Jock's TravelBlog Because sometimes I go places

Somewhere over the US, Chicago to London

Murphy. My last name is Murphy. There is a law that goes by that name as well, and I have learned its lessons well. If it can go wrong, then it will. Jock's corollary is so be ready for it, roll with it, and improvise if you got too. It's held me in good stead, but apparently the travel gods wanted to put it to the test.

Our flight was planned in two legs. Portland to Chicago on United, then Chicago to Mumbai (hensforth I will follow the locals tradition of randomly switching between the old name of Bombay, and the new name of Mumbai) on Air India. I mean why not? They have the name of the country right there on the plan So you know they go there. Once we arrived in Chicago, we had to make our way to our connecting flight. The difference in size between the two airports is dramatic. The one we arrived at is the size of a small town. It certainly had more restaurants that many places I have been. It has it's on railway and police force. You could almost see making a television series about an airport this large. Oh wait...

My traveling companion, who I shall refer to as My Boss (for she is), had decided to return before me. So she needed a new ticket issued. So our stay at the counter was longer than most. It gave me a chance to scope out my fellow travelers. It is December, but not quite the peek travel period for returning to the old country, well old if you were from there. Since we am not, everyone supposes we are traveling on Business. We are, but that's not the point. Then they assume we are going to Bangalore. That we are not. Bangalore is the Silicon Valley of India, so I suppose it is a natural assumption. Mumbai is -- well -- Mumbai, it seems to defy description. Take New York, add a liberal amount of Los Angeles, and stir in some San Francisco.

We are in high spirits when we get to the counter. We are going to India, it is really happening, and so far the trip is going quite well. I wanted to take a picture of the scene, a mob of mostly Indian people waiting in line. Each with a massive amount of luggage. Having forgotten the small cameras, I pulled out my cell phone to use that. I will confess to being a phone snob, and underwhelmed by its quality, but I am also a pragmatist. I turn to get a good shot and bump into My Boss, and drop the phone. We both bend down to pick it up, and that is when it happens.

Its a long trip. More than twenty-eight hours airport to airport. There was a time when people dressed up to travel. They wore there best, Men wore a suit and tie. It was novel, and unusual, to fly. Now it is a commodity. Now we dress for comfort. I wore the most comfortable shirt and pants I have. The shirt is still in good condition. I ration how often I wear it, since I will never be able to replace it. The pants were just a older pair of khakis. A little frayed at the edges, but presentable. I remember thinking "I am going to retire these pants after this trip." I didn't know how profited that thought was.

I had rolled a document that had fallen out of my bag and put it in my left pocket. As I bent it caught against the inside of my waistband. So it was now pushing at both the top and the bottom of my pants. Before I could stop, I heard the sound. Cloth ripping is a distinctive sound. If you hear it once, you know what it is instantly. It could have been worse, it could have been the seat of my pants that went. Instead it was the front thigh -- Incredible Hulk style. I immedately took off my overshirt I was wearing as a jacket, and tied it around my waist. Improvise, roll with it.

At one point I managed to secure a sowing kit and effected a makeshift repair. I can actually sow fairly well, but this was a challenge. The fabric was too fragile at the tear, and the thread too weak to hold. I am sure the flight attendants (and my how attendant they are) are wondering why I insist on draping an old olive drab shirt over my waist. Perhaps they think I am cold. If I do my job right, it will remain a mystery...