Riding High...

The most embarrassing moments of my life, thankfully, have transpired when nobody was noticing – or rather – when nobody who mattered was noticing. Off the top of my head, I can recall the single most embarrassing journey I went on – a plane trip from Dubai to Copenhagen, via Milan… alone. I have to mention though that I had only traveled between Dubai and Mumbai before this and incidentally, never felt the need to use a blanket, the restroom or change the audio station on a 2.15 hour flight. I was a rare flyer who had towed along with mom and dad on an annual vacation for the most part of her life. What made this single journey so pathetic back then was the fact that I was over-prepared with everything – I have to confess I was nerve-wrecked, just as anybody on an important business trip would be, especially the first one. Let me just begin by going back to University when I was speaking with an exchange student from the west – asking her how her long-haul to Dubai had been: “Oh My mum was too scared to let me go ‘coz she thought I was gonna’ get blown up out here… I almost didn’t make it you know! I’m so glad I’m in one piece. You know mums…!” Of course I know mums. Shaky mum in the west oughta’ know that my mum doesn’t trust them either. She had a tough time letting me go. She knew I was prepared with two copies of everything – even the original passport I was carrying. She hates it when I get nervous, and yours truly here was bawling out orders to one and all even by the time the limo drove her to the airport. Erm yes the Limo… well by a stroke of luck I was traveling Business Class. To think it made things easy. I got an aisle seat. Bang in the front row of the Boeing. The airline does a fairly good job of ignoring passengers for what they’re worth. But I assure you, this trip did more damage to my reputation than it ever could to theirs. I was given the look when I asked if I could change over to the ‘empty’ seat alongside as I had to be next to the window to avoid getting air-sick. Lesson number one: If the plane has taken off, you can be quite sure nobody’s occupying that vacant seat. You don’t need to ask them in the first place because when you do, they will whip out a lecture on how you should have done this when you booked the flight. Lesson number two: Book that window seat when you book your flight. I was starving. But when lunch arrived, I wished it hadn’t. I really don’t know how meat can be grey. I was skeptical about the preparation and politely asked for an explanation. Lesson number three: Order an Asiatic meal when you book your flight. 7 hours in flight usually teach you how to use the restroom. I learned the very hard way. The typical smirk, a wave of the hand which they hoped I would understand. I did not. Instead of working my way to the grossly under-sized door that looked like the oven, I dashed to the pilot’s cabin and tried to jerk open the door. In a world of we-don’t-know-who’s-coming-at-us-next, I encountered the wrath of the entire cabin crew in that one moment. The most obnoxious Italian “No” I could ever hear in my life – fully justified – froze me in action. I turned in horror to see the senior steward walk up to me as if he was going to shoot me and blame it on my apparently evil intentions. I yelped as they waited for me to pull out a gun or a 3 inch knife: “I am so sorry, this is a big mistake… when I was a kid, it used to be somewhere in the middle… I have never traveled in the front of a plane, I could never know…” But before I could use any of those phrases, I was quietly whisked away - away from the groggy staring eyes of the senior executive frequent flyers who withdrew with suspicion as I passed them by. I did use the restroom on my way back though. Lesson number four was imprinted on my mind forever. I can never forgive myself for dressing in pink cargoes and an Esprit turtle-neck. That totally gave me away. When I reached Copenhagen, I confidently strode through the terminal, picked my bag up, exchanged my money, walked and walked and walked… and without having to pass through immigration… walked right out of the airport. This time, I was sure I had made a mistake. How can there be no passport control?! How was I not checked in?! Was Milan also a Schengen State?! With 30 kgs in tow, it was probably not the best time to ask passing strangers if they knew. But I did. I wonder why I finally brought myself to write about something that happened in fall last year. Since then, I have been transformed into a raving backpacker who knows air-routes and visa regulations in every major country in the world at the back of her hand. I guess, I think it’s funny now.