Of Aeroflot, Volgas and the Flu

Some joys and sorrows of the Soviet way

PLANE SPEAKING

For passengers of Aeroflot, the Soviet national airline, life is rarely just up, up and away. Among the world's carriers, Aeroflot belongs in the white-knuckle class; its safety record is somewhat cloudy since domestic crashes are rarely announced unless foreigners are aboard. Aeroflot food is all but inedible, with garlic sometimes being the only identifiable ingredient. It is wise to accept one of the gray paper bags offered before takeoff; they can be in great demand during the flight.

Just getting aloft presents its challenges. Planes regularly land and take off not just hours but even days late. One foreign traveler waited in a Moscow airport for 17 hours before his flight to Tbilisi was announced. His airport bus proceeded to roll along the tarmac and stop at three different planes; at each one the ground hostess would yell out: "Is this the plane to Tbilisi?" The bus finally came to the fourth--and right--plane. There was only one problem: no pilot. The traveler finally abandoned the effort at 3 a.m., luggage unclaimed and Tbilisi unvisited.

COTTAGE INDUSTRY

For most Westerners, the word dacha conjures up images of lovely forest cottages or posh state guesthouses by the sea, where top Soviet officials spend their leisure hours. Such places do indeed exist, but the majority of Soviets vacation at dachas that are little more than primitive cottages. City dwellers love the countryside and consider summer holidays essential for recovering from the long winter and girding for the next one. Anyone who can afford to do so rents a dacha--or even just a room in a dacha--for a month or so, no matter what the inconvenience. "When I want to restock the cupboard I have to come back to the city and buy everything there," says one Moscow schoolteacher, who vacations in the suburbs. "Our dacha also needs a new roof, so my husband bangs and works all day while I cook meals on a hotplate and fight mosquitoes." Many vacationers relish swapping tales of the challenges of their rustic lives. But give up those precious days in the country? Nyet!

LIQUOR IS QUICKER

Cash or credit cards may be the accepted way to pay for services in most parts of the world, but in the U.S.S.R. the popular medium of exchange is vodka. Want a repairman to make a house call to fix the TV set? Pay him with a half-liter of vodka. Need someone to paint a room? Offer him his wages in bottles. Vodka is also the ideal gift for minor officials from whom a small favor is needed. Since vodka flows as freely as the Volga in the U.S.S.R., why do so many Soviet citizens welcome it as either pay or present? For the regular drinker, vodka is expensive at $5.50 a half-liter. And the better brands, which are customarily used as currency and gifts, are often hard to find in stores.

HOUSE SPECIALTIES

The monotonous Russian diet is dominated by pork, potatoes and pickles, but certain of the country's foods are unsurpassed anywhere. Russian white flour, for example, is superb, making for the best of breads, cakes, pie crusts and blini. Milk, for some reason, is thin and watery, but the sour cream is excellent. Ice cream, rich and smooth, is among the world's best, though vanilla is usually the only flavor available. Kefir, a kind of cross between buttermilk and yogurt, is exceptionally good, as is a soft curd cheese called tvorog. Fruits and vegetables are found only in season, but often have more flavor than those in the U.S. Canned salmon and crab meat are especially delicate. Caviar? Nothing matches Russian beluga, which costs about $27 per Ib. (compared with $420 per Ib. in the U.S.), when it is available.

BROTHERS CARAMAZOV

Nikita Khrushchev denounced them as "foul-smelling armchairs with wheels," but the comrade who owns a car today treasures it as much as a Russian nobleman once valued his Faberge eggs. The U.S.S.R. has only about 5 million cars, compared with 104 million in the U.S. The list of models available to the average Soviet citizen is small and the price high, ranging from the tiny two-door Zaporozhets ($6,000) to the large Volga sedan ($22,500).

To buy a new car, the ordinary citizen must place his name on an official waiting list, pay the full purchase price at that time and then wait two years for delivery. Getting a used car is easier, if just as pricey. Legally the seller must work through a government agency, which skims a 7% commission off the sale price, but the canny seller usually finds a willing buyer first, makes his deal and then collects as much as $6,000 more on the side from the eager purchaser.

There is the matter of theft. Auto parts are so scarce that the wise driver removes such tempting features as windshield wipers and side-view mirrors whenever he parks on the street. Even when the Soviet motorist leaves his car in the shop he must take care, for his auto may be stripped of items needed to repair other cars. A favorite Soviet axiom: "Your car comes out of the shop with fewer parts than it went in with."

To get a license, the fledgling motorist must take a state-run driver's education course that lasts 180 hours, including 32 hours behind the wheel; truck and taxi drivers must endure 660 hours of instruction. The country's premier car buff is none other than Leonid Brezhnev; he is the proud owner of ten snazzy foreign models, all gifts from heads of state.

ILL-FOUNDED ADVICE

Despite their comprehensive (and free) medical system, Soviet citizens are not above consulting some rather peculiar practitioners. The current toast of Moscow, for example, is a Georgian nurse named Dzhuna Davitashvili, who claims she can diagnose illnesses without laying eyes on the patient. Muscovites are clamoring to see her, and eagerly pass stories about how she cured cancer or made roses bloom with a wave of her hand. Nurse Davitashvili refuses to charge fees--but she does accept presents.

The average Soviet, of course, cannot rely on a Georgian psychic when faced with pain or disease. Folk nostrums will have to do. At the onset of a cold, many quickly gulp down a glass of vodka mixed with two teaspoons of black pepper. Stuffy nose? Take one spoonful of onion juice in each nostril. And there are those who insist on calling the slightest chest pain or palpitation a heart attack, thus leaving foreigners amazed that they are still alive and apparently well as they recount their fifth or sixth coronary.

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