Many Roads to Rishikesh

Episode 1

May 11-12, 2016

LAX is a fairly uneventful airport, but I’m fortunate to live within an hour of it, increasing the accessibility of international travel. Even with the occasional star sighting, you emerge from security relatively quickly. On the day of my departure for India, security was unusually crowded, preventing me from imbibing my ceremonial champagne split. From the time I arrived to the time I queued at the gate, I didn’t even sit down. Rather than lament the TSA lines via social media, as some travellers are currently doing, I’ll lament the loss of my champagne celebration and move on with my story. I was called to board almost immediately after arriving at my gate, anticipating the new experience of seat 66K.

Last year, on my ultra long haul A380 trip to Dubai, I discovered that if you book a seat that appears to be two to a row, there are actually three seats in the row. Typically, the extra seat is used for the flight attendant’s take off and landing seat. The remainder of the flight, the arm rests were up and my seatmate and I enjoyed our ample leg and elbow room. My seatmate was a tall Nigerian man with the gentlest temperament. Since I always book the window seat to create a sleeping nook, I had to wake him a few times to pass by to the restroom. When I booked my ticket in January, my favorite 88K was already reserved. Who else would be mad enough to book the last row of the plane, adjacent to the restrooms? That was always my hope, at least. Miraculously, I now prefer 66K. A wall creates some privacy in the back of the section, whereas 88K is open to the flight attendant prep area. 

When I checked in at LAX, I informed the attendant that I was unable to book Dubai Connect, a complimentary service provided by Emirates if you have a 9+ hour layover in Dubai. Last year, I took full advantage of this perk in which Emirates provides transport to a local hotel, gives you a food voucher, and a night in a hotel room. After a 16 hour flight, there’s nothing better than stretching out flat and showering. “I cannot book it for you here, less than 24 hours prior. You will have to talk to them in Dubai,” the attendant informed me. No problem, I thought. I was familiar with the Dubai Connect counter from one year ago. After clearing customs at DXB, I approached the counter with the friendliest demeanor possible, much of it feigned through my fatigue. “No, I’m sorry,” the attendant informed me. “There are no rooms available, but this discounted fare doesn’t qualify you for Dubai Connect anyway.” I trudged upstairs to departures and paused to message my family before my passport was scanned through immigration again. At least I would have two stamps added to my passport because of the mishap.

I resigned to the fact that I wouldn’t have a space to stretch out, shower, and relax. As I began to explore the airport, I discovered two hotels inside. I trekked to the one closest to my location in Concourse C. I was sweating profusely and desperately needed a shower. The registration attendant said that yes, rooms were available, and yes, they charge by the hour. Perfect, I thought, until I learned the hourly rate. SIXTY USD per hour! It was barely past 9:15 PM and I didn’t have to board until 3:50 AM. I didn’t need to calculate the total to realize, despite my exhaustion, I didn’t want to spend that much on a hotel room. Travel expenses can creep up on you and I’m realizing, even after 20 years of international travel, that concessions must be made. 

I devised a plan to shower, eat, rest, and do whatever possible not to fall asleep, at the risk of my carry-ons being stolen. I trekked back to Concourse B, where my gate would be. I found the showers there and anticipated a long, hot shower to pass the time. The configuration of the shower stall and the constant watch of the restroom attendant dashed my dream. I also realized that I was counting on the hotel room for a towel, shampoo, conditioner, and soap! Improvisation time: my sarong wrap would serve as the towel, I would just rinse my hair, and there was a hand soap dispenser in the shower. Problems solved. I changed into my fresh shirt, panties, and socks, feeling temporarily revived. I wrapped the thin sarong around my shoulders and it was dry in no time. The woman who used the shower after me asked what I used for a towel. I showed her my damp sarong, but she took some paper towels into the stall with her. I would be remiss not to mention one of the greatest travel stories of all time, when my friend Mandie and I travelled together to Amsterdam, but then parted ways. She headed for Oslo and I was laying over for Athens. Improvisation was required once again as we used the sweatsuit she travelled in as towels after our showers. She used the bottoms and I used the top. Problems solved again.

It was only 11 PM by the time my toiletries were all packed up. I found a café where I had a green tea and fruit, then rested in a lounger, but began to fall asleep. At around 1 AM, I took a walk down to Concourse C and back again, browsing in shops to stay awake. I observed how bustling Dubai airport is in the middle of the night! Shoppers, diners, travellers hustling to their gates. This action never ceased the entire time I was there. I recalled landing at LAX late at night after a previous international trip. Everything is closed up, nowhere to eat, nowhere to exchange money. I suppose Dubai is more centrally located as the connection point between Europe and Australia or Europe and Asia. Plus, people in the US quiet down and go to bed. The rest of the world stays up later. I continued walking, stopped at another café for a green tea and a smoothie, charged my phone at a charging station, and finally was ready to board. And, I was wide awake with travellers’ second wind!

     

The flight to Delhi was quiet, after the passengers composed themselves once the plane recovered from a sudden drop and lurch during takeoff. Sometimes I question why I travel! We arrived in Delhi about three hours later, and I wondered if I could catch an earlier flight to Dehradun. Then I remembered that I was now in India, the land where things usually go according to plan, but the plan is never your plan.

“How do I get to the domestic terminal? For Spice Jet?” I enquired of an Emirates attendant after I gathered my checked bag in Delhi. “At Pillar 12 outside, you will see a red bus. It will take you to Terminal 1D,” she replied. I stopped by an ATM, then asked the red bus driver at Pillar 12 if he was headed to Terminal 1D. He instructed me toward the line and throng of people waiting for a different red bus at Pillar 9. “Taxi, Madam! Taxi!” attempted the cab drivers as I hurried to the outdoor counter. The attendant printed my ticket just as the next red bus arrived. By the time I made my way to the door, there was barely enough room for my bags, but the people who were already on board motioned for me to join them. I squeezed on, followed by two more people and their bags, who really didn’t fit, just as the doors forced us to sardine even closer within the non-AC red bus. The eager driver didn’t wait to check for limb safety, but lurched forward as we all grabbed rails and wondered how secure the doors were. The red bus travelled away from the international terminal and down the highway that connects to the domestic terminal. An attendant from the front of the bus pushed his way through the standing room only aisle, climbing over the luggage obstacle course. He smoothly collected tickets from each person, but yelled to stop the bus in the middle of the highway. Normal traffic behavior and not puzzling at all to the surrounding drivers, a man hopped off with his luggage. I turned to the nearest rider, “He didn’t have a ticket?!” She smiled and did the Indian head waggle that can mean either yes or no. She and her husband laughed uproariously, and I was never quite sure why the man was ejected from the red bus. Oftentimes, while riding public transport, locals make a special request to be dropped off somewhere along the journey. I’ve never ridden the Delhi Metro, but I suspect the driver stops the train whenever his buddy needs to disembark.

We arrived at Terminal 1D, I checked in, passed security, and found a place to settle for several more hours. The counter attendant said that the only flight to Dehradun was the one I had booked, vanquishing my plan to avoid another lengthy airport wait. Again, India doesn’t really happen according to your expectations or plan. I had about seven hours until my flight, and considering I didn’t sleep at all on the flight from Dubai, I knew it would be a rough wait. Indira Gandhi Domestic Terminal resembles an open warehouse at the top, birds flying in from the outside, and reverberating every sound of shoppers, diners, and people waiting to be called to board. Once your boarding has begun, you descend to the ground floor, where you board a bus and are deposited on the tarmac to ascend the stairs to your plane.

I wasn’t sure if I needed quiet or noise to survive the next few hours, again prohibited from falling asleep in order to protect my bags. I found a computer area with some food kiosks and some soothing piano music. At least it was enclosed and cooler. I tried to follow the notes on the piano, activating my brain to avoid the temptation to sleep. I tried to place the melody, invoking my music history knowledge. That’s nice of them to employ some student or amateur pianists, I observed, as I detected mistakes and strange key changes within the music. The next song was Memory from the musical Cats, one of my favorites! I looked around to see who was performing. I saw a grand piano but no piano player, for it was a grand player piano! A player piano that makes mistakes? Only in India, for sure.

The Spice Jet flight took off without delay, surprisingly, and landed early in Dehradun. I was impressed by the flight attendants’ efficiency, as ingrained and repetitive as their jobs seemed on this short flight. Much fanfare and excitement ensued upon our arrival, as it was the only flight on the tarmac at the moment, and possibly all day long. We exited the plane and walked across the tarmac to the arrivals hall, no skyway involved. I held my breath as the bags were deposited onto the carousel, as I had checked in several hours before my flight, ample opportunity for my bag to end up on a different flight or forgotten. I suppose I should have more faith in the people who handle baggage for a living, their mysterious accountability system a foreign language to me. My faith was restored as I recalled the 13 flights I took around Australia and Southeast Asia almost three years ago, never once having a baggage issue. Amid my reverie, my bag emerged through the rubber flaps, almost smiling at me as we made our way to the next step: finding Vishal, my appointed taxi driver, and taking the short journey to the ashram.