“Guilty Feet Have Got No Rhythm”: Charles DeGaulle to Indira Ghandi International Airport

The flight from France to New Delhi may as well have never happened. I tried to stay awake and do some work with the hopes of off-setting some of the jet-lag. Motivated, I popped on my head phones and, with I-Pod blasting, I tried to draft a partnership agreement that needed to be finished.

The work was so riveting that it had me out in about 5 minutes, only to be woken intermittently by an ill-tempered French stewardess who felt it crucial that I accept the baguette she was waggling in my face (which I accepted but only out of fear of the consequences that were promised in her icy glare). I would consume said bread product and, shortly after, I would pass out again only to have the strange baguette ritual repeated at interval throughout the flight.

I awoke as we were about to land to the stewardess wagging her finger (not a baguette this time….but it smelled like it) in my face saying something in French despite the fact that it had been established hours previously that I, in fact, was not French nor did I speak French. Nodding dumbly, I wiped the drool off my face and opened the shade as we descended into a foggy night (or so I thought) in Delhi.

Customs was a blur and not the most unpleasant customs experience I have had. Aaron warned me about the airport with strong language such as “massive chaos” and “total insanity” and my impression thus far was that it wasn’t that bad. As I sat atop a luggage cart awaiting my luggage, I tuned into the fact that “Careless Whispers” by George Michael was blasting over the loud speakers. I chuckled to myself as I saw how many Indians and non-Indians alike were mouthing the words and joined in and swayed along as I pined for my luggage.

Was it an ominous sign that George Michael bade me farewell as I left the shores of the United States and then again as I touched ground a half a world away?

Aaron went an arranged a pre-paid taxi and I, dragging my luggage behind me, met him outside. It was at this point that I came to understand his descriptions of the Airport and where it was derived from.

In the blink of an eye, I stepped from an airport under eternal construction into a scene from a post-apocalyptic flick about the endurance of the human spirit or something. I stumbled out the doors and into a mass of people, half-my sized, some of whom waited for people coming out, some of whom were wrapped in blankets sitting about and staring and some of whom shoved small, cupped hands into the paths of the people coming out.

We made our way through the initial mass of people and I waited next to a pillar as Aaron to find our cab. All around, there were people yelling for cabs, cabbies ignoring them and chatting, dogs dodging traffic, people huddled around piles of burning trash, make-shift tents and pant-less kids. It became quickly apparent to me that it was not a “foggy” night in Delhi, it was smoke and it was everywhere and it was thick.

Aaron was insistent, from the moment we landed that we take an Ambassador taxi into Delhi, after taking one look I saw why(see picture). Its like riding in a stylish tinfoil box. After some guy took our pre-paid cab, we followed in-kind and took the next guys. Only, unlike us, the guy we shafted ran behind the taxi cursing the driver as Aaron urgerd the drive to “go” in Hindi.

It only took the cabbie taking a turn onto the main road for our stylish tin box to turn into a rolling death machine. As Bhangra Hindi pop blared over the radio, our cabbie flew in and out of traffic…sometimes on the proper side of the road, sometimes not, dodging TaTa trucks as if they (all 3 tons of them) posed no threat to our mortal selves. As he flew the wrong way around a blind curve, he looked down to adjust his speaker to make sure we could hear the music. Clutching the seat and grinning and watching my short life pass before my eyes, I knew this was just the first of many Delhi traffic experiences…

I took a deep breath and tried to watch the scenery as it blew by in a smoky haze...

“Since I Left You”: Air France Flight No. 8995

Muttering to myself (Remember… George Michael), I board the flight and take my seat. As I settle in and struggle to discretely avoid the wedgie that is forming, my ears tune into “Since I Left You” by The Avalanches that is playing over the speakers as the boarding process unfolds.

I took notice of this for two reasons; (1) It’s a funky little number by a good group and, (2) It was not a song I would expect to hear playing over the speakers on an airplane. Kudos to the French for taking the “harsh off my mellow” that George Michael gave me.

Flight takes off and, to avoid any more in-flight movie experiences like the one Denver to New York flight, I popped an Ambien™ which, with the pre-flight drinks made for a nice and blurry flight over the Atlantic towards Paris.

Through the haze, I pondered the fact that Charles DeGaulle survived over 30 assassination attempts only to die of a heart attack while watching T.V. Indira Ghandi was assassinated by her Sikh bodyguards. John Fitzgerald Kennedy was assassinated by the CIA (Lee Harvey Oswald, my ass). These are all the Airports along my route.

Another fact that I found fascinating was…that…ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
zzzzzzzzzzzzzz **snort**drool**”Huh, oh no baguette, thanks” zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…….

Just When I Thought I was Out, “Wham” Pulls me Back in… :Blood, Sweat and George Michael at JFK

Aaron and I arrived at JFK after having to flag down and convince a private hire to drive us out there since is was 4:00pm and none of the cabs we waved down (about 10) would go out there because it was suddenly “shift change,” meaning it was rush hour and they didn’t want to waste their fare by sitting in traffic.

After a close call, unannounced terminal change and a check-in/security process that was akin to being put into a meat grinder and then being shot out of a cannon, we were spat out onto the concourse half naked (security was really thorough) and numb with just enough time to check our flight status and run to the bar to get a shot and a beer to celebrate our really close call. We clamber into the bar, dump our carry-ons and Aaron slaps some bills onto the bar in a manner which says “Barkeep, give me a cold one and make it snappy!” Not catching on, the bartender finishes his conversation with the waitress and strolls over to us and cheerfully takes our order. Before he can even finish his sentence Aaron and I are, in unison, ordering a beer and a shot of whiskey apiece.

Disheveled and sweaty, we make a toast to our narrow miss and shoot our whiskeys, which were more like three fingers worth of trouble. We collected our bags, paid the man and headed to the gate to prepare for boarding.

By some grace of god, our flight was suddenly delayed by another 25 minutes. It was if the heavens opened up and were guiding us back to the airport bar for another round. Being the keepers of the faith that we are, we followed the signs without question and returned to our trusty, but slow, bartender and ordered two more of the same. Only this time, we had a moment to sit and breathe, instead of shooting the whiskey and chugging the beer and running. But alas, we shot and chugged for the hell of it. Before we knew it, our time was soon up and the boarding announcement was made for our flight and, with a slight swerve in our step, we headed to the gate.

Pardon me while I, once again, Digress: Since the onset of the Christmas season which, strangely, is now beginning right after Halloween, I have been tortured the echoes of Christmas songs which the Grinch in me (who is rather active) despises with the intense and fiery heat of a thousand suns. I managed to swoop into New York and, having witnessed any miracles on 44^th St. nor musical montages of people ice skating, having playful snowball fights and whirling about in the snowfall like hippies on acid, I can say I escaped New York relatively unscathed by the Christmas spirit

I pondered this with amusement as I stood amongst the masses waiting to board the flight when suddenly, to my horror, over the bustle and din of the airport, I heard traces of something so terrible, something so vile and repulsive that I shudder, even as I recall to this day. “What,” you ask, could this auditory torture be?” It was the worst of the worst of all the worst Christmas songs ever written in the history Judeo-Christian Christmas tradition. It was George Michael (formerly of “Wham!”) singing “Last Christmas.” You know, that wretched song where last Christmas, he gave someone his heart and the very next day they gave it away? What!?!?! No…No…NO!!! Any song but that one. Seriously. ANY SONG! I’d take a Jingle Bell Rock and two “Country Christmas classics” in place of that one, loathsome and foul song.

Curse you, George Michael. Curse you and your stupid Christmas song. And curse you JFK for letting THAT atrocity be the last song I hear in America in 2007. Curses.