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Published: March 5th 2007
There are several things that alert a traveler that she is about to embark on a very interesting journey:
1) When the last glimpse of American life that she sees is in Newark International Airport.
2) When she is subjected to airport security on
three separate occasions on the way to the gate, then told that her sweatshirt is too baggy to ensure passenger safety.
3) When she is cowering on the floor near the entrance gate, surrounded by women in saris, and trying not to get trampled when there is stampede to enter the flying prison that will keep them all captives for the next seven hours, thirty minutes, and 23 seconds. Not that she is counting, of course.
They say that, when it comes to airlines, you get what you pay for. A wealthy person shells out thousands of dollars for a first-class seat, confident that he or she will have an uneventful trip marked only by the pleasant champagne-haze that weighs on his or her eyelids for the rest of the flight. The traveler who allows her father-- who has been known the buy stadium-sized trees of parsley because it was "a deal"-- to purchase the plane tickets is in for a little more adventure. By "adventure," I mean being crammed into the back of plane styled like the Taj Mahal, burning her tongue on the spiciest curry in the known universe, and being forced to watch Bollywood music videos for hours on end.
To be fair, my father (what, you hadn't figured out that "the traveler" was me yet? For shame...) managed to find $260 tickets to Paris, which can be quite a feat in these days of random airline pricings. The downside-- and there's always a downside-- is that the flight was to leave from Newark International Airport via Air India. I don't know about you, but those are two scary prospects. For one, anyone who knows me understands that I have an irrational fear of New Jersey. I've tried to conquer it by making friends with New Jersey natives and listening to Bruce Springsteen, but it's too deeply ingrained. So to have my last sight of America be the retreating warning lights from the Jersey smoke stacks is all kinds of depressing. Secondly, hearing that you're placing your in the hands of Air India, an airline that you didn't even know existed, is a daunting thing (but also a conversation-starter-- try it sometime).
While I can't say that my opinions of New Jersey were changed at all by this trip, I can recommend Air India to anyone who is able to handle spicy foods and intense claustrophobia. Also, visit the airplane bathrooms-- they're wallpapered and provide a nice surrounding for... whatever you intend to do there. Truly one of the nicest airplane bathrooms in my travel experience.
One story that I find interesting--
About mid-way through the flight, the attendants came around with our meals. We had three choices: a chicken curry, some lamb thing, and a vegetarian dish. I hate vegetables and eating baby animals makes me sad, so I chose the chicken. The flight attendant peered down at me.
"Are you sure you want the chicken? It's spicy."
"I'll be okay," I assured him, flashing him a grin that I hoped appeared confident and worldly. He frowned, but placed the dish in front of me anyway. As I set about unwrapping the foil, my seatmate, a man traveling to Mumbai after visiting his grandchildren in the US, leaned over.
"Indian hospitality," he said. I nodded and bit into a forkful of chicken. Immediately, I downed my cup of water and had to whip out my napkin to wipe my weeping eyes and my dripping nose. Up to this point, my only experience with Indian food had been in my local Indian place in Bumblefudge, PA. In an effort to appeal to wide audience in a rather culturally-homogenous area, the resturant had named itself "The Indian Sports Bar and Grill" and also advertised that it had set up a Mexican buffet in the premises. Not authentic by any means. This lack of experience had left me a quivering mass of burnt taste buds as I chewed violently on my plastic fork to aleviate the pain.
My seatmate looked over again and motioned to a cup of white stuff sitting on the tray. "That's yogurt. It'll help." Sniffling gratefully, I assuaged the pain with the bitter, but cooling, yogurt. It was about this time that the flight attendant came by again.
"Sure you don't want the lamb?"
Pride is an awful thing. Clearly, I was going to pay physically for eating such mouth- and stomach-abusing food, but all I could think about was that I didn't want to be mistaken for the stupid American who ignores the advice of the locals and was now paying the price (which I obviously was). I took another bite of the Death Chicken and waved him away, which I hoped proved to him that my lilly-white tongue could handle anything Air India could throw at it. Yeah. It was lucky for me that my seatmate was looking out for my well-being, pointing out rice pudding and other cooling substances on my tray. I valiantly ate a little more, then pushed the rest of it around so it looked like I had been munching with gusto. I doubt the flight attendant bought it.
My little gastronomic adventure was the perfect introduction to the new existance I will be living for the next few months. I'll be eating new things (British food... yum) and convincing new people that I'm not as dumb as I look, which will be difficult.
I invite you to join me on my travels for the next couple of months! Read my sporatic entries, look at my pictures, leave comments or questions. I'll try my best to get back to you. A word of warning, however-- I'm a chronic exaggerator. Time spent in my creative writing classes have honed this proclivity into an all-out force of nature. So, if you happen to travel with me and then find that an event recorded here is not quite how you remember it, keep in mind that I do this to entertain as well as to keep everyone up-to-date on my activities. Besides, most of my exaggerations place me in a laughable light-- as in real life, I'll be playing the fool.
Happy readings!
K.
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Mom
non-member comment
Great start
Great start! I can't wait to read the rest.