Nepal—En route

After a teary farewell to Maggie and the dogs at home and Tom at SeaTac, I boarded the flight to Paris. Tom and I have never been apart for four weeks. I know he can take care of himself, but I worry about my dear Bella and her bad back. Mischa, go easy on the mice while I'm away.

Shame on you, Delta. Air France just handed you the only nonstop route from Seattle to Paris, and you put one of your oldest, frayed-around-the-edges 767s on it (apologies to Boeing)? C'mon, rise to the occasion. I can't complain about the empty seat next to me, though.

A woman boarded with three small dogs on leashes. No one batted an eye. She disappeared into the back of steerage. Not sure what she did with those dogs. Did they each have a seat?

Ten hours later, we touch down at De Gaulle, low on my list of favorite airports. Perhaps not as low as LAX, but down there. Next up: an 8-hour Air France flight to Delhi.

Now Air France knows how to get it right—a swanky A340-300; classy, impeccably clad flight attendants; champagne; and baguettes. We did, however, have to deal with some sort of mechanical issue. We left the gate, taxied, stopped, and were told that we had to return to the gate for some minor repairs. An A340-300 does not exactly zip back to the gate; it lumbers. It may turn on a dime, but it does so ever so slowly. We finally departed about an hour late, but I lacked the stress of making a connection. My final flight to Kathmandu wasn't until the next day.

Ate a meal, watched The Help, and settled it for a bit of a snooze. I've never seen flight attendants run to their seats, but that's what I witnessed about five hours into the flight—turbulence that could only be described as violent. The guy next to me moaned, hyperventilated, whipped his sweater off, grabbed the armrests for dear life, and put his head between his knees. Wimp. But I do have to admit it's a bit eerie when it hits somewhere over the mountains of Afghanistan or Pakistan.

We landed in Delhi around 11:30 PM. Even at that hour, the air was still sweltering. I breezed through Immigration and headed to the baggage carousel. My two duffels were already there (yes, even the ill-fated yellow North Face bag). Then I became a pawn in somebody's game. Allow her to retrieve her bags right away, and then watch how long it takes her to find the airport hotel. It would have been a great visual from above.

I asked three different officials how I could store my bags overnight. Each told me to go outside and look for the Metro signs. Huh? I braved the steamy, crowded curb, but "Metro" didn't make any sense. I followed the signs for "Information" but never located an information booth. Finally, a guy tried to talk me into an offsite hotel, and when he realized I wouldn't bite, he told me to take the elevator up to the Departures level. Pushing my cart with two 40-lb. duffels, sweating profusely, I reached the Departures level after two separate elevator trips (don't ask). What were all these people doing here at this hour? I started at Door 6, was sent to Door 5, then Door 2, and finally Door 1. Each was manned with at least three armed guards in crisp green uniforms. Because I'm not a guy, I can't begin to tell you what kind of weapons they were carrying, but I do know one was a handgun (sorry, I can't be more specific), the other a semi-automatic. All guys are born knowing how to identify any type of firearm or plane. It's true. Genetics.

The guard at Door 1 seemed to have a better command of the English language and actually seemed aware of the fact that there was indeed a hotel within the airport. He was kind enough to point me towards a glass door that read "Eaton Smart New Delhi Airport Transit Hotel." Smart?

I never had located a place to store my bags, but the hotel employee I soon encountered seemed to have a plan. He carefully, and painstakingly, logged my two duffels into a large notebook, tagged them, sent them and my hand baggage through an X-ray machine, stored the duffels and the cart behind the glass door, and then led me towards the hotel. When I started to unzip the canvas bag I was carrying, he reprimanded me. It had some sort of security tape on it, showing that it had been scanned, and I was not to unzip it until we reached the hotel. We were ushered past two more armed guards, rode the elevator to Level 5, and reached the reception desk for the hotel. After I checked in, he led me to my room. I'm perpetually uncertain about tipping/not tipping in foreign countries, but I handed him a $5 bill. Without him, I'd still be wandering the cavernous halls of DEL.

Sigh of relief. At long last, I was ensconced in a modern cubicle of a room with huge picture windows with a view of, yup, the Departures Hall. My body had no idea what time it was, but I wasn't about to tell it. My computer said is was 1:06 AM; the clock in the room read 3:16 AM. I chose to trust cyberspace. With a growling stomach, I settled in for a few hours of sleep, wrought with very strange dreams.

View from my room

After fresh pineapple, scrambled eggs (at least I think they were eggs), toast, fruit juice, and COFFEE this morning, I feel semi human again. The surreal fog of round-the-world travel is beginning to lift as I await my flight to Kathmandu. Time to head towards the mountains.