Blindly Driving Into a Shallow Ditch (On Perception)

As we exited the strip club, the Moscow sky was filled with falling snow. Though dark, we knew it was early morning because the many of the dancers that had previously entertained us were now wrapped up in warm, concealing clothes awaiting the arrival of their taxis.

We too were in need of a taxi and drunkenly staggered toward a larger street to find one.

Hailing a cab in Moscow involved a few steps. 

First, stand near the edge of the sidewalk (be wary of any speeding traffic as you approach. 

Second, stick out your fist  toward the street (open hands  and waving are not acceptable methods).

Third, watch as one or more cars line up for your business (the more cars line up, the better negotiating position for the passenger).

Fourth, negotiate a price (and be willing to tell the driver to fuck off if the price is wrong). 

Fifth, arrive at your destination and pay (do not drink any offered liquids during the ride). 

My companion negotiated the ride as a struggled to remain balanced. Once inside we settled in. Speaking in Armenian, I told my friend that we had drank to much and my head was spinning. 

The driver, having overheard us, asked if we were Armenian in Armenian. 

We responded yes and asked if he was too.

"No," he said "I'm Azeri."

Armenia and Azerbaijan are neighboring countries and participants of an ongoing territorial conflict that has been unresolved for nearly 30 years.

Given the animosity of our peoples, I admit that a part of me was convinced that I was going to die that night. But the driver, a transplant to Russia for a little over two years, seemed pleasant enough; and my companion, a resident of the city, seemed unfazed by the revelation having quickly fallen asleep. 

So I pushed those worries to the back of my mind... until we drove past our stop, twice, then turned off into a dark side street into unfamiliar Moscow. I began to construct scenarios in my mind about what was about to happen. I wholly expected to be driven to some discrete location and never be heard from again.

Though highly inebriated, I decided I would not go out with a fight, and forced myself to be alert, looking for any indication that trouble was afoot; summoning fake, drunken bravado in preparation to act.

Instead I watched as he blindly drove into a shallow ditch and for the next twenty minutes worked to pull the car out as snow began to fall in greater quantities. 

Eventually we were back on the main road, and I managed to direct him to our stop though I was woefully unfamiliar with the city.

I was angry. 

A ten minute drive had taken almost an hour. Our stop was on one of the main roads of Moscow, and one our driver, in two years had not been familiar with. I reached into my pocket and grabbed his money, crumpling it in my fist.

We exited the car and I leaned into the window. 

"This," I said, referring to the poorly navigated ride, "this is why you lost the war." tossing the crumpled rubles at his lap before walking away.