Sheremetyevo (Sher-ih-met-Yev-oh) Airport in Moscow is old. The recent renovations brought less dirt brighter lights and more chairs, brighter lights but there's not disguising it's age. To get there, you had to metro to the end of the line and smuch yourself and your baggage onto an over-crowded bus or hire a car. The ride took an hour. When you enter the airport doors, you go through a slue of security checks that are tiresome and, seemingly redundant. As soon as you go through the airport doors, you are in a line (granted, a chaotic Russian line) to put your bags on an x-ray machine. Once through that, your stuff goes through another x-ray machine and a hand search before it's loaded on the plane. You go through another machine before entering the holding pen, er, gate for your flight.
Domodedivo (Do-mo-DED-ih-voh) was the shiny new airport. A beautiful arc of gray steel and glass, you could actually ride the metro directly to it. And while the Russian cultural urge to push ahead and call a mob a queue, the airport was spacious and shiny and clean. It's entry hall was sparkly bright and, even five years ago, Steve and I noticed security wasn't quite as tight as that at Sheremetyevo. (Go ahead, try it out loud -- you can say it.)
Now Domodedivo's beauty is shattered by a suicide bomber's hopeless rage. Thirty-five lives blacked out. Fear and pain and sorrow in the world. Again. Nothing funny about this entry.