Driving A Diesel Submarine

One two three we had our luggage and I made my way over to the kiosk that sold taxi tickets into the city. We’ve got four people.  Four bags.  OK.  Seventeen hundred.  It’s a big car.  He’ll be waiting for you It seemed expensive but what did I know.  It was my first time in town.  Outside I talked the girls into a Starbucks visit that seemed to take forever.  Out at the cab queue there were many license plates that approximated the one we were looking for but none that fit precisely.  Then, a shorter, bald man came up and asked in stilted English to see my number.  This would be our guy. 

I was busy, driving into the St. Petersburg.  I needed, I’d discerned the night before to process an invitation letter for Azerbaijan before I could get my visa on arrival.  Oh.  So I found and online service.  And for whatever reason, I could not get online interface to proceed beyond the verification page.  “Yes!  Verified!”  They had an online chat window.  I chatted.  They said to try another browser.  I did.  They suggested I try from a different link.  I did.   And as we rode into St Petersburg I, who don’t usually get carsick was becoming nauseous. 

I hadn’t paid much attention to our driver.  It occurred to me, seeing as how we were in St Petersburg I suppose, that he seemed a bit like a sour little Roskolnikov figure. “Is that the Neva?” I asked when we finally came upon our first waterway.  "No. It’s the Fontanka."  From here a chat ensured that became merrier by the moment.  He showed me a clip of himself driving a diesel submarine.  “Yes, that’s what I do when I’m not driving cabs.” Somehow I felt a bit safer knowing he regularly drove far more difficult craft for a living. 

He had another clip and indeed, there he was and as the point of view shifted there was the bow if that’s what it’s called, of the submarine cutting through the spray.  “I’m based out of Kronstadt he mentioned.  How far is it from St, Petersburg I asked, remembering Trotsky infamous incident with the rebelling anarchist sailors in the early days of the Revolution.

We got to our place, it was only then that I asked him what his name was.  “Ivan.’  I told him I was John and he drew my attention to the fact that the names, were one and the same.  Ivan the submarine captain, let me get your number.  We’re going to need a ride back out to the airport in a few days.  OK.  Do you do what’s app?  Call me on WhatsApp. 

Wednesday 7/04/18