I'm pretty sure "hello tomorrow" is the slogan of Emirates airlines, but I could be wrong, and I am entirely too tired to fact-check literally anything. The remainder of this post will therefore be a travelogue of my notes on our first 24 hours in transit.
Boston Logan International Airport
T minus 2 hours till takeoff: I arrive at Terminal C and locate the Emirates check-in counter. There are maybe 25 people ahead of me in a slow-moving line, and I feel instantly indignant. What was the point of online check-in if I still have to join this winding queue in order to obtain my boarding pass? I spot Andrea, looking similarly perturbed, in line ahead of me.
T minus 1:47 till takeoff: Other passengers appear disgruntled about the check-in process as well. To my left a middle-aged man turns to no one in particular and declares "What I want is a caramel macchiato, no sugar," revealing a fundamental misunderstanding of caramel macchiatos.
T minus 1:23 till takeoff: The line inches along. I rage-eat my sandwich.
T minus 1:08 till takeoff: It is finally my turn at the check-in counter. "How many bags are you checking?" asks the attendant.
"None," I say determinedly. "Just this carry-on."
The attendant stares dubiously at the roller bag I have stuffed to the brim with a month's worth of essentials. "Can you put it on the scale please?"
I heft the bag onto the scale and watch the number shoot to more than twice the permitted weight.
"That's not a carry-on ma'am," the attendant says.
"One checked bag," I concede.
T minus 0:49 till takeoff: "Thank you in advance for being cooperative," says the TSA agent in a patronizing tone. "A cooperative line is a moving line."
"Christ," a woman near me breathes as I remove my shoes and coat.
"Now this machine you're about to enter, this machine is state of the art. It's highly sensitive. It can detect literally anything you may have in your pockets. Your wallet, a napkin, a piece of wood -"
"Who would have that?" the same woman mutters.
" - a set of keys, a love letter from your..." the agent pauses to consider the appropriate author of such an epistle. "...wife. So please empty your pockets. The dictionary states, 'any material object that like, has matter and exists in the universe, and can be in a pocket, will be picked up on this machine.'" I feed my items through the conveyor and imagine the TSA man struggling to play the party game Dictionary, in which players compete to write the most likely-sounding dictionary descriptions of popular words.
"And don't give me some philosophical argument about how like, the old receipts in your pockets don't 'count' as objects. I've never taken a philosophy class, but - "
My items emerge from the scanner and I, mercifully, escape.
Boston to Dubai
Flight hour 0:03: Spirits are jovial. We take selfies.
Flight hour 0:05: I get a photo of us to post online and Facebook asks me the identity of the shifty-looking man in the row behind us, but hazards a guess that it is my bff Diane. Rude, Facebook. Rude.
Flight hour 0:15: I select the scientifically ludicrous film Age of Adaline from the in-flight movie touchscreen.
Flight hour 2:02: I power through a historically fanciful Kate Winslet movie in which Alan Rickman plays the French king Louis XIV. In the row ahead of me, a grown man has just completed Disney's Peter Pan and is quietly snuffling through the imaginary friend plot line from Inside Out.
Flight hour 4:13: Lunch arrives. I think briefly about taking a picture but am overcome by ravenous hunger and the window of opportunity is lost.
Flight hour 6:02: Someone notes, with what sounds like forced optimism, "we're halfway there!"
Flight hour: 6:03: The sky darkens as we move eastward. The mood sobers. This is a very long flight.
Flight hour 7:01: I watch the movie Aloha, in which Emma Stone is ostensibly part-Hawaiian and literally every character is obnoxious.
Flight hour 7:22: I pause Aloha to join the small throng of people waiting to use the lavatory. As I stand there, a conversation from years earlier surfaces in my memory. "I don't know why anyone would want to join the mile-high club," my mother once mused. "I guess it fulfills the danger thing, for some people. But those bathrooms are so small, you can barely fit one person in them anyway!"
"Yeah," I'd agreed, "and there's always someone hopping around outside waiting to have diarrhea."
"No one waits for diarrhea," my mother said. "It comes when it wants to."
Flight hour 8:33: Shira looms over the back of my seat to discuss a biography of the life of Amy Winehouse that she and Rachel have both been watching. A loose corner of my Snuggie drifts into the aisle and ensnares the wheel of a flight attendant's drink trolley.
Flight hour 8:55: Despite leaving Boston at around 11am local time, we have been flying east for hours. Early afternoon accelerates into night and now hints of dawn. The first orange streaks of sunrise appear on the horizon.
Flight hour 9:14: I drift in and out of a fitful nap.
Flight hour 9:41: Breakfast trays appear before us. On a computer screen at the front of the cabin, the local times of six world cities scroll by, but none of them make sense. Beverage service passes through the cabin and I order a coffee. When I pick up the stirrer stick, I see that it is in fact a freakishly small spoon. I nudge Rachel and Cody and gesture to the spoon, grinning wildly. "Look at this minuscule utensil! This is a spoon for DOLLS," the gesture implies. I laugh and laugh. My tenuous hold on reality weakens.
Flight hour 10:50: I am no longer within my body. I am facing myself, staring into my own glassy eyes. In medieval times, it was believed that leaving a pile of dirty rags on the ground of a house would spontaneously generate rats that infested the pile. I am a rag rat and this is my nest. I have been in seat 27H for as long as I can remember. I will die in this place.
Flight hour 11:26: Sunlight floods the cabin. A full 24 hours has not yet passed, yet here we are in tomorrow. The pilot announces our descent.
Flight hour 11:28: The flight progress screen says we have 20 minutes to landing.
Flight hour 11:38: The flight progress screen says we have 16 minutes to landing.
Flight hour 11:49: The flight progress screen says we have 19 minutes to landing. "Has the ETA been at 20 minutes for the past 20 minutes?" I ask Rachel. The possibility that we are orbiting the rim of a black hole, distorting the fabric of space-time, seems more and more probable.
Flight hour 11:54: A hollow shell of my former self arrives in Dubai.
Our layover in Dubai is just barely enough time to walk through the mazelike airport in search of Gate A18, where we will board our next plane to Mumbai. The airport is like a cattle run, with huge crowds of passengers all bottlenecking at the doors that lead to the concourses. Katie attempts to warn me of hazards on the path ahead just as my foot lands in a small pile of vomit. We walk for what feels like miles on end, arriving at A18 only to find that several more staircases and security checkpoints lie between us and the plane. I remember, belatedly, that it's time to take my anti-malarial pill and fish it from the veritable pharmacy of drugs I have stashed in my purse. The med makes me dizzy and a little nauseated as we continue to trudge up and down stairs, giving the whole airport the feel of an M.C. Escher print.
Four hundred years later, we believe we are finally at the jetway for the second leg of the flight, but are ushered onto a waiting bus instead. I become separated from the group and am pressed in by a crowd of strangers as we roll over the airport tarmac. From above, inexplicably, something drips on me. The hot Arabian sun filters through the mesh films on the bus windows and creates a pungent bouquet of bodily odors. Somewhere near the edge of the known world, the bus sputters to a stop and deposits us near the stairs to our plane.
Flight 2, hours 1-3: We sit on the runway for an hour while the pilot explains over the PA that air traffic control is doing their best to get us out of here soon. I read about 30 pages of a book and then block out all sensory input. I come to as we're making our way through Immigration.
Travel hour 5,647: As we stand in line for Customs, I see a sign that welcomes us to the region. "Karnataka, where the future is made," I read aloud.
"What? Tacos??" says Andrea, with confused hope. I shake my head and she looks deflated.
We clear Customs without issue and find our group leader Elissa standing outside the airport to collect us, as promised. She wrangles a couple of cars to take us to the hotel, and as we're waiting for them she gives us some advice. "The first rule of India is, no one will yield to pedestrians. Especially in Mumbai. They will hit you. So always make sure you stay out of the way of cars."
"Or be like, really good at rolling over car hoods," I offer.
"No," says Elissa.
The driver weaves and bobs through lanes of traffic -- vehicular, pedestrian, and pedal-powered -- that follow no laws of the road. We pass two- and three-story slums that threaten to overflow onto the busy streets below, where sidewalk merchants offer wares spread out on blankets and signs on derelict buildings advertise the services within. I spy a sign for a doctor's practice, noting that he specializes in "hair, skin, and obesity," and am excited to imagine an Indian version of Dr. Dohan until I see that the sign also promises cures via homeopathy.
Travel hour 5,648: The driver takes us to the hotel, and after a bomb-sniffing dog ensures that we are not smuggling anything but engine parts under the hood of the car, we are led inside to the Mumbai Marriott for dinner and a much needed night of sleep.
We laugh at an event advertisement in the room inviting us to a concert, with the stipulations of "No unmarried couples" and "no alcohol." We decide to pass on this particular draw and retire to bed by 9pm. Hello, tomorrow. See you again soon.
Boston Logan International Airport
T minus 2 hours till takeoff: I arrive at Terminal C and locate the Emirates check-in counter. There are maybe 25 people ahead of me in a slow-moving line, and I feel instantly indignant. What was the point of online check-in if I still have to join this winding queue in order to obtain my boarding pass? I spot Andrea, looking similarly perturbed, in line ahead of me.
T minus 1:47 till takeoff: Other passengers appear disgruntled about the check-in process as well. To my left a middle-aged man turns to no one in particular and declares "What I want is a caramel macchiato, no sugar," revealing a fundamental misunderstanding of caramel macchiatos.
T minus 1:23 till takeoff: The line inches along. I rage-eat my sandwich.
T minus 1:08 till takeoff: It is finally my turn at the check-in counter. "How many bags are you checking?" asks the attendant.
"None," I say determinedly. "Just this carry-on."
The attendant stares dubiously at the roller bag I have stuffed to the brim with a month's worth of essentials. "Can you put it on the scale please?"
I heft the bag onto the scale and watch the number shoot to more than twice the permitted weight.
"That's not a carry-on ma'am," the attendant says.
"One checked bag," I concede.
T minus 0:49 till takeoff: "Thank you in advance for being cooperative," says the TSA agent in a patronizing tone. "A cooperative line is a moving line."
"Christ," a woman near me breathes as I remove my shoes and coat.
"Now this machine you're about to enter, this machine is state of the art. It's highly sensitive. It can detect literally anything you may have in your pockets. Your wallet, a napkin, a piece of wood -"
"Who would have that?" the same woman mutters.
" - a set of keys, a love letter from your..." the agent pauses to consider the appropriate author of such an epistle. "...wife. So please empty your pockets. The dictionary states, 'any material object that like, has matter and exists in the universe, and can be in a pocket, will be picked up on this machine.'" I feed my items through the conveyor and imagine the TSA man struggling to play the party game Dictionary, in which players compete to write the most likely-sounding dictionary descriptions of popular words.
"And don't give me some philosophical argument about how like, the old receipts in your pockets don't 'count' as objects. I've never taken a philosophy class, but - "
My items emerge from the scanner and I, mercifully, escape.
Boston to Dubai
Flight hour 0:03: Spirits are jovial. We take selfies.
Flight hour 0:15: I select the scientifically ludicrous film Age of Adaline from the in-flight movie touchscreen.
Flight hour 2:02: I power through a historically fanciful Kate Winslet movie in which Alan Rickman plays the French king Louis XIV. In the row ahead of me, a grown man has just completed Disney's Peter Pan and is quietly snuffling through the imaginary friend plot line from Inside Out.
Flight hour 4:13: Lunch arrives. I think briefly about taking a picture but am overcome by ravenous hunger and the window of opportunity is lost.
Flight hour 6:02: Someone notes, with what sounds like forced optimism, "we're halfway there!"
Flight hour: 6:03: The sky darkens as we move eastward. The mood sobers. This is a very long flight.
Flight hour 7:01: I watch the movie Aloha, in which Emma Stone is ostensibly part-Hawaiian and literally every character is obnoxious.
Flight hour 7:22: I pause Aloha to join the small throng of people waiting to use the lavatory. As I stand there, a conversation from years earlier surfaces in my memory. "I don't know why anyone would want to join the mile-high club," my mother once mused. "I guess it fulfills the danger thing, for some people. But those bathrooms are so small, you can barely fit one person in them anyway!"
"Yeah," I'd agreed, "and there's always someone hopping around outside waiting to have diarrhea."
"No one waits for diarrhea," my mother said. "It comes when it wants to."
Flight hour 8:33: Shira looms over the back of my seat to discuss a biography of the life of Amy Winehouse that she and Rachel have both been watching. A loose corner of my Snuggie drifts into the aisle and ensnares the wheel of a flight attendant's drink trolley.
Flight hour 8:55: Despite leaving Boston at around 11am local time, we have been flying east for hours. Early afternoon accelerates into night and now hints of dawn. The first orange streaks of sunrise appear on the horizon.
Flight hour 9:14: I drift in and out of a fitful nap.
Flight hour 9:41: Breakfast trays appear before us. On a computer screen at the front of the cabin, the local times of six world cities scroll by, but none of them make sense. Beverage service passes through the cabin and I order a coffee. When I pick up the stirrer stick, I see that it is in fact a freakishly small spoon. I nudge Rachel and Cody and gesture to the spoon, grinning wildly. "Look at this minuscule utensil! This is a spoon for DOLLS," the gesture implies. I laugh and laugh. My tenuous hold on reality weakens.
Flight hour 11:26: Sunlight floods the cabin. A full 24 hours has not yet passed, yet here we are in tomorrow. The pilot announces our descent.
Flight hour 11:28: The flight progress screen says we have 20 minutes to landing.
Flight hour 11:38: The flight progress screen says we have 16 minutes to landing.
Flight hour 11:49: The flight progress screen says we have 19 minutes to landing. "Has the ETA been at 20 minutes for the past 20 minutes?" I ask Rachel. The possibility that we are orbiting the rim of a black hole, distorting the fabric of space-time, seems more and more probable.
Flight hour 11:54: A hollow shell of my former self arrives in Dubai.
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| "You were not so very different from a hobbit once. Were you? Smeagol." |
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| Dubai International Airport |
Flight 2, hours 1-3: We sit on the runway for an hour while the pilot explains over the PA that air traffic control is doing their best to get us out of here soon. I read about 30 pages of a book and then block out all sensory input. I come to as we're making our way through Immigration.
Travel hour 5,647: As we stand in line for Customs, I see a sign that welcomes us to the region. "Karnataka, where the future is made," I read aloud.
"What? Tacos??" says Andrea, with confused hope. I shake my head and she looks deflated.
 |
| Anything to declare? |
"Or be like, really good at rolling over car hoods," I offer.
"No," says Elissa.
The driver weaves and bobs through lanes of traffic -- vehicular, pedestrian, and pedal-powered -- that follow no laws of the road. We pass two- and three-story slums that threaten to overflow onto the busy streets below, where sidewalk merchants offer wares spread out on blankets and signs on derelict buildings advertise the services within. I spy a sign for a doctor's practice, noting that he specializes in "hair, skin, and obesity," and am excited to imagine an Indian version of Dr. Dohan until I see that the sign also promises cures via homeopathy.
Travel hour 5,648: The driver takes us to the hotel, and after a bomb-sniffing dog ensures that we are not smuggling anything but engine parts under the hood of the car, we are led inside to the Mumbai Marriott for dinner and a much needed night of sleep.
 |
| From left: Cody, Elissa, Rachel, Andrea, Katie, Shira. Not pictured: me, and Laura, who is arriving tomorrow. |
An Indian Doctor Dohan! Hilarious read! Keep your blog coming, you are a talented & entertaining writer!
ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteWHERE are my tacos???
ReplyDeleteKarnatacos, where the future is tacos
Delete