Traveling with an Old Driver

The Ballal can arrange for a car, depending on where you'd like to go and how much you wish to spend. I want to go more than 200 miles south into Tamil Nadu. I don't particularly want to spend a lot, but I don't want to have to run for the bus with two heavy suitcases, and I'm not interested in fighting for the privilege of paying a big fee to get these bags on an airplane. Experience has taught me that a car is the best solution.

I'd like to start early, but that never works. The driver must be properly fed. In this case it seems that I, too, must be fed. The breakfast buffet is included in the room price, and neither the desk clerk nor the porter intend to let me escape without my breakfast, so in the end I relent. It is a lovely buffet, really, perfect for a relaxed morning. There's fresh juice (melon, today) and two kinds of fresh fruit. There's pongal, a sweet bhath and a savory bhath. They're sort of porridges. The sweet one is, I believe, cream of wheat with butter, sugar, and saffron. The pongal and the savory bath seem to be soft-cooked rice with different seasonings. They're all delicious to me. There are also idlis, disc-shaped steamed rice cakes, and vadas, golden lentil paste fritters that look like doughnuts. You can also order a dosa, if you like. Yesterday I tasted them all and then went on to the Kalmane Koffee (the spelling, why oh why, but they have heavenly Mysore Nuggets coffee) across the way for a chaser. Today I bypass the delicacies and drift to the end of the buffet and to order a coffee, not from Mysore, but good enough.

Only then may I go to the front desk to meet the travel agent. He explains the fare structure to me. I listen patiently. The desk clerk explained it yesterday, and anyway, I have taken so many cars in India that I could give the spiel myself. Price per kilometer, plus tolls, driver bhat, and interstate permit extra. Half the estimated charges in advance. Then am I allowed to see the driver. He is on the old side, which is fine with me. He wears a spotty beard that looks a little disreputable. His uniform is tidy, though a touch grey from many hard water washings. I hope for the best and get in.

He asks my name, and I give it. He doesn't recognize it as Indian. His, he says, is Big Brother. This seems a worrisome sign, an insistence on respect that might be trouble. He talks about the Ballal, praising its restaurant, mourning the lack of foreign guests since the passing of some guru whose name I do not catch. He is religious, and I earn a little favor by having been to the temple at Madurai and respectfully recognizing its potency. His English is not good and my Kannada is nonexistent. We run out of small talk before we clear the city limits.

He drives well, in Indian fashion, weaving in and out of his lane and taking risks that would be frowned on in some parts of the world. He is at ease, though, and his skill makes all the near misses seem all right.

At the state border, Big Brother collects our permit quickly, and we drive on. He does not read the fare schedules at the toll gates. I do, and have appropriate sums ready. He stops at a stall for tea, and chides me gently for declining to join him. It isn't that I don't want tea, or his company. It's the lack of facilities at this dusty kiosk, and the hours ahead in the car.

The travel agent told him that he must turn at Salem. He stops by the side of the road to ask a paan vendor the way. The man gives a long speech in Tamil. I lean forward to listen, pretending I might catch a word or two, but all I understand is the few English words that punctuate his speech: straight-ha, right-ha. And they are enough.

At the next roundabout, the driver fusses, unsure of whether to turn or continue on. I read the sign and tell him to go straight, which he does, but he stops at the first roadside snack vendor to ask directions again. The snack vendor's customer comes round to the window and lets forth an even faster torrent of Tamil. The driver is confused. The snack vendor himself ambles over, and explains more slowly, in shorter sentences. His hair is dangerously long, and nails are hennaed, but Big Brother does not comment on this. My instructions corroborated by these insiders—straight-ha, straight-ha, right-ha—he continues, following my directions but worrying audibly all the way. We come to the turn-off and it is to the left, not the right. Big Brother complains bitterly about people who deliberately give the wrong instructions, and I cannot think of anything to say. It is absurd to imagine that anyone chose to purposely mislead us, but isn't that what they did? Why would they bother? I make soothing noises as best I can. The driver frets.

To celebrate getting past our one turn successfully, we stop at a convenient Anand Bhavan. It's a chain I'm familiar with, and the driver judges, correctly, that we will both be able to eat here. He heads for the loo first. I proceed decorously to the restaurant and order a samosa and coffee. I am half through when the driver comes in. He waves away the menu and questions the waiter before placing his order. The waiter brings my bill and I tell him to bring me the driver's bill as well. (A little nicety I learned my first year in India. I had a bad Mac, and there was no authorized repair store in the city where I worked. The car service sent a driver to take me to a repair center in Cochin, always the same nice-looking, polite young man, who never spoke a word of English but proved, over time, that he could read and write it rather well. He would stop at tidy roadside places he thought good—they always were—and see that the waiters sent his bill to me.)

This was a turning point in my dealings with Big Brother. True, I was a lousy conversationist. However, in skills that mattered on the road—navigation and appropriate bill-paying—I had excelled. From then on, I had his seal of approval.

If you are at all kind to a good driver in India, he will stop to buy fruit. It may be the first fruit he finds along the way, but you can be sure that it will be much cheaper than anywhere else and "good for health". He will make sure you understand this! So it is with Big Brother. He finds a guava stand a short ways after the Anand Bhavan, and pulls over to get some fruit. I allow that I will take a half kilo, but he buys a full one for fifty rupees, which, I admit, is indeed a good price. Nothing will do but that we each have one immediately. We eat them out of hand like an apple, which he does as he drives. The guavas are hard and rather green. The skin has a peppery flavor, as it does when they are so immature. I resolve to let the rest of my fruit ripen a bit before I finish it off, and Big Brother, as if he can read my mind, informs me that I should be able to keep them for seven days.

As we get into town, the driver begins asking me names of any clearly marked buildings that we pass. I name the Meridien Hotel, Arvind Eye Hospital, PSG College, thinking this is a convenient way of conversing as Big Brother repeats each name carefully. When we gets to my door, the driver, instead of totaling up the mileage, carries my bags inside and then calls the travel agent to get the final sum I owe. It is the last clue I need. Big Brother is a functional illiterate. He needs the list of landmarks I named to navigate his way out of town.

I tip him enough for a decent meal on his way back and another on a rainy day, and he pronounces himself very happy.

Arriving in Bangalore—Speed, Youth, and Tough Guys Who Wear Pink

"How long is your flight?" I never know. Days, it seems. I leave my office at 3:45 on a Monday afternoon, and arrive at my hotel in Bangalore on Wednesday morning. I know it isn't a two-day trip, really. Fatigue and boredom lengthen the hours, and they set in immediately. Idling with a cup of coffee, I watch the workers load food I will not eat onto the plane. The tall coffee is too much to drink in the time I have, but I try, moving the cup from hand to hand to cool my burning fingers. I don't want to sleep on the flight to London. If I do, I'll be awake on the India flight and land in Bangalore ready for bed at seven in the morning.

I take my aisle seat on the plane. The two places next to me are empty, but that can hardly last. I start reading. My airplane book is Tahir Shah's The Sorcerer's Apprentice, a good choice, I think, for a trip to India. It is long, cheap, and makes light of the country's difficulties in a pleasing way. My reading is interrupted by the announcement of the cabin doors closing. I look round in surprise. The two seats next to me are still empty. Across the aisle, a man with a row to himself looks about with a similar expression of surprise and pleasure. The plane is half empty. I slide over to the middle seat, reminding myself that this is good news only in the very short term. This direct-to-London flight cuts hours off my travel time. I need to to be full and profitable. And I will not be so lucky on my next flight. London-India, any airport, is unfailingly full.

But my luck holds. The British flight attendant, a man, calls me darling in his charming accent. The flight is empty enough that the crew is good-humored to the end. I smile as he hands me an extra wine, and he says darling again. I wonder why I didn't find someone to call me darling that way all the time. A million reasons, of course, but for the moment this is very nice.

In London, halfway through the journey, the security check is strangely quick. I stroll through, and into the Wagamama. A tattooed Russian serves my gyoza. They are horrid dough balls with only a scrap of gristly, unidentifiable filling. Why oh why, Wagamama? Never mind. It's an airport. I pay a little dark-haired girl. She smiles merrily and tries to frighten me with tales of approaching snow, but I am too sleepy to worry. To keep myself from dozing off, I pace from one end of the terminal to the other, my duty free allowance bumping against my leg. Luck holds—the India flight is not full. There's an empty seat between me and the gentleman by the window. He is courteous and silent, pulling down the tray at the empty place so we can each use half of it. I drink another glass of wine and sleep.

The airport smells like India. It's new, gaily decorated, orange and brushed steel that already looks dated. Immigration is cheerfully inquisitive, asking about my name and work for amusement, not national security. My suitcases appear, and I wheel them outside, wondering at how easy this is.

Outside, the taxi drivers are anxious. Perhaps not enough people want a cab. I do, but approach them with care. A man bundled in a muted plaid blanket with a grey stocking cap on his head snatches at my cart. I let him take it, though I tense myself to dive after him in case he rushes past the line of waiting cabs. A boy, taller than I but rail-thin, rushes up and grabs the cart. A porter, I think, annoyed that all my change is at the bottom of my handbag. He eagerly shoves my bags in the back of an Indica. He puts the smaller duffel at the bottom, and props the larger case up on top of it at an uncomfortable angle. I would like to correct him, make him rearrange them, but the hopelessly buried tip money stops me. I get in the car as he slams the hatch shut.

I am surprised when he hops into the driver's seat. Forget rearranging the luggage, I should have asked for an older driver. It's too late now. We are in motion.

He drives just as you think a youngster would drive, barreling down the highway weaving right and left, but keeping his car more or less on top of the white dashed lane separator. The rule of the road in India is that biggest takes precedence, but he yields to no one, skinning past trucks and between buses as if we were in a video game. I look at the moon, almost full in the black morning sky, and am silent.

After a time, we veer off the road into a gas station. The attendant approaches. He is a scrawny old man, a typical station attendant except for one thing. He has a fleece blanket decorated with bright pink and white buffalo checks wrapped around his shoulders. The white squares of the pattern are ornamented with smiling teddy bear faces. The blanket is not merely flung about him, but carefully draped in tidy pleats. His turban, folded with the same care as his blanket, is also pink and white plaid, shot with a bit of spring green. I would like to take a picture, but rolling down the window would attract notice, and it's not ladylike to photograph strange men in the night. I content myself with looking.

We drive on, weaving in and out of traffic as if we each have nine lives. A yellow bus, a private intercity bus, is merging into traffic. We are between it and a cement Jersey barrier, squarely in the bus driver's blind spot, the space before us narrowing. I squeak with dismay. The bus falters for a moment and my driver scoots through the narrowing gap. He glances back at me, grinning, but does not slow down.

The sky is fading to grey. We speed up Brigade Road, turn, but my driver zips past the street where the hotel is. I point this out. He pulls over, sheepish for the first time. We agree on how he will make his way back to the hotel, and he does. He rolls into the hotel complex and up to the restaurant door rather than the hotel entrance, pursing his lips with embarrassment. I nearly tell him to drive up to the correct door, but decide that carrying my suitcases the extra feet is a good penance for him. He hasn't the sense to pull the car up himself. He casts me a last grin, still sheepish but irrepressibly mischievous. I hand him a tip, and he zooms off into the morning.

In Praise of the Dosa

In South India, dosas are the staff of life. Breakfast, dinner, snacktime, even for a light lunch, the dosa is always served. People say it's a pancake, but a true dosa bears no resemblance to your standard buttermilk, nor even to a slim French crepe. Properly made, a dosa is translucent, golden and crisp, bendable only at the moment it slides off the pan. This is not takeout food, nor anything to serve at a sociable gathering, at least not one for the cook to take part in. It's perfect the moment it's made, and gets a little less good with every passing minute.

Preparation sounds simple. Blend rice (some recipes call for a mixture of rice and black lentils, but in South India home cooks and restaurants use only rice) with enough water to make a smooth paste, let it ferment at room temperature overnight, and fry. Sounds simple, but don’t be fooled. Cooking dosas is best left to a professional. A good dosa’s perfect, thin smoothness and slightly ridged interior are only achieved through years of practice. Sliding one off the pan without breaking or wrinkling it is a feat, not to mention rolling it into a loose cylinder before it hardens.

Eat a dosa with your fingers. Break off a piece, dip it in the pale, pureed coconut chutney always served alongside, and enjoy the crispness, the oddly substantial cheweyness, the caramelized, subtle nuttiness, of a perfect dosa.

Palolem, Goa: Beach and Food

Palolem is a little capsule, buffered from the rest of India. Not all Goa is like this. I've been on beaches where wearing a bikini would have been a death wish. Not here, though. The Russian grannies and the French students lie in the sun in their suits. Few look twice—why should they?—except a group of young Indians who have come especially to gawk. They keep their distance, though.

The beach is lined with hotels and restaurants from one edge of the sandy crescent to the other. One hotel is much the same as the other. Cracked tile, a bit of mildew, sandy tiles, some mosquito net. Nothing fancy, but at the beach you don't need much. A roof to keep the sun off and someone to bring cold drinks seems enough.

The restaurants are also much the same. They serve grilled fish, fresh, but a little overcooked, alongside a few Goan dishes. I try ambotik, xacutti, vindaloo, and Goan sausage. They are good enough for me, but a Goan auntie would likely complain.

Each table comes with its own dog to provide company, and, if needed, clean up any scraps that fall. The morning dog rivalry resumes after dark. One evening as we sip aperitif, a smallish white dog comes trotting along, following a plump, unhappy lady. All the dogs around us rise up, barking, even snarling, until the intruder has run away. Our dog for the evening is a female, a mother. She barks briefly, for form's sake, it seems, and then lies down to sleep on our toes. We debate giving her a bit of fish, but fear the consequences of bones. And where are the cats? Surely with this much fish about, cats should be prowling?

Later I find them, skinny and sand-colored, above our heads, living on the roofs. They must jump down once in while to scavenge, but they are very quick. In the week I am there, I never see one on the ground.

Palolem, Goa: Morning

I walk early in the morning, leaving my room just before dawn. By six thirty, the sky is just light and the air is still cool enough that I am glad to be wearing sleeves. The beach is far from empty, though. Hung-over tourists trudge across the sand, regretting the boat trips they booked the day before. Boatmen cast about for more passengers. Women with men's shirts over their saris pick up bottles and smooth the sand in front of their hotels. It's the hour of the dogs, who wake and stretch, greet their favorite friends, and bark at the non grata. Further down the beach, a group of North Indian men do calisthenics in preparation for a football game, enjoying an hour of freedom before their long workday. The waves lap closer, tickling my toes, wetting my cuffs. Everything is covered with sand, and no one seems to mind.

Picturing India: The Darjeeling Limited

The Grand Budapest Hotel's elegiac nostalgia left me wanting more. Cue The Darjeeling Limited, Wes Anderson's “precious” 2007 release, which is not a film about India. It is American. The main characters are so self-centered, yet they manage, by the end, to shed their baggage and love each other. The fairy-tale setting is hardly needed. It's beautiful, though. I love to watch the opening sequence. It's unreal, just off-kilter enough to make us believe it might be true, and then remind us that it isn't. Look past Bill Murray’s grandfatherly worry and mad dash at the still, clean, imaginary India. The sun-bleached buildings, the colors of the clothes are right. Yet there are no hooting buses, no “Horn OK Please” trucks, no crowds, at least not by Indian standards. The immaculate cream-colored bullock stands stock-still. There is no scrap of trash in the gutters, Murray's taxi races past no open sewer. The railway station — spotless. But it’s almost India. It's a film that lets you dream about how India could be, if only.

Palolem, Goa: Arrival

The flight from Banaglore arrives at little old Dabolim Airport just before dusk. The baggage claim area is disorganized, ill-suited for a very mixed crowd hoping for relaxation. People mill about, uncertain where, or if, their luggage will appear. Mine does, but it seems others on my flight are not so lucky.

I negotiate a ride from the pre-paid taxi window in the baggage claim area, and a driver appears. I follow his plaid back, struggling to keep up, jostled by slender men pushing carts stacked high with bags. They do not care whose ankles they bruise along the way. The driver glances back at me. Stuck in a crowd of trollies, I cast him a dirty look. When I finally break free, he takes the handle to wheel my luggage around a corner, then leaves me to wait while he gets the car.

Our drive to Palolem is long and dark. Snack stands and barber shops stand out, beacons of light in the night. Mostly, though, the road is unpopulated, and barely lit. The air carries hints of what might be seen, were it light: sewer canals, salt flats where fish dry, and, once, a fragrant forest. But perhaps it's best that it's too dark to see. The heat of the day is past, and Goa's black air is soft and cool, mysterious. When we turn for Palolem, the roadside bursts to life. A man is getting a shave in a pink-painted barber shop. A group clusters around a stand, drinking tea. Vendor's stalls loom, full of T-shirts, brass trinkets, silver earrings, and mounds of fake spices and teas.

As we approach the arch that leads to the beach, touts crowd around the car. They hope I want a room, but are disappointed. Already booked. They point me in the right direction and leave me to tote my bags down the beach alone. I am in Goa.

Advanced Bangalore: A Trip to Raja Market

Raja Market is at the heart of a busy, chaotic neighborhood. It’s hard to find, making it a potentially challenging outing even for those with solid India experience. This market is worth the effort, though, especially for anyone in the market for silver or costume jewelry, Raja Market’s specialties. There are gold shops, too, but these are narrow and modest, barely noticeable among the bright displays of colored beads, fancy fabric trimmings, fake hair, and gold-fill costume jewelry. Raja Market is a costume designer’s dream, and a must-visit for Bangalorean brides to be. It’s also a truly authentic Indian experience.

The main challenge is getting there. Many of the streets around Raja Market are closed to traffic (don’t expect them to be anything but packed, though) and others are so narrow and busy that auto drivers often refuse to drive on them. Beyond that, about half of all auto drivers know nothing about Raja Market. Guys just don’t go there to shop, especially guys as short of cash as these. So, ask an auto driver to take you to the intersection of Chickpete Road and Avenue Road. He'll most likely drop you at a busy intersection on Chickpete and point you towards Avenue Road. Walk along Chickpete, dodging between fruit carts and men carrying bundles bigger than they are on their backs. Touts from the fabric stores—this is one of Bangalore’s better known shopping areas for cloth and clothing—will call out to you. Ignore them, unless you want half a dozen bright polyester saris. If you’re looking for some cotton cloth, this is not a bad place to get it. Check the more modest shops and stalls for southern plaids and light-colored shirt-weight material.

Keep just half an eye on the muddy gutters under your feet and look up at the vibrant multicolored displays of saris and cloth for salwar suits. Advertising banners hang overhead. Street signs are nonexistant, so check the addresses on the stores’ signs at each intersection to see if you’ve come to Avenue Road. When you do, take a moment to look around. Where, exactly, the market is will depend on where your driver chose to drop you. Stores selling jewelry and accessories rather than fabric are a clue, and there’s a marked entrance on each side of the market.

Don’t hesitate to step inside. There are always plenty of shoppers, but the atmosphere is markedly less hectic than outside. Most stores are busy enough that they don’t need an outdoor tout, and foreigners are never their best customers. Stop to admire the henna artist’s designs, marvel at the man braiding beads onto string for necklaces while he holds the cord taut between his toes, and get a closer look at the silver bowls made for temple offerings. If you’re interested in sewing or planning to get some Indian clothes made, step further into the market towards the “fancy” stalls that sell colorful ribbons and lamé edgings.

If you want a new ring or a necklace, go upstairs to Chitalia Brothers. Their sign says silver jewelry, gold, and diamonds, but except for a small selection of gold fill for brides and dancers, it’s a place for silver. Ask for earrings, bangles, or pendants and an assistant will pour a heap of them from a plastic tub onto the counter. All are on cards marked with the price—no bargaining here—and wrapped in protective plastic. You’ll be given a velvet-lined tray to hold anything you think you might be interested in, and can make your choice after everything you didn't like is back in the box. The service is pleasant and attentive and though they do clearly hope to sell you more than you planned to buy, their suggestions are more helpful than not, and rarely pushy. The jewelry is well-made, durable enough to wear every day, but Indian silver isn’t sterling and the semiprecious stones are of dubious quality. At these prices, though—the most elaborate earrings cost around $25—you’re getting your money’s worth. One note of caution: neither Chitalia nor any of their neighbors sizes rings, nor do American jewelers. The exact combination of metals isn’t always known, which is apparently critical to getting good results, so don’t buy rings unless they fit well enough for you to wear them comfortably.

Once you’re done shopping and have see the sights, exit the market through the hall to your left if you’ve come in on Avenue Road. If it’s a relatively quiet time of day, take a moment to check out the fruit and snack carts. Treats like fresh figs and guavas are often for sale at prices far below those on busier streets. Remember to rinse with bottled water before eating. More likely, though, you’ll be ready to take one of the autos that congregate there to your next stop.

Additional destinations in the neighborhood include Tipu Sultan’s summer palace and Lalbagh gardens, both relatively peaceful.

Ten Minutes Too Late, Part VII

December 24, 2009

The hotel is really not all that close to the airport. It is even bigger and more impersonal than I was able to imagine. The vast foyer is nearly empty of people, or seems so. I wait behind the family, who are taking their time negotiating something with the checkin clerk. As I wait, a group of men, tall and stout with shaven heads, Germans I guess, strut by, on their way out. I wonder idly why they chose to be here. They are on their way to Soi Cowboy. Silom has so many impersonal hotels, all built with men like these in mind. Why strand themselves all the way out here?

A bellhop seems to suddenly tire of my waiting. He takes my papers, addresses the clerk behind the counter, and receives a key. I follow him as he pulls my suitcase down one hall, and then another. Gradually I begin to doubt that I ever left the airport at all, and then to wonder how I will ever get out of this labyrinth without a guide. One dim, carpeted corridor leads to another. I am lost and dizzy when we stop at a door exactly like all the other doors. I tip the porter, and he goes.

Inside, the room is plush. The windows look in on an atrium, so that people in rooms must keep their curtains drawn if they want any privacy. I close mine. Sitting on the footstool, I think that I want some water, and to shower. I think I ought to eat. Instead, I take out my laptop to check my email. There is no message from Cambodia, so they probably don't know where I am. I send another message, not believing it will ever get to them. And then I realize that no one in the world knows where I am.

The idea is oddly liberating, license, somehow, to be someone I'm not. I order room service, and wine. I shower, then lie on the soft bed, drinking and eating and watching the television. I don't flip my laptop open again to try to work or to listen an educational podcast. I revel in being alone in the world, making up my identity as I go along.

•

The next day goes as it should. I wake and pack, then jog down the long maze of corridors to wait for the shuttle bus in the dark. The flight is on time, uneventful. It's only when I stand alone outside Siem Reap airport that my panic returns. For I am alone. There is no taxi queue. Tourists have all been collected by hotel vehicles, locals by their families. No one is waiting for me. After a time, I look for a phone, but what for? All I have is the name of the hotel, and the non-working email address.

Then a tuk-tuk approaches, a three-wheeled, open-sided vehicle built around a lawn mower motor. This is my only chance, but I already doubt that my absurd struggle is over. I know the hotel is a modest one, so it's unlikely that the driver will be able to identify it by the name alone, and that's all I have. I feel that I haven't the stamina to knock on every hotel door in Siem Reap looking for my family, but I may have no choice.

The tuk-tuk pulls up in front of me, and the passenger steps out. It is my darling son, just sixteen years old, but suddenly grown up enough to come to my rescue. He has been coming to the airport to meet every Bangkok flight since the one I should have been on. We hug in Siem Reap airport, on the morning of Christmas Eve.

Read the beginning.

Ten Minutes Too Late, Part VI

December 23, 2009

I love Suvarnabhumi International Airport. It's true! I adore this airport as much as it's possible to like a place. It is clean and orderly, easy to navigate. Staff are polite and helpful. It has shops where people like to shop and food people can enjoy eating. Beyond these practicalities, it's a place full of promise. Arriving, I have always felt joyful. All Bangkok to explore and enjoy — what could be better? But today, I can only repeat the sad marathon I did in India. This baggage claim area is sparkling and insect-free, a sharp contrast to poor dirty dingy Chennai. I wait watchfully by the carousel. I pull my suitcase up as quickly as I can, and run through the building, down long shining halls, down an escalator and up another, to arrive, panting, at the checkin counter. My flight is on Air Bangkok, a no-frills budget brand, chosen for economy. The journey from Bangkok to Siem Reap is short, after all. No need for soft seats, or food. A little empathy might be nice, though I don't expect it. I am informed, brightly and cheerfully, that I have missed my flight by a mere seven minutes, and will have to wait until the next day to fly. Then I am sent to another counter.

I walk slowly. Missed by seven minute. Surely Air India could have done a little better, and shaved seven minutes off a six-hour delay? Or could I have run faster? Couldn't I have avoided this second mass of uncertainty and expense, another day of worrying my family? Tears rise in the back of my throat. I cannot cry here, in the most public of places, in front of hoards of happy tourists. I swallow hard.

The woman at the booking counter accepts my papers and starts to scold me for missing my flight. I have been in Asia long enough to understand this piece of social interaction, and to know how I ought to respond. But today I cannot. The required deflection, the half-apology are not there. The unfairness of delayed flights, the dollars pouring from my never-full pockets, the worry of my still far-away family, the uncertainty that they've received my message, is too much to bear. I try to explain what really happened, knowing the woman behind the counter will not understand, but I am unable to stop myself. She looks at me with disapproval and disbelief, and begins her reproach all over again.

I have no answer. The tears press up and up until they are rolling down my cheeks. Now the woman at the counter regards me with round-eyed horror. So does the woman at the desk to her right, and the man on the other side of her. No one else notices the crazy foreign woman weeping in the airport.

Perhaps Air Bangkok employees are taught a protocol for dealing with distraught passengers, but I doubt it. It is simply that they have failed to stop me from disgracing myself, and now they must mitigate any shame my bad behavior might reflect onto them. Together, they silently decide to get rid of me as quickly as they can. The Air Bangkok woman demands my credit card. The woman next to her announces that I need a hotel room and selects one for me. She goes through the motions of showing me the pictures in her catalog and explaining that it is the best choice, because it is near the airport and has a shuttle that will get me to the airport on time in the morning, and of course she can give me a good discount.

I have never stayed in an airport hotel in any city. In Bangkok, I know some hotels in Chinatown and even in the backpacker district that will cost a fraction of what this room will cost. But there is the expense of the taxis, and with that, the uncertainty of navigating Bangkok traffic well enough to get back here in time. My new flight leaves painfully early in the morning. The calculus of comparing what I would well be able to do on my own with what this woman is offering fails me.

That isn't why I choose to do as she says, though. It is not because I am weak-willed, or cannot do math in my head. I choose the airport hotel, expensive and characterless, because it will not taint my memories of Bangkok. I am assured that I will make my flight. More than that, I am submitting to the impossibility of the situation. The last moment when I truly had a chance to avoid this whole mess was when I pressed the “buy now” button on the SpiceJet web page. Since then, the whole affair has been out of my hands. Let it stay there. There is no need for me to pretend to be responsible for what happens next.

The pain in my stomach subsides a little as I wait for the hotel shuttle bus. I climb in behind an American family. The husband and wife are bickering. She doubts the wisdom of staying at this airport hotel, and would have preferred a place in town. The husband impassively insists that his choice is the better one, but does not elaborate on why. Perhaps he himself is doubtful. Their children, pre-teens, are made querulous by their parents' disagreement, mild as it is, and interject irrelevant little complaints when they can. I endure.

Continued.

Ten Minutes Too Late, Part V

December 23, 2009

The departure lounge is not much of an improvement on the holding area. I have a seat, at least, but here the updates on our delay cease, and time stretches on. I begin to feel uneasy about my onward flight from Bangkok, but I am too cold, too tired, too hungry to worry. I realize that I have had nothing to eat for 24 hours and go to the snack bar, but the display case is crawling with roaches, so I return to my seat to shiver and wait.

I start to listen to the announcements. A man's voice, elegantly accented and beautifully clear, announces the departure of a Jet Airways flight. Another, equally lovely, informs us of a Sri Lankan flight, and a woman calls passengers for Singapore. Then there is a harsh squawk from the PA system. It is a man's voice, an irritated, harassed man, and one who did not do well in English class. “Air India” he barks, and … his message is unintelligible. It is not my picky foreign ears. People all over the lounge are looking around, baffled, asking each other what he said, but nobody has caught a word.

The plane takes off eventually, and I am on it, but later I will remember nothing about it. I sleep. My eyes shut the moment I am tucked into my seat, and do not open again until the announcement of our imminent landing.

A flight attendant, hurrying past to check that our seatbelts are fastened, asks me if she can bring me a cup of tea, even though orders to collect all service items have long ago been given. There is concern in her voice, and her eyes. I realize that she had tried to wake me for the meal, and failed. (The directive to make sure all passengers are served is taken quite literally on Air India. Declining a meal is, as a rule, nearly impossible.) I tell her thank you, but no. My next task will be to see if I am too late to get on the flight I booked the night before, nearly at midnight, and at great expense. I know the chances are slim. My stomach feels heavy. It's full of worry and frustration, nothing more nourishing. Tea would stimulate this ache to a full-fledged pain, so no, no tea. The lady leaves me, but not without a reproachful glance over her shoulder. I have failed at being served.

Continued.

Ten Minutes Too Late, Part IV

December 23, 2009

It is not. I arrive at the airport and find that my flight is delayed by hours. I am not allowed to check in yet. I must wait in a pen inside the terminal, reserved for people seeing friends and family off and for a few delayed unfortunates like me. I stand and watch as the hours pass, as my flight is delayed and delayed again. A chatty man with a boisterous family tries to talk to me. Where am I going, and why am I waiting here? Why am I all alone? Why do I have a son, and only a son?

“Don't you want one like this?” he asks, picking up his small daughter for me to inspect. She is a slender little brown girl, hair cut in a Clara Bow bob, dressed in pink and purple. Gold earrings adorn her ears, and there are colored rhinestones on her sandals. The child is as adorable as a little girl can be, so I smile, and am gracious to this stranger who is trying to cheer me up. He is seeing a young couple off on their honeymoon, he says, but that is probably just a word he uses to explain that they are newly married. They are on their way to the Gulf, which is a place for work, not romance and leisure.

I wait in the pen another hour, making a total of four, after the happy man leaves with his family.

Continued.

Ten Minutes Too Late, Part III

December 22, 2009

I could wheel my suitcase to the woefully inadequate seating area to wait for a place to sit, then camp all night as penitence, but I have to rebook the flight to Siem Reap that I will miss tomorrow and at least try to email the hotel where my family is staying. There is no airport network in Chennai. I need a hotel room.

There is a little wooden kiosk outside the International terminal. A young man sits in it, alone with a telephone, which he uses to call hotels for passengers who were stranded, or have been too nonchalant about their itineraries. I have been his client before. He gets rather good deals and is always polite and helpful. (This story was written years ago. The man and his booth are no longer there. They have been swept away in a modernization campaign. I was sad when they tore his booth down. It was the only useful thing in Chennai airport, and now it's gone.) Today, he is pleased to hear that I need an Internet connection. Most of his clients want the cheapest room they can get, and haggle over the price as long as he lets them. And here I am, sad and cowed and in need of technology. My misfortune brings him a good commission.

•

Internet at the Beverly Hotel means sitting in a tiny cabinet to use the business center computer. The connection is slow, but I book a new flight—I choose the last departure of the day, reasoning that there is no way I can miss it—and try to send an email to Cambodia. A fool's errand if there ever was one, but required. I am not murdered. I have not run away. I have missed a flight, and will be delayed a full day. I am sorry.

I have less than four hours' sleep in my expensive bed. The car has not arrived when I go downstairs to check out. I sit in the dark next to a little artificial Christmas tree, haphazardly decorated and twinkling, and tell myself the worst is over.

Continued.

Ten Minutes Too Late, Part II

December 22, 2009

At the baggage claim in Chennai, my suitcase comes off first, as promised. With it, I run outside and along the sidewalk towards the International departures entrance, dodging picnicking families who sit on the pavement, waiting for their loved ones to arrive. It is serious business, for them. Anyone being welcomed by one of these groups is probably the family's main means of support. At minimum he is a joy to them, expensively educated and clever enough to get a foreign job. But I cannot stop to inventory the bright saris and homemade snacks. I push through the crowds saying please, sorry, please, sorry. No one pays attention or really minds. A little pushing in a crowd is just a part of any day in India. I get to the guard at the terminal door. He taps the departure time on my ticket disapprovingly, but lets me in.

Inside the airport, things are no better. The lines are so long and so disorderly that there seems to be a single crowd advancing on the unreinforced checkin counters. I push my way forward, and find an Air India employee. He is impassive, unsympathetic, but waves me towards the end of the counters, around the back to the Air India office. It is a set of three ugly little rooms paneled in red plastic. There are heaps of paper on all surfaces. I am made to sit in the anteroom. My heart sinks. Waiting in a dingy little office is clearly not a step towards being rushed onto the plane.

The officer in charge informs me that the gates have closed and there is nothing he can do. I am ten minutes too late. “You will go tomorrow,” he says, tonelessly. I let loose a flood of words about the flight that will be missed, about my family, unreachable in Cambodia and waiting for me. He is unmoved, and informs me, in his flat way, that it is my own fault. Then he writes out a ticket and tells me to come back tomorrow. He has put me on a morning flight, and I had better arrive early.

I know he is right. SpiceJet cannot help its inefficiency and complete lack of customer service plan. I, on the other hand, could very well have allowed four hours between flights. It is my fault.

Continued.

Ten Minutes Too Late, Part I

December 22, 2009

Picture Coimbatore. It is Tamil Nadu's second city, a cement scar on South India's red dust plains. It is a textile town, fed by the cotton that grows in the state. Increasingly, though, it is also a tech town. Old villas are pounded to dust to make way for cement and plastic office buildings. The sewers have almost all been sunk below ground, and the impromptu garbage dumps that once dotted the city are now regularly toted out to Ukkadam for sweepers' children to scrounge on. Picture Coimbatore Airport. It is nothing but a smallish hangar with 1970s linoleum floors. Two Xray machines sit in the middle of the departure area. The room is ringed with checkin counters, temporary structures that can easily be moved. No one has bothered to put in any paneling. The walls are raw and grey. There is no belt to transport the luggage out to the waiting trucks and planes. Instead, blue-uniformed men move the bags with startling speed and energy. They look too skinny to sling suitcases around so easily, but the constant exercise keeps them strong and thin.

Holidaymakers and honeymooners mill about, dressed in party brights. Among them are politicians, in white from head to toe and wearing their traditional lunghis, long cloths tied around the waist, in lieu of trousers. Businessmen wear shirts and pants, and could go to Munich or Cleveland and fit right in. And me. I'm there too.

I wear an ankle-length linen skirt and a long-sleeved blouse, nothing Indian, but modest. It's a look that says, I'm a lady, leave me alone. Or it would, if I were sitting down reading my book as I ought to be.

Instead, I am pacing. My SpiceJet flight, the one that was supposed to get me from Coimbatore to Chennai, is over two hours late. No one had announced the delay, or offered any excuse. The flight number and departure time stay on the board, unchanging, as the minutes tick by. I ask the man at the checkin desk when my plane will board, and ask again.

“It will come!” is his singularly Indian reply. He offers no details, is baffled by my explanation of why it is important (a connecting flight in Chennai, an international one, for which I need enough time to clear security and immigration), and is increasingly annoyed in the face of my nervousness.

The possible delay of my next flight, an Air India one, is really my only hope. When I made my reservations, I allowed for a possible two-hour delay on my flight to Chennai, but no more than that. Chennai airport is smelly and mosquito-infested, with an appalling lack of facilities. There isn't even a Coffee Day. I did not, and do not, want to spend a long layover there.

Coimbatore airport, much smaller, less odorous, but with more than enough mosquitos, has a Coffee Day. I had a cappuccino there after I checked in and now it has mixed with my unease and is causing me pain. I look at the board, helpless. The expected departure time for my flight is still frozen in the past. People are checking in for the Jet Airways flight to Chennai that I had ruled out as departing too late when making my plans.

At the Jet counter, the kind young woman assures me that the flight is on time, and that they have a seat for me. My plan, newly hatched and ill thought out, is to have a boarding pass for both flights, just in case the original one takes off first. The SpiceJet man is having none of it, though. Affronted at my lack of faith, he rips up my boarding pass and shoves my suitcase at me. It doesn't matter. The Jet flight takes off on time, while the SpiceJet passengers wait.

It is too late, though.

Continued.

What is Coffee Day?

Once in a while someone asks, and I say, “It’s a chain of coffee shops, kind of like Starbuck’s, but Indian.” The answer never seems satisfactory, which must be my own fault. I suppose it’s the way I say the words Coffee Day, the way a person might say knight in shining armor or beloved or at least hot fudge sundae, depending on preferences.

Coffee Day has rescued me in many a city, places where a woman should never sit down alone or where every business locks up for hours in the afternoon. Its sign is a red beacon, visible from blocks away, that says “Come. Sit. We'll take care of you.”

Not that it’s all that special inside. A Coffee Day usually has a clean to cleanish (it is India, after all), modern interior, with little square tables and reasonably comfortable chairs. The cappuccino is milky, with a heart swirled into the foam. Drinking water comes in little plastic bottles. Sandwiches, if needed, may be chicken, paneer, or spinach and corn. Sweets are mostly chocolate colored, but with only the mildest, if any, chocolate flavor.

Though the majority of customers are always men, it is the sort of place where ladies meet for coffee. Schoolgirls can be trusted to come on their own to share a slice of cake for a treat. In some places, clusters of students appear in the afternoon, boys at one table and girls at another. The important thing is that I can sit undisturbed, sip a coffee and check my map, read, or daydream.

Jet Lag

February 4, 2014

Peep-peep-peep-peep, peep-peep-peep-peep. The room is perfectly dark. I wake slowly, then leap from the bed. I have set the time wrong, or neglected to turn off one of my early morning alarms. My head is heavy and stupid with sleep. I press buttons to make the peeping stop, then open timeanddate.com to see what my mistake is. But timeanddate insists that it is 8 am in Mumbai, which seems impossible, given how dark it is. At last I have the wit to pull open the window curtain, and light streams in. From the right angle I can see a sliver of Juhu beach, the waves shining under the harsh Indian sun. But I will not run out to walk on the sand today, nor trot up the street to the Satya Paul to see if I can price one of the outfits I saw the night before. Now I must sleep.

Mumbai Arrival

February 3, 2014

I arrive in Mumbai during a festival, or maybe it's just wedding season. A little ways from the airport strings of lights begin to appear, and as we approach Juhu there are crowds of people dressed in their brightest, gold-decorated clothes. It is nearly midnight. They are on their way home.

Even at the hotel, merrymakers are starting on their way home. I look up from the desk where a clerk is taking as much time as possible to check me in. A group of young women are ambling towards the door, all long hair and bare midriffs. Turquoise and peridot, fuchsia and lime, edged with gold but theirs is a different shade from the tinsel-decorated saris I saw outside. I avert my eyes, a little frightened by their splendor. They reach the doors and exclaim their thanks to the hostess. “Oh, Auntie, what a wonderful party!” and they are gone.

At last the clerk has filled out enough papers. I am sent upstairs with my key, the luggage must follow. Room 214. It is oddly familiar, the way hotel rooms are. Mirror, desk, fridge underneath, two beds. My bags arrive with a bellhop who explains things. I don't know what. I am too exhausted to understand. I nod and nod, wishing him away, finally sending him off with an inadequate tip. Door locked, I bathe and finally sleep.

Getting There

February 3, 2014

Four flights, three layovers to get to my final destination. A long journey by any standards. It's still fun, sometimes. There is the guilty pleasure of the airport meal, so carb-laden, so expensive, and raiding the duty free shop for the best chocolates and champagne. In Brussels airport I order white wine, though it is only 7 am, since it is late enough for a drink where I just came from, but I need justify this extravagance to no one. All around me, Belgian holiday makers sip their beers and laugh.

This entertainment is always a heavy line item in the travel budget, but a worthwhile investment. Without it, the hours in the airport would be dull beyond reason and this trip too long to bear.

Easier always to be alone, and without anyone anxiously waiting. A delayed flight is just that rather than a cascade of problems. I can pace or stand, read or dream uninterrupted. And all goes well.

What Foreigners Like

In a Subway sandwich shop in Tamil Nadu, I ordered a salad with everything on it, until we came to the dressing. I said I didn't care for any. The man making my sandwich took a slice of cucumber, squeezed a bead of mayonnaise onto it, and handed it to me. I must have looked puzzled.
"Honey mustard!" he said. "Foreigners like honey mustard!"
It was honey mustard, more or less. I still didn't care for any. I was pleased, though, to know what foreigners like.