I slept most of the time on the plane, so now it’s about 6 pm and feels like morning. I guess it is morning in the United States. We had brunch a couple hours ago, so that certainly contributes to it. For most of the flight, I had headphones on and listened to Baroque chamber music—I think the same oboe concertos repeated themselves over and over until I switched to the Brandenburg Concertos.
My first sight of the Middle East as the windows came up and I looked out the window was…an airplane wing. Oh, yeah, and what looked like the sunrise but was more likely the sunset—a streak of orange just beyond the wing. Soon I saw more water than land as we got closer; that’s hardly surprising, since Qatar is a peninsula and Doha is a port city. Next I saw only water—gently rocking waves—and I hoped we wouldn’t end up in the water. But we didn’t.
The passengers had to turn and head toward the back of the plane to get off, and as I stepped out onto the metal staircase, the wind was overwhelming. I shifted my coat and grasped onto the railing, like the people in front of me (and many of the people on the plane are Indian, so they might also be on my next flight). The first thing that caught my eye was the pitch black sky and the round full moon with the hare looking out. I also saw airport lights and city lights, but no stars. The moon looked so dramatic that I was tempted to take a picture there, from the stairs. It would have required taking off my backpack, unzipping the pocket, and rummaging for my camera. I didn’t really have time for that.
Shuttles took us to the main building, which is so much prettier than the blaaah Washington Dulles (as in Dull) Airport. We passed an entrance with an arched door and columns and then we stopped in front of a section where the very tall walls were mostly made of glass, and over the glass double doors—at least two sets of them—were black signs marked “Arrivals.” Fortunately everything’s not only in Arabic but also in English.
I forgot to mention: Muhammad was our pilot. His accent sounded faintly British.
My boarding pass unfortunately doesn’t have a gate number, but I have nearly six hours till my 12:50 flight, and monitors display the gate numbers.
When I went through security, I forgot to empty my pockets and take off my passport bag and my velvet shirt (it has metal buttons) and I set off the metal detector. So I went back and did all of the above, but I set off the metal detector anyway, probably because we weren’t required to take off our footwear. Or maybe it had to do with that metal plate and five screws in my ankle, though that doesn’t normally set it off. The guy at the security monitor was a bit freaked about my backpack. I looked at the monitor as he said, “What is this, a hammer?” It was the distinct outline of my Tibetan prayer wheel. Oh, yeah, that. It’s weird that security wasn’t suspicious of it in Kansas City or Washington. In Kansas City, the guy at the security checkpoint was only concerned because I didn’t take out my one-quart plastic bag containing little bottles that were no more than three ounces. So what if I beat the pilot to death with a prayer wheel. Anyway, here I explained that it’s a Tibetan prayer wheel, and while I unwrapped it (it was in the only shawl I brought) I explained that I’m going to Tibet. As the turquoise, coral, and silver object appeared, with its silver Tibetan script, the monitor guy said, “Oh, that’s OK.” I opened the top and showed him the scroll, saying, “It has a roll of scriptures in it.” Interesting—you can’t see the monitors at KC and Washington, not without a lot of effort. It’s a good thing I wasn’t searched, because I could swear that everyone who works here is male.
Soon I was looking confusedly up at a monitor, and an employee asked me if I needed help. I said I didn’t know which gate to go to, and he looked at my boarding pass and pointed out that I have a long wait and indicated that I should go up to the loft-like area one flight up that has a glowing yellow-on-black sign for gates 7-16. I went up the stairs (not the escalator) and soon found a seat, those rows of vinyl seats just like at an American airport.
I just saw a woman with a cell phone and a black burqua. Kind of a weird combination—like stuck in the past but technologically advanced. But what do you expect?
So here I am at another airport. People watching. Many people wear Western dress, including a group of east Asian guys (like Japan or Korea?) but then there’s the occasional salwar-kamiz or the male equivalent. I saw a guy in a moss green kurta and pyjamas with a dark green vest and a white fez—a common sight in India, or I guess also Pakistan, although I’ve never been there.
There are a couple of cute boys, who definitely look either Korean or Japanese, one wearing a colorful square-patched top and the other wearing bloomers (Turkish trousers, baggy and gathered at the ankle) that match his companion’s top, and he also wears a purple shawl and has ringing bells strung around his ankles. They look like circus performers or something like that.
Quite a number of men wear long robes, usually white cotton and always with a cloth over the head; it can be red-checkered like the Ayatollah Khomeini or just plain white with a black headband. In at least two instances, I’ve seen a guy dressed like that walking next to a woman in a black robe and a black veil that hides her face except for her eyes. These robes and veils tend to have sparkly trim, so they’re not as severe as you would expect. One woman even had a wide orange and gold border on her sleeves and veil.
I just saw a group of Philippian- or Indonesian-looking women with scarves over their heads, just passing through.
Oh, yes, there was a young Arab guy wearing a mustard-colored full-length robe and a lighter yellow veil-like cloth on his head, and he’s talking on the kind of cell phone that has an earphone. A couple of the male Arabs wear a white headdress with black band, but they’re wearing drab dark grey robes.
If I understood the statistic correctly, there is only one woman for every eighty-eight men in Qatar, because of the male immigrant labor. Oil is the big business in this country. So before coming to this country I was afraid the airport would be like going to a gay nightclub that caters to the Mr. Butch crowd: bad vibes from a testosterone overdose. My gay night club theory has proved wrong, however, despite the staff, perhaps because it’s an airport and people come from different parts of the world and in many cases are on their way elsewhere; I’m seeing a plethora of women, not nearly all men here.
But I have to mention, amid all the Arabs and Asians, I saw an American-looking dude who has a sort of Mohawk and a soul patch and black denim cut-offs, a white t-shirt, and a black vest. And I saw four white guys who looked like they may have been members of the American military. I did read that there are many male East Asian immigrant workers in Qatar, which accounts for there being so many more males than females in this country.
I’m not sure what’s the point of tying a scarf over your head if you’re wearing tight jeans and a fitted, laced-up wench’s bodice. Not that I work for the fashion police. She looked Philippian or Indonesian.
I just saw a woman who got me thinking: “Middle Eastern Amish.” She wore a light brown robe with a black headscarf, and the man walking next to her wore dark, sober clothes but not a long robe.
I just saw a woman wearing chartreuse pants with a psychedelic-print pink, purple, white, and chartreuse tunic, and a slightly paler green scarf over her head. A somewhat older woman, perhaps her mother, wore light-brown trousers with a lovely, large print kamiz in red and brown, a floral print. A bit ago, I saw a woman in a hot pink sparkly salwar-kamiz. Oh, yeah…there was a group of Indian women a few minutes ago, including one wearing a white cotton tiered skirt embroidered with blue and red paisley (and she wasn’t young, though it was such a youthful outfit); right behind her was a woman in a sparkly embroidered yellow sari. Walking just a few steps behind their group were a couple of women in black robes and burquas.
Now a huge group of Indonesian-looking women in headscarves are headed down the escalator. I thought all the immigrant workers were male.
Oh, yes, a minute ago I saw a couple of women who reminded me of a Renaissance fair. One wore a full-length brown velveteen robe trimmed boldly and elaborately with peach and gold appliqué and maybe embroidery. And of course she wore a scarf tied over her head. Her companion wore a blue-grey bodice with long sleeves that flared out toward the wrist, and the bodice was cinched in at the waist; this was with a scarf and dark blue trousers.
And then there’s the woman straight ahead of me wearing bright orange chaudori—I think that’s the word—that are not only tapered and scrunched up at the ankle but also embroidered in bright turquoise that matches her kamiz. In simpler words, she’s wearing traditional Indian tunic and slacks in a psychedelic color scheme.
People-watching at the Doha airport is as interesting as people watching at a Renaissance fair.
A few yards away from me are a couple of Hindu-looking guys in cotton kurtas, vests, and turbans, but since I spent three weeks in India last year, they look kind of normal.
I just saw orange-and-turquoise again, and she’s wearing a long turquoise scarf, that’s draped over her head. And she’s wearing a pea-green fuzzy-trimmed jacket, but I don’t think that’s really meant to go with the rest of her outfit. And her kamiz is either embroidered or appliquéd, along the bottom, with spiky flowers in yellow, pink, and orange; the tunic has very narrow pink stripes a couple inches apart.
Even people who look like white Americans walk by speaking a language that is definitely not English. I saw a group of four tall blonde people who I think were German.
I also saw a male dwarf in dark jeans and a dark blue shirt walking alongside and talking with a guy in white robes and a dark brown Western suit jacket.
It’s really time I set this down and get back to reading.
I just have to mention a young guy Maude would be tripping over her feet for—he vaguely reminded me of the Egyptian guy in The Mummy film, and had luscious black locks. He was mostly wearing shades of brown, more or less Western clothing.
One guy in the long white robe and white headdress or head shawl has the usual black band around his head, but there are two long black ropes hanging from it and ending in black tassels. It looks strangely kind of festive. He joined up with a group of white-robed men, two with red and white checkered turbans.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Still at the Washington Dulles Airport
At last, I’m at Gate B37, and I used an Internet computer and got confirmation from Bina that someone from the guest house (Heritage Inn) will be at the airport to meet me at 6:45 am on the 22nd instead of the 21st of whatever month this is.
No, I’m not exhausted, not at all. At least I’m calm now that I’ve gotten to the gate and communicated with Bina. I also heard back from Karma, the travel agent; she said that Nepal is having power problems, and that’s why the fax wasn’t going through. Both of them said it’s best to scan my passport—I think that means I’d be able to send it by e-mail. Coming to think of it, I’m not sure, never having used a scanner before. Even if I had read the e-mail while I was still in Kansas, I wouldn’t have had a scanner, but since I didn’t see that e-mail till now, I’m thinking they didn’t send those e-mails that long ago. I am exhausted and stupid. In hindsight, I could have gone to the Fed Ex/Kinko’s place downtown, although they probably didn’t open till 10---they’re not open 24 hours like in St. Louis. And it’s too late now, anyway, so there’s no point in worrying about it.
If the guesthouse does have a scanner, someone will have to show me how to use it. I’m not the most technologically savvy person.
No, I’m not exhausted, not at all. At least I’m calm now that I’ve gotten to the gate and communicated with Bina. I also heard back from Karma, the travel agent; she said that Nepal is having power problems, and that’s why the fax wasn’t going through. Both of them said it’s best to scan my passport—I think that means I’d be able to send it by e-mail. Coming to think of it, I’m not sure, never having used a scanner before. Even if I had read the e-mail while I was still in Kansas, I wouldn’t have had a scanner, but since I didn’t see that e-mail till now, I’m thinking they didn’t send those e-mails that long ago. I am exhausted and stupid. In hindsight, I could have gone to the Fed Ex/Kinko’s place downtown, although they probably didn’t open till 10---they’re not open 24 hours like in St. Louis. And it’s too late now, anyway, so there’s no point in worrying about it.
If the guesthouse does have a scanner, someone will have to show me how to use it. I’m not the most technologically savvy person.
Circumambulating the Airport
This time while circumambulating the airport, I discovered that the digital sign under the big white-on-black label “Qatar” now says:
“Qatar Airways check-in opens at 18:30.”
So I have slightly under two hours—I counted with my fingers to figure out that it means 6:30 pm--before I can get my boarding passes at last. Then I can go through the security check, and then I can get to the correct gate, whatever it is.
One thing I didn’t mention—really there are a few—is that on the flight from KC, United Airlines, surprisingly, was on a very small plane. (After we all got on, a flight attendant made her announcement but said we were going to Denver; she was probably confused rather than joking. We were over two and a half hours late as it was—not a good joke under the circumstances). I dozed off during most of the flight, even though I had an aisle seat and was sitting up. When we got off the plane, I was surprised, not to mention a bit hesitant thanks to my acrophobia, that we had to walk down a flight of steps like in India and walk across the pavement toward another flight of metal steps that led up into one of those accordion-like walkways, into the airport. Things had, up to that point, been surreal ever since I saw that the flight from KC to Washington was delayed.
This trip has already been a lesson in insecurity, in uncertainly, and I haven’t even left the United States yet! It’s kind of shocking to realize that.
It’s 5 pm—one and a half hours before I can get my boarding pass.
I’ve seen people from many different countries here, of course, and that’s a major reason why this is an interesting place to people watch. There’s a woman up ahead of me wearing a sparkly black hajib and a long black robe. I’ve also seen several women in salwar-kamiz: the pants are frequently a contrasting color with the tunic, which sometimes has embroidery around the border. I also saw a woman in a magenta sari with emblems spaced evenly all over—colorful embroidery. I can embroider.
“Qatar Airways check-in opens at 18:30.”
So I have slightly under two hours—I counted with my fingers to figure out that it means 6:30 pm--before I can get my boarding passes at last. Then I can go through the security check, and then I can get to the correct gate, whatever it is.
One thing I didn’t mention—really there are a few—is that on the flight from KC, United Airlines, surprisingly, was on a very small plane. (After we all got on, a flight attendant made her announcement but said we were going to Denver; she was probably confused rather than joking. We were over two and a half hours late as it was—not a good joke under the circumstances). I dozed off during most of the flight, even though I had an aisle seat and was sitting up. When we got off the plane, I was surprised, not to mention a bit hesitant thanks to my acrophobia, that we had to walk down a flight of steps like in India and walk across the pavement toward another flight of metal steps that led up into one of those accordion-like walkways, into the airport. Things had, up to that point, been surreal ever since I saw that the flight from KC to Washington was delayed.
This trip has already been a lesson in insecurity, in uncertainly, and I haven’t even left the United States yet! It’s kind of shocking to realize that.
It’s 5 pm—one and a half hours before I can get my boarding pass.
I’ve seen people from many different countries here, of course, and that’s a major reason why this is an interesting place to people watch. There’s a woman up ahead of me wearing a sparkly black hajib and a long black robe. I’ve also seen several women in salwar-kamiz: the pants are frequently a contrasting color with the tunic, which sometimes has embroidery around the border. I also saw a woman in a magenta sari with emblems spaced evenly all over—colorful embroidery. I can embroider.
Same Day, Same Airport
A month ago, I was packed. I’ve been so prepared and focused on the trip…but on the day of my departure, suddenly everything fell apart. I had to fax a copy of my passport, and I had to wait till Tandem was open to do it; I tried and tried to get the fax through, and every single time got a print-out saying, “No Response/ Busy.” Finally, things are still up in the air—I can keep using the Internet whenever I get a chance, to check my e-mails, and I’m hoping the guesthouse will have both Internet and a fax machine. In the meantime, I have to wait, with this all up in the air. And then there’s the flight delay, and my camping out at this airport! Hopefully after I get my boarding pass, get through security and get to the terminal, I can reach another Internet computer, because at the very least I’d like to make sure Bina read the e-mail about my flight delay. In other words, I’d like to be sure that someone will be waiting for me at the Delhi airport. If not, coming to think of it, I can probably get a taxi; I have the guesthouse’s address with me.
What I’m trying to express is that, no matter what life throws at you, insecurity is something with which you have to live. The wisdom of insecurity. The best laid plans of wice and women. You can plan and organize all you want, but you have to deal with whatever curve balls life throws at you.
I have the faintest suggestion of a headache still (on the subject of insecurity—the insecurity of not being entirely sure that your headache has passed away), but I don’t feel like nibbling on more sesame sticks and popping another painkiller—all I feel like indulging in is plenty of water. I purchased a smaller bottle of water about an hour or so ago, and it’s only half full—maybe I should have gotten a bigger bottle. Oh, well, periodically I walk around this big hall, or whatever you want to call this, and it has several drinking fountains. I plan to check at the Qatar ticket counter again at 4 pm—if not sooner—and that will be another little walk around the terminal. The main terminal—that’s what this place is called. Really, I should have taken a full walk around last night; then I wouldn’t have been wondering if Qatar Airlines was here or at some other building or floor.
This situation has got me wondering whether I like traveling so much, after all! All the hassle that I’ve gone through for this trip would perhaps have been more worthwhile for a much longer stay, like if I were living in India for a year or two. Hopefully I’ll have a different attitude in a few days. How could I forget: I’m going to attend the Dalai Lama’s teachings! Tibetans trekking by foot through the Himalayas and sometimes losing toes to frostbite endure much worse in order to see the Dalai Lama. So I can endure this.
Even the Muzak. I am so not a fan. It was much more noticeable last night, when hardly anyone was around and the terminal was quiet.
The world keeps going and going, regardless of whether I can keep up.
What I’m trying to express is that, no matter what life throws at you, insecurity is something with which you have to live. The wisdom of insecurity. The best laid plans of wice and women. You can plan and organize all you want, but you have to deal with whatever curve balls life throws at you.
I have the faintest suggestion of a headache still (on the subject of insecurity—the insecurity of not being entirely sure that your headache has passed away), but I don’t feel like nibbling on more sesame sticks and popping another painkiller—all I feel like indulging in is plenty of water. I purchased a smaller bottle of water about an hour or so ago, and it’s only half full—maybe I should have gotten a bigger bottle. Oh, well, periodically I walk around this big hall, or whatever you want to call this, and it has several drinking fountains. I plan to check at the Qatar ticket counter again at 4 pm—if not sooner—and that will be another little walk around the terminal. The main terminal—that’s what this place is called. Really, I should have taken a full walk around last night; then I wouldn’t have been wondering if Qatar Airlines was here or at some other building or floor.
This situation has got me wondering whether I like traveling so much, after all! All the hassle that I’ve gone through for this trip would perhaps have been more worthwhile for a much longer stay, like if I were living in India for a year or two. Hopefully I’ll have a different attitude in a few days. How could I forget: I’m going to attend the Dalai Lama’s teachings! Tibetans trekking by foot through the Himalayas and sometimes losing toes to frostbite endure much worse in order to see the Dalai Lama. So I can endure this.
Even the Muzak. I am so not a fan. It was much more noticeable last night, when hardly anyone was around and the terminal was quiet.
The world keeps going and going, regardless of whether I can keep up.
Yep, still here.
At the Dulles International Airport in Washington DC, that is. I woke with a splitting headache in the small hours of the morning, so I nibbled on some sesame sticks and a couple pieces of dried ginger before popping a Tylenol pill and washing it down with bottled water. Fortunately, the airport has plenty of water fountains, of which I’ve been taking advantage. Not to mention a large and frequently cleaned restroom.
Anyway, after the painkiller, I settled back down—sitting in one seat and with my backpack and mirrorwork bag (or very large purse) on the seat next to it. My jacket was draped over the luggage and I leaned against it all, resting my head on my arms and coat. That’s the position I was in most of the time, and with my hiking boots off of course.
At 5:50 I woke up and was aware that the dead and silent airport had come to life, even though the sky, highly visible in the gigantic windows, was still pitch black. People were clop-clopping past, some in a hurry. Cart or suitcase wheels rattled past. Ticket counters were opening, and so perhaps were the little food places. I went back to sleep, saw six zero zero on the clock, went back to sleep, saw that it was 7:12 and decided I should get myself together. I went to the bathroom, washed my face and put lotion on my hands before I approached the United ticketing counter and asked where I should go for Qatar Airlines—they said it was way far at the other end, and that was a great relief, that it was in this floor and this building and I wouldn’t have to take an escalator or another shuttle and get lost. I did some wandering but was enticed by the food place called Cinnabon, with big hot cinnamon rolls topped with whole pecans, and with a fridge containing bright orange rows of fruit juice. I bought “Mango Tango” smoothie and a cup containing a mixture of blueberries, strawberries, and yogurt, topped with a plastic dome full of granola to mix with the yogurt and berries. It looked (and was) yummy and I figured that especially under the circumstances I should eat something more nutritious than a cinnamon roll. I got into conversation with the African boy behind the counter. He noticed my near-empty big bottle of water—I had gotten it at the KC airport but it was the brand he sold—and asked if I was paying for that.
I said, “Oh, this is from yesterday.”
“You’ve been here since yesterday?”
“Yes!” I briefly explained the situation with my flights. He also, while ringing me up, asked where my passport bag was from, and I said, “Nepal. I ordered it online.” I didn’t think to say that I’ve been to Nepal and am about to go back, but I don’t usually do that sort of thing. Boasting. Yuck.
During the day, this is an interesting place to people watch, even though the time is moving slowly. It’s only 10:47 in the morning! Even seeing people at the shoeshine stand is kind of interesting. They’re getting a steady business.
It will probably be a while till someone is at the Qatar Airlines ticket counter, since they only get one flight a day—at least, I’m thinking they only get one flight a day given that my flight is twenty-four hours later than originally planned. Gee, not many Americans want to go to that tiny Middle Eastern country, which has about the same population as the city of San Francisco. Oil-hungry businessmen might be interested, or people who originally came from Qatar, or whose ancestors came from Qatar.
I’ve read the introduction to Women in Tibet (an anthology of essays) and The Life of Milarepa, and I’m thinking that in just a moment I’ll start reading the issue of Tricycle that appeared in my mailbox a week ago. Right there on the front cover is a picture of Gandhi! On the day this magazine arrived, I had earlier looked up “Gandhi Smriti” on the Internet to see if it’s the ashram we visited before, and sure enough, it is; it’s no longer called Birla House. Anyway, I thought Shantum would like the front cover. The issue—perhaps this is stating the obvious—is focused on ahimsa.
Anyway, after the painkiller, I settled back down—sitting in one seat and with my backpack and mirrorwork bag (or very large purse) on the seat next to it. My jacket was draped over the luggage and I leaned against it all, resting my head on my arms and coat. That’s the position I was in most of the time, and with my hiking boots off of course.
At 5:50 I woke up and was aware that the dead and silent airport had come to life, even though the sky, highly visible in the gigantic windows, was still pitch black. People were clop-clopping past, some in a hurry. Cart or suitcase wheels rattled past. Ticket counters were opening, and so perhaps were the little food places. I went back to sleep, saw six zero zero on the clock, went back to sleep, saw that it was 7:12 and decided I should get myself together. I went to the bathroom, washed my face and put lotion on my hands before I approached the United ticketing counter and asked where I should go for Qatar Airlines—they said it was way far at the other end, and that was a great relief, that it was in this floor and this building and I wouldn’t have to take an escalator or another shuttle and get lost. I did some wandering but was enticed by the food place called Cinnabon, with big hot cinnamon rolls topped with whole pecans, and with a fridge containing bright orange rows of fruit juice. I bought “Mango Tango” smoothie and a cup containing a mixture of blueberries, strawberries, and yogurt, topped with a plastic dome full of granola to mix with the yogurt and berries. It looked (and was) yummy and I figured that especially under the circumstances I should eat something more nutritious than a cinnamon roll. I got into conversation with the African boy behind the counter. He noticed my near-empty big bottle of water—I had gotten it at the KC airport but it was the brand he sold—and asked if I was paying for that.
I said, “Oh, this is from yesterday.”
“You’ve been here since yesterday?”
“Yes!” I briefly explained the situation with my flights. He also, while ringing me up, asked where my passport bag was from, and I said, “Nepal. I ordered it online.” I didn’t think to say that I’ve been to Nepal and am about to go back, but I don’t usually do that sort of thing. Boasting. Yuck.
During the day, this is an interesting place to people watch, even though the time is moving slowly. It’s only 10:47 in the morning! Even seeing people at the shoeshine stand is kind of interesting. They’re getting a steady business.
It will probably be a while till someone is at the Qatar Airlines ticket counter, since they only get one flight a day—at least, I’m thinking they only get one flight a day given that my flight is twenty-four hours later than originally planned. Gee, not many Americans want to go to that tiny Middle Eastern country, which has about the same population as the city of San Francisco. Oil-hungry businessmen might be interested, or people who originally came from Qatar, or whose ancestors came from Qatar.
I’ve read the introduction to Women in Tibet (an anthology of essays) and The Life of Milarepa, and I’m thinking that in just a moment I’ll start reading the issue of Tricycle that appeared in my mailbox a week ago. Right there on the front cover is a picture of Gandhi! On the day this magazine arrived, I had earlier looked up “Gandhi Smriti” on the Internet to see if it’s the ashram we visited before, and sure enough, it is; it’s no longer called Birla House. Anyway, I thought Shantum would like the front cover. The issue—perhaps this is stating the obvious—is focused on ahimsa.
Washington DC Dulles International Airport
Since it must be slightly after midnight, I’m thinking the date is now technically February 20, 2008. It’s about a quarter after in this time zone—I moved my watch forward one hour.
This place is weird and confusing and apparently a huge airport. Maybe I’ll wait till the ticketing opens in the morning and then ask how to get to the Qatar Airlines terminal form here. I got off the plane and went searching for a bathroom but found a computer with Internet access and used it before using the bathroom; apparently I was charged a dollar a minute, because the computer charged me $7.16! Eek. I’ll probably use another one before I leave this airport, because I’ll be here all day and all night.
I’d like to call the White House and say, “I’ll hate you slightly less if you send me a chauffeur, let me spend the night in a beautiful room in the White House, and have the chauffeur take me back to the airport.” I am, after all, in Washington, DC.
Anyway, I had no e-mail reply from Bina, but the travel agent in Nepal had copied me to an e-mail that rather gave me the impression that my fax didn’t go through to her but did go through to Bina. I hope it went through to somebody.
After I got off the computer, I wandered down the hall and soon came to a restroom, and I ultimately washed not only my hands but also my face, without drying it off. It felt good. By the time I was done with all this, the other people who had been on my flight were gone, and I followed the signs saying “Shuttle to Main Terminal.” I thought I was so prepared for the trip, but I’d totally forgotten to check all the flight information online—like which gates and all that; I’m sure I would have remembered if I had ordered the tickets online like usual, rather than using a travel agent.
There’s something bizarre and surreal about traveling by plane. Even when I was very nervous upon learning that the flight from KC was delayed, I felt like I was in some weird dream.
Most of the people around here are cleaning staff. I’ve seen a few passengers with bags on wheels, but now they’re all gone and just a couple people are here cleaning the light grey tile floors and such. I see plenty of gated and locked entrances. There’s some weird form of transportation, someone rides it and it sweeps the floor; the one a few yards from me has weird flashing yellow lights.
Oh, yes, I haven’t mentioned that after getting off the plane, I followed signs saying “Shuttle to Main Terminal.” I came to a row of black doors that led to the shuttles. Some of the black doors were closed and had a “Do Not Enter” sign, but I very cautiously entered the one that was open and led directly into, yes, a shuttle. I was the only one there and was puzzled and nervous, but I climbed aboard anyway. A digital screen in front informed me that it was February 19 11:54 pm. I got out a book, and soon—to my relief—many other people, some pulling wheeled suitcases, arrived, and in a short time the place was lively with people talking. It was full, and many people stood.
The shuttle took us to the “Main Terminal” and I’ve found a row of seats near the currently deserted “Air Canada, United, Ted” ticket counters. I’m thinking that looks like a good place to ask for info—namely where I need to go for my flight with Qatar Airlines—in the morning, when the place is open for business. Since they might not get more than one flight a day to Qatar, maybe this United ticket counter is the place I need to go. I’ll know soon enough.
I just saw something that conjured the thought: Isn’t that from a Star Wars movie?” A guy who works here was standing straight up, holding handles like on a bicycle, and riding a two-wheeled contraption. Very weird. Maybe he’s auditioning for another Star Wars movie.
This place is a major bummer. It’s called Washington Dulles because it’s dull. I’d rather be sleeping in the White House. But it’s OK—I just have to remember the people sleeping on the floor at the Lucknow train station. I guess what happens, under those circumstances, is that people show up and order their tickets on the spot, and then they stay to wait for the ride. That happens even if there was no delay and rebooking.
It occurs to me that there could be pick pockets, rapists, or even a serial killer in the airport. But I’m taking the chance and going to sleep anyway. I have my passport bag around my neck, and hidden by my oversized velvet shirt, and my luggage is under my jacket.
This place is weird and confusing and apparently a huge airport. Maybe I’ll wait till the ticketing opens in the morning and then ask how to get to the Qatar Airlines terminal form here. I got off the plane and went searching for a bathroom but found a computer with Internet access and used it before using the bathroom; apparently I was charged a dollar a minute, because the computer charged me $7.16! Eek. I’ll probably use another one before I leave this airport, because I’ll be here all day and all night.
I’d like to call the White House and say, “I’ll hate you slightly less if you send me a chauffeur, let me spend the night in a beautiful room in the White House, and have the chauffeur take me back to the airport.” I am, after all, in Washington, DC.
Anyway, I had no e-mail reply from Bina, but the travel agent in Nepal had copied me to an e-mail that rather gave me the impression that my fax didn’t go through to her but did go through to Bina. I hope it went through to somebody.
After I got off the computer, I wandered down the hall and soon came to a restroom, and I ultimately washed not only my hands but also my face, without drying it off. It felt good. By the time I was done with all this, the other people who had been on my flight were gone, and I followed the signs saying “Shuttle to Main Terminal.” I thought I was so prepared for the trip, but I’d totally forgotten to check all the flight information online—like which gates and all that; I’m sure I would have remembered if I had ordered the tickets online like usual, rather than using a travel agent.
There’s something bizarre and surreal about traveling by plane. Even when I was very nervous upon learning that the flight from KC was delayed, I felt like I was in some weird dream.
Most of the people around here are cleaning staff. I’ve seen a few passengers with bags on wheels, but now they’re all gone and just a couple people are here cleaning the light grey tile floors and such. I see plenty of gated and locked entrances. There’s some weird form of transportation, someone rides it and it sweeps the floor; the one a few yards from me has weird flashing yellow lights.
Oh, yes, I haven’t mentioned that after getting off the plane, I followed signs saying “Shuttle to Main Terminal.” I came to a row of black doors that led to the shuttles. Some of the black doors were closed and had a “Do Not Enter” sign, but I very cautiously entered the one that was open and led directly into, yes, a shuttle. I was the only one there and was puzzled and nervous, but I climbed aboard anyway. A digital screen in front informed me that it was February 19 11:54 pm. I got out a book, and soon—to my relief—many other people, some pulling wheeled suitcases, arrived, and in a short time the place was lively with people talking. It was full, and many people stood.
The shuttle took us to the “Main Terminal” and I’ve found a row of seats near the currently deserted “Air Canada, United, Ted” ticket counters. I’m thinking that looks like a good place to ask for info—namely where I need to go for my flight with Qatar Airlines—in the morning, when the place is open for business. Since they might not get more than one flight a day to Qatar, maybe this United ticket counter is the place I need to go. I’ll know soon enough.
I just saw something that conjured the thought: Isn’t that from a Star Wars movie?” A guy who works here was standing straight up, holding handles like on a bicycle, and riding a two-wheeled contraption. Very weird. Maybe he’s auditioning for another Star Wars movie.
This place is a major bummer. It’s called Washington Dulles because it’s dull. I’d rather be sleeping in the White House. But it’s OK—I just have to remember the people sleeping on the floor at the Lucknow train station. I guess what happens, under those circumstances, is that people show up and order their tickets on the spot, and then they stay to wait for the ride. That happens even if there was no delay and rebooking.
It occurs to me that there could be pick pockets, rapists, or even a serial killer in the airport. But I’m taking the chance and going to sleep anyway. I have my passport bag around my neck, and hidden by my oversized velvet shirt, and my luggage is under my jacket.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Off To a Rough Start
I'm at the airport in Kansas City. Well, I’ve made it this far. I thought the security guy was suspicious of my Tibetan prayer wheel, but he searched my bag because I forgot to take the little Ziploc bag full of toiletries out. I can just see someone suspecting me of wanting to beat up a flight attendant and pilot with my Tibetan prayer wheel. Not good karma.
Yesterday I did some errands after work, and they included dropping off Cheetah at Aunt Ethel’s house (and petting the dog and cat, of course). Cheetah wasn’t happy and sat staring around with huge yellow eyes and hissed, while the dog Zoe sat in an armchair and wiggled her butt and wagged her tail in excitement. Cheetah didn’t even want me to pet her, but I think she’ll be fine after a week. She’s been there before.
Anyway, without a single cat in the house yesterday evening, I lay down to take a nap at the ridiculous hour of 7 pm and I didn’t wake up till after midnight. No cats were there to wake me. I checked my e-mail at about 1 am (after taking a steaming hot shower). Bina had sent me an e-mail saying that I needed to fax a copy of my passport to a certain fax number, because my passport info wasn’t sufficient for the airline. So I sent her an e-mail saying I’d go do it at my workplace first thing in the morning.
I was up till about 2:30 and awake past 3:30, lying in bed and mindfully breathing. I had my alarm set for 6 am but woke at 5:50 and got up—did some yoga and felt so cold that I sat in bed to comb out my hair in order to wash it in the morning, after the visit to Tandem. I absolutely didn’t want to show up at my workplace before 6:30, because I wasn’t sure anyone would be there earlier. I showed up at about 6:45, and people reacted as I expected, surprised that I was there.
Elaine showed me how to use the fax machine—you type “9” and “1” before a long distance number, and then the number. I did this, and the first few times received a print out with the message: “No response/ Busy.” The next two times, the machine acted as if I were using a phone, made the tone for a wrong number and a machine said, “We’re sorry, your call cannot go through…” Elaine suggested that I call the fax number on the theory that it was really a phone number, with her phone card, which requires first dialing an 800 number and then another number before the one you’re trying to reach. By doing this, I learned that you have to dial 110 before an international number, so I tried that on the fax machine. I again got a print-out saying “No response/ Busy.”
Finally, I decided I’d make another attempt with a fax machine at the guesthouse in Delhi, where I’ll also check for an e-mail from Bina. I numerous times again attempted to fax before I made this decision and gave Elaine back her phone card.
So I’ll check with the guesthouse if they have a fax machine—they should at least have an Internet computer. I should do this before I go exploring Delhi. And if all else fails or I’m not sure whether the fax went through, I can give Bina the photocopy of my passport, which I have with me, along with the index card on which I wrote the fax number.
I definitely wasn’t feeling Buddha-like while this was all going on, but at least I have a cunning plan. I said to Karen, who sits by the fax machine, “I thought this was all going to be simple and straight-forward and I’d be done with the fax machine in five minutes.”
She said, “These things are seldom simple and straight-forward.”
2
I’m still at the KC airport. When it was almost 5:30, my alleged departure time, I was really suspicious and went to the desk in the center of the gates. The digital sign behind the clerk or flight attendant showed the number of my flight, 7367, but it gave a departure time of 7:40, not 5:30! I was kind of trying not to panic. Let’s face it: I was very nervous. I waited in line and asked the clerk about the situation, since the flight from Washington, DC, was supposed to leave at 10:25 this evening. She confirmed that I wouldn’t make it in time and said I need to go back to the ticket counter and rebook my flight. So I went back to the ticket counter where I had gotten my boarding pass. I ended up sticking with this delayed flight—now it’s scheduled for 7:55 tonight. And I have the same times and flight numbers for the other two flights—to Doha and to Delhi—but twenty-four hours late! I asked if the airport has an Internet café, and the guy behind the counter said it does not. I was freaking out, hoping the Washington airport would have Internet access.
Latest update, at 6:45—the departure time is now scheduled for 8:20. Arrival in Washington Dulles at 9:40?!
Then, as I went ahead and took the tickets and headed back to gate 10, I thought of all those people sitting with notebook computers. If I could summon the courage to accost a stranger and ask them to let me use their computer, then I could contact Bina immediately.
I got back through security, being very flustered and making an ass of myself—I forgot to take off my glasses, forgot to take my watch and glasses case out of my pockets. Without putting my hiking boots back on, I went to the restroom, carryon luggage and all.
After I returned to Gate 10 and sat down, many more people were seated in the rows of black vinyl seats. Feeling very nervous and wondering how on earth I’d contact Bina—I was thinking about how someone was supposed to meet me at the Indira Gandhi International Airport, someone from the guesthouse, and there’s no way they’d wait twenty-four hours for me! A guy was seated across from me, diagonally one seat over, and he had a notebook computer open in his lap. It took me several nervous minutes, perhaps ten, to just summon the courage to ask him…but I did! I said, “Excuse me, does your computer have Internet access?”
He smiled slightly and said, “Yes, it does.”
“Are you logged onto it right now?”
“Actually, I just logged off,” he said, and smiled again.
I said, “Oh. Could I please use it? My first flight was delayed, so I’ve had to rebook and I’ll be landing in Delhi, India, an hour late. I mean, a whole day late!”
He logged back on and asked me what my Internet provider was, and I said AOL. After a wait—it was a wireless connection but not as fast as you’d expect—he handed me the computer. I thanked him profusely, and holding it on my lap and feeling instantly less nervous, I typed up a message for info@buddhapath.com:
“Hi, Bina! My first flight has been delayed—it’s the same flight number—and I’ve had to change my other two flights. I’ll be leaving Washington for Doha flight 52, departure at 10:25 pm on February 20 and arrival 7 pm on February 21. The flight from Doha is # 232, departure at 12:50 am, arrival in Delhi at 6:45 am, terminal 2.”
“And I’ll be arriving in Delhi exactly a day later than planned. Can you contact the guest house so that someone will be waiting for me on the morning of the 22?”
I sent the message. By the time the screen said, “Your message ‘Flight Delay’ has been sent,” I felt a great deal of relief and let out an enormous sigh. I clicked on the X at the top right corner to get off the Internet, and with a smile passed the computer back to my helper and thanked him profusely again. I added, “I can buy you a bottle of water!”
He smiled and said, “That’s all right.” Actually, he had to get in line to board his flight to Denver shortly after that.
I just hope Bina doesn’t assume I brought my notebook computer with me! Actually, I don’t think she knows about my new computer. Anyway, I’ve contacted her on time; now it’s 7:09 pm here, so it’s about 7:30 am tomorrow in Delhi, and she reads her e-mails promptly.
I’ve been at this airport since 3:20 in the afternoon, and now it’s 7:22 pm. Good thing I brought plenty of reading material. I just got my second big bottle of water, and the Indian sales clerk cheerfully asked, “Are you still here?” I told her about the flight delay and gave her a tip.
I’m going to camp out at Dulles Airport in Washington, DC. I hope that airport has an Internet café and a food café or two. On the shuttle to this airport, I listened to some of the conversation between the driver and the passenger in the front seat, and the driver mentioned flight delays and people spending the night at the airport. Now I remember the train station in Lucknow, India, where people were sleeping on the floor while they waited for their rides, and I’m thinking I’m not alone. It makes me feel better that many people have had similar situations.
Yesterday I did some errands after work, and they included dropping off Cheetah at Aunt Ethel’s house (and petting the dog and cat, of course). Cheetah wasn’t happy and sat staring around with huge yellow eyes and hissed, while the dog Zoe sat in an armchair and wiggled her butt and wagged her tail in excitement. Cheetah didn’t even want me to pet her, but I think she’ll be fine after a week. She’s been there before.
Anyway, without a single cat in the house yesterday evening, I lay down to take a nap at the ridiculous hour of 7 pm and I didn’t wake up till after midnight. No cats were there to wake me. I checked my e-mail at about 1 am (after taking a steaming hot shower). Bina had sent me an e-mail saying that I needed to fax a copy of my passport to a certain fax number, because my passport info wasn’t sufficient for the airline. So I sent her an e-mail saying I’d go do it at my workplace first thing in the morning.
I was up till about 2:30 and awake past 3:30, lying in bed and mindfully breathing. I had my alarm set for 6 am but woke at 5:50 and got up—did some yoga and felt so cold that I sat in bed to comb out my hair in order to wash it in the morning, after the visit to Tandem. I absolutely didn’t want to show up at my workplace before 6:30, because I wasn’t sure anyone would be there earlier. I showed up at about 6:45, and people reacted as I expected, surprised that I was there.
Elaine showed me how to use the fax machine—you type “9” and “1” before a long distance number, and then the number. I did this, and the first few times received a print out with the message: “No response/ Busy.” The next two times, the machine acted as if I were using a phone, made the tone for a wrong number and a machine said, “We’re sorry, your call cannot go through…” Elaine suggested that I call the fax number on the theory that it was really a phone number, with her phone card, which requires first dialing an 800 number and then another number before the one you’re trying to reach. By doing this, I learned that you have to dial 110 before an international number, so I tried that on the fax machine. I again got a print-out saying “No response/ Busy.”
Finally, I decided I’d make another attempt with a fax machine at the guesthouse in Delhi, where I’ll also check for an e-mail from Bina. I numerous times again attempted to fax before I made this decision and gave Elaine back her phone card.
So I’ll check with the guesthouse if they have a fax machine—they should at least have an Internet computer. I should do this before I go exploring Delhi. And if all else fails or I’m not sure whether the fax went through, I can give Bina the photocopy of my passport, which I have with me, along with the index card on which I wrote the fax number.
I definitely wasn’t feeling Buddha-like while this was all going on, but at least I have a cunning plan. I said to Karen, who sits by the fax machine, “I thought this was all going to be simple and straight-forward and I’d be done with the fax machine in five minutes.”
She said, “These things are seldom simple and straight-forward.”
2
I’m still at the KC airport. When it was almost 5:30, my alleged departure time, I was really suspicious and went to the desk in the center of the gates. The digital sign behind the clerk or flight attendant showed the number of my flight, 7367, but it gave a departure time of 7:40, not 5:30! I was kind of trying not to panic. Let’s face it: I was very nervous. I waited in line and asked the clerk about the situation, since the flight from Washington, DC, was supposed to leave at 10:25 this evening. She confirmed that I wouldn’t make it in time and said I need to go back to the ticket counter and rebook my flight. So I went back to the ticket counter where I had gotten my boarding pass. I ended up sticking with this delayed flight—now it’s scheduled for 7:55 tonight. And I have the same times and flight numbers for the other two flights—to Doha and to Delhi—but twenty-four hours late! I asked if the airport has an Internet café, and the guy behind the counter said it does not. I was freaking out, hoping the Washington airport would have Internet access.
Latest update, at 6:45—the departure time is now scheduled for 8:20. Arrival in Washington Dulles at 9:40?!
Then, as I went ahead and took the tickets and headed back to gate 10, I thought of all those people sitting with notebook computers. If I could summon the courage to accost a stranger and ask them to let me use their computer, then I could contact Bina immediately.
I got back through security, being very flustered and making an ass of myself—I forgot to take off my glasses, forgot to take my watch and glasses case out of my pockets. Without putting my hiking boots back on, I went to the restroom, carryon luggage and all.
After I returned to Gate 10 and sat down, many more people were seated in the rows of black vinyl seats. Feeling very nervous and wondering how on earth I’d contact Bina—I was thinking about how someone was supposed to meet me at the Indira Gandhi International Airport, someone from the guesthouse, and there’s no way they’d wait twenty-four hours for me! A guy was seated across from me, diagonally one seat over, and he had a notebook computer open in his lap. It took me several nervous minutes, perhaps ten, to just summon the courage to ask him…but I did! I said, “Excuse me, does your computer have Internet access?”
He smiled slightly and said, “Yes, it does.”
“Are you logged onto it right now?”
“Actually, I just logged off,” he said, and smiled again.
I said, “Oh. Could I please use it? My first flight was delayed, so I’ve had to rebook and I’ll be landing in Delhi, India, an hour late. I mean, a whole day late!”
He logged back on and asked me what my Internet provider was, and I said AOL. After a wait—it was a wireless connection but not as fast as you’d expect—he handed me the computer. I thanked him profusely, and holding it on my lap and feeling instantly less nervous, I typed up a message for info@buddhapath.com:
“Hi, Bina! My first flight has been delayed—it’s the same flight number—and I’ve had to change my other two flights. I’ll be leaving Washington for Doha flight 52, departure at 10:25 pm on February 20 and arrival 7 pm on February 21. The flight from Doha is # 232, departure at 12:50 am, arrival in Delhi at 6:45 am, terminal 2.”
“And I’ll be arriving in Delhi exactly a day later than planned. Can you contact the guest house so that someone will be waiting for me on the morning of the 22?”
I sent the message. By the time the screen said, “Your message ‘Flight Delay’ has been sent,” I felt a great deal of relief and let out an enormous sigh. I clicked on the X at the top right corner to get off the Internet, and with a smile passed the computer back to my helper and thanked him profusely again. I added, “I can buy you a bottle of water!”
He smiled and said, “That’s all right.” Actually, he had to get in line to board his flight to Denver shortly after that.
I just hope Bina doesn’t assume I brought my notebook computer with me! Actually, I don’t think she knows about my new computer. Anyway, I’ve contacted her on time; now it’s 7:09 pm here, so it’s about 7:30 am tomorrow in Delhi, and she reads her e-mails promptly.
I’ve been at this airport since 3:20 in the afternoon, and now it’s 7:22 pm. Good thing I brought plenty of reading material. I just got my second big bottle of water, and the Indian sales clerk cheerfully asked, “Are you still here?” I told her about the flight delay and gave her a tip.
I’m going to camp out at Dulles Airport in Washington, DC. I hope that airport has an Internet café and a food café or two. On the shuttle to this airport, I listened to some of the conversation between the driver and the passenger in the front seat, and the driver mentioned flight delays and people spending the night at the airport. Now I remember the train station in Lucknow, India, where people were sleeping on the floor while they waited for their rides, and I’m thinking I’m not alone. It makes me feel better that many people have had similar situations.
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