Jock's TravelBlog Because sometimes I go places

Mumbai

I had one last working day, and last minute shopping. T introduced me to the world of Indian desserts. Up until now it had been a world that had been lost on me. Indian restaurants in the US seemed to only offer two choices -- rice pudding and a fried ball in a sweet liquid -- neither of which I found appealing. T takes me to a small shop called American Dry Fruits, odd considering everything they served was distinctly Indian. The shelves are lined with jars of dried fruits. At the back is a glass counter. There's an array of different items, many coated with a shiny foil. You just don't get reflective desserts in the US.

"This one is Cashews," T says, pointing at little diamond shapes. Without asking, the man behind the counter takes one out and hands it to me. I give it a cautious taste. OK, clearly there is a world of sweets here worth knowing about.

T and the man behind the counter would point out different items. Each time I am offered a sample. It's wonderfully low-key. They tell me what each is, and I give it a try. Most I like. A few I don't. Finally I pick a smattering, and they are packaged for me.

The flight leaves at 6:15 in the morning the next day. I am advised to be at the airport three hours ahead of time. I arrange for a car, and somehow manage to get everything I care about in my bags. Some sacrifices had to be made. My lonely planet guide had to stay behind to make room for my newly acquired desserts, then to bed for too little sleep.

The immigration officer on the way out doesn't give my passport a second glance. I am almost disappointed. He tells me to follow the yellow signs to the security check. I look up and see that all of the signs are yellow, though some of them do indeed point to the security area. I drop off my bags at the x-ray machine and then get in line for the metal detector. Each person goes though, the alarm sounds and then they stand on a little platform. There is a separate curtained off area for women.

I stand on the block and the guard motions for me to put my arms out. He runs a wand over my body. After he makes a full pass, and then looks puzzled. He runs the wand over my body again. After the second pass he puts the wand to his badge and a tone sounds. He does a quick third pass on me.

"No metal," I say.

"No," he agrees bemused. I had sent all my metal items though the x-ray machine. Apparently they don't do that here and treat the first metal detector as a formality, knowing there is going to be a second check anyway.

There is one fewer stop on the way back. We don't stop in Delhi. Otherwise the flight back is uneventful back. I sleep most of the way. I've had too little sleep and am still tired from my weekend. As we leave London, I look at the display that predicts when we will arrive in Chicago. I pull out my ticket and look at my connecting flight. I have just over an hour between arrival, and departure. That is far closer than I would like to cut it.

It takes far longer than expected for bags to start to appear on the ramp. I spot my first, and soon after that the other bag I checked appears. I stack them and head off to customs.

"What did you buy in India?" The woman behind the podium asks.

"A couple of books," I say, "and a bunch of textiles. Silk mostly." I spot a little room off to the side where I imagine they do baggage inspections. I have visions being taken there and unpacking everything. Did I remember all my receipts? Am I really within the duty-free amount?

"I love silk!" The woman beams. She looks more like a girl than the authority figure she is. "You have a great trip home sir." And I am off.

O'Hare is a huge airport. Five separate terminals are connected by its own private train system. International is terminal five, I am going to terminal one -- the furthest one. I check my ticket and see that I need to get to gate 29 in concourse C. So that would mean I need to go to just about the furthest gate in the furthest concourse, and I have just under forty minutes to get to my terminal, clear security, and get to my plane. Not a lot of time, but I can make it.

There is a long line at security. It didn't look long when I got into it, but then it rounded a corner and revealed a sea of people. I am suddenly reminded of the temple we visited. It's the same shuffling in line, and each of us gives our offering to the acolytes of the Transportation Safety Administration. At least this time I know the ritual -- I even have to take off my shoes. On the other side -- shorn again -- I make the dash. I make it with about 5 minutes to spare.

This leg seems like it is the worst. I have already gone so far, isn't it over yet? The flight is packed. I am sitting next to a marine just out of bootcamp. Next to him is a tiny young woman coming home from college. They are clearly hitting it off. I just want to sleep. Like so many men, the marine likes to occupy as much space as he can. He has his backpack between his legs and his knees are pushing into both of our seats.

At first I am sympathetic. There isn't enough room for all of our bags, and he is tall so it can't be very comfortable. I know I am not. He shares his stories of boot camp, and what little he has learned of jet-turbine maintenance. Eventually I become annoyed with his stories and their clumbsy flirting. I also realize that I am taller than this fellow when he gets up to go to the bathroom. When he returns he resumes his spread eagle posture.

"Hey buddy," I say, "color within the lines" and I point down to his knee on my side.

"Huh," he replies and squeezed in a little. I take my victories where I can.

In Portland I collect my bags, and set out to find a cab. No one tries to help me with my luggage. No one offers to hail a cab. One slides up to me quietly and efficiently. I give him my address and nearest landmark. It is already dark, and there air is cool. I am home. I wash Mumbai from my glasses, and get ready to sleep properly for the first time in more than a day.

I am more that glad I went, and I wish I could have stayed longer. Next time I will. Next time I will get out of Bombay. I will go south and see Pune or Goa. Maybe I will actually see the Taj. There is so much more to do and see there. So much more of the puzzle to try and figure out. However there is no pleasure as great and that first night back in your own bed after a long trip...