Terry Blanchard

This blog is so long, it’s really a book. You can’t start reading a book from the center, so don’t start reading this blog from the center. Start out at Part 1.

I slept for five hours. There was no way in hell I was showering, so I just changed my clothes, and caught the 5:30am shuttle to the domestic terminal. I’m off to Sahara Air to talk with Mr. Rishi about my flight to Pune. At least, that’s what the instructions from Deepok stated.

“I’m sorry, but there is no Mr. Rishi that works here.” Hmmm. Well, Deepok did say I was rescheduled on Jet Airways, he must be over there. If not, he told me I was confirmed on their 7:55am flight so I’m sure I can just show them my passport and all with be good. I hop over a few counters to Jet Airways. After a short 5 minute wait, I explain to the agent that I am confirmed on their 7:55am flight, but the Cathay Agent was unable to print my ticket.

“No, sir. No Mr. Rishi works here that I am aware of.”

“Whatever. Here’s my passport, I am confirmed on your 7:55am flight. Cathay had issues re-printing the ticket, but assured me I was confirmed on this flight.”

“That reservation was cancelled. Would you like to buy a ticket?”

“Uh, no. I don’t want to buy a ticket. I was booked on this flight by Cathay Pacific because they made me miss my connector. I’ve already paid for this flight and simply want you to fulfill that agreement.”

She doesn’t budge. Buy a ticket or get out of her line. Since Sahara Air was my original connector, they must be the ones who needed to coordinate this with Jet. Sounds a lot like my friend who lost his baggage on Air India, huh? I walk back to Sahara and explain the situation again. She doesn’t have a clue. I’m just about to blow up when I feel someone tapping on my shoulder.

“Are you Mr. Blanchard?”, the man in the purple Cathay Pacific jacket asks.

“Let me guess, Mr. Rishi?”

“Yes, sir. Follow me please.”

Cathay Pacific does not have a booth at the domestic terminal. They are only at the International terminal. So let’s put this scene into perspective. Mr. Rishi, had to find me at the terminal. Imagine if I asked you to go to your airport, didn’t tell you which gate, or airline to find me at, and you have no idea what I look like. I just said, I will be at this airport at 6am, meet me there. Are you frickin’ kidding me!

I was probably the only white guy there, so maybe it wasn’t such a tall order. Mr. Rishi works his magic and gets me back on my confirmed flight. Great, let’s go check-in. I stand in line at Jet Airways and the lady asks me how many bags I’m checking. Just one. I place my luggage in between the counter, on the scale and she wraps the sticker around my bag.

“Okay, sir. Now you need to stand in the line beside you so we can put your bag on the conveyor.”

I stare in disbelief. This has to be a joke. Where are the cameras. Ha, ha. Very funny everyone. Jokes over. She stares back at me and speaks slower, as if I didn’t understand her the first time.

“Help me understand this. I stood in this line for 10 minutes so you could check me in. This is a one-step process. You printed my boarding pass, asked me how many bags I had to check-in, and even put the sticker around my bag, and can clearly see how much it weighs on this scale. They conveyor belt is right behind you. Now you want me to go stand in this other line so I can put my luggage on this very same scale so the person beside you can put it on the conveyor belt. Can you see where I have a problem with this? Why is there a separate line for the most simple step of the check-in process?”

“I’m sorry, sir. But that’s just how it works.”

“First, you’ve failed to see the problem in my first statement. Second, you have resigned yourself to ‘That’s just how it works’ mentality without really thinking it through. It is clear to me you are not an intelligent, or logical person with any common sense. Now, I will do the same.”

If I were in the United States, my next actions surely would have attracted 50 or more TSA agents. All wielding their weapons pointed at each of my vital organs. But I’m not in the United States. I’m in India, and I’ve had enough of this crap.

I pickup my bag, walk over the scale behind the counter, and put it on the conveyor belt myself. It disappears behind the magic curtain and I dust off my hands. I smile at the gate agent, walk back over the scale and head to my gate.

“Next, please!”, I cheerfully announce to the people in line.

I haven’t used the bathroom since I left my house in San Jose. 56 hours have passed and I really need to sit on the throne. I head over to the bathroom and look for a toilet. I see the trough for urinating in, but no toilets. What the hell? They must be doing renovations here (seems highly unlikely given the state of this hell hole) because I see lot’s of holes in the ground. Dude, no way. Yes way, Terry. Those are the toilets. Holes in the ground that you squat over. No privacy, and worst of all, no toilet paper. If I’ve held it in for 56 hours, I can certainly wait another 30 minutes for the plane.

We all hop on the bus that drives you out on the tarmac to our plane. I make a dash for the lavatory while everyone boards. Man, I feel sorry for the poor soul who used that lavatory after me. Phew!

We start rolling at 7:55am precisely. “Thank, god!”, I mumble under my breath.

Uh, oh. There’s that thought again. Terry, what have we taught you about positive thoughts. You must be punished for such evil thinking.

Delhi only has four runways, pretty small for an International airport. However, we taxi for 15 minutes. We make so many turns I can’t help but think our pilot and co-pilot are lost. 15 minutes!! Here’s an odd thing. There are people who actually live in between the runways. They have little shacks with tin roofs that stand a few feet tall. We passed by one guy out for his morning pee. We finally pull up beside the runway. We stop for almost 5 more minutes. I’ve got a Window seat, and there’s no landing traffic holding us up. Nothing is taking off since we’re first in line. What is going on.

“Ladies and gentlemen. This is Captain. Much apologies for the delay. The military is inspecting the runway because VIP is landing. We should be ready for departure in a few minutes. Thank you.”

Sure enough, I see a few military jeeps patrolling the runway looking for god only knows what. The VIP plane lands, no bomb or explosion sounds are heard and we taxi on the the active runway. Finally, I’m on my way to Pune. Pune is a 2 hour flight south of Delhi. We’re 25 minutes behind schedule. No big. I’ve seen worse. That’s not as positive as some of my earlier thoughts, but it was still kind of positive wasn’t it. Terry, when will you ever learn? How about right now?

Most of you know that I am a licensed pilot. As we start our descent into Pune I immediately recognize the holding pattern. 1 minute turn, followed by a two minute leg. Repeat. After our 4th or 5th lap in the hold, our Captain keys up the cabin microphone again.

“We should be landing in 15 minutes. Pune airport is conducting some exercises right now. Thank you.”

Exercises? I know what it costs an airline every time they complete a lap in the pattern. A 737 burns about 5000 pounds of fuel every hour in cruise. Jet engines are designed to run efficiently up in the flight levels, 30,000 ft. or higher. They are not as efficient in the lower altitudes. Let’s cut that number in half to 2500 lbs/hr and do a little math:

• 20 minutes in the holding pattern or 33% of an hour.
• 33% of 2500 = 825 lbs of fuel spent.
• Jet A fuel weighs 6.84 lbs per gallon.
• 825 divided by 6.84 = 120 gallons of fuel spent.
• A gallon of Jet A costs approximately $5.00 a gallon, at the time of writing.
• 120 gallons times $5.00 a gallon = $600.00

Jet Airways just lost $600.00 because the Pune airport was running exercises. They knew we were coming. We were a little late, but still. No airport in North America can halt all commercial air traffic from landing because of “exercises.” They would have every airline company all over them for a stunt like that. Apparently, not the case in India.

Finally, we land. I made it. I frickin made it. I left Friday night and just landed in Pune Monday afternoon. As soon as you step off the plane, you are greeted with this beautiful garden that is constantly manicured. The picture on the right prevents you from taking any pictures of this garden. I laugh and shake my head. Pune has a really tiny airport. The 737 that flew us here is larger than the airport terminal. No, I am not exaggerating. There is one baggage belt, and it’s just a circle. You can see the guys standing beside the building unloading the bags onto the carousel. After the baggage carousel, you exit the door. That’s it, you just left the airport.

That’s enough for this chapter. My flight back isn’t much better. If you’ve got the stamina, or just enjoy laughing at my expense, then read on to Part 6.

Written by Terry Blanchard \\ tags: India, Rants, Travel

This blog is so long, it’s really a book. You can’t start reading a book from the center, so don’t start reading this blog from the center. Start out at Part 1.

I slept for five hours. There was no way in hell I was showering, so I just changed my clothes, and caught the 5:30am shuttle to the domestic terminal. I’m off to Sahara Air to talk with Mr. Rishi about my flight to Pune. At least, that’s what the instructions from Deepok stated.

“I’m sorry, but there is no Mr. Rishi that works here.” Hmmm. Well, Deepok did say I was rescheduled on Jet Airways, he must be over there. If not, he told me I was confirmed on their 7:55am flight so I’m sure I can just show them my passport and all with be good. I hop over a few counters to Jet Airways. After a short 5 minute wait, I explain to the agent that I am confirmed on their 7:55am flight, but the Cathay Agent was unable to print my ticket.

“No, sir. No Mr. Rishi works here that I am aware of.”

“Whatever. Here’s my passport, I am confirmed on your 7:55am flight. Cathay had issues re-printing the ticket, but assured me I was confirmed on this flight.”

“That reservation was cancelled. Would you like to buy a ticket?”

“Uh, no. I don’t want to buy a ticket. I was booked on this flight by Cathay Pacific because they made me miss my connector. I’ve already paid for this flight and simply want you to fulfill that agreement.”

She doesn’t budge. Buy a ticket or get out of her line. Since Sahara Air was my original connector, they must be the ones who needed to coordinate this with Jet. Sounds a lot like my friend who lost his baggage on Air India, huh? I walk back to Sahara and explain the situation again. She doesn’t have a clue. I’m just about to blow up when I feel someone tapping on my shoulder.

“Are you Mr. Blanchard?”, the man in the purple Cathay Pacific jacket asks.

“Let me guess, Mr. Rishi?”

“Yes, sir. Follow me please.”

Cathay Pacific does not have a booth at the domestic terminal. They only have one at the International terminal. So let’s put this scene into perspective. Mr. Rishi, had to find me at the terminal. Imagine if I asked you to go to your airport, didn’t tell you which gate, or airline to find me at, and you have no idea what I look like. I just said, I will be at this airport at 6am, meet me there. Are you frickin’ kidding me!

I was probably the only white guy there, so maybe it wasn’t such a tall order. Mr. Rishi works his magic and gets me back on my confirmed flight. Great, let’s go check-in. I stand in line at Jet Airways and the lady asks me how many bags I’m checking. Just one. I place my luggage in between the counter, on the scale and she wraps the sticker around my bag.

“Okay, sir. Now you need to stand in the line beside you so we can put your bag on the conveyor.”

I stare in disbelief. This has to be a joke. Where are the cameras. Ha, ha, very funny everyone. Jokes over. She stares back at me and speaks slower, as if I didn’t understand her the first time.

“Help me understand this. I stood in this line for 10 minutes so you could check me in. This is a one-step process. You printed my boarding pass, asked me how many bags I had to check-in, and even put the sticker around my bag, and you can clearly see how much it weighs on this scale. They conveyor belt is right behind you. Now you want me to go stand in this other line so I can put my luggage on this very same scale so the person beside you can put it on the conveyor belt. Can you see where I have a problem with this? Why is there a separate line for the most simple step of the check-in process?”

“I’m sorry, sir. But that’s just how it works.”

“First, you’ve failed to see the problem in my first statement. Second, you have resigned yourself to ‘That’s just how it works’ mentality without really thinking it through. It is clear to me you are not an intelligent, or logical person with any common sense.”

My next actions surely would have attracted 50 or more TSA agents, all wielding their weapons pointed at each of my vital organs if I were in the United States. But I’m not. I’m in India, and I’ve had enough of this crap.

I pickup my bag, walk over the scale behind the counter, and put it on the conveyor belt myself. It disappears behind the magic curtain and I dust off my hands. I smile at the gate agent, walk back over the scale and head to my gate.

“Next, please!”, I cheerfully announce to the people in line.

I haven’t used the bathroom since I left my house in San Jose. 56 hours have passed and I really need to sit on the throne. I head over to the bathroom and look for a toilet. I see the trough for urinating in, but no toilets. What the hell? They must be doing renovations here (seems highly unlikely given the state of this hell hole) because I see lot’s of holes in the ground.

Oh, god. No way. Yes way, Terry. Those holes in the ground are the toilets. Holes in the ground that you squat over. No privacy, and worst of all, no toilet paper. If I’ve held it for 56 hours, I can wait another 30 minutes for the plane.

We all hop on the bus that drives you out on the tarmac to our plane. I make a dash for the lavatory while everyone boards. Dang, I feel badly for the poor soul who used it next. Phew!

The plane starts rolling at exactly 7:55am. “Thank, god!” I mumble under my breath. Uh, oh. There’s that thought again. Terry, what have we taught you about positive thoughts? You will be punished for such evil thinking. Delhi only has four runways, pretty small for an International airport. However, we taxi for 15 minutes. We’re making so many turns I can’t help but think that our pilot and co-pilot are lost. 15 minutes!! We finally pull up beside the runway. We stop for almost 5 more minutes. I’ve got a window seat, and there’s no landing traffic. Nothing is taking off since we’re first in line. What is going on?

Find out in Part 5 of this harrowing saga.

Written by Terry Blanchard \\ tags: India, Rants, Travel

Trust me, if you haven’t started reading this from Part 1 of this saga, you really should start there.

So I last left you with my Air India flight from Hong Kong to Delhi. I was warned about Delhi from a number of colleagues who have either made this trip before me, or were born and raised in India. An example of one of my conversations with my good friend Vik Singh, originally from India.

“Oh, man. You’re going through Delhi? That’s not good.”

“Why’s that? It’s the capital of your country, right? Shouldn’t it be the most incredible airport the country has to offer?”

Vik can’t stop laughing at this comment. I’m not comforted. When he finally contains his laughter, he says:

“No flights ever leave on time from Delhi. The weather sucks, man. It’s always fogged in. Expect to spend a night in Delhi my friend. Oh, and it’s a shit hole. Also, it is very well known for it’s pick-pockets.”

Lovely. I have six more very similar conversations like this with other people. I may not be a statistics major, but I can clearly see a trend here.

There are no jetways at the Delhi International airport. No, sir. It’s off the plane onto the tarmac and onto a bus. The bus drives us to the terminal and we all unload. Straight to immigration and customs we go. My first impression of the airport is less than stellar. It’s all concrete and I can’t help but feel like I’m in some sort of bus terminal in south Detroit or the Bronx. Very … blah.

They stamp my passport and ask no questions. Suresh and off head off to the baggage claim. No, they don’t automatically forward your luggage to your connecting flight. You have to go get it and go through the whole check-in process again. There is no such thing as a connecting flight in this country. It’s just another, separate flight.

The Cathay agent is waiting for us and he tells Suresh that he will be able to catch a connecting flight tonight to Bangalore. Me, not so lucky. I’ll be spending the night in Delhi and I’m confirmed on a 7:55am flight tomorrow morning to Pune. Suresh immediately speaks up:

“What hotel are you putting him up at?” The Cathay agent spews off the name of some hotel that I can’t recall because I couldn’t pronounce it.

“Not good enough! You’ll have to do much better than that my friend.”, Suresh exclaims. Suresh has obviously been through this more times than I can possibly imagine. He then negotiates for me to stay at the Hilton. Not bad, I think to myself. I owe Suresh a beer.

Off to the Cathay Pacific booth to get our re-printed boarding passes. It’s just the two of us, we’re both confirmed on flights, and I’m staying at the Hilton. Since I’ve been awake for almost 48 hours at this point, I dream of the pillow and soft bed like an oasis. Suresh has his ticket re-printed withing 10 minutes. We exchange business cards. I thank him and wish him well and we talk about contacting each other back in the States. Now it’s just the two Cathay Pacific guys and me. I am there for 45 minutes. I ask what the problem is and he says he is having some issues re-printing my ticket. The problem is that I was not scheduled on a Cathay Pacific connecting flight, I was scheduled on Sahara Air and my new connecting flight is with Jet Airways.

“It shouldn’t be much longer, sir.”

Enter the dragon. A lady now enters the booth with a posse of six. She doesn’t look like anything special, dressed in sweat pants, no makeup and rather bland looking. However, both gentlemen behind the desk immediately perk up and beckon to her every demand. WTF? No longer are they working on re-printing my ticket, which I have patiently been waiting for 45 minutes. Here’s where the American in me pushes aside the Canadian in me.

“Look, I know you’re upset … but you’ll have to wait for these guys to re-print my ticket. I was here first, and as soon as they’re done, I’m sure they can help you out with your needs. Until then, have a seat.”

Yeah, that was fairly polite. Very Canadian. Read on for the American in me to be unleashed.

I’m pretty sure this is when I lost my Hilton reservation. The next thing I know one of the Cathay agents comes out with documents in hand, and escorting her off. Hmmm. Another 20 minutes go by and I’m still waiting.

“Okay, look I don’t know what problem you’re having re-printing my ticket. Let’s do this. I go to the Hilton, get some much needed rest and whenever you get my ticket re-printed, you drop it off at the front desk at the Hilton. Sound like a plan?”

“I would really feel much better if you had the ticket before you left, sir.”

The way this trip has been going, his comment worries me. Fine, I’ll wait.

Another 10 minutes elapse and two more guys enter the booth. I recognize one of them from my flight. Wow, I wonder what took him so long to come up to the booth? Oh, no. There I go asking myself more dangerous questions.

“None of my luggage arrived! All four of my bags did not make it from Hong Kong! We went to the Air India booth and they told me to come here. Where are my bags? What am I going to do? I have nothing!”

“Well, sir I am afraid you must go talk to Air India. They were the carrier that flew you here to Delhi, not Cathay. We simply booked you on Air India because of the missed Cathay flight. There is nothing I can do. I have no knowledge of you bags.”

This makes perfect sense to me. How should the Cathay agent know where the bags from an Air India flight are? Different airline. This wasn’t as clear to our friend missing his bags.

“Well, they told me to come here. You are both pointing your finger at one another. I will never fly Cathay ever again! This is ridiculous!”

I can’t understand this guys logic. What is there not to understand. I’m tired, I’ve had a crappy experience, and this guy is now taking up the time of both the Cathay agents who are trying to explain this to him. Remember earlier when I said the American in me would finally surface. Here he comes.

“Okay pal, you flew on Air India from Hong Kong to Delhi. Not Cathay. Go talk to Air India. Did the Cathay people load your bags on to the Air India flight? No. Did they fly your bags here to Delhi. Not at all. Did Cathay have anything to do with your god damn bags if they even arrived here in Delhi? I don’t think so! Now march on over to Air India and go figure out this dilemma with them. If you still think this is a Cathay Pacific problem, stand the hell behind me and wait your god damn turn!”

“I want a letter from Cathay Pacific that says…”

“BEHIND ME!”, I yell as I point to the floor space behind me. “You’re turn will come.”

“This is preposterous! I demand…”

I turn and tilt my head and give what must have been a very crazy, “I swear to god, I’ll kill you” look. He immediately shuts up and walks out.

Now I’m revved up. I really don’t care if I make the 7:55am flight anymore. I just want to sleep. A pillow, a bed … oh, how I dream of thee.

“Deepok! It’s been almost 2 hours. Let’s face it, I’m not getting my ticket tonight. Let’s do this. I go to the hotel, I sleep until 6am and wake up. I will call the front desk and they will delightfully tell me about the plane ticket waiting for me to come pick up. I’ll skip down to the lobby after my 6 wonderful hours of sleep, pickup my ticket and be on my merry way.”

He tells me that I’ll have to meet Mr. Rishi at 6am in the Domestic terminal. He writes down all of the instructions. 6am, Splendid, there goes another hour of sleep. I’m done to 5 now.

In India, I quickly learned that you really have to be very specific. Don’t assume anything! For example, I ask the agent how I’m getting to the hotel. Oh, I will get you a cab. Are you paying for the cab? Uh, yes. One second, let me get you a voucher. How about my ride back from the hotel to airport? Oh, okay. I will get you that voucher too. It’s not hot enough to be hell, but I re-examine where I’ve really landed once again. Nope, it’s Delhi.

Off to the cabs we go. The first thing I notice, is just how crowded this place is. People are literally shoulder-to-shoulder. I think to myself, no wonder this is a pick-pockets haven. I strategically have my wallet, passport and other valuables in areas in front of me, in an area where I will feel any sort of contact. I think you know where I mean.

As the agent is leading me out to a cab, I feel something tugging on my pull-cart luggage. I quickly look over and see this very dingy, old man with both of his hands around my luggage smiling and grunting as he tries to pull my luggage away from me. I forcefully instruct him to let go of my bags before I assault him. He doesn’t understand. I tell the Cathay agent that if he doesn’t get Old-Man Stinky off my bag, there will be a scene. He quickly attends to the problem and forces the old man away. I take 4, maybe 5 steps forward and I feel tugging on my bag again. Guess, who’s baaa-ck?

“Let me be extremely clear, old man. I do not want you touching my bag, or anything of mine. Let go of my bag rightnow, or I will lay you flat on your back. You don’t seem to understand my English, or his Hindi. Perhaps you’ll understand a swift, right hook. Deepok, make him understand the severity of the situation. If this happens a third time, I won’t be consulting you on a resolution.”

My brain the whole time has been yelling at me, “It’s a distraction. Keep your eyes on your valuables.” Nothing was taken. He just wanted to load my bags into the cab so I would give him some money. I understand the poverty and hardships over there, but yanking my luggage out of my hand, throwing it into the cab without asking me if this is what I want, then holding out your hand doesn’t work with me. I am very generous with my money, especially for those in need. But this was just a scam. A hard lesson? Perhaps. I certainly don’t want to endorse, or encourage this kind of behavior to be rewarded.

It is very late and the cars in India are incredibly small. I mean, really, really small. A Ford Focus would stick out like a Hummer here. It’s also very dark. I pull up under the canopy of the hotel lobby and taxi drop-off area. The doorman opens my door, unloads my bags, and I give him a tip of 100 rupees. That’s only $2 USD. However, it’s about 10 times what is normally given. Not bad for opening a door and unloading a single luggage bag. The lobby is … nice, but not Hilton quality as far as I am concerned. I’m in India, standards are a little different I guess.

After I register, I take the elevator up to the second floor. I’m in room 201. As the doors open I am greeted with holes in the opposite walls stained by something that looks like severe water damage. No word of a lie, the hotels in New Orleans after hurricane Katrina were in better shape than this place. This certainly can’t be my floor. Maybe it was floor 20, room 1. I examine the number of floors available on the elevator keypad. It only goes up to floor 11. Super. This must be me.

My room is the first one on the left. The door resembles that of a bathroom door you would expect to find in a home built in the early 1900′s. Very thin, warped, doesn’t really close all the way. I’m holding the key, yes an actual key. Not an electronic key card like those you would find in any hotel in North America, a real key. I hold it inches from the keyhole to my door. I look down at the warped door and can easily see inside the room. I hesitate and decide to nudge the locked door with my shoulder. It opens without a fight. I lift my head and scan the room. I am frozen by what I see. The bathroom is beyond disgusting. There is mildew and some other substance, that I was unable to identify, hanging off the shower head. The tiles were that 1970′s green, but were thoroughly covered with brown grunge. The ceiling was partially exposed, insulation hanging from the broken tiles. The bed, simply frightening. I curled up on top of my luggage, in my clothes, wallet and all other valuable in my pockets, and fell asleep within seconds. On the bright side, I didn’t see any bugs or roaches. The key being, I didn’t see any.

I haven’t even arrived into Pune yet. It doesn’t get any better. Tune in to Part 4 to see how it works out.

Written by Terry Blanchard \\ tags: India, Rants, Travel

Welcome to Part 2 of my hellacious travel experience to India. If you haven’t been reading from Part 1 of this epic, I highly suggest you do.

I last left you with my gracious exchange of seating assignments to help a man sit closer to his wife with their 4-month old. Good karma, right?

Wrong.

My plane is suppose to push back at 10 minutes after midnight. At 12:30, the captain jumps on the radio and makes the following announcement:

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking. I apologize for the delay, but the volcano that erupted in Alaska is causing us some turmoil. Apparently there is volcanic ash as high as 40,000 ft. in the air, and it’s managed to work it’s way into our flight path. We’re just waiting for a new flight plan to route us around that and we’ll be wheels up shortly. In the mean time, please feel free to move about the cabin and hang out around seat 69C.”

Okay, the last sentence I might have indulged a bit. But the passengers must have heard that. Everyone just had to stand behind my little area by the restrooms. Logically, it made sense since they wouldn’t be in the aisles, but it felt like the captain asked people to hang with me. Not cool, dude.

2:00am and we’re still at the gate. No air conditioning because that doesn’t work until they fire up the engines, which they won’t do until they get a new flight plan. I’ve had enough ass in my face to make a convicted felon look like the virgin Mary.

2:30am we finally push back from the gate. We taxi to the runway, and the air conditioning feels wonderful. Then we wait for about 15 more minutes, on the active runway. I understand that there isn’t much air traffic at 2:30 in the morning, but who the heck clears a 747 onto the runway and makes them wait for 15 minutes?!? What were we waiting for? I’ll never know.

My connecting flight in Hong Kong was a 4 hour layover. It’s going to be close, but I’m somewhat confident that I will make it. Good karma, right?

Let me explain why you should never have a thought like that cross your mind.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking. With all the volcanic action from Alaska and the extremely high headwinds, we’ll be making a fuel stop in Taipei. Everyone will remain on the plane, and we’ll be changing the crew while the plane is refueled. We should only be on the ground for about an hour and then we’ll get you to Hong Kong. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

So I’ve now officially got no hope in hell making my connecting flight from Hong Kong to Delhi. Great.

From the air, Taiwan looks beautiful. Lots of gorgeous mountains and surrounded by water. I’d like to see more of it.

I land in Hong Kong, at 9:30am local time. My connecting flight departed at 8:45am. As everyone gets off the Cathay Pacific flight, I am greeted with 8 groups of passengers. I find the Delhi group of passengers and we follow our Cathay Pacific agent, Catherine, to the Cathay desk. She collects all of our boarding passes and gives every passenger a calling card and a beverage voucher. She asks that we all come back to the desk at 12:00pm and she will have all of our new boarding passes printed for our rescheduled flights. Fair enough.

I end up talking with a very friendly fellow named Suresh. Suresh was born in India, but has lived in Saratoga, CA for the last 20 years. He does this flight at least once a month, every month. I stare in disbelief and ask what horrible atrocity he was responsible for in another life to be sentenced to this life-sucking travel.

He chuckles and we strike up a friendship. He says he knows there’s a Starbucks Coffee kiosk at the north end of the terminal. Off we go to spend our vouchers. By the way, the coffee sucked. It looked like Starbucks, she had the green apron and all that crap. But, it wasn’t good coffee at all. Each sip was followed by a dry heave movement

Noon rolls around and Suresh and I are waiting at the Cathay desk with the rest of our fellow stranded passengers. It now says 12:45 and no agents are behind the desk. Finally Catherine shows up. As she starts to give out re-issued tickets, and Suresh and I are next … this crazy French lady interrupts and literally grabs Catherine by the arm and says:

“I want to go outside!! I want to go right now!”, yells the French woman.

“I am sorry ma’am, but you cannot leave the international terminal without going through customs and immigration.”

“This is outrageous!”, shouts the French woman.

To make an already long story short, Catherine ends up grabbing the French woman by the elbow and escorting her to security. But don’t fear, my readers. She’ll be back.

Since Delhi is not our final stop and Suresh and I have non-Cathay Pacific connecting flights, Catherine says they’re still working on our boarding passes and working with the connecting airlines. Fantastic.

Ah, there’s Catherine. She’s back and handing out talking with my fellow stranded passengers. Uh oh. Here comes the crazy French lady. She’s baaa-ck! She continues right where she left off, hounding poor Catherine. And, here comes Security. Buh-bye. A small round of applause breaks out amongst our brotherhood of stranded passengers.

We’re all informed that we’ll be flying Air India. Great, there go my air miles since Cathay is affiliated with American Airlines. Karma is losing it’s value in my head … exponentially. Air India, I ask myself. The fact that I’ve never heard of them before strikes two immediate questions in my head.

1. They’re really small and don’t fly internationally.
2. They haven’t had any accidents and therefore haven’t made CNN for all the wrong reasons.

How I pray for option 2.

Checking in at Air India is painful. There are two agents at the desk. Suresh and I are the first two and they are trying to check us both in at the same time. 10 minutes goes by and both agents keep going into a huddle, speaking in their native tongue, and pointing at their screens. Debating about something.

“Is there a problem?”, I ask inquisitively.

“No, no. Everything is okey dokey”

After 15 minutes we are checked in. Suresh and I go our separate ways and call home. We meet back at the gate and actually enjoy a very pleasant flight. The food was the best airline food I’ve ever had. Takeoff and landing? Just swell.

I guess my luck is finally turning around. Do you know what happens as soon as you think that? Do you see a pattern beginning to evolve here? Read on to Part 3 to find out.

Written by Terry Blanchard \\ tags: India, Rants, Travel

I like traveling. My job requires me to travel enough to still make it fun. If you travel too much, it’s a drag. If you don’t travel at all, it seems so glamorous. I’m nestled right there in the middle.

NVIDIA recently purchased a company in Pune, India. As part of this purchase I acquired some employees and was booked on a flight to India to meet the newest members of my team. I can’t say India is high on my list of places for a family vacation, so this trip seemed pretty exciting.

My travel plans to India were:

• San Francisco to Hong Kong
• Hong Kong to Delhi
• Delhi to Pune

My flight was scheduled to depart from San Francisco 10 minutes after midnight Saturday morning (really Friday night to me). It’s a 15 hour flight and I can’t sleep on airplanes so all week I’ve been staying up late and getting less than 5 hours of sleep so I wouldn’t have a choice but to sleep on the plane.

However, my drama started before I even arrived at the airport. San Jose is about 45 minutes south of San Francisco so I kissed my family goodbye and was on the road at 9pm. My Mini Cooper and I were making excellent time. Somehow I managed to be on pace to make it there in 35 minutes. Not bad. I pass the final exit before the airport off-ramp when I see a flood of brake lights start to illuminate in front of me on Highway 101. As all lanes come to a complete standstill, I see one CHP cruiser go by on the shoulder with his lights on. Then another. Then two more. A few ambulances are shortly behind them. A total of 8 CHP cruisers and 3 ambulances. This can’t be good.

Traffic doesn’t move for 45 minutes. At 10:15 traffic starts to herd over to the the right-hand shoulder. Of course, I am in the far left-hand lane. As I drive past the flares the CHP have used to close off all the lanes, I see various car parts scattered about. Ouch, this isn’t going to be pretty. Almost half a mile up the road I see a Dodge Viper upside down on what used to be it’s roof. And by “used to be”, I mean there is no longer a roof at all. The car is sitting on the top of the hood and the trunk. Obviously, no survivors there. Godspeed, friends.

The Mini Cooper and I adeptly work our way through traffic and we eventually make it to SFO’s long-term parking. Bonus! I score a parking spot just two bus stops away from the exit. Even better, I can see the bus coming so I don’t have to wait in the rain. I hop on the bus, store my luggage, and crank up the iPod. I’m running late, but still have some time before I miss my plane. I hope.

I sit fairly close to the front of the bus with a great view out the front windshield. The bus driver starts to pull away when this Asian lady with a super bright white fur coat and hat jumps in front of the bus which promptly slams on the brakes to avoid flattening her. She is thrilled to be on the bus. Our bus driver … not so much. She’s an older black woman, who I am guessing was born and raised in Oakland. Why do I think this. Read on. She weighs in around 220 pounds. Now our 105 pound Asian lady is about to be schooled on why it’s not cool to run in front of a bus here in America. The bus driver doesn’t leave her seat. She decides that yelling at the Asian lady from her throne and giving her the stare of death through the over-sized rear-view mirror should be enough to ensure a public humiliation and remaining bus ride an unpleasant one.

And a perfect plan it would have been if the recipient spoke any English. The bus driver shakes her head in disbelief after almost 3 minutes of this one-way conversation. She finally puts it in drive and continues to the final bus stop. Great, I’m glad that’s over with because I have a plane to catch.

Not so fast Blanchard. I can see the bus driver fidgeting, burning up about the lack of response, or apology, or some sort of reaction from the lady who ran in front of her bus. Much like seeing the 3rd or 4th CHP cruiser go by on the shoulder, I know this isn’t over yet and it’s going to cost me more time. Sure enough at the final stop, our bus driver throws the bus into park, and starts walking toward the back of the bus.

“You don’t go running in front of my bus, you hear me? I ain’t hit nobody in 23 years and I don’t plan on starting now. Oh no, girl. Mmm, umm. Now why you gotta go messing up my night? There’s a another bus 5 minutes behind this one, girl. Don’t go throwing yourself under my bus!”

I can’t take it anymore, I need to get to the terminal. Finally, our bus driver feels satisfied. She resumes her driving duties and takes us to the terminal.

For a 747, which can carry over 400 passengers, the check-in line is surprisingly short and I’m checked in rather quickly. It’s 11:30 and I’ve still got security to go though. It’s going to be close, but the Cathay Pacific agents weren’t worried, so either was I. Okay, I was a little worried.

I am amazed at how lazy, stupid, or inefficient some people can be. While myself and the other people are waiting to go through security, SFO security agents (TSA) literally announcing to people that they need to take off their shoes, empty their pockets, remove belts, take your laptops out of their bags, etc. I observe people for a living, and less than 15% of them actually do this. Instead, they wait until they’re called to walk through the sensors, and that’s when they begin to search their pockets and ask dumb-ass questions like,

“Do I need to take my belt off?”

“Yes, sir you do. Just place it in the bin beside your pea-size brain.”

The 747 to Hong Kong boards on time and I’m sitting in an aisle seat, 44G. There are 69 rows in this 747, and I’m sitting in the middle of the plane. As fewer passengers seem to be boarding the plane, it looks like I won’t have anyone sitting beside me. Nice. Room to stretch out and sleep.

Tap, tap

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Yes”, I reply to the man tapping my shoulder. He’s holding his seat ticket in his hand.

“Would you mind trading seats with me? My wife and I are not sitting together and we have a 4 month-old baby. She is sitting, right behind you.”

“Where is your seat?”, I ask

“Oh, it’s an aisle seat too.” he says as he hesitantly looks toward the back of the plane.

“How far back is it?”

“It’s uh, it’s close to the restroom too!” he cheerfully proclaims.

“You say that like it’s a good thing. It’s a 15 hour flight, dude. People like to get up and walk around. 400 people also need to pee a few times in 15 hours too so I’ll have people leaning on my seat and sitting on my arm rest while they wait in line. And I’ll be one of, if not the last one, off the plane.”

Being a parent I know what it’s like to travel with kids. A 15 hour flight with a 4 month-old seems like punishment. So I offer to trade him even though I am clearly getting the crappy end of the deal here. I exchange my 44G seat for his 69C seat. Good karma should come my way, right?

Read Part II in my next posting to find out what I think about karma.

Written by Terry Blanchard \\ tags: India, Rants, Travel