NONFICTION
I was looking forward to a plush seat, dinner and wine, lots of it!
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The Night I Met Dr. Zhivago
by Mary Noel Pepys

I loved Pasternak’s portrayal of Doctor Zhivago, a physician and poet, adventurous and passionate and above all very handsome. It was his looks that captured my heart. Or was it the Egyptian actor, Omar Sharif, who played Doctor Zhivago? Little did I know that when I was leaving Ukraine, I would finally meet a Dr. Zhivago.
 
I had been working in Ukraine in 1997, helping to develop the rule of law as I had done in several other former communist countries for the previous four years. Accustomed to a lower standard of living in these countries, I booked a luxurious flight from Ukraine to my next country, Kazakhstan, on Aerosvit Airlines, the highly-rated Ukrainian airline. Luxurious because it was on a European Boeing rather than a Soviet aircraft. Luxurious because the five-hour flight would be non-stop.
 
After checking in at the national airport in Kiev, I was looking forward to a plush seat, dinner and wine, lots of it, while cruising comfortably across four of Russia’s eleven time zones. Instead, I was led to a creaky Russian Tupolev 134 of unknown vintage. There were no overhead luggage compartments, just an open shelf like those on a Greyhound bus for carry-on baggage. Like on many of my misadventures during the previous four years, I was accustomed to expect the unanticipated, to accept the surprise over the promise. Having resigned myself to the bait and switch advertisement, I settled into my extremely uncomfortable seat, which was unsteady and lumpy with torn faux leather exposing puffs of cotton.
 
The Tupolev rattled ominously during take-off. The seatbacks did not lock, but instead flapped forward and back with the plane’s erratic movement. The carpeting was old, tattered and bunched up under my feet. When the plane finally reached cruising altitude, I relaxed sufficiently to contemplate a pleasant dinner. My expectations weren’t high, but they certainly included a fresh salad, chicken, even if over-cooked, a smattering of vegetables and a Ukrainian honey cake for dessert. Instead, I was served a cold bun filled with fatty meat, slices of tomato and cucumber, withered parsley and processed cheese, accompanied by sour red wine. 
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Three hours after take-off, the plane made an unscheduled and unannounced landing somewhere in Siberia. We waited on the runway for one hour until 1:00 a.m. when the flight attendant told us in Russian that we had “big problems.” Snow was falling hard and it was pitch black when she ordered us off the plane. She instructed us to take all our belongings and head off to the airport’s waiting room, which was, in essence, an oversized shed. After showing our passports and visas, we were told we had to spend the night in this middle-of-nowhere Siberian village.
 
Soon the conveyor belt spewed out our checked luggage, including my two extremely heavy work suitcases, too heavy for me to lift. I was traveling alone, surrounded mostly by men who spoke Russian, Ukrainian, Kazak and a smattering of other languages, but not English. I felt lost, but I wasn’t frightened. I had traveled alone for most of my adult life and my only concern was how to take my luggage off the conveyor belt.
 
Finally, a handsome Dr. Zhivago look-a-like came up to me. With his dark, lush hair and mustache and chiseled jawline, he asked in terribly broken English if he could help me with my suitcases. There is a God! He took my luggage and we trudged with the other passengers to the main airport building. Although it was in the middle of the night, the airport café was still open. I convinced the waitress to change a $20 bill, and my pocket bulged with thousands of rubles.
 
Dr. Zhivago and I were joined by another man, equally handsome but in an entirely different way, with fair complexion, blond hair and blue eyes. The three of us sat in the barren, poorly-lit café for a few hours drinking coffee made with what was certainly contaminated water. No one told us why we were stuck in the middle of nowhere, but we tried to make the best of it by concocting farfetched reasons. Did Russia create this international incident to incite Ukraine? Did the pilot have a girlfriend he wanted to visit in Siberia? There was a lot of laughter, most of it forced.
 
Finally at 5:00 a.m., we were instructed to take our luggage and walk through the snowstorm to the airport hotel. When Dr. Zhivago, the other man, whose name I never learned, and I reached the lobby of the hotel, the passengers were told to form groups of three and share a room. Guess who asked me to share their room? Were they thinking the same thing I was thinking? I think so. It was obvious that we enjoyed each other’s company, having spent the previous four hours together laughing and talking. But, were they flirting because they were interested in me or was it simply a way to pass the time?
 
Arriving in our hotel room we found three single beds, no heat and a sink with no water. The Turkish toilet--a hole with a footprint on each side--was down the hall. Whatever exciting intentions we had, we were much too tired and it was much too cold. Dr. Zhivago, the other man and I climbed into our own beds wearing our coats, gloves and scarves. I pictured what my life looked like at that moment with Dr. Zhivago sleeping in my hotel room, and I giggled beneath the covers. Four hours later we were awakened and told to go to the airport café for breakfast: more contaminated coffee and a hard roll.
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​Finally, we learned the reason for our delay. Because we were flying a Tupolev 134, a much smaller plane than a Boeing, we had to make an unscheduled landing in Siberia for refueling. Aerosvit Airlines had not contracted with the Siberian airport for fuel, and we could not take off until the payment was made. In desperation, all the passengers talked about pooling our money to pay the $3,000 fuel bill, but we came up short. Dr. Zhivago, the other man and I went back to our hotel and back to bed. There was nothing else we could do in the middle of a snowstorm, in the middle of nowhere.
 
Nineteen hours later, arrangements for payment were made. Just as perplexed as we were about the unexpected landing, we were equally perplexed by the unexpected payment. Who had the cash that the Siberian airport demanded? Did someone who lived near the airport withdraw his life’s savings to pay our fuel bill? We never learned, but we didn’t care because the plane's belly was full of fuel and we left for Kazakhstan. Same meal, but without the fatty meat. While we spent the night together, we were not seated together on the flight.
 
After arriving in Almaty, Kazakhstan, dog-tired and famished, the three of us gave each other hugs and went our separate ways. While I’ll never know Dr. Zhivago’s intentions and wonder whether his interest in me was as great as mine in him, I do know we shared a moment in time that could have been a trip from hell but instead became a wondrous adventure. 

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​​Mary Noel Pepys is a senior attorney with a specialization in the rule of law, specifically international legal and judicial reform, and corruption within the judiciary. Since 1993 she has helped emerging democracies develop justice systems that ensure the protection of citizens’ human rights, equal treatment of all individuals before the law, and a predictable legal structure with fair, transparent and effective government institutions. Mary Noel has worked in over 45 countries, lived five years in six former communist countries, and 20 months in Afghanistan as the Justice Advisor for the Bureau of International Narcotics and Law Enforcement of the U.S. Department of State. While in Afghanistan, Mary Noel focused on strengthening the criminal justice system and the correctional system.
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