles," she said, as we paid the bill. About five dollars, I calculated mentally. I took the glass from Nargul and gave it to Wendell.
"Due to our clumsiness, Wendell," I said, in my best nudge-nudge-wink-wink voice, "that martini glass you're holding right now fell on the ground and shattered into a million pieces. Nargul just told me her boss requires reimbursement for the broken glassware, in the amount of 150 rubles. Why don't you dispose of that glass—say, by putting it in your bag—and then pay the lady?"
Wendell carefully laid the unbroken glass in his bag and reached for his wallet. "Please convey my apologies for being such a fumblefingers," he said. There was a big smile on his face and proper martinis in his future.
