Sochi Da! A Year to Go

This time next year , Eat at Joe’s should be in the middle of its biennial Olympic blogging fest. I know, Leah has barely hung up her Gamesmaker garb after playing host to us for the London Games. But the Olympic clock keeps ticking, so the blog is on the scene in Sochi to give its loyal followers a sneak peek as Russia readies itself for the Winter Games.

And they better step on it!

Some venues — speed skating, the sliding track, curling — are all shiny new and ready to go. Others are half built or just holes in the ground.

The ski jumping and Nordic combined park, called RusSki Gorki, is behind schedule and 10 times over budget. Putin fired the venue manager two weeks ago. The main media center? That’s the hole in the ground. The new rail line from Sochi to the mountain cluster of venues in Rosa Khutor is still a ways from completion. This leaves a rickety two-lane winding road as the only connection between the two. The train, they say, will make the trip in 30 minutes. That will be a huge upgrade over the trip by car, which took us well over an hour in each direction today on our tour of the venues.

But even that was far superior to the harrowing ride we had in the dark from the airport up to Rosa Khutor. But before those details, a little backstory.

I intended to rent a car at the airport and drive to the mountains. Got my international driver’s permit; called Hertz to reserve the car.

I was then told by the Times people in our Moscow bureau that under no circumstances should I be renting a car. It seems it is not uncommon anywhere in the country to be pulled over and detained until, well, let’s call it a “fee” , is payed to secure your release. OK, called Hertz and canceled.

It would be late. Buses may not be running. Taxi drivers? Apparently tricky and an expensive option. What we needed, I was told, was a driver. I emailed Alex, he was to be our interpreter later in the week when we headed down to Sochi after our days in the mountains. He would hook us up. He knew a guy: Alexei. (Everyone is named Alex, Alexei, Alexander or Alexandra. Except for the occasional Nicolai). Through Alex, a deal was struck. Alexei would drive me up to Rosa Khutor for 1,500 rubles (about $50.) He would then head back down the mountain to get my fellow Timesman, John Branch, who would be landing from San Francisco three hours later. Another 1,500 rubles. Alexei speaks no English. Neither John nor I speak a word of Russian. But we had a deal. He knew where we were going; we knew how much to pay: no need for talking.

At this point, enter my guardian angel, James Hill, NY Times photographer based in Moscow. Fluent in his native British English and in Russian.

He emailed to say he would be on my flight from Moscow to Sochi. “Perfect,” I said, “and I have a driver.”

“Good” he said.

Alexei met us at baggage claim with a nice placard with Joe Ward printed on it. Just like in the movies.

I nodded to him. (That’s all the Russian I know.) James told him in Russian that he would be coming along too. Alexei looked at me and looked at my bags. Then he looked at James and looked at his bags. Alexei seemed troubled. Alexei’s car, it turns out, is not much bigger than my suitcase. Certainly not made to carry three people, two large suitcases and two cases of camera equipment. We eventually stuffed one bag in the trunk and the other three in the backseat with me. James sat in the front. They chatted in Russian. Ah! disaster averted.

Not far up the hill, traffic was at a standstill. A very large earth-moving vehicle had not made the sharp turn. It laid sprawled on its side across both lanes. Its load of stones had spewed everywhere.  James translated from Alexei. “This could be hours. They may need to get a crane to remove it.” But after a mere 20 minutes or so the traffic began slipping by on the shoulder of the road. It was dark. I couldn’t see what was beyond the shoulder, but cars larger than ours were making it. And we did too. Ah! Disaster averted.

And speaking of dark? Are Alexei’s headlights even on? I see no road ahead. No white lines, only the lights from oncoming giant trucks rumbling down the mountain. I’m sure his lights are caked with mud from the construction dust and the constant drizzle. I was beginning to appreciate that I was surrounded by our large bags. Surely it would help soften the blow when the inevitable happened.

The road follows the river and occasionally crosses it. Although in the complete darkness, it was tough to know when. Even for Alexei.

With my eyes closed and my knuckles white, James lets out a Russian cry of some sort. The brakes are slammed and the car slides endlessly on gravel. I open my eyes long enough to see there is no bridge, at least not where we turned. We stop short of the rushing river. Ah! Disaster averted.

Except for the occasional veer onto the shoulder or into the oncoming lane, the rest of the trip is relatively event-free.

We find our hotel. Brand spanking new. James and Alexei chat more in Russian.

“Joe” James said, “He wants 3,000 rubles.”

“You mean 1,500 from me and 1,500 from John?” I said.

James tells me no, 3,000 from me and then 3,000 more from John.

I told James we had already settled on a price and this was double that. “Maybe I should call Alex,” I said.

James then tells me two things.

First, he said, “Joe, just pay it.”

Second, he said, “Joe, welcome to Russia!”