What not to buy when you live in a 6th floor Bishkek apartment

After work, every few nights, I stop by the tiny fruit stand near my apartment. The guy who runs the stand is very polite, speaks English, and offers tasty fruit at a reasonable price, so I like to shop there, rather than at the local supermarket chain, for my produce.

It's been very hot for the past couple weeks and there was a new product at the stand that looked like it would serve as wonderful summertime refreshment: big, beautiful watermelons.

The man who runs the fruit stand told me he had the best possible watermelon saved just for me; it would be so sweet and delicious, he assured me, I would thank him for allowing me the privilege of purchasing it.  So I bought it and began the trek home, six kilogram melon perched on my shoulder because it was easier on my back to carry it this way.  After making the 200 meter walk in the sweltering heat, I arrived at my apartment building sweating, somewhat sore and winded, only to remember that the elevator had been broken when I had left for work in the morning. The cranky old elevator in my building usually falls apart about once a week, alarms a blaring, then by the time I return from work in the evening someone has fixed the infernal contraption and I am able to make the somewhat uncertain journey up to my apartment on the 6th floor.  Not today.  My mechanical nemesis, having thwarted the efforts of the repair crew on this summer's day, remained as unmoving as the mountains that surround Kyrgyzstan's capital city.

I thought about just leaving the watermelon on the ground floor for someone who lives on one of the lower floors to discover and cart back to their own apartment as an unexpected present.  But, the thought of the taste of fresh watermelon was too tempting, so I tightened my belt, strained a bit, and re-positioned the melon back on my shoulder as I began the slow trudge up all the stairs.

Carrying a watermelon up multiple flights of stairs is kind of like going jogging with a bowling ball. You kind of have to watch your balance and be very careful to keep from dropping your precious cargo on your toes. When I got to the third floor I could hear someone coming up behind me, gaining ground bit by bit.  By the time I reached the fourth floor, my pursuer had caught me and overtaken me. It was the tough, elderly, Soviet-era Russian woman with varicose veins who lives on the seventh floor who shuffled past me.  I think I detected her rolling her eyes at me as she ambled by, sending mental snark waves in my direction for being the dimwitted, inarticulate American struggling up six flights of stairs with a giant watermelon on his shoulder.

Finally, I reached my apartment door on the 6th floor and realized my keys were in my left pants pocket, where they couldn't be reached because the watermelon was precariously perched on my left shoulder.  I had a feeling, as exhausted as I was, that if I tried to put the watermelon down on the ground I would simply drop it and have it explode into five jagged pieces. But, my frantic efforts to reach deep into my left pants pocket with my right hand weren't working either. Somehow, though, I managed to lean up against the door with the watermelon and gradually slide the humungous piece of fruit down to the ground without shattering it.  Thank goodness my elderly neighbor hadn't witnessed the entire pathetic spectacle because I think she would have given me a Soviet-style beatdown and stolen my watermelon from me just to teach me a lesson.

After I was finally able to open my apartment door, I rolled the watermelon through my apartment and wedged it into my refrigerator, happy that I had somehow made it without requiring a visit to the local physician.  So, now you know what not to buy when you live in a 6th floor Bishkek apartment. Next time I visit my tiny neighborhood fruit stand I am purchasing a couple of kiwi fruit and a small bag of cherries.

My Bishkek traveling companion.  Perhaps I will bring a couple of pieces up to my tough, elderly neighbor.