I have passed the point of no return...

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Six security checks at Changi airport.  Six!  The Singaporeans are extremely vigilant against terrorism; it’s almost like they have a self-inflated sense of importance for such a tiny island.  Well, I’m flying on a small 20-row Air India plane and definitely enjoying the sitar music they’re quietly piping in.  What I’m not enjoying, but aware I’m going to encounter basically everyday, is the BO.  It’s a slightly sick smell of sweat with a tinge of curry.

I just caught myself rubbings my finger because it feels very odd to not have my rings on (leaving them at home so I don’t lose them); my next thought was that I was supposed to wear a fake wedding band to discourage harassment.  Oh, well, what are those like a buck here?

Maybe I’m just tired, but in my head it hasn’t clicked that I’m going to India.  The plane was when I started freaking out about Singapore, but I think maybe the months of planning over-saturated me.  Or maybe it’s because I only got a strong desire to go there about 9 months ago.  Maybe it’s because we had school yesterday and my brain isn’t ready for holiday, yet.  Maybe it’s a bad sign.  Who knows.

Notes from the plane: LOVE the food.  Delicious chicken in an almond sauce with a veggie curry and potato dumplings.  It’s probably my last trustworthy Indian meal, unfortunately, so I made sure to eat my yogurt to build-up the good bacteria in my stomach.  A collection of about 8 Michael Jackson videos keeps playing on a loop on the mini-screens.  It’s surprising how enjoyable they still are after the 3^rd cycle.  Four, however, seems to be pushing it.  I’ve realized I have a thing for the live-update maps on planes.  They fascinate me.  I want to carry one around with me all the time, now.  I have a new friend in Singapore who helped me get through immigration.  He owns a mobile phone shop (what a surprise) in Singapore and thinks we should talk when I get home.  I put the chances of that happening at slim to none.

Layover in Mumbai: Unbelievable smog.  I think what I’m seeing a few miles away are buildings and a hill, but I can’t be sure.  Every inch of the airport except the runway is under construction.  The slums aren’t hidden from visitors at all; as they shuttle us from the international to domestic terminal, they’re visible on the other side of a very short wall.  Made of blue tarps and corrugated steel from a million scrap heaps, the clothes out to dry in the sun seem to be the only thing holding it all together.  On my transfer bus and outside it’s the smell of urine now instead of BO.

Going into the new terminal, I approach a military guard.  He looks at my backpack and laptop case and asks why everything isn’t in one bag.  I say my laptop is too big for my backpack.  He says, “Well, maybe you can put it in your bag.”  Looking at the giant rifle on his shoulder, I say, “No problem”, and cram my laptop into my backpack as much as I can.  It won’t zip, but he waves me through and I sit down at the terminal to put everything back the way it was originally.  This is me sticking it to the Man.

Taxiing down the runway I can see dozens of people standing outside their slums and staring at something in our direction.  At us rich folks on the plane?  At the sunset?  Impossible to tell.

On the plane I realize two things: first, this is the anniversary of the 3-day attack on Mumbai by the Pakistani terrorists, who went around targeting mostly foreigners and eventually killing 163 people.  It’s a sobering thought that brings to mind the other dangers I’ll have to deal with, but I’m comforted by the fact that I’ve done a lot of research and sought a lot of advice about traveling alone as well as by my confidence in my ability to take care of myself.

My second thought isn’t any more upbeat, unfortunately: I don’t want to be making this trip alone.  I’ve dreamed of trekking around the globe, but with a partner or a friend.  It’s nice to have someone to share the experiences with and be there to comfort you when it’s stressful and argue with the touts when you’re tired and hold your hair (if you have it) back when you’re sick and to have a drink with at the end of the day and, well, to keep you safe.  But an important goal for this trip is learning to be happy alone and to find out what I’ll see when I look inwards, not out, for strength and significance.  The other goal?  To learn how to play cricket.

Delhi’s airport is a big disappointment: clean, spacious, modern, quiet and organized.  I wasn’t harassed at all and my bag came out on a regular conveyor belt instead of in a pile of stuff; and I had been so ready for a fight!  While waiting for my ride I sit down and have a chaach, an Indian milkshake as the owner generously calls it.  It’s actually water, curd, green chili, coriander, cumin, parsley and salt and pepper.  It’s spicy, watery butter milk and my first real chance at getting sick.  Man, I really don’t want to be “that girl” who got sick at the airport before even getting to the hostel…

I have arrived at the hostel now, though, and am welcomed with a plate of pasta and a glass of beer by Francesco, the Italian owner, and Sasha and David (sorry, Dahv-eed).  It’s very welcoming and I’m invited to the bar with a group including Sasha, David, Jenny (UK), Patrick (UK), John (Australia) and Leo (Italy).  Where do we go my first night in India?  Bennigan’s for karaoke, of course.  Welcome to India.