My dad surely had a lot of adventures in his job. He was the sales & marketing director for a multinational petrochemical company, Ethyl Corporation, and it seemed that he was never home; constantly traveling the world. One of my earliest memories is of him sending me a stuffed kangaroo from Australia, where he was when my birthday rolled around. His passport had hundreds of pages in it, with accordion-style inserts as long as my arm. There were decorative visas in it, with entry and exit stamps from all over the globe. I wish I knew where it was; I don't remember coming across it when I was packing up my mom's house last year. When he was alive, I used to badger him to write down some of his stories. I even bought him a Dictaphone gadget, but as far as I know, he never used it.
One story with which he regaled us was a trip behind the Iron Curtain in the early 1970's. I wish I had a video of him telling the story; one of the best parts was his imitating a propeller airplane. Not long before he died he gave me a written account of the trip as a Christmas present. My copy was lost when I moved several times recently, but my sister sent me her copy. I am happy to share it with you today:
“It was a dark and stormy night ….” or more correctly, it
was a cold, dark and rainy morning.
And there I was at Zaventem Airport in Brussels at six a.m., checking in
for a flight to Sophia, Bulgaria, via Frankfurt and Vienna. I was filled with foreboding. The day was somewhere between Christmas
and New Years and although I had made dozens of trips in Europe, this was the
first time I was required to fill out an exit visa which I realized was only
for travel to Eastern [European] countries. Events were to confirm that my foreboding was not misplaced.
As I sat in the departure lounge waiting for my flight to
Frankfurt to be called, I had a chance to ponder the circumstances that had
brought me to this place at this time.
I was then Marketing Director for the Middle East, Europe
and Africa for an international chemical company with headquarters in Brussels
and had [the] responsibility for shipping and delivery, customer service and
several other activities. There
were several people under me, which must have been the reason for that somewhat
euphemistic title. Actually the
fancy title did not last long, but that is another story.
Since it was between major holidays, I had chosen to make
the trip myself instead of sending one of the staff.
We had a major manufacturing plant in Thessalonika, Greece,
and had made a deal with the Bulgarians to make shipment to their refinery at
Burgas in railcars as a very important replacement for shipment in drums from
an Eastern European manufacturer.
It is important to know that the product involved was very toxic and a
person could be poisoned either by breathing the vapors or by absorbing the
liquid through the skin. More
later about the hazards involved in handling this chemical.
It is also important to know that we are required, as part
of our agreement with the Bulgarians, to make initial delivery prior to the end
of the year and the contents of the railcars were to be discharged and in
storage by December 31. We were
familiar with the way the refinery had handled the Eastern European product and
were much concerned about the possibility of damage to our railcars.
Thus I was on my way to look after the safe handling of our
product to and to prevent damage to our tank cars.
Part of my worry was that my baggage might be lost, so I put
everything into two briefcases, one with clothing and toilet articles and the
other with flanges and adapters, which I estimated would be required to hook up
our railcars to the Bulgarians’ facility.
If I were traveling today the iron in that one briefcase would set off security
alarms all over Europe.
The first leg of my journey was uneventful. I normally passed through Frankfurt
several times a week and I was very familiar with that air terminal.
The second of the three legs was also routine and we arrived
in Vienna pretty much on schedule.
I checked in for the flight to Sophia and settled down to wait for
departure in two or three hours.
About an hour before departure I noticed a crowd around the airline
ticket counter and heard voices raised in German. After a short search I found a young man who spoke English,
and who filled me in on what was going on.
Sophia was fogged in.
(This was not at all uncommon in winter months). Austrian Airlines notified passengers
that they would be flown to Bucharest in Romania and then would go by train to
Sophia. This arrangement gave me
some worry so I hooked up with the English-speaking fellow. Turned out he was from Leipzig, in East
Germany, a commercial traveler, and spoke a little of both the Romanian and
Bulgarian languages. There were
about fifteen people in our group and I examined each person looking for an
American.
One fellow stood out.
He looked like an American but his suit was rumpled and dirty and he had
several days’ growth of beard. I
was attracted to another passenger who was female, had red hair and was a real
beauty.
We boarded the plane and off we flew into the night.
The airport terminal at Bucharest was dark except for a few
bulbs here and there. This was the
impression I had of all Eastern Europe – dark and foreboding. There were guards standing around
dressed in padded uniforms reminding me of the Chinese soldiers I had
seen. And they were well armed.
Another impression I gained was that no one seemed to be in
charge and no one knew what was going on.
We huddled in a group in the terminal building and I stuck with my
German friend. I was exceedingly
glad that I had only hand luggage.
Finally we were loaded on a bus for a trip to the center of
Bucharest and it was dark all the way.
We drew up to the Intercontinental Hotel and we disembarked with
instructions to use the hotel currency exchange to change our funds into local
money to purchase our train ticket to Sophia. We overwhelmed the poor money changer but finally managed to
change enough for our tickets. We
were ordered to cross a main thoroughfare [on foot] to a travel agency to buy
tickets. Here I encountered
another Eastern European characteristic – tram tracks that, combined with
darkness, made crossing busy streets at night an adventure.
The travel agent now informed us that the tickets were to be
purchased with foreign currency, so the whole group stumbled across the street
to the hotel and converted our money back to the original. The teller was somewhat put out but we
got the proper money, went back to the travel agency and got our tickets, or
rather ticket – since we were all on
one ticket. This was to cause a
lot of trouble later.
Because he was multilingual, my German friend was given
charge of the ticket, and I stuck even closer. The train was leaving right away.
With all the back and forth, I had an opportunity to speak
to the rumpled, unshaven fellow in our group. To my great surprise he turned out to be the president of a
Canadian steel manufacturing company.
He was on his way to Sophia to purchase some technology from the
Bulgarians. He had been on the way
for several days, and with cancelled flights and changes in airlines, his
baggage was long since lost. Thus
dirty suit and unshaven beard. He,
like I, had to be in Sophia by December 31.
We gathered in the hotel lobby to await developments. Then, we learned that the train had
gone, but that it had to stop at the Bulgarian frontier for customs and
immigration formalities. Since the
border was only ten miles away, we would be loaded in a fleet of taxicabs and
could catch the train while it waited for clearance to proceed.
About this time I began to notice the pretty girl with red
hair, who was a member of our group – and she was crying. I took the fatherly approach and told her
I had three daughters and nothing would surprise me. She had a sad tale to tell. Turned out she was a company secretary from Copenhagen. She had spent her last summer’s holiday
at a resort on the Black Sea and had met a young man from Sophia. The boy’s parents had invited her to
spend the holidays with them and she had been on the way for four days. On the first day of her journey the
Copenhagen airport was fogged in so she went back home. Starting the next day she had an
erratic pattern of flights ending up in Romania, where she had no desire at all
to be, and her money was running out.
I offered to stay with her to give her courage.
When the taxicabs were assembled, the four of us, the East
German, the Canadian, the Danish secretary and I boarded one cab and set out
for the Romanian-Bulgarian border.
When we arrived, the train was long gone into Bulgaria. Now what?
There was much disagreement among the group with some opting
to cross the Danube River Bridge on foot and take their chances in Bulgaria. We four decided to go back to Bucharest
and try for a train the next day.
We still had the train ticket – first class seats for fifteen people. Later on we were very glad.
Then we encountered the next problem: The taxis had been paid for the trip to
the border, but, as the drivers pointed out, this did not include our return
fare. They, however, were the
“only game in town” and the return trip was triple the one-way fare. But we paid and eventually were back at
the Intercontinental Hotel in Bucharest.
After a short stop at the bar, we all repaired to our rooms for the
night.
It had been a long day.
Day two began with our meeting for breakfast as agreed. The multilingual German had determined
the time of departure for the train for Sophia and had even been able to make
telephone contact with the people in Sophia expecting to meet the Canadian and
the red-haired secretary.
The train station was within walking distance of the
hotel. We picked up our baggage
and went to catch our train. The
station was absolute bedlam. About
twenty trains all letting off steam and people going in every direction. Which was our train? Finally we were able to get on what we
dearly hoped was a train headed to Sophia.
I remember that every traveler seemed to be carrying baskets
of food and a jug of wine or water in a mesh bag. We found out later why everyone was so equipped.
The train had compartments seating six passengers much like
the trains in England and other European countries. We found one with only a couple already seated and we four
settled down for our trip.
The train got underway, and since it was daylight, we were
able to enjoy the scenery. We
crossed the Danube into Bulgaria and saw the customs building where we had our
adventure the night before. Trouble developed almost immediately. The conductor came to punch our tickets
and found that the couple in our compartment was traveling on a second-class
ticket. It was an awkward
moment. But then our East German
companion remembered that he had a ticket for fifteen passengers and we simply
included our new friends on our ticket and all was well.
We had a difficult conversation with our fellow passengers
and learned that he was a Bulgarian citizen and she was Romanian. They were married to each other, but
not allowed to live in each other’s country. The only way they could get together was to ride the
train. Sounds a bit farfetched but
absolutely nothing surprised me at this point.
What the couple had was a lot of food and a big jug of wine
which, under the circumstances they happily shared with us. There was nothing to eat or drink on
the train, which explained why all of the people at the train station in
Bucharest had food and wine.
To round out our meal, the Canadian revealed that he had a
bottle of Canadian Club in his briefcase, which he had planned to give to his
Bulgarian friends, but he decided to sacrifice it and we all made use of it.
To pass the time, I decided to wander through the train and
up ahead I came to some cars with bunks on the sides, much like the troop
trains in the USA during the war.
This train had come from somewhere in Russia and the passengers looked
like Mongolians or some other fierce race of people. They had been on the way a long time and floors of the cars
were littered with orange peels and other garbage. I didn’t linger. (Note from me: These people were probably from Kazakhstan ... interesting coincidence!)
The sun went down and finally we arrived in Sophia in the
dark. Again the station was very
dimly lit with an occasional bare bulb.
This time we had to cross railroad tracks on foot. But happily the red-haired secretary
met her boyfriend and the Canadian’s business people met him. This left me and the German. There were no taxis or other
transportation whatsoever, so we got on a tram and thanks to my friend we
eventually arrived at the Intercontinental Hotel. I had been there on a previous trip so I felt at home.
So ended day two.
Day three dawned and I woke up with a sense of urgency since
I was at least a day behind schedule with all of the delays. I had a letter from the Bulgarians
giving the address of an office in Sophia and the names of the people in
charge. The hotel gave me
directions to the office, which was within walking distance. A couple of interesting things: most
streets there are named for important dates.
Thus, in this country, streets might be named the 4th
of July or the 25th of December. At that time I knew little of Bulgarian history so was
unable to recognize the dates but I was to learn a little before I left the
country. Many offices were located
in large former residences and that was the case with the Bulgarian oil
company.
I found the house and went inside. If I have one memory of my trip to Eastern Europe it is
darkness. The office building I
went into had no lights in the hallway.
While I was holding my letter up to the skylight, trying to read a name,
a woman came along and asked me in English what I wanted. She told me that she thought the
refinery in Burgas was closed for the holidays but that she would phone and
find out. My heart sank. All that trouble and I was wiped
out.
Sure enough, the refinery was closed (at least to visitors)
and I would be unable to get in until January 2. This was about December 29. With a sad heart I went back to the hotel to decide what to
do for four days. I booked my flight
to Burgas on Balkan Bavarian Airlines and sent a telegram to the refinery
telling them I would be there on January 2. My East German friend showed up and, since he was spending
New Years in Sophia, he also had time on his hands.
He and I spent time sitting in sidewalk cafes drinking
coffee while flirting with local girls. (Not my dad!) There was nothing else to do.
One day I visited the tomb of Georgi Dimitrov, the first
premier of Bulgaria under Communist rule, and known as the father of socialism
in that country. There he was
embalmed and preserved in his bed much like Lenin in Moscow. There were military guards everywhere
and I was warned to be exceedingly careful not to show any sign of
disrespect. I saw one fellow
hustled out because he had his hands in his pockets.
Then finally it was New Years’ Eve and who should show up at
the hotel but my Canadian friend from the trip on the train. He had finished his business with the
Bulgarians but still had no luggage.
I loaned him my razor and he looked a little better after using it. We three, the Canadian, the German and
I, booked a table at the hotel nightclub for the New Years’ party and
celebrated with the Bulgarians.
On January 2 I went to the airport and took the flight to
Burgas on the Black Sea where the refinery was located. To my happy surprise, a woman from the
refinery met my flight and took me to the plant. I was able to visit the facility where our product was
handled and found that our railcars were empty, having probably been unloaded
under nitrogen pressure. Because
of its toxicity we never handled the product under pressure but moved it under
vacuum to avoid the possibility of leakage.
I could find no evidence of spillage, nor could I see any
external signs of damage to our railcars.
I was really wondering what in the world I was doing there at all.
I took the opportunity, however, to inspect the handling
facility at that unusual refinery.
Storage of the product was in a large, riveted horizontal tank. When I inquired about the means of
measuring the amount of product in the tank, the personnel involved showed me a
long, wooden stick, which they inserted into an open hatch on the top of the
tank. The discoloration on the
stick showed the volume of the liquid in the tank. I was horrified!
This is a deadly product and both the fumes and the liquid can cause a
terrible death.
I decided that the less I knew the better, and I arranged to
leave the plant.
The Bulgarians helped me book a flight back to Sophia for
the next day and took me to the hotel where I spent the night. Burgas is a tourist resort in the
summer months but not much going on in January. I passed the time and took a taxi to the airport the next
morning.
Taking a domestic flight in Bulgaria is quite the
experience. The aircraft are
Russian-built imitations of US planes, but very bare bones. There is no insulation on the interior
and the piping and wiring are all exposed. No seat belts and mean looking flight crews. I saw on more than one occasion the
captain leaning out of the left hand cockpit window shouting and arguing with
the ground crew.
Then there was the matter of getting on the proper
flight. Since no English was
spoken, I resorted to pointing to the plane and asking, “Sophia?” It occurred to me that this question
might be interpreted as an inquiry as to whether the flight might have come from Sophia.
There was some reason to be concerned about safety. I read later that this same flight had
flown into a mountain another day.
Some of the people at the refinery thought that I was on the flight.
But this time I got the right plane headed to Sophia. Here a rather strange thing
happened. Our salesman who
normally called on the Bulgarians, thinking that he might have to leave the
country in a hurry, had sat down with the airline guide and compiled a complete
list of all flights leaving Sophia for any destination for the entire calendar
week. He had given me a copy of
this list, not knowing what I might get into on my trip. I had the list in my briefcase, and
while in the air to Sophia, I got it out to see when I might be able to leave
Sophia.
To my happy surprise, there was listed a British European
Airways (BEA) flight from Sophia to London scheduled to depart about an hour
after the arrival of my domestic flight.
The minute my flight arrived, I hustled into the terminal to
find BEA. Their office was located
in a remote area, but I found it, opened the door and asked if anyone spoke
English. A British voice came
back, saying “Actually, old chap, that’s all we do speak!” It
sounded like angels singing.
So I pulled out my airline ticket with an open segment from
Sophia to Brussels and asked if I could get a seat on their London flight. I must have looked a bit harried,
because my newfound British friend suggested that I go down to the airport canteen
and have a cup of tea while he got the necessary endorsements.
So that’s what I did.
But I had been there only a few minutes when the BEA man came through
the door. This time he looked
hassled. He said, “Look at this
ticket!” Our travel agent in
Brussels had prepared the ticket and in the space for “validity” he had shown
the ticket to be good from December 27, 1971 to December 26, 1971 (instead of 1972). The Bulgarians, being bureaucratic
nit-pickers, had refused the endorse the ticket and they had final say in such
matters.
I thought of a way out. I had a Universal Air Travel Pass and I told the BEA fellow
to write a new ticket, charge it to the ATP and I would sort it out back in
Brussels. He then told me that the
Bulgarians would not accept the ATP and that the ticket must be purchased in
cash. I had been on the way quite
a few days and I was running low on money, so this was not an option for
me. He said to let him work on the
problem, and for me to go back to the bank to sell my Leva (Bulgarian
currency). The bank had a limited
amount of foreign currency, so I ended up with a few US dollars, some francs,
marks and other money.
The BEA guy showed up and told me the British Airline had
agreed to accept my ATP and would generate enough cash to pay the
Bulgarians. This was very unusual
and when I got back to Brussels, I wrote to the president of BEA telling him
how his people in Sophia had saved me.
But my troubles were not quite over. Although I now had a new ticket
properly endorsed, there was a departure tax that was not included in the
travel pass. So I dug out the
miscellaneous money I had from the airport bank, and told the BEA man to take
what he needed.
Meanwhile I could see the plane for London warming up on the
tarmac. Finally I had completed
all necessary formalities and could proceed to immigration for departure
clearance. My well-traveled
passport had about 100 pages of visas and entry and exit stamps. I was the last passenger through, and
the official slowly examined every page.
While this was going on, I could see the flight attendant at the top of
the stairs looking at her watch.
The engines were running and I was holding up the flight.
Finally the immigration bureaucrat stamped my passport. I ran out the door and up the loading
stairs and said to the stewardess, “Close the door! Don’t let them take me off!” A little exaggeration, I’m afraid. We took off to Budapest en route to London. The stewardess said, as we rolled down
the runway, “I think you need a large whiskey." I couldn’t have agreed more.
It is difficult to put into words my feelings when we
arrived at Heathrow that evening.
The first sensation was how bright it was compared to the places I had
been in the past few days. There
were lights everywhere. The people
in the air terminal were happy and, of course, I had the feeling of having
escaped from a captive situation.
To be fair, this is not strictly true. But there was a distinct feeling of freedom on my part.
My odyssey was not quite over. I still had to get to Brussels and home. There was a flight leaving almost
immediately, and I was back in familiar surroundings late that evening. Only one last minor problem: The
airport banks were closed and I could not buy francs to get my car out of the
airport carpark. The attendant was
willing to buy my foreign currency at a ridiculous rate of exchange, which I
gladly paid.
Then I was home.
I had missed New Years’ and had accomplished absolutely nothing. Other than the companions in Romania
and on the train, I saw nothing beyond the New Years’ party in Sophia. I sometimes wonder what happened to the
red-haired secretary from Copenhagen.
Growing up as a Third Culture Kid, I kept a diary. It is tear-stained and filled with the
usual teenage angst that most of us go through at that point of our lives, only
mine had an international slant. I
have schlepped all twelve volumes, in spiral-bound notebooks, from pillar to
post throughout my life. Sometimes
I flip through it and marvel at how mixed up I was, how I grieved, and how I yearned
for love or stability. I recently
picked up a book called “Forbidden Diary,” an edited version of a journal kept by
an American woman who was interned by the Japanese in the Philippines during World War II. Reading the introduction really struck
a chord:
