On My Way

I left Washington, D.C. at 11 p.m. Tuesday night for Mumbai on Qatar Airways flight 052 . This is what I was dreading–the 13+-hour flight to Doha, Qatar. I settled into my window seat with my iPod, neck pillow, Tylenol PM, and a book Liz gave me (Some Girls. I am only a few chapters in, but I highly recommend it). An Indian woman headed for Hyderabad sat next to me. She did not speak much English, but through a few words and many hand gestures, I learned that she had been visiting her daughter and new granddaughter in D.C. and was headed back home. Scott, who works for the Air Force and is nursing a broken foot, sat in the aisle. I would not have pegged him for being a day over 32, but I found out he was 39 with a daughter not much younger than me. He flies to the Middle East every six weeks or so and offered to make sure I went to the correct terminal upon arrival in Qatar and did not accidentally end up in the immigration line to exit.

Once the plane took off, I began searching for a movie on my seatback TV. I opted for Almost Famous and prayed for sleep. Sleep did not come, but somewhere over Massachusetts, the flight attendant came by with hot wash cloths for our hands. Dinner was on its way. I occasionally checked the onscreen map to track our flight. As the plane flew over Nova Scotia, our meal arrived. The food on Qatar Airways was much better than I expected and tastier than most other airline food. I opted for the ginger chicken instead of the biryani, drank plenty of water, popped a Tylenol PM, and closed my eyes. I slept off-and-on through the remainder of the flight, and was awakened over the Black Sea for breakfast. At this point, I noticed that I had developed cankles during the night, so I climbed over my seat mates and headed down the aisle to the bathroom. There was a long line, but I didn’t mind. The movement and stretching was necessary.

A few episodes of Arrested Development and 30 Rock later, we were in Qatar. We got off the plane on the tarmac and were shuttled to the terminals. As promised, Scott pointed me in the right direction, and I headed to Gate 12 to check the status of my flight to Mumbai. We were set to leave a few minutes early, so I sat down for a quick meal, walked around the terminal a bit, during which I discovered that the airport had a mosque, a children’s playground, and TCBY, which I passed by five or six times then summoned every ounce of self control I have and made my way back to the gate for boarding.

Three hours to go. Sleepless in Seattle was my movie of choice for the second flight. I dozed off at some point and woke up half an hour before arrival. The nerves began to kick in. What if my luggage didn’t make it? What if I couldn’t find my driver? What if there were issues getting through customs?

Off the plane at 3 a.m., all of us passengers made a mad dash for the arrivals terminal. First step, go through customs. This was surprisingly simple and only required a few minutes’ wait. Next step, collect my baggage. I waited and waited for one of my three bags to come through. Nothing. I saw the same bags appear time after time and still no sign of mine. Finally, one appeared. And, then a few minutes later, the second. And then, the third. All bags in tow, I headed for the exit.

This is the moment I had been waiting for. I knew a driver named Mr. Joseph was supposed to meet me outside of the terminal holding a sign with my name on it. Who has not wanted to be met at the airport by a driver with a placard? I passed by the hundreds of people waiting in the pre-paid taxi line, and headed straight for the line of drivers. There must have been a few dozen standing there with signs. Finally, I saw Mr. Joseph, holding a sign with my name printed in bold pink letters. He led me to his SUV, put my luggage in the back, and off we went. Then it hit me – I am in India…

Drivers waiting at the airport in Mumbai.  I wanted to get a picture myself, but hands were quite full.  This one, courtesy of  Bev Olsen (http://members.virtualtourist.com/m/4b8d7/5d7/).