Oh, Rohinton Mistry� such a long journey is right.

Hour 1, Toronto:
Disaster strikes and I break a nail in the security lineup. In the craziness of packing, I forgot to cut my nails before I left. Three other fingernails snap within the next hour. Ever tried to find a nail file or a pair of scissors in a maze of airplanes and waiting rooms? Even the question makes people look at you as though you�re a terrorist. My fingertips are now crowned with razor sharp hangnails that are infinitely more dangerous than a nail clipper. interesting.

Hour 11, Paris:
My limited French just came in handy when I got lost in the monstrous maze that is Charles de Gaulle airport. Paris is grey and rainy, but they�ve got green grass in February! I didn�t expect that. It�s too early for the airport restaurants to serve fresh baguettes, so I pass the time by window-shopping through the deli in the duty free and imagining how good each cheese would taste. I have formulated a plan to return here in August and eat my weight in cheese and croissants.

Hour 15, Somewhere between Paris and Rome:
Fourth airplane meal. What do real utensils feel like? I forget. The French take their cheese very seriously. The guy beside me doesn�t bother with his rock hard baguette; he just shovels his cream cheese directly into his mouth with a fork. After a taste � oh! Heaven in the form of clotted cream � I do the same.

Hour 17, Rome:
More rain. Not only am I in Rome and unable to leave the airport, but I can�t even get a glimpse of the city. Slow filtration of plane passengers as most Europeans and North Americans get off in Paris and Rome and are replaced by Arabs and Indians, a couple of businessmen, some soldiers, and a few hippies.

Hour 20, Somewhere over Saudi Arabia:
My seatmate, a US soldier in full camouflage, just tried to stand up with his seatbelt on. For some reason, this struck me as incredible hilarious (fate of the world resting in his hands and all). While snickering, I rubbed my eye with the finger I�d just used to apply minty lip balm. Ow. John Lennon�s instant karma in action.

Hour 27, Kuwait City:
The airport is full of white robed pilgrims returning from Mecca. I am conscious of a definite shift in my posture and walk as I become a visible minority: a western woman. As much as I may think that I look Indian, everyone knows I�m foreign. I try not to meet anyone�s eyes, try to blend in. I pay for my hideously expensive fattayer and coffee with a combination of euros, dollars, and thai baht..

Hour 30, Mumbai:
I had to skip the salad on the plane: back to a world where uncooked = danger. I will miss green food. Apparently both my bags like Europe better, because they stayed there without me. I think about all the chocolate I packed and imagine the goopy mess whenever I get my bags. Assuming they make it here. It takes two hours to fill out a one page report.

I head for the taxi stand feeling like the Pied Piper; I�ve got nine kids following me shrieking �welcome to India� and hoping for money or sweets. They abandon me for the Italian handing out ten rupee notes. It�s 6am, and the traffic is building as I head for the city.

10:36 a.m. - 2004-02-21