Now I’m at the Washington Dulles Airport. I was in a really grumpy mood by the time I finally spotted my suitcase. Too many airports and too many airplanes. Next time I’m definitely only going to one country, unless I’m crossing borders in a tour bus or on a ferry. And my luggage is so heavy—but that’s my own fault, thanks to buying so much in Nepal. On the bright side, I bought lots of gifts. I was doing so well until those last couple days in Nepal.
Because of my flight delay from Kathmandu to Delhi, it was after six when I met up with the driver at the airport, and it was almost seven pm by the time we got to the guesthouse. It was already dark out, even if the weather feels like summer. Not the friendliest of drivers, and he spoke English so fast I had trouble understanding him, but I did mention to him how that I wanted to be picked up again at 4:30 am.
The guesthouse in Delhi was really charming—Lutyens Guesthouse—too bad I couldn’t stay longer and see it in daylight and hang out in the garden. There were lots of seats in the back yard and a garden with a plethora of terra cotta pottery and sculpture and the like. My room was in a little, long building out back, facing the house itself, a white bungalow with a row of numerous French doors facing the back yard. The room would have been like paradise to a college student. It was small with white walls and a slanted ceiling with decorative yellow beams. All the fabric in the room—and there was quite a bit—carried out a blue and green color scheme. The window curtains, the fabric under the glass covers of a couple of small tables, the blankets, and a large pillow, the rug, and the chair upholstery were all in blue and green, mostly stripes. The bathroom was all white, with white porcelain tile, and had a white metal wardrobe that I didn’t use.
I woke at 3:45—that’s when I set my alarm. I did some yoga and got dressed and did what little packing I needed to do—and I rolled up and tossed out the black t-shirt in which I had been sleeping. That t-shirt was the last garment I left behind. Gee, maybe I should go ahead and change my socks for the pair Qatar Airlines supplied me with, even though this is so the last leg of my journey—only one more flight left, and so far it’s on time!
At four in the morning, I heard a bunch of peacocks calling. That was probably the only time I heard peacocks on this trip, and I didn’t seen any. It reminded me of the time I heard so many of them on the grounds of the Taj Mahal.
Was it really just this morning? We were at the Indira Gandhi International Airport at 4:50, and the driver wanted me to pay him, and I said, “Oh, I thought the guesthouse was going to add it to my bill,” and after some argument, I just went ahead and paid it, though I don’t know why the guesthouse would say via e-mail that I didn’t have to pay the driver, if I had to pay the driver. Maybe it only referred to the drive from the airport to the guesthouse.
It must have been about 5 am or slightly later when I got to the Qatar Airlines flight 233 ticket counter. The woman behind the counter said there was no record of my ticket in their system. I asked if she could put the record in the system, and she said she could but she’d need a supervisor and asked me to step back and wait till I was called. So I waited till about 7 am—the flight was scheduled for 8:05 am—and meanwhile I stood and waited and worried and bit my nails. I felt so short-shafted and didn’t even know if I’d be getting on this plane.
In short, I was stressed. Finally after the crowd died down, not to mention after I’d been standing by a trash receptacle and repeatedly thinking, “I was here before all these people,” finally I walked up to the counter and said to a different young woman than the one I previously spoke with, “I’ve been here since five, but your records don’t show me in the system.” Like, I bought the tickets back in October and have records proving it, even exact confirmed seat assignments. Since this was India, I strongly suspected that the word “supervisor” referred to someone male (India, indeed--that’s common in the U.S. too), but this young woman asked me if I had confirmed the tickets, and I said, “No, I don’t think so.” Apparently I was supposed to look up the flight to make sure it was on time and somehow confirm my tickets in the process. I thought confirming just meant you look it up online or on the phone to make sure the flight is on time, but she was able to promptly print out my next two boarding passes. Why couldn’t someone have done that two hours earlier?!
But then I had to wait in the endless immigration line. Then I had to stand in line at security—the electricity wasn’t working or something, and this took some time. Meanwhile a disembodied voice announced that my flight was boarding! I didn’t know if I’d make it on time. I got through security finally, behind a screen with a woman searching me very thoroughly and too slowly with a wand. She had me empty my pockets and was very thorough, as if she knew I was running late. I thought I’d never make it. But I did, just barely! I think I was the last one on the shuttle to the plane.
When I got to Doha, I bought a bottle of water—they only sold those small glass ones—and stood in line for security for a while before a staff member told me I had to go to the other counter and get my passport and boarding pass stamped, so I went over to the counter in question and a guy behind a counter did the stamping in question. I then went back to the line and was almost at the very end of it. I saw the signs concerning bottles of liquid and made a point of gulping down the last of my water and tossing the glass bottle into a trash receptacle; the staff member who had spoken to me earlier noticed this, and she thanked me with a smile. After I got through security, I had to hurry to get on the shuttle on time. Some people came on behind me.
Here in Washington DC, it’s chilly and wet. Not warm and dry like it was in Delhi and Doha. Not cold like in Tibet. Not wet and dark, a week later sunny and warm, like it was in Nepal.
I have just one last flight—it’s supposed to arrive in Kansas City around midnight. I hope I don’t have trouble finding Elaine, and that she doesn’t have trouble finding me. She said she’d be at the baggage claim, and she’s been to the Kansas City airport countless times.
In Kathmandu, strange men accosted me on the street all the time, but they weren’t flirting (with one possible exception, when I told a young guy that I would be going to see a dance with my travel agent, and he did a little boogie in place and said I could go dance with him). Here at the airport in Washington DC, this greybeard with a cane, who’s at least as old as my dad, I swear really was flirting with me, and I found this rather annoying. He first spotted me as he entered the shuttle where I was almost the only inhabitant; the airport is so huge that it has shuttles to take you to different terminals. He said I looked puzzled, or something like that; I had been looking at my boarding pass and feeling so tired but aware that I only had one more flight. After we got off the shuttle, the old guy with the cane asked me where I was going, and I was glad to duck into the woman’s restroom.
I’m waiting at the terminal, and ick, there are a couple of guys talking about football. Toto, I don’t think we’re in the Himalayas anymore.
Showing posts with label Qatar. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Qatar. Show all posts
Friday, March 14, 2008
Airports
I’m at the airport in Doha, Qatar. There’s just a fifteen minute delay on the next flight—it’s scheduled to leave at 11:50—but that’s not going to be a problem—it’s not a drastic enough delay to prevent my getting on the next plane—tap wood.
Yesterday—was it just yesterday?—things went comparatively smoothly at the Tribhuven Airport, or whatever it’s called, in Kathmandu. One of the guys working there asked me how long was my stay in Nepal, and I made the mistake of saying, “Two days,” when really I should have said, “Four days.”
“Why so short?” he asked.
“Oh, I was here for a couple more days, before I went to Tibet,” I said, which really didn’t make it any better. That’s like saying I wouldn’t have gone to Kathmandu if I didn’t have to in order to enter Tibet. So much for my diplomacy. Another male employee asked me if I’d been to Nepal before, and I said yes, and he was happy with that and asked if I speak Newali! He wasn’t the one who was suspicious of my tubular rolled up thangka; but he was fine with it after I explained.
Yesterday—was it just yesterday?—things went comparatively smoothly at the Tribhuven Airport, or whatever it’s called, in Kathmandu. One of the guys working there asked me how long was my stay in Nepal, and I made the mistake of saying, “Two days,” when really I should have said, “Four days.”
“Why so short?” he asked.
“Oh, I was here for a couple more days, before I went to Tibet,” I said, which really didn’t make it any better. That’s like saying I wouldn’t have gone to Kathmandu if I didn’t have to in order to enter Tibet. So much for my diplomacy. Another male employee asked me if I’d been to Nepal before, and I said yes, and he was happy with that and asked if I speak Newali! He wasn’t the one who was suspicious of my tubular rolled up thangka; but he was fine with it after I explained.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
People Watching at the Doha Airport in Qatar
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
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.
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