10:00PM, ITC Kohenur, Hyderabad, India Standard Time, 0 Hour.
I'm in a hotel-arranged private car, weaving through the Thursday evening traffic of Hyderabad and praying that the driver has a strong enough sense of self-preservation not to steer us into oncoming traffic. My bags are in the back. I am unhealthily checking my travel app every 20-30 seconds to ensure that my flight is on time.
10:40PM, Hyderabad Airport Exterior, India Standard Time, 0+40 minutes.
We arrive at the Rajiv Gandhi International Airport. Even this late, there are many, many people outside. I get confused because there are several ticket counters out here on the pavement, and indeed, there are signs that point to them and proclaim so. They, however, are not the ticket counters I need. They are local airlines that don't get space inside. I finally realize I need to be in the airport proper, so I ignore the signs and head to the first security clearance point, where I show a printed QR code to an armed officer who scans it and waves me through. I wonder what would have happened if I had neglected to bring that printed code with me? Would this journey home have been over before it started? It is speculation. I get into the 'true' airport with no issues.
Inside is an endless liminal space of ticket counters. There are far fewer people in here. I wonder to myself what the majority of the folks out in front of the airport are even doing if they're not coming in here. The counters have no clear order to what airline is located where -- they are not arranged alphabetically, by region, or by any other sane organizational methodology, as far as I can tell. I go all the way to one side of the large atrium, and then all the way to the other before finding the Lufthansa desks. They take my roller bag away, and I cross my fingers that I will see it again someday.
There is no indication of what I am supposed to do next, no sign pointing me to the gates or passport clearance. I turn in place, baffled, like that John Travolta meme. I eventually find a security desk and am pointed through to another security checkpoint that does, in time, get me to the international gates. It is a vast space speckled with American-brand restaurants like Starbucks and KFC. The KFC proudly flaunts a "Southern Indian Chicken Sandwich" featuring a massive deep-fried chunk of paneer cheese. I contemplate how disastrous it would be to eat such a thing before a 10-hour-long flight.
I am at my gate 3.5 hours early, despite the airport confusion. My flight has been delayed.
3:00AM, India Standard Time, Hyderabad Airport, International Terminal, 0+5 hours, or close enough.
It is boarding time, or it would be if the plane weren't an hour late. I am suddenly frustrated with the US insistence on continuing to use imperial measurement. I confidently told someone at the office yesterday that Sacramento gets up to about 50 degrees in the summer. That's 122°F for the folks at home. It does not get that hot, as Sacramento is not located in Death Valley. I am also frustrated by the realization that it would be a miracle if I made my connection in Frankfurt to the flight to Vancouver.
4:00AM, India Standard Time, Lufthansa Flight LH something-or-other, 0+6 hours.
I am on the plane. I hold onto some small hope that we can make up some time in the air. I'll have about half an hour to get to my next flight when we arrive in Frankfurt, otherwise. The flight to Germany is 9 hours and threads the needle between Iran and Saudi Arabia above the Persian Gulf. We fly directly over Iraq. I remember the two Gulf Wars and wonder what it must have been like for airlines that needed to use that airspace in wartime. I can only assume flights were even longer, trying to avoid the conflict zones. I attempt to sleep and eek out a few hours. The seats in premium plus are really quite good, with reclining foot rests and easily accessed power outlets. I sleep through the first meal service; I am awake for the second. It is some sort of egg-adjacent block of protein, and it is not very good.
10:00AM, Frankfurt Airport, "A" Gates, Germany, Central European Summer Time, 0+15 hours.
We arrive at the "gate" in Frankfurt, which is an airplane parking space a good distance from the actual terminal. I have 45 minutes to get to my connection, but we must take a seven-minute meandering bus ride to reach the airport. 38 minutes remain when we reach the "A" Gates and the bus vomits us into the terminal. I receive a notification on my phone that boarding has begun for my connection. I choose to run, as best as my not-very-aerobically-inclined body will permit. I make a few wrong turns because Frankfurt Airport has unacceptable signage, and my levels of frustration reach the "swearing aloud" threshold. I must stop at a security checkpoint just before the "B" gates, my destination. The very unhurried security personnel decide that the amount of technology in my backpack is worthy of a thorough bag check. I silently and grumpily comply. The chance of reaching my connection dwindles.
I reach my gate, gasping for breath, and the gate attendant informs me that the airplane doors are secured. I can see my plane, but I cannot reach it. I crumple. The gate attendant says I must visit the Lufthansa Service Desk for a new connection, which, of course, is located in the "A" Gates, almost precisely where I entered the terminal to begin with. I smirk at the irony. Then, I do some more swearing, though not in the presence of the gate attendant; that would be rude.
Upon arrival at the service desk, I am assisted by a young German man who deals with this sort of thing all day. He is friendly enough. I tell him my final destination is Sacramento, not Vancouver, so whatever gets me there is the real desire. He asks me if I have the ability to travel through the US. I inform him that I am a US citizen. He realizes that Sacramento is in the US, not Canada. I make an obvious mental note that not everyone knows where individual cities are located in North America, and that when I'm travelling abroad, I shouldn't assume things like that. He gets me on a flight to San Francisco and on a connection to Sacramento immediately following, while leaving me ample time to get through customs and immigration in SF. He says that I am lucky, and that the seat on the flight to SF was the last seat on the plane. I do feel lucky. I also feel very tired, and my journey is not even halfway done. I head to the "Z" gates, where my United flight to SF will depart in two hours.
I go through the same security gates a second time on my way to my debarkation gate. I get a little sticker added to the back of my passport by a Scottish Lufthansa employee at the entry to the "US Flights" section of the terminal, confirming that my passport isn't fraudulent or expired or some such thing. I pray there is a bar in the Z gates, as I could use a nice, cold, gin-based reinforcement. Since time has no meaning to me at this point, I don't feel guilty about doing so at 10:30AM.
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| This is the only picture I thought to take on this entire return journey |
1:30PM, Central European Summer Time, Frankfurt Airport "Z" Gates, 0 + 18 hours, 30 minutes.
I lament that I am in basic economy for the longest of my flights, despite the fact that I had already paid more for economy plus on my missed connection to Vancouver. However, I was inching towards home, so I do not complain. There are also several empty seats on the plane. There are so many, in fact, that I have two empty seats next to me, and thus can stretch out languidly. I would be more comfortable than I would have been in Premium Plus. Ha! Stupid Premium Plus rubes, I think to myself. I am slightly delirious at this point and spend several minutes, possibly as much as an hour, glaring into empty space with my mouth slightly ajar. I try to sleep, but cannot get comfortable, even with the extra space. Instead, I watch Wicked on the little screen on the seat back before me, but I am particularly impressed by it. At some point, they serve dinner and I have the chicken entree. It is coq au vin, and it's pretty damn good. I cannot recall how I spent the rest of this 11-hour flight. I don't want to remember.
4:30PM, Pacific Daylight Time, San Francisco International Airport, 0 + 29 hours, 30 minutes.
We arrive in San Francisco with little fanfare. I stumble through customs and immigration with no problems, but there are two and a half hours before my connection to Sacramento. I make my way to the gate to ensure I know where it is and then look for the nearest place that serves drinks to resolve the long-kept desire for a martini I've been harbouring since Frankfurt. I find a golf-themed cafe and lounge called Farley's, which has a tiny bar attached to it. They have Hendricks. I am at peace. I drink my martini and finish writing the previous blog entry.
6:40PM, Pacific Daylight Time, San Francisco International "F" Gates, 0 + 31 hours, 40 minutes.
I board the tiny airplane from San Francisco to Sacramento. If I were to drive this leg, it would take me about 2 hours. I absorb the embarrassment of burning jet fuel to do the trip via plane. We take off, and literally five minutes after reaching 10k feet, the pilot announces our descent into Sacramento Airport.
7:20PM, Pacific Daylight Time, Sacramento International Airport, 0 + 32 hours, 20 minutes.
We arrive. I pick up my roller bag gate-side and order a rideshare to get home. The remainder of the trip down the interstate and to my home is made in blessed silence. I am greeted by a loving husband and an ebullient dog. We watch the second episode of Amazon Prime Murderbot Diaries show. I fall asleep on the couch. I am home.
Epilogue, the following afternoon.
Heeey, and that was it! 32 hours, 40 minutes from door to door. Last night I slept about ten hours and am currently taking it easy to mitigate the inevitable jet lag. My first tentative dip into experiencing India is complete, and despite the fact that I didn't get to experience *much* of it, what I did left an overall positive impression. The city itself was undoubtedly one of contrasts. The food was universally excellent, despite the fact that the same five or so ingredients played a part in nearly everything. The people were warm and welcoming and challenged my assumptions at almost every turn. Even though the trip to and from the sub-continent from North America is undeniably brutal -- the most challenging I have had to endure -- I thoroughly enjoyed myself and look forward to being there again, which is likely to happen in relatively short order.
Thanks for reading, as always. My husband and I plan to travel next year if the US's relationship with literally the entire rest of the world doesn't degrade further, so check in occasionally! Until next time. Namaste!
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