After leaving Istanbul, it was a short (and by short I mean
12 hours shorter than the flight into
Istanbul) flight to Astana, my prospective home for the next year. I have relatively few memories of that
part of my trip, other than the terribly close seats, the decidedly inedible
(for a vegan) in-flight meal, and the absolute difficulty of getting any real
sleep. To this day, even, I’m not
really sure what to make of that plane ride. Because of my lack of sleep, by this point, it seemed longer
than the first two legs of my trip put together. I began to wonder if I’d got on the wrong flight after all,
or if the pilot had decided to take an unexpected detour to, say, Vladivostok,
or something. And then, suddenly
and without warning, we were landing.
It was about three in the morning when my plan landed, to
which I can ascribe some of the blame for the apparent lack of any
civilization, but even at night one would expect to see city lights of some
kind. We were landing in the
capital city of the ninth largest country in the world. Instead, black. All around. Which is absolutely unbelievable because from the ground
Astana positively glows. Paris has
absolutely nothing on Astana when it comes to unnecessary and superfluous light. Each building, be it a hotel, monument,
house of government, or even just an apartment building, shines with its own
pattern, its own (often changing) colors, in short is an Eiffel town in and of
itself.
It took many weeks, to get used to this nightly light
show. Did Christmas come early, I’d
find my sense wondering. Is there
some holiday or special celebration going on that I don’t know about? What do you suppose is the electricity
bill these places run monthly? Day
and night, this city is a riot of color.
And for no other reason that simply to have it. Bayterek Tower, lit up in green and
purple all night long, brings to mind those hippies in Independence Day, right before the alien ship opened up with the
ray of death. Then there are those
office buildings, so mundane by day, with their alternating patterns of white
and colored lights that bring to mind the landing strips which certain overly-celebratory
Christmas decorators build on their rooftops, as if they really do expect Santa
to land there come Christmas Eve.
And all I could think, riding into the city on my first
night/morning there under the Arc that reminds one disconcertingly of the Arc
de Triomphe in Paris, watching the distant glow the city in which I’d spend the
next twelve months slowly get closer, was, “Who’s going to pay that electric
bill?”
