From: Julia
Holy shmoly, he’s hot! You scored, girlfriend.
July 27
To: Julia
Yes, he is hot. He’s also banged up from accident. After midnight now, Jules. Gotta be up at 5 to get to airport early. Call you in morning. Smooches.
July 27
From: Julia
Smooches backatcha, babe. Kiss the BF for me. Lots and lots of times. Will want pics of him, too. Happy flight!
Paulina Rostakova’s Adventures
JULY 30
7:11 p.m.
Astana, Kazakhstan, hotel room
Taking the opportunity to write this while Dixon snoozes. Poor guy, he was up all night guarding the car, not letting me take a turn like we’d agreed to do.
Crap. I shouldn’t have written that there. Now it’s out of order. OK. Starting over.
We arrived in Kazakhstan with what I’m coming to think of as the standard amount of issues, or as Roger calls it, “The damned curse that someone has placed on me, and if I find out who has done it, I’ll string him or her up by his respective balls!”
I would have giggled at the “his or her” part of his conversation, but at the time I was too worried about Dixon being kicked out of the race... dammit! I did it again. Gah! Starting over again again.
The flight from San Francisco to Kazakhstan took almost a day to complete, even with a charter flight carrying just the remaining racers and crew, our luggage, and the cars in the hold. The problem was that once we got to Almaty, bleary-eyed and groggy from being on aplane for so long, the containers holding the cars in the cargo section were minus one.
“So this is Eurasia,” I said to Dixon, huddled into my jacket and shivering. It was about five a.m. when we arrived, and thankfully Roger didn’t make us get into period clothing for the arrival.
“It’s not very Asian looking, is it?” Dixon asked with a yawn. “I wonder if there’s any tea to be had.”
“Ha.” I nudged him with my elbow. He gave me a curious glance. “Tea? Asia? We’re in Asia, the biggest tea consumers in the world. I think. Maybe. If not, they have to be close to it.”
“Ah.” He gave me a pitying look and went off to a table set up with a coffeepot to see if he could scrounge a cup of tea.
We were all gathered in a small glass-walled room evidently set aside for folks arriving on international charter flights, having just handed over our passports and visas, Roger speaking with the interpreter who had met our flight. Through the glass, we could see the plane on the tarmac, the handlers busy moving the containers off the plane. I watched them idly, trying to sort through my impressions of my arrival on not just a continent new to me, but one halfway around the world from my father.
I frowned when the baggage handlers pulled the last of our bags from the cargo hold and drove it off to what I assumed were customs. I looked back at the large cargo containers, counting them, then turned to face the room behind me.
“Um,” I said to no one in particular.
Sitting on a row of molded plastic seats, Melody and her parents hunkered together, talking softly to one another. Beyond them the two remaining Esses chatted with Anton, who wore a sheepskin hat that looked like some architect’s idea of a modern take on an operahouse. Roger, two of the production assistants, and Graham were talking to the interpreter and a couple of officials who were idly flipping through our passports.
“Uh...” I cleared my throat loudly. “Hello? People? Where’s the fourth car?”
It took a minute for my words to filter through to everyone’s consciousness. Dixon was the first to glance over at me, then out the window, a Styrofoam cup of tea in his hand.
I waved a hand at the window. “Three containers. There are four teams, right? Suffragettes, Esses, Englishmen, and the Duke... did someone drop out and I didn’t hear about it?”
There was a moment of complete silence; then all hell broke loose as everyone leaped up and ran to the window, all talking at once. Roger swore loudly and profanely, then, with the interpreter in his grasp, bolted for the tarmac. The two airport officials called after him and took off on his heels. The rest of us clustered at the windows, watching while Roger danced around the cargo containers, his hands gesturing wildly until one of the airline people hurried out and began unlocking the containers.
“What do you think happened?” I asked Dixon.
