Operation: Out of the Frying Pan
How to flee India in 10,000 easy steps.
American Germaphobe India Saga (part 14.1)
This is an ongoing true story of a work trip to India where I, a spoiled, frightened, American germaphobe, desperately cling to my waning sanity by finding humor in the fear.
For those not familiar with the path to get here, the saga starts here:
For those following my account, I left you with me hanging out in the Bangalore airport waiting for my flight to board, Coke Zero in hand, hungry cell phone in charge, and oblivious to karma’s unfolding schemes:
The classical pessimist would assume that karmic disfavor would befall my intended exodus, leaving me to spend more time attracting the mosquitos, but alas, karma is a bit more subtle than that.
And clever.
As it turns out, it’s nefarious plotting began weeks ago with an injection of foolish optimism into this hard-core pessimist.
OPTIMISTIC DISAPPOINTMENT
My flight from Bangalore to Shanghai was actually in two parts: first to New Delhi, wherein I had a layover of one hour and 40 minutes, and then on to Shanghai.
One hour and 40 minutes.
That seemed to me like more than enough time when I booked the flights. I mean, the airline wouldn’t offer a short connection if it was risky, would they?
Nah.
To be sure, I did consider the risks — as I knew them. What if the first flight was delayed? Well, I checked, and, unlike several other flights to New Delhi, this flight was not shown on the net as being prone to delay. And even if it was, surely it would not be delayed by more than 30 minutes, and jets these days often fly a bit faster when they need to make up time, so surely the risk of a delayed flight causing problems for me was minimal.
I can feel your scorn, o’ pessimistic reader.
But ha! I was right! Karma be damned: the flight departed on time, and landed on time.
Me: Take that, Karma!
Karma: Wait for iiiiiiiit…..
Here’s a fun travel fact for you: for a flight from Bangalore to Shanghai connecting through New Deli, an hour and 40 minutes is not in any way near enough time what with all the OTHER things that can go wrong in making the connection.
When I, usually paranoid and pessimistic by nature, booked this flight, for some incomprehensible reason, I decided to err on the side of optimism. It is practically a life principle to me that expecting the worst at all times means that at worst I will be happy in being right, and all other surprises become relatively pleasant. Foolishly I did not listen to my own wisdom in this case: I did not expect the worst, else I would have gone for a much longer layover.
In truth, there was no “one thing” that happened to upend the carefully planned schedule of the Indian Aviation Administration. Instead, like death by a thousand malaria-infested airport-urinal-dwelling mosquitoes, it was not the one bite that got me, but the compounding effect of a swarm of soul-sucking misfortunes.
Allow me to explain.
THE LONG WALK
My flight into New Delhi landed as planned at around 1am local time. Since at this hour there were not many planes at the terminal, airport ground traffic control apparently thought it best if our plane used a gate that was aaaaall the way out at the farthest end of the biggest and longest terminal they had.
Funny guys, these ground traffic controllers.
What this amounted to is that the walk we needed to make after deplaning was a long one.
Like 10 minutes long.
Ok, sure, 10 minutes might not seem all that bad. In fact, the count-yer-blessings folks deplaning with me were probably like, “this is great — we have 10 extra minutes to stretch our legs and get the blood circulating again!”
But keep in mind what I said about single mosquito bites.
I will count one blessing, however: the terminal hallway was pleasantly empty except for the few folks from my plane who were able to keep up with the accelerated pace I set. That meant that I could walk as fast as my ailing body and burdensome carryon luggage would allow, which, while not olympic in pace, was measurably faster than almost everyone else from the plane.
Did I mention the terminal was long?
The long hallway stretched away from our distant parking spot far enough such that you could almost see the curvature of the earth, but in actual fact it was hard to tell since the fog of distance makes things pretty fuzzy at that range.
Fortunately for the desperately anxious traveler, there are signs every 20 meters or so to keep one informed as to the fact that wherever it is you are going, you’re still not there yet. Signs such as: International Transfers straight ahead. Domestic Arrivals to the left. Restroom closed. Abandon All Hope Ye Who Enter Here. And so on.
Naturally, what with my mission to reach Shanghai, an obviously international destination, as reliably as can be expected, I kept following the signs for International Transfers. I must give credit to the airport architects who, having studied human psychology under such greats as Vlad the Impaler (the name says enough), Donald Pfaster (creepy serial killer from X-Files), and Frank Darabont (he directed The Mist which made me cry at the end), have cleverly placed the International Transfers signs at intervals just far enough apart so as to make you anxious that perhaps you missed the last one and did not turn when you should have, and then once you’ve caught on to their cruel scheme, they finally provide you another sign pointing ambiguously to the left where upon going that way leaves you with three unclear choices of different passageways to explore.
But, in yet another embarrassing defeat for Karma, I luckily did not get lost nor did I have to double back, and so no additional time was lost other than (a) the 10 minutes it took to traverse from the gate to my next challenge, and (b) the time shaved off of my already dangerously short anxiety-scarred lifespan.
THE WRONG WALK
Successful navigation of the International Transfers route led me to a room containing a daunting maze of cordoned walkways with a delightfully small number of people queued up. This queue led to a tired-looking man whose only joy in life seemed to be to challenge any and all who wished passage. Behind him I could see what looked like a security checkpoint, and, I presumed, the international terminal where I desperately hoped I could find something I’d be willing to eat.
In retrospect, if I had not been in so much of an anxious hurry and stopped to think about what “International Transfers” really meant, this story might have been shorter…
As I approached this Guardian of Tasty Things to Come, I noticed the sign next to his booth which said that I ought have my passport and boarding pass ready. I had my passport but not a boarding pass to Shanghai. The boarding pass could not be issued in Bangalore; they told me I had to get it here in New Delhi.
Like a bad poker player having gone all-in with a pair of nothing, I was committed. I didn’t power-walk all this way for nothin’.
I stepped up confidently and asked the booth dude where I needed to go to get the boarding pass. Was it perhaps in the international terminal on the other side of his booth? I was deliriously hoping he’d say “go on through and they’ll issue you a boarding pass at the American Steakhouse just next to your gate.”
Instead, he killed my foolish dream, informing me that all I needed to do was to go to the China Eastern ticket desk where, as any informed traveler should know, they issue boarding passes.
To China.
Like it says in my flight itinerary.
Duh.
Ashamed, and afraid of the likely answer, I meekly how one might get to this ticketing desk.
Pointing back the way I came, he instructed me to follow the signs for arriving passengers, exit the terminal, and go to the very front of the airport where they do ticketing.
Yikes.
Getting to that ticket desk took another 10 minutes.
THE LONG WAIT
And… there is a line. Not long, fortunately, as it is after 1 am, but given the circumstances, every second hurts.
When I finally get to the counter, I ask the ticket counter lady if she can please solve my boarding pass problem, trying my hardest to subtly communicate a sense of urgency that she might find inspiring.
From her flaccid response of “One moment, sir” I infer that my inspirational tone has failed to do its job, so I up my game and wait with an exterior patience that barely hides a volcano of building angst.
She takes this time to arrange a few papers on her desk, level her monitor, walk away to another desk to get some more papers, then come back to re-arrange again the papers on her desk so that she might properly integrate her new acquisitions.
I swear I can hear time passing. It sounds eerily similar to the sound your soul makes as it feels its last modicum of hope shriveling away like disenfranchised man-bits being slowly immersed into a cold pool.
After a minute that feels like an hour, she finally concludes her ill-timed housekeeping chore and begins to process my request, finally taking my passport which I have conveniently positioned so as to be not easily ignored, and begins to execute the check-in process at the frustrating speed of bureaucracy.
Watching her process my check-in at a pace that makes proton decay look hasty, it occurs to me that if I wasn’t already set to go straight thru to my connecting flight, perhaps my luggage is in a similar situation?
I should have her check on this, but I worry that she may be one of those types of people who is very serial in how she executes her tasks, such that when asked to do things in parallel, the overall result is far less efficient than if allowed to do one thing at a time.
Distracting her seems like a bad idea.
On the other hand, my question is rather routine. Given how logical and intuitive airline procedures are, it should be almost muscle memory for her to answer such a common query.
Timidly, tentatively, as though trying not to spook a squirrel I’m trying to coax into taking a nut from my hand, I ask, “Can you confirm that my bag is checked through to Shanghai?”
She gives me a look that transcends culture and language differences: it says “Can’t you just be quiet and let me work?” But she’s a professional, this one, and customer service is her game, even if she’s not very good at it.
She stops what she’s doing and asks me to repeat my question.
I oblige.
Without comment, she resumes pecking at her computer.
After several agonizing rounds of alternating expressions of concern and surprise, without looking up at me she hesitantly speaks: “Yeeeees” she says unreassuringly. “But let me just confirm that, sir.”
She picks up her phone and dials.
I wait, alternating my own facial expressions of concern and lack-of-surprise.
After what seems like hours but is probably no more than 20 long seconds, someone answers, whereupon she proceeds to have a “brief” chat with this someone, consisting of 15% actual necessary dialogue concerning the disposition of Mr. Hamilton’s bag’s journey to Shanghai, and 85% unnecessary pleasantries such as greetings, salutations, and other bits that can’t comfortably be fit into the please-shut-the-hell-up-so-I-can-get-Mr.-Hamilton-on-his-way conversational category, all of which I must patiently endure until she finally hangs up the phone.
“Confirmed, Mr. Hamilton,” she tells me. “Your bag is checked through to your destination.”
I’d feel relief but I don’t have the time for it.
When she hands me my boarding pass I ask about the bag check receipt. She tells me that I don’t need one — the original one I received in Bangalore is the correct one.
This seems odd to me since the ticketing I got in Bangalore didn’t have ME checked straight through to Shanghai. But who am I to question the logistical wizardry of the airlines?
I’d feel concern but I don’t have the time for it.
THE WRONG WAIT
Ok, I now have everything I should need to get into the international terminal and find my gate. The question is: how long will that take? I’ve been spending time like a desperate man throwing his last coins into a slot machine and failing to get lucky. I’m thinking that I still have to go through security, and who knows how long that will take, and then I have to find my gate — another unknown time expenditure ahead of me. My flight departs at 2:55am and it is now 2am.
Technically I should be at the gate now.
But…
I am still carrying greater than 20,000 rupees and I want to exchange them for Chinese yuan. I ask the lady at the ticketing counter if there is a currency exchange in the terminal on the other side of the security check. She seems baffled by my question and points to a currency exchange right behind me and says I should just use that one.
“Do I have enough time to make an exchange and still get to my gate on time?” I ask, deferring judgment to her expertise and familiarity with the airport.
Very confidently she replies “Oh yes.”
It turns out that exchanging my currency is complicated by the fact that since I don’t have my original receipt for the rupees they can only exchange 10,000 rupees.
“That’s fine,” I say. “But only if we can do it quickly. I’ve got a plane I should already have caught.”
Bureaucracy replies: “Oh, sure, this will take no time at all.”
Naturally, “no time at all” entails filling out forms.
And counting and recounting rupees.
And counting and recounting yuan.
AND answering several questions from the guy who arrived at the desk AFTER me but butts in and exercises his unending curiosity about exchange rates between various currencies.
Ten minutes later, I have rupees and yuan, I have less than 45 minutes until my plane departs, I have even less time before the gate closes, and I have fear.
Ok, so I originally intended to be on my way to Shanghai by the end of this chapter, but frankly too much happened along the way to put in just one chapter and even this one was longer than I anticipated. So…. the next one will be the last one in my India saga — I promise! (Well, until my next visit to India generates new material.)
Read on:
