A little after 6PM I said goodbye to my friends and their cousins who had just moved into another tower of the same apartment complex and were still unpacking. They promised to be unpacked by the time I’d be back. They too now feel like part of my new Indian family as is V’s cousin in Lucknow.
At 6PM my ariport driver announced himself. My friends had calculated 5 hours from their door to the Mumbai airport. This turned out to be exact. The one hour to get in and then out of Pune was included in those 5 hours. From the city limits of Pune to the city limits of Mumbai is only 150 kilometers but the average speed is not quite what it would be in the US.
The driver was warned about the speed cameras posted along the highway by R’s cousin-in-law, who showed the driver the kind of picture you get sent in the mail when you are caught. He had been driving a little too fast to my liking when he drove us to the Pune airport last Sunday. He heeded the warning and drove prudently this time.
Mumbai airport’s departure hall is very fancy on the outside and glamorous and efficient on the inside. If the airport authorities can match the arrival experience, India’s vision (to be among the three most desirable tourist destinations in the worlds), may actually materialize.
The lines for the immigration were long but the booth were staffed. And now I knew also about the senior line. I was given a pass to the lounge which was also enormous, befitting the number of travelers, and well stocked with food and drink of any kind.
Once in the plane I discovered to my dismay that I was sitting right next to the young couple with its toddler, the same one I thought so cute in the security line, but not anymore now. They took what would have been the empty seat next to me and so I find myself in a full row with a toddler, while before me on the left was another toddler and behind me on my right an infant. Such companions for a 9 hour flight! The babies took turns being unhappy, and when we landed they were all unhappy at the same time.
AT CDG I snagged an empty shower and an appointment for a complimentary Clarins massage, available to customers of the Air France lounge who arrive early enough to get one. It wasn’t anything like the Shirodara oil drip but it was good enough, with a hand massage thrown in for good measure and a sample of a Clarin’s product as a goodbye gift.
The upgrade for which I had been waitlisted (and with four open seats in B-class should have gotten) didn’t materialize. A very apologetic chief flight attendant told me I should have been upgraded, but that apology came a little too late as we started out descent into Boston. Everyone blamed the French and the AF and Delta systems not comunicating. I have heard this excuse for the last 20 years or so. One would have thought that this technology glitch might have been fixed by now.
My suitcase did not emerge from the belly of the plane. I waited for about one and a half hour, bolstered by encouraging text messages and uplifting emojis from Axel. When it was just me and a handful of other travelers standing around the belt, hoping against all odds, I faced reality, declared the missing bag and we headed home. I collapsed into a miserable heap and went to sleep for several hours before having a glass of wine, sitting by the fire in our cozy home. It had been an amazing trip until I left Indian soil, and now all was well again, in spite of the missing bag with its Indian sweets that may or may not survive a cold night.
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