The Eagle Has Landed

For some time now I have known that I was about to embark on a fairly ridiculous and ill-conceived trip to the far side of the world. Three days into the start of this journey and it has become clear that this is a severe understatement. Now, I have never been to India before, but I have been on more airplanes than I can count and I figured at least this much would be familiar and uneventful.

The first leg of the trip, from Washington to Amsterdam, was quite pleasant. I remained entertained throughout by watching such quality films as Dan Brown's Angels and Demons, and Fantasia 2000, and by chatting up my seatmate, the beautiful young daughter of a prominent Danish public figure. Surely, it was love. Love like I have never felt: that of a gorgeous maiden nestling innocently upon my shoulder, her light caresses penetrating my heart as the folding tray table penetrated my gut. Alas Denmark and India are not close enough together for a dramatic cross-border rendezvous under the twinkling moonlight, and we parted ways in Schiphol airport.

I have known Schipol airport since infancy. Every year of my childhood I passed through for another transatlantic voyage. Even as I was rocked in my mother's arms, so too was I gently conveyed upon the moving walkways, the promise of hot American summers and trips to Toys'R'Us a veritable nursery rhyme to my young ears. In this year, 2009, Schiphol betrayed me.

The gate for the flight to Delhi had no lobby and no seats. Hundreds of Indians sat hunched in a narrow passage alongside the walkways in a cruel mockery of what awaited them in the transit hubs of their own country. Hours passed until finally the crew saw fit to open the glass doors to the final gate security checkpoint. A throng arose, pushing forwards as a herd. The crew attempted to prioritze business-class passengers to the front, literally forming human cocoons with which to force through the unwashed masses and escort the wealthy to the plane. Soon thereafter, over two dozen blue-clad airline employees shoved their way through the crowd to take their positions on the plane. They were far too many to staff an aircraft of any size, their numbers seeming more suitable for propelling a Phoenician trireme. I half expected the security checkpoint to scan me for Greek Fire. I waited, trapped in a strategic but paralyzing position at the heart of the human whirlpool, eager to rejoin the current of surging humanity. At long last, a brave stewardess wheeled a paraplegic old Sikh towards the front, parting the throng like the Red Sea and leaving tranquility in their wake. I seized the moment. FOLLOW THE CRIPPLE. In an instant the crowd crashed back together behind me, a sea of Indians drowning the Egyptians.

I slept for much of the flight. I caught a few glimpses of the Ukraine. It was boring. We flew over the Soviet 'Stans. They were even worse. As it so happened, while we were crossing Afghanistan I was watching the fine film Charlie Wilson's War. Accompanying the view out the window of the rugged terrain where even now combat flares in that country, I was treated to a series of statistics about Mujaheddin successes in eliminating the flying machines of invading and occupying countries such as:

Winter 1987. 31 helicopters destroyed. 19 fixed wing aircraft destroyed.
Spring 1988: 43 helicopters destroyed. 23 fixed wing aircraft destroyed.

Good to know the people below me dislike the West and are skilled with anti-air missiles.

Finally after a leg-numbing flight, we landed in Indira Gandhi International Airport and I walked boldly onto Indian soil.

One small step for man, one giant faceplant for intercultural dialogue.