Note to the reader: This is a continuation of a larger odyssey, starting with the entry The Indian Empire Strikes Back. That itself is the sequel to my prior trip to Asia, starting with The Saga Begins (again). Yeah, it's a lot of stuff about a coward's journey through scary Asian countries and cultures, but it's not your average travel blog. You can get by without reading what came before this entry, but it does my heart good to see the page hit counts go up. :)
# # #
7 am comes early in most parts of the world. It comes even earlier when you didn't get to sleep until around 3 am. Nevertheless, I awake with the sound of the alarm and leap out of bed with an energy that comes from knowing my escape is now mere hours away. My trip has been a good one but I can only take so much hypochondriacal stress.
Breakfast at the JW Marriott in New Delhi is included in my room rate, and I find it to be an acceptable attempt to appease my Americanness. No made-to-order omelets this time, but a buffet of eggs, bacon and sausage (and many other bits I succeed at avoiding) are sufficient to appease my pre-escape appetite.
I was fortunate to have sufficient wits about me last night and had reserved a car to take me to the airport. I was told I could have a taxi summon me or I could simply have the hotel car take me. I chose the latter knowing it would be available on the appointed time and potentially more substantial than the mini-minivan taxi from the night prior. And, truth be told, I wanted to be sure that the driver would be able to find his way out of the hotel industrial park and to the airport in a timely manner.
Odds would be that the taxi would work out fine, but when an elephant in the fist is worth two in the bush, they say.
My flight out of India is on Air India and I easily find the check-in counters upon arrival to the airport. Checking in is business-as-usual until once I get my boarding pass and have checked my luggage the lady behind the counter summons a young Indian lad over and tells me that he will escort me through security and border control to my gate.
This is new.
She mentioned the name of this guy but like pretty much all names, even simple ones like Bob or Jim or Venkatanarasimharajuvaripeta, it stuck to my memory like a fried egg on a new Teflon skillet.
Upon being summoned, he immediately reached for my only carry-on bag: my backpack. "May I carry this for you, sir?" he asks.
Um, it's a backpack, and its on my back, and it's not causing me any trouble, and I didn't ask for this, and I don't like the idea of my laptop, ipad and USB-powered personal fan being in the hands of a stranger.
Even if the stranger has a nice badge on his shirt that says, "No tips, please."
Having lost his name already, I want to call him Jeeves but decide it would fail to entertain him as much as it does me. So I simply and politely tell him no, thank you.
So rebuffed, Jeeves takes the lead toward border control. He is an excellent conversationalist, by which I mean he says nothing as we walk, which is just fine since I also had nothing to say. It's an awkwardness I'm used to and can live with. In fact I often choose it over the banality of small talk, which in my humble opinion is for many people an excuse not to actually think.
Border control has a line, which is not unusual, but lines have the unfortunate effect of magnifying awkward waiting when there's a forced relationship between folks in the line. Like, say, the guy who is needlessly escorting me. It's a slow torture where the pressure to break the silence between us increases with each turn we make through the maze leading to the woefully understaffed border control.
He finally breaks the silence, asking again if he can carry my bag.
"That's OK, I've got it," I say.
"Sir, please, it's my job."
The pathetic pleading tone is enough to break me. His shirt's "no tips please" badge also makes me think that this is not a cry for tips but rather a plea for my cooperation in making him appear to his bosses that he is doing the work he was hired to do.
I'm enough of a humanitarian that I hand over my backpack. The backpack weighs around 20 pounds which doesn't sound like a lot to some, but I'm actually relieved to get that monkey off my back for a bit.
We finally make it through border control and then through security - all with no incidents. The guards manning the x-ray machine see my USB-powered fan and ask me to take it out, but laugh at the silly sweaty American and his teeny fan, and wave me through.
At this point, Jeeves shows me my gate and hands me my backpack.
I thank him.
He stares.
I'm tempted to say "That will be all, Jeeves" but since I did not tell him that was the name I assigned him in my head, I figure it would only prolong this experience.
I tell him to have a good day.
He stares, but with a slight modification that communicates yearning disappointment.
His face asks for tips, but his badge says no.
And no means NO.
I turn and proceed to the gate. I do not look back lest it ruin the effect.
Now, most humans try and go to the bathroom before getting on a plane that will incur a long flight, and while I have these same urges, it is quite often a struggle between my desire for relief and my desire for safety. However, there are just some things that one finds more difficult to do on a plane than on the ground, and so, having ample time to prepare myself for the flight, I head to the men's room.
Now, I find the need to point out that public toilets of the more modern type in India seem to have a commonality to them that I've found in no other places in my travels. Granted, I've not been to a huge number of places, and so one may question my statistical rigor. But I still say this is weird.
Aside from the obvious fact that the bathroom stall contains the facility to wash dishes as well as do one's duty, there is also a lack of potty protectors. I've noticed that much of Europe and Asia - at least those parts I've pooped in - do not have these as a rule of thumb. On the other hand, they often have better-quality toilet paper than American public restrooms, and so there are ways to compensate.
But I digress. Suffice it to say that I accomplished that mission and returned to the gate.
The plane boards on time and I find my seat, stow my backpack, and relax as we finally begin taxiing to the runway. There's an odd vibration on this plane as we travel around on the tarmac - it is very much like when you have a shopping cart with one wheel that waggles as you push it forward. As we launch ourselves down the runway, moving faster and faster, this vibration and sound get worse and more intense, so much so that once the wheels leave the ground, the plane begins to shudder so violently that passengers are looking around worriedly. I look toward where the flight attendant is sitting, and our eyes meet. She smiles an apologetic smile that seems to say, "yeah, sorry about that, but we all gotta die sometime."
But we do not die.
And some 9 hours later, I find myself in Shanghai for the second time, wondering how the driver who is supposed to pick me up will misspell my name this time.
# # #
7 am comes early in most parts of the world. It comes even earlier when you didn't get to sleep until around 3 am. Nevertheless, I awake with the sound of the alarm and leap out of bed with an energy that comes from knowing my escape is now mere hours away. My trip has been a good one but I can only take so much hypochondriacal stress.
 |
| R.I.P. |
I was fortunate to have sufficient wits about me last night and had reserved a car to take me to the airport. I was told I could have a taxi summon me or I could simply have the hotel car take me. I chose the latter knowing it would be available on the appointed time and potentially more substantial than the mini-minivan taxi from the night prior. And, truth be told, I wanted to be sure that the driver would be able to find his way out of the hotel industrial park and to the airport in a timely manner.
Odds would be that the taxi would work out fine, but when an elephant in the fist is worth two in the bush, they say.
 |
| And why turn down a ride in their shiny new-looking Mercedes S-class with a driver who calls me sir a lot? |
This is new.
She mentioned the name of this guy but like pretty much all names, even simple ones like Bob or Jim or Venkatanarasimharajuvaripeta, it stuck to my memory like a fried egg on a new Teflon skillet.
 |
| Notice I did not say "like a snail on a Teflon skillet." |
Um, it's a backpack, and its on my back, and it's not causing me any trouble, and I didn't ask for this, and I don't like the idea of my laptop, ipad and USB-powered personal fan being in the hands of a stranger.
Even if the stranger has a nice badge on his shirt that says, "No tips, please."
Having lost his name already, I want to call him Jeeves but decide it would fail to entertain him as much as it does me. So I simply and politely tell him no, thank you.
So rebuffed, Jeeves takes the lead toward border control. He is an excellent conversationalist, by which I mean he says nothing as we walk, which is just fine since I also had nothing to say. It's an awkwardness I'm used to and can live with. In fact I often choose it over the banality of small talk, which in my humble opinion is for many people an excuse not to actually think.
Border control has a line, which is not unusual, but lines have the unfortunate effect of magnifying awkward waiting when there's a forced relationship between folks in the line. Like, say, the guy who is needlessly escorting me. It's a slow torture where the pressure to break the silence between us increases with each turn we make through the maze leading to the woefully understaffed border control.
He finally breaks the silence, asking again if he can carry my bag.
"That's OK, I've got it," I say.
"Sir, please, it's my job."
The pathetic pleading tone is enough to break me. His shirt's "no tips please" badge also makes me think that this is not a cry for tips but rather a plea for my cooperation in making him appear to his bosses that he is doing the work he was hired to do.
I'm enough of a humanitarian that I hand over my backpack. The backpack weighs around 20 pounds which doesn't sound like a lot to some, but I'm actually relieved to get that monkey off my back for a bit.
We finally make it through border control and then through security - all with no incidents. The guards manning the x-ray machine see my USB-powered fan and ask me to take it out, but laugh at the silly sweaty American and his teeny fan, and wave me through.
 |
| $7.99 on Amazon.com. I'm thinking of getting as many as my laptop has USB ports. |
At this point, Jeeves shows me my gate and hands me my backpack.
I thank him.
He stares.
I'm tempted to say "That will be all, Jeeves" but since I did not tell him that was the name I assigned him in my head, I figure it would only prolong this experience.
I tell him to have a good day.
He stares, but with a slight modification that communicates yearning disappointment.
His face asks for tips, but his badge says no.
And no means NO.
I turn and proceed to the gate. I do not look back lest it ruin the effect.
Now, most humans try and go to the bathroom before getting on a plane that will incur a long flight, and while I have these same urges, it is quite often a struggle between my desire for relief and my desire for safety. However, there are just some things that one finds more difficult to do on a plane than on the ground, and so, having ample time to prepare myself for the flight, I head to the men's room.
Now, I find the need to point out that public toilets of the more modern type in India seem to have a commonality to them that I've found in no other places in my travels. Granted, I've not been to a huge number of places, and so one may question my statistical rigor. But I still say this is weird.
 |
| What manner of biological disasters are anticipated by this setup? |
 |
| Go ahead. Tell me you've never done this, albeit perhaps not as thoroughly. |
The plane boards on time and I find my seat, stow my backpack, and relax as we finally begin taxiing to the runway. There's an odd vibration on this plane as we travel around on the tarmac - it is very much like when you have a shopping cart with one wheel that waggles as you push it forward. As we launch ourselves down the runway, moving faster and faster, this vibration and sound get worse and more intense, so much so that once the wheels leave the ground, the plane begins to shudder so violently that passengers are looking around worriedly. I look toward where the flight attendant is sitting, and our eyes meet. She smiles an apologetic smile that seems to say, "yeah, sorry about that, but we all gotta die sometime."
But we do not die.
 |
| Unless we did crash and die and are now stuck in some weird Lost remake... |
And some 9 hours later, I find myself in Shanghai for the second time, wondering how the driver who is supposed to pick me up will misspell my name this time.
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