Elena Zotova - Flight attendant of international airlines.

About Italy

International airline stewardess

Extraordinary adventures in foreign airports. A funny read for friends

Elena Zotova Photographer

yuriyzhuravov/123RF

ISBN 978-5-4485-5277-9

Created in the intellectual publishing system Ridero

The extraordinary adventures of a flight attendant at foreign airports and beyond

Collection of stories and novellas.

Crowd in Ulaanbaatar

Spartak (Moscow) – Real (Madrid)

Aeroflot representative

Smuggling

Pervert

Instead of a preface

Hello friends! My name is Elena.

I worked for seven years as a flight attendant at the largest Russian airline. This is an incredibly interesting profession that can throw you across twenty time zones in just a week, help organize a pineapple smuggling channel from Africa, or force you to celebrate the New Year in a Mongolian strip club...

I haven’t been flying for a long time, since then life has turned one hundred and eighty degrees. Dreams came true. But I miss that job. I still dream about airports and I’m ready to do anything to put on my uniform again and say over the speakerphone “Good afternoon, dear ladies and gentlemen! The crew is pleased to welcome you on board the aircraft operating for the flight...”

Over the years of flights, hundreds of funny, interesting and ridiculous stories have accumulated, which until recently only spilled out in the form of small posts on social networks. Until my Facebook friends gave me a magical kick in the ass and forced me to compile everything into a collection. Well, write more...

I abandoned the game in AGAR.IO and started writing... Somehow violently and binge-watching. This experience was a great pleasure. She herself, remembering her entire flying experience, laughed and cried. I hope that my stories will evoke similar emotions in you.

And finally, certain formalities. What would it be like on a plane without them? Formality No. 1.

All events and characters in the book, as well as football clubs, airlines, hotels, are nothing more than the author’s fiction. If you recognize yourself, don’t be offended. It's not you. Formality No. 2

. Any use of book materials, partial or complete, is only with the written permission of the Author. That is, me.

Crowd in Ulaanbaatar

MINI-STORY

My first business trip abroad was to this glorious city. Complete inexperience in terms of packing a suitcase. And the lack of Internet in those ancient years.. Only a paper map on the wall, from which it followed that Mongolia was located somewhere at the latitude of Odessa and Budapest..

In November, slushy muck reigned in Moscow. Flight attendants had to show up for the flight in wool-blend orphan coats issued by their home airline. And in demi-season ankle boots. Actually, in this image I flew to Ulaanbaatar for a week. Without loading your suitcase with a down jacket, a hat and other things that are warm and stupid in the southern climate. Why carry heavy things, right?

I was not alone in my thoughts and knowledge of geography. The entire brigade arrived for the flight in uniform coats and without hats. It became clear at the pre-flight briefing that my colleagues were flying to winter Mongolia just like me for the first time. The pilots, met halfway to the plane, were, on the contrary, dressed suspiciously funny. In some fox malachai. They looked at us with stunned eyes and remained silent, the bastards.. We laughed at their strange appearance, and laughed the whole flight, fortunately the passengers on this flight were also funny.. Through the hee-hee at the landing, information from the commander slipped through about minus thirty-five in the glorious city Ulaanbaatar. We got a little quiet...

But, in principle, nothing terrible happened. From the plane to the airport, then like flies to the crew bus. The good mood has returned. We realized that the cold wouldn’t scare the flight attendants, and we even became somewhat proud of our ability to run without a hat in such cold weather.

The representative of Aeroflot in Ulaanbaatar, such a good guy, who met the crew at the airport and was supposed to take them to the hotel, was the first to sound the alarm... His direct responsibilities included saving the lives of the flight crew throughout the entire trip. And the sight of the newly arrived yellow-throated youths in their wide-open Poltets inspired him with fair fears in the calm and cloudlessness of the coming week. It seems that another problem has come to him... This time - in the form of five smiling, rosy faces...

On the way to the hotel, the Representative tried to persuade us to behave reasonably. Wear a headdress. Preferably not alone. Put on warm pantaloons.. don’t walk around with your neck bare.. smear your lips with chapstick and don’t talk in the cold.. These familiar phrases from childhood.. These familiar intonations from childhood.. Remember when you weren’t allowed to leave the house without a hat? You didn’t want to waste time arguing, but you also didn’t want to embarrass yourself in front of your friends. Therefore, you stood in the hallway with a submissive muzzle, actively nodding to all the admonitions. He allowed himself to wear the ugliness of making his grandmother’s knitting needles.. But as soon as the door closed, he rolled head over heels down the stairs to the next floor.. He took off his handmade one with a pompom and knitted ears, hid it somewhere there, behind a neighbor’s bicycle parked on the staircase cage.. And hoo-hoo.. He went out into the street as a normal person.. Who is worthy of the respect of his peers and the worship of the little ones.. The main thing is not to get into the viewing area from the kitchen window.. Otherwise you could run into consequences..

And now, in response to the murmur of the Representative’s grandmother, we made knowing and serious grimaces.. In a somewhat false tone, they assured us that they didn’t even think about it without hats.. We each have.. in our suitcase.. And more than one..

From the window of a warm bus, minus thirty-five did not look scary at all. No snow. Yellow desert sands, above which a huge, bright sun rises. So that you can imagine the full feeling of Hurghada on the way from the airport. Only palm trees are missing.

As we approached the city, we continued to experience déjà vu, mixed with some snippets from forgotten dreams..

Quarters of Soviet five-story buildings that built up the entire USSR. These yellow brick houses were also from our past. A burgundy painted door, an entrance, three steps... My grandparents, who did not let me go outside without a hat, lived in just such a Khrushchev building. On the second floor, in a corner apartment. Below is a front garden with bird cherry trees, there are pots of flowers and tulle on the windows. Balconies with trash, sleds and skis. The smells of borscht and pies spill out into the street through the open windows. In the green courtyards there are tables where men were hammering a goat into dominoes...

Our eyes became moist. Everyone on the bus seemed to have had the same childhood. We were moved... Until we got closer...

Getting closer, it felt somehow uneasy... No cozy front gardens or even trees around you. The houses stand so bare in the steppe. The windows are creepy. All without curtains, a lot of smoke. Where there is no soot on the glass, empty walls and a complete absence of furniture are visible. Instead of chandeliers there are ordinary light bulbs on a cord..

Against the background of a huge disk of Stars called the Sun and winds and sand, the houses looked like after a nuclear apocalypse. Another difference from the landscapes we are used to is the greater distance between the houses. Well, that's understandable. There is a lot of land. Absolute solitude and space. The only thing that gave away the residents was the few cars parked at the entrances. Mostly old Japanese women.

The representative quickly interrupted his instructions regarding winter equipment, retrained as a guide and launched into an explanation of the unusual appearance of the houses and courtyards.

It was a long time ago... When Big Brother of the USSR decided to make friends with Mongolia, he sent his military, who, in fact, set up these quarters of the Soviet dream. They decided to tame the nomads to civilization and the first step was to move them from yurts to comfortable housing. To toilets, central heating and parquet floors.

The nomads were dumbfounded, cried, said, “Maybe not nada?” The most determined ones left with their yurts further into the steppe. Those lucky ones who couldn't get away with it were forced to move into apartments... Previously, joking with Big Brother was not a particularly safe activity... They moved with all their scrubs - with carpets and livestock. Horses began to be kept on balconies, because those parked at the entrances were instantly snatched by the enemies of socialism from the steppe... The question that torments me most is: how did the Mongols train horses to climb stairs? Apparently, Teresa Durova was not the greatest trainer of those times...

I haven’t been flying for a long time, since then life has turned one hundred and eighty degrees. Dreams came true. I live in a house by the sea, take care of my little daughter and play online poker. And everything is wonderful, warm and cozy.

But I miss that job. I still dream about airports, running across a snow-covered tarmac, getting up for a flight at five in the morning and being greeted over the speakerphone: “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen! The crew is pleased to welcome you on board the aircraft operating for the flight...”

Over the years of flights, hundreds of funny, interesting and ridiculous stories have accumulated, which until recently were splashed out only in the form of small posts on social networks. Until my Facebook friends gave me a magical kick in the ass and forced me to compile everything into a collection.

The kick was so strong that I put down the phone with the newest “Poker: Championship”, where I had practically become a champion, collected the posts into a book, and started writing some more. Somehow violently and binge-watching. The writing experience was a great pleasure. She herself, remembering all her flying adventures, laughed and cried. I hope that my stories will evoke similar emotions in you.

And finally, some formalities. What would it be like on a plane without them?

Formality No. 1. All events and characters in the book, as well as football clubs, airlines, hotels are nothing more than the author’s fiction. If you recognize yourself, don’t be offended. It's not you.

Formality No. 2. Any use of book materials, partial or complete, is only with the written permission of the author. That is, me.

. Any use of book materials, partial or complete, is only with the written permission of the Author. That is, me.

It was a long time ago. When I first started working as a flight attendant. Having served hard labor in the form of six months of flights around Russia, I finally received the trust and honor of going on a business trip. And the first one was to Mongolia. To the glorious city of Ulaanbaatar. Complete inexperience in terms of packing a suitcase. And the lack of Internet at home in those early years. Only a paper map on the wall, from which it followed that Mongolia was located somewhere at the latitude of Odessa and Budapest. In November, slushy muck reigned in Moscow. Flight attendants had to show up for the flight in wool-blend orphan coats issued by their home airline. And in demi-season ankle boots. Actually, this is how I flew to Ulaanbaatar for a week. Without loading your suitcase with a down jacket, a hat and other things that are warm and stupid in the southern climate. Why carry heavy things, right?

I was not alone in my thoughts and knowledge of geography. The entire brigade arrived for the flight in uniform coats and without hats. The fact that my colleagues were flying to winter Mongolia, just like me, for the first time, became clear already at the pre-flight briefing. The pilots, met halfway to the plane, were, on the contrary, dressed suspiciously funny. In some fox malachai. They looked at us with stunned eyes and remained silent, the bastards. We laughed at their strange appearance and laughed the whole flight, fortunately the passengers were also funny. Already at the landing, through hee-hee, information slipped through from the commander about -35 degrees Celsius awaiting us in the capital of Mongolia. We became a little quiet. But, in principle, nothing terrible happened. From the plane to the airport, then like flies to the crew bus. The good mood has returned. We realized that the cold wouldn’t scare the flight attendants, and we even became somewhat proud of our ability to run without a hat in such cold weather.

The representative of Aeroflot in Ulaanbaatar, such a good guy, who met the crew at the airport and was supposed to take them to the hotel, was the first to sound the alarm. His direct responsibilities included saving the lives of the flight crew throughout the mission. And the sight of the freshly arrived yellow-throated youths in their coats wide open inspired him with justified fears in the calm and cloudlessness of the coming week. It looks like more problems have arrived for him. This time - in the form of five smiling, rosy faces. On the way to the hotel, the representative tried to persuade us to behave sensibly: wear a hat (and preferably more than one), put on warm pantaloons, do not walk around with a bare neck, smear your lips with hygienic lipstick and do not talk in the cold. These phrases are familiar from childhood. These intonations are familiar from childhood. Remember when you weren't allowed to leave the house without a hat? You didn’t want to waste time arguing, but you didn’t want to embarrass yourself in front of your friends either. Therefore, he stood in the hallway with a submissive muzzle, actively nodding to all the admonitions. Allowed me to wear the ugliness of making my grandmother’s knitting needles. But as soon as the door closed, he rolled head over heels down the stairs to the next floor. He took off his handmade one with a pompom and knitted ears, hid it somewhere there, behind a neighbor’s bicycle parked on the staircase... And hoo-hoo! I went out into the street as a normal person. Which is worthy of the respect of peers and the worship of children. The main thing is not to get into the viewing area from the kitchen window. Otherwise you could have faced the consequences. And now, in response to the murmur of the grandmother-representative, we made knowing and serious grimaces. They insisted in a somewhat false tone that they didn’t even think about wearing no hats. We all have it in our suitcase. And not just one.

From the window of a warm bus, minus thirty-five did not look scary at all. No snow. Yellow desert sands, above which a huge, bright sun rises. So you can imagine - a complete feeling of Hurghada on the way from the airport. Only palm trees are missing. As we approached the city, we continued to experience déjà vu, mixed with some snippets from forgotten dreams. Quarters of Soviet five-story buildings that built up the entire USSR. These yellow brick houses were also from our childhood. Burgundy painted door, entrance, three steps. I love houses like this dearly. My grandparents, who didn’t let me go outside without a hat, lived in just such a Khrushchev building. On the second floor, in a corner apartment. Below is a front garden with bird cherry trees, there are pots of flowers and tulle on the windows. Balconies with trash, sleds and skis. The smells of borscht and pies spill out into the street through the open windows. In the green courtyards there are tables where men were hammering a goat into dominoes. The eyes became moist. Everyone on the bus seemed to have had the same childhood. We were moved. Until we got closer.

Getting closer, I felt somehow uneasy. No cozy front gardens or even trees around you. The houses stand so bare in the steppe. The windows are creepy. All without curtains, a lot of smoke. Where there is no soot on the glass, empty walls and a complete absence of furniture are visible. Instead of chandeliers there are ordinary light bulbs on a cord. Against the backdrop of a huge disk of a rising star called the Sun and the wind and sand, the houses looked like they were after a nuclear apocalypse. Absolute solitude and space. Another difference from the landscapes we are used to is the greater distance between the houses. Well, that's understandable. There is a lot of land. The only thing that gave away the residents were several cars parked at the entrances, mostly old Japanese women.

The representative quickly interrupted his instructions regarding winter equipment, retrained as a guide and launched into an explanation of the unusual appearance of the houses and courtyards. It was a long time ago. When Big Brother of the USSR decided to make friends with Mongolia, he sent his military, who, in fact, set up these quarters of the Soviet dream. They decided to tame the nomads to civilization and the first step was to move them from yurts to comfortable housing. To toilets, central heating and parquet floors. The nomads were dumbfounded, cried, and said: “Or maybe “nenad”?” The most determined ones left with their yurts further into the steppe. Those “lucky ones” who were unable to get away with it were forced to move into apartments. It used to be a dangerous activity to joke with Big Brother. They moved with all their belongings: carpets and livestock. The horses began to be kept on balconies, because those parked at the entrances were instantly snatched by the enemies of socialism from the steppe. The question that torments me most is: how did the Mongols train their horses to climb stairs? Apparently, Teresa Durova was not the greatest trainer of those times.

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Current page: 1 (book has 2 pages in total) [available reading passage: 1 pages]

About Italy
International airline stewardess
Extraordinary adventures in foreign airports. A funny read for friends

Elena Zotova Photographer

yuriyzhuravov/123RF

ISBN 978-5-4485-5277-9

Created in the intellectual publishing system Ridero

The extraordinary adventures of a flight attendant at foreign airports and beyond

Collection of stories and novellas.

Crowd in Ulaanbaatar

Spartak (Moscow) – Real (Madrid)

Aeroflot representative

Smuggling

Pervert

Instead of a preface

Hello friends! My name is Elena.

And finally, certain formalities. What would it be like on a plane without them? Formality No. 1.

. Any use of book materials, partial or complete, is only with the written permission of the Author. That is, me.

Crowd in Ulaanbaatar

MINI-STORY

As we approached the city, we continued to experience déjà vu, mixed with some snippets from forgotten dreams..

Our eyes became moist. Everyone on the bus seemed to have had the same childhood. We were moved... Until we got closer...

The representative quickly interrupted his instructions regarding winter equipment, retrained as a guide and launched into an explanation of the unusual appearance of the houses and courtyards.

The central heating was the first to go. Either they designed something wrong there, or, like me, they just looked at the map. And it didn’t even occur to me that in Mongolia in winter, negative temperatures can go beyond minus fifty degrees. The pipes in the sand burst during the first frost. The new residents were not particularly upset. They raked up the parquet that had been knocked out by the horses and began to heat it black. Making fires in the middle of his small Khrushchev yurt.

The sewer came out second. Either they threw there waste from livestock, or unburnt parquet... Or maybe all together. The toilets were boarded up and they began to walk in the old fashioned way, out onto the street at the entrance.

Big Brother didn't give up. All this has been repaired many times. Horses, with fights and scandals, were evicted from apartments.. Then it all started all over again...

That's how they lived. Happily ever after. Until the USSR began to burst at the seams and loosened its grip on the poor Mongols. Feeling freedom, many nomads breathed a sigh of relief... They set up a yurt and went to live there, leaving the apartments in Khrushchev-era buildings as utility rooms and dachas, where parents can take a break from their children. Make new ones, get drunk, watch TV. Well, or all together... In order not to walk far, the smartest ones built yurts right in the courtyards of five-story buildings, fortunately the space allows...

To confirm his words, in the first courtyard they saw an oil painting. Yurt. A shiny Mitsubishi Pajero is parked nearby. Two Mongolians from Budun are loading boxes with empty bottles of local vodka into it. Apparently, so that there are no queues yet - hand it over. By the evening, sober up, buy a new one.. And the must-go-on show..

Let's go further to the center. Khrushchev's buildings are being replaced by two-three-story "Stalin" buildings. Clean streets, because the wind and sand blow through them and sweep away all the garbage better than any street sweeper. There is almost no motor transport, but at some entrances and establishments there are shaggy horses tied up... Cute children go to school... And above all this pastoral rises the foreign body of the first high-rise building in Mongolia. Some hotel of a Korean or Japanese chain.

But we are not going there. We turn into some nooks and crannies...

In passing.. Our airline was very kind to its employees.. And put the crews in good hotels.. But a strange pattern was observed.. The richer and more modern the country, the better the hotel for us for a business trip.. In the most seemingly expensive New -York and Hong Kong, where God himself ordered to save money - so they placed the flight crew in five-star hotels... And vice versa... The more populous the world is, the simpler and cheaper the hotel...

In the country of Mongolia, not five stars were waiting for us. And not even three.. In accordance with the “quality” of the country, the crews in Ulan Bator were accommodated in the “Aeroflot House”.. Just one entrance in a three-story residential building. Inside, the “House” looked like a boarding house of the Central Committee of the seventies of the last century. Clean, neat... Carpet runners, tulle on the windows, ficus trees in tubs, creaky herringbone parquet boards... One floor for flight attendants, one for pilots. One is local employees. There are rooms and shared kitchens on each floor.

Food was supposed to be based on pasture. That is, we buy our own food and cook for ourselves. In principle, it was not bad, but monotonous. Because apart from beef tongues, lamb, rice and Korean mayonnaise, there was nothing to take at the local bazaar.

The pilots are collecting money from everyone, preparing to go to purchase supplies. The representative casually asks if anyone wants to go to the local flea market to buy clothes? He can give you a minibus tomorrow. We're intrigued. At twenty-something years old, clothes are one of the main interests in life. The representative explains that not far from the city, in the steppe, there is a huge clothing market, the local Field of Miracles. Mongolian shuttle traders go to purchase goods in neighboring Korea and China and sell the goods they bring with a small markup. You can also buy food, souvenirs, and local clothing there.

Before business trips to China and Korea, for us, green and beginners, it was like... well, you know. We latched on to the representative's offer and agreed on the next morning at nine o'clock. The representative warned that the frosts were getting worse, they promised minus forty-five... We vowed to pull up our socks and put on our hats...

The day passed in hibernation. The next morning, the crew of flight attendants gathered together in the lobby. The pilots refused to go with us and again looked at us with strange looks. The promised minibus arrived. The Mongolian driver spoke a little Russian. It was nice. The day before, the crew was given daily allowance in tugriks and we were preparing to spend it thoroughly. It was in such a blissful mood that our company went to the local famous flea market...

The bus pulled out of the city and took us somewhere into the steppe. About twenty minutes later, behind the next dune, the long-awaited Field of Miracles opened before our eyes. Outwardly, this action was very reminiscent of the Sadovod market from the Moscow Ring Road. In its heyday. A wooden arch above the entrance, crowds of narrow-eyed people, the square is filled with haphazardly parked cars of varying degrees of shaggyness... Hawkers with all sorts of crap are still on the approaches to the entrance. Behind the arch, on the territory, one can see open rows with developing clothes and covered hangars in the depths.

The main difference between the Mongolian flea market and its Russian counterpart is that there are sands, sands all around... No trees, no other buildings... It’s as if our Gardener took the higher mind and jokingly moved it to the desert. Well, in the square in front of the entrance - not only cars, but also horses are parked. In general, the picture turned out to be mind-blowing.

Having recovered from the five-minute shock, we quickly rushed from the bus to the exit. There was a good hunt for rags. The slow driver guessed that he should ask when to pick us up...

- "In one hour?" - What time is it? What are you doing?? It is not enough. Let's do it in two, at this point...

There was a murmur - What two?? We won’t be able to do anything here, maybe in four?

In principle, everyone understood that four hours at such a flea market was wonderful and just what was needed.. But they remembered about lunch at the hotel.. They had already donated money for it.. The pilots promised Uzbek-style pilaf and boiled tongues with horseradish. . I didn’t want to miss the feast at all.. We quickly calculated that three hours for shopping would be Solomon’s decision and jumped out into the wild.

Yes, I forgot to say that the weather forecast did not disappoint. The bus thermometer showed -42. And we saw them perfectly all the way. But the bright sun was shining. It was so hot in the stove-heated bus, so reassured by yesterday’s experience of jogging without hats in the cold, that these figures were perceived absolutely indifferently, as part of the national flavor and an addition to Mongolian music on the radio.

The truth that minus forty-two is f... really very cold came about three minutes later, almost already at the entrance to the market. When the accumulated heat came out of us, and our driver had already taxied out of the parking lot towards the city...

It was so cold that the corneas of the eyes and teeth began to freeze. I remembered all my fillings, because they began to ache sharply in the cold. Moreover, the heads in thin hats did not freeze. What do you mean, no brains...

We closed our eyes, as if on command, we turned around and rushed after the bus... It’s clear that it’s too late.. By that time it had disappeared beyond the horizon into the blue distance.. Three more seconds to comprehend and make a decision - and without saying a word and already in a semi-conscious state, we ran to the rows of clothes.

The stalls closest to the entrance were selling national Mongolian clothing. Malachai, robes, mittens, and other quilted insulated items. Salespeople are good psychologists. They figured us out when we were shaking out of the bus in our fishnets. Well, our throwing around before the entrance only added to their confidence. There was a rustling sound in the rows. Sellers quickly removed price tags from the goods on display.

We made a monthly plan for the first tray with Mongolian robes and fox hats. His neighbor with socks and gloves is two months old. We pulled on two pairs of socks and three pairs of gloves. I’ll never forget the picture - I’m standing on one foot on a piece of cardboard, and with numb fingers I’m pulling a thick sock made of coarse wool onto the other. Nearby, our boy, already wearing a quilted robe on his coat, asks the seller for another one, a larger size. Put on a second layer. No one bothered to remove cardboard books and price tags. There was no time for that. I remember I had a label hanging from under my fox hat right over my eyes. I didn’t care, I periodically brushed it off my face, but taking off my hat and trying to tear it off was beyond my strength.

Having suited up and taking a little breath, we went through the rows to look for what we had come for. Fashionable things made in China. The shopping didn't last very long, about fifteen minutes. Partly because of the cold, partly because we have already spent most of the tugriks in support of national crafts. But I still managed to grab a Mongolian balalaika, a pair of Mongolian cashmere sweaters and “rubber” jeans.

The excitement is gone. The breeze picked up. Even despite the robes and smelly foxes on our heads, we began to tan again. Mother of those who offered to stay in the market for three hours, at the same time of those who generally advised us to do such extreme sports, the pilots, the driver, Ulaanbaatar, our native airline with similar business trips, and, of course, the Representative, we rushed to the nearest hangar at a trot.

And lo and behold! There was a cafe in this hangar. Rescue was close. We will spend two and a half hours waiting in a warm place eating cheap Mongolian delicacies. But don't rush to rejoice. Having burst into the catering, within a few seconds they were forced to back away to the exit. Out in the cold. There was a stunning stench in the establishment. And stunning in the literal sense of the word. The profession of a flight attendant does not imply disgust. After three months of flying on flights in the southern regions of the CIS, Africa and India, a person’s sense of smell completely atrophies. The planes are packed, every second one takes off his shoes, every third one is on fumes. That is, we had hardening. But here...the flavors of the Mongolian diner were stronger...Have you ever boiled beef tripe and intestines? What if you add the smell of sewage and the smell of corpses to this? Even frozen noses and strong stomachs couldn’t stand it...

Our girl Katya was the first to jump out into the street and was vomiting. Cruel. We rushed after, otherwise the same fate awaited us... In the forty-degree frost, it eased up a little. We took a deep breath of fresh air several times, burned all the mucous membranes of our nose and mouth, and immediately came to our senses, as if after a pack of Mentos. And they ran to the next hangar.

It turned out to be a food market. Including meat aisles. The smell there was weaker than in the eating area, but also nauseating. Having warmed up a little, we finally found a shelter that was more or less safe for our psyches and stomachs. A tiny waiting room in front of the entrance to the market. Although it was small, it was more or less warm. And the aromas of the meat rows practically did not seep through. There were 3 hours and 07 minutes left before our bus...

We spent these three hours as if in a dream. We were cramped and stuffy. Fox fur wasn't just smelly. He actively got into his eyes, making them itch, and soon the whole brigade began to look like Mongols. With the same slits instead of eyes and faces swollen from allergies. We constantly looked at the clock and quietly hated each other. It was the longest three hours of my life. Let me remind you that there were no phones with toys and other gadgets back then. For entertainment - only wristwatches. And the opportunity to compare them with your neighbor’s watch. The last half hour was already counting not only minutes, but also seconds. Finally the hour has come. About seven minutes before the cherished number of 14.00, we prepared to start for the parking lot, praying that the driver would arrive a little earlier and we would jump into the warm bus with a running start. And they would freeze there, closer to the stove...

No miracle happened. The parking lot was empty.

In principle, our team in Mongolian robes broke all world running records. There were still four minutes before the appointed time. The decision came to go towards the bus. On the side of the road into town. Still, movement is life. And warm.

I can imagine what our company looked like from the outside. Apparently very cinematic. Live footage from the film Kin-Dza-Dza. An empty road, sands and a group of comrades in quilted robes, fox hats and developing price tags. With plastic shopping bags. We walked, dodging the wind and sand and peering hopefully into the distance.

All the deadlines had already passed, but the bastard bus never appeared on the horizon... 14.00, 14.05, 14.08 minutes and 34 seconds... Fifteen minutes in forty-degree frost with wind. Can a person stand it? We were faced with the same question. But we stubbornly moved forward. With the last of our strength... Until the bell began to ring in our frostbitten brains - “What the fuck? Are we actually going down the right road? And what to do next? We won't be going back."...

That was the end. The body demanded to fall on the sand and fall asleep. Unfortunately, the road was completely deserted. If at the beginning of the journey there was still some kind of activity and two rattling cars drove past, then in the last ten minutes there were no cars or people. Just us and nature. Or rather, we and the Gobi Desert...

Finally, the first of us gave up. Through the fox we heard the pathetic muttering of “Guys! I can not do it anymore. Don't help! Leave me! And go and tell my relatives...” In response they also muttered to him that he thinks too well of us... It’s unlikely that anyone will agree to carry him on themselves. But to convey something – yes, it’s no problem. Of course... Of course, if we survive. Which we deeply doubt...

And then, according to the laws of cinema, a dot appeared on the horizon. Bus. Ours... Or not ours?

I still had enough strength to realize that the driver wouldn’t recognize us in this form and might rush past. Without saying a word, they jumped out onto the roadway, held hands and blocked both lanes with a human chain.

Attention! This is an introductory fragment of the book.

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