That Final Flight

I was struck by my first experience of Georgian culture a few hundred miles away from the country itself, several thousand miles above Eastern Europe. I chatted idly with the Latvian expatriate turned British lawyer in the seat next to mine. In front of us a nervously cheerful Georgian man opened his two liter bottle of duty-free vodka.

When the drink cart came clattering up the aisle, he asked for several glasses of ice and nothing else. The stewardess raised an eyebrow. “Sir,” she said in a thick but affectionate German accent, “We don’t allow passengers to drink their own alcohol on the plane.” She ran through his options again. Beer, wine, liquor? He had successfully hidden the giant bottle, but she seemed well aware of such monstrosities available at the Munich airport. He didn’t have anything, he lied in broken English. He was just thirsty, had a sore throat, enjoyed munching on ice. The Lufthansa attendant was not convinced. The Georgian changed pace. Yes, he had some vodka, but he was terribly afraid of flying and needed to relax. He was going home, and a small plastic cup of wine would not be sufficient celebration. He was quite willing to share. She gave him the soul crushing look of a woman who has just spent the past twelve hours covering thousands of miles and a couple of continents in high heels. He relented and ordered a white wine and an ice water.

By the time Miss Lufthansa made it back one row to me and my new Latvian friend, the Georgian had drained both glasses and was splitting the ice between the two. I was momentarily distracted by a heated comparison of British, Latvian, and American legal systems. When I returned my gaze through the gap in the forward seats, the bottle was back out and half empty. With the flight attendant out of ear shot, he began to pass the vodka around the front half of the plane. He toasted his friends and family in incomprehensible Georgian. Granted, at this point all but the most basic Georgian was unintelligible to me. Georgian is a unique  and daunting language, dominated by thick consonant clusters. Well liquored, this fellow passenger seemed to abandon his vowels all together. When a mild bit of turbulence hit the plane, he was quick to snatch up the bottle and finish it off. A half hour later his snoring rang with the same series of G, Gh, K, K’, Kh, and Q’ sounds that filled my Georgian phrase book.

Less than an hour from landing I suddenly realized the snoring had let up. But that is not what had caught my attention. There was a small flash of light and a familiar scraping sound. I peered through the seats and choked back a laugh. The man had a cigarette in his mouth and a lighter in his hand. He swiveled his head a little, looking for Miss Lufthansa, or just plain drunk. Then he struck the lighter so as not to produce a flame, but rather shower the tip of his cigarette with sparks. He caught a tiny ember and stoked it with the same tenderness as kissing a newborn. He let the ember die as his lungs slowly filled, then held his breath as long as he dared and exhaled under his collar.

I was impressed. It took him nearly a half an hour, but he managed to smoke the entire cigarette without any visible smoke. When we touched down in Tbilisi Miss Lufthansa smiled a little too narrowly as he exited the plane. He smiled back, a little too broadly. He had left the empty, two-liter, glass bottle resting happily on his seat.