Mykel Goes to India Day -1 and counting

Entry One , October 1, 2018


I’m in the train from Penn Station to Newark Airport. Newark is usually my airport of choice from New York. Physically, it’s the furthest, but it’s only three stops on the train... Nine dollars for the comforable miles (old people’s discount)... so here I sit. A medium sized backpack and an over-stuffed computer case at my feet.

Next to me… to my left… is an attractive young woman-- mid twenties… sweatshirt.. jeans. In front of her are two huge suitcases. Next to her is a slightly macho guy over 6 feet tall, with decent shoulders, and an intense focus on the cellphone in his right hand... Not much to look at for me… but as I look at the young woman… she shifts in her seat moving further away from me, closer to the other guy… she leans over and talks with him…. He laughs.

The woman reaches into her purse and pulls out a small bag of Riccola. She offers one to the macho man. He shakes his head. Then she takes one wrapped Riccola opens it... slowly... fold by fold… as if relishing the reveal.. Once opened, the brown lozenge lays in the middle of the wrapper a brown square stark against the white. She holds it up to her face. Her pink tongue darts lizard-like from between her full lips. Bending her head, she touches it to the lozenge on the paper. Withdrawing her tongue, she pulls the paper to her lips and sucks it into her mouth.

Suddenly, the woman turns and looks at me… then shifts even closer to the macho man.

Scene shift:

Newark airport: Some hugely fat guy has been talking non-stop on his iphone. I now know where Florence’s birthday gift is, what to tell Albert when he calls, and that Marty is a money grubbing asshole. I’m at the gate 2½ hours early as is my custom. Lots of trouble with SECURITY-- as is my custom.

“Thanks for your passport. I need your visa,” I pull it out-- the visa that is-- and hand it over to the woman on the other side of the Air-India counter. The not Indian woman smiles as she takes the paper. Then she looks at it... her sculpted eyebrows move closer together. Her non-botoxed forhead wrinkles. She squints... raises a finger in a just a minute signal (which these days could mean anything from Jesus is the one way to White Power.) Then she runs down to another clerk-- this one Indian-- to check with her. There is some conversation and she heads back to me... trying to force a smile.

“I’m sorry,” she says. (How did I know?) “But that isn’t a visa. That is only a confirmation of application. Your actual e-visa should have come in an e-mail.”

I open my phone and go to the email app. 10,345 emails. I search on INDIA. 653. But wait! I fiddle about in my wallet. I find ANOTHER printout… It say E-VISA on top. YES!

 I hand it over to the agent. She holds up a finger again and runs off.

NOTE: I do NOT hold up a finger.

She returns with another woman… much more supervisor-looking. The other woman manages to make her smile look almost authentic.

“This is not an e-visa,” she says. “It is only an email telling you that your e-visa has been granted.” She points to the blue CLICKABLE text on the page. THAT’s where you have to get your visa from.

I remain non-violent.

“Don’t worry,” she says, “we can print out your visa for you… just move down to the last agent and she’ll print it for you.”

I moved to the last agent. She (you guessed it) holds up a finger and disappears. She returns with a small cart. On the cart is a printer.

“Just a minute, I have to set this up.”

She plugs in the printer… turns it on… connects a cord from the printer to something on the desk in front of her… flips a printer switch…

It takes awhile. I use the time to practice deep meditation and breath control.

BRRRRRR ZIP BRRRRR ZIP BRRRR ZIP

The paper comes out. I hold in my hand… an e-Visa. I think.

“Have a nice day,” says the woman handing it to me.

“You too,” I say.

-proofread on the plane… so I got this far-

Postscript (written on the plane): Is this the world’s only airline without a magazine in the magazine holder? In any case, the lights, stewardess call, movie volume are all exclusively controlled by a remote tucked into the armrest. It don’t work. The stewardess has asked everybody to lower their window shades, but only two people in the cabin have figured out how to turn on the overhead lights.

We had dinner… curry of course… not very good. I ate the salad and drank the water… I figured on the plane it must be okay, right? We’ll see. In the meantime, I opened my window shade… we’re over a sea of clouds. That’s all. We’ve been in the air about 2 ½ hours. 11 more to go.