chapter 5

Chicago Ho!We began our long walk to our next port of call—the gate for the flight to Chicago.Security and other checks always made us nervous and the fact that we did not have much time to find the right terminal for the onward flight made us more anxious. Luckily, before we had disembarked, the screens on board showed a list of gates to head towards if we were taking a connecting flight and the Chicago flight was one of them.We noticed there were arrows to help us move in the right direction, and we diligently followed them, walking on and on and on. VK remarked that at this rate, we would soon reach Abu Dhabi. We went gamely forward, while also keeping an eye out for—you guessed it—a washroom. VK located one, but gave up the idea of using it because of the length of the queue outside it. Like outside a liquor store in Kerala, he said, only with more diversity in styles of clothes and skin pigmentation. Afraid we’d be late at our check-in counter, we marched on. An announcement giving the gate number for passengers going to Chicago made us change our pace to a spirited trot.What a relief to finally breast the tape at this finish. People were already checking in and we joined two queues for security and immigration, armed with our papers and ready to answer any question we might be asked. ‘Be prepared,’ we had been told, for questions such as, ‘Why are you going to the States?’ ‘What is your son’s address?’ ‘When will you return and do you have your return tickets with you?’ ‘Do you have a prescription for these medicines or are you planning to run a pharmacy in America?’ ‘Did you not read the instructions about not carrying food in your luggage?’Instead, why don’t they ask meaningful questions like, ‘Would you like to use the bathroom, sir?’ ‘Are you looking like something the cat dragged in because you ate an untimely meal, had a disturbed sleep and would like nothing better than to lie down in a quiet corner, or is this how you always look, ma’am?’Why, we wondered, did different airports have different rules about cell phones, laptops, wallets, belts, handbags and other things people take with them? Manoj Dharmarajan, a good friend who is a worldly-wise travel veteran, having visited more than fifty countries, once told us that the only thing constant in international travel is the unpredictability and cussedness of immigration officials. But we were through without much fuss, maintaining eye contact even while in separate queues for security check, and otherwise keeping an eye on each other. Neither knew what to do, but we managed with our spirits, bodies and wallets intact.The immigration process took place at the gate to board the flight to Chicago. There were separate queues for ladies and gents. The gents got away lightly, my gent did, at any rate. VK’s passage through immigration, manned by uniformed men and women, was pretty quick. He later said that he was mentally rehearsing, ‘740, E Shady Lane, Neenah, Wisconsin’ and ‘Software engineer, Kimberly Clark’ so much, he might have mixed it up and said something like, ‘Engineer Clark’, ‘Shady software’, ‘Neenah Lane’ if he had been asked Amar’s address, profession or the name of his company. Thankfully, no such questions were asked. He didn’t even have to take off his shoes.From a short distance, he watched a stern woman order me to remove my footwear. I did that and waggled my toes for good measure. Satisfied, though a trifle disappointed I hadn’t stuffed dynamite into my socks, she proceeded to examine my bags and went through every single item in them. She gave a curt, unsmiling nod—the signal that I had been cleared—and turned her grim attention to the next person. I gathered my belongings and my self-respect, and joined VK.We sat down, relieved the formalities were over, only to have VK jump up, reminded of what had been weighing on his mind and bladder. He rushed off to seek a toilet and returned very soon, for, hold your breath—no, not because of the smell—there was no toilet anywhere. Can you believe it? We couldn’t, so I went with him to help him spot one, just in case, it being Dubai, it had been masquerading as a glitzy shop. But, no, there really wasn’t a washroom around. I have never come across this deficiency at any other airport gate. And in Dubai, of all places, which seems to have everything else. We couldn’t go outside the immigration area either. The only exit out of the place was into our plane.‘Control, control,’ I whispered to VK as he sat cross-legged, looking mutinous. At last, the flight was announced and we boarded another Emirates 777 flight. The duo at the door went through the motions of welcoming us, made familiar by the earlier Emirates experience, except that the flight attendants this time were tall and strapping women.We headed to our double seater at the back and settled down, as the flight attendants, who looked like East European basketball players, stomped up and down the aisle, as if keeping an alert eye for the right pass to score a basket.This time we flew out in bright sunshine. VK sat by the window and had his nose stuck to the glass in his eagerness not to miss anything that flashed past. Very soon, he was peering down below, occasionally bending down so I could crane my neck and get a glimpse of features we had never seen before—desert, urban clusters and complexes of buildings surrounded by desert, roads, more desert and some more desert.But he had an eye on the seatbelt sign too. It just would not go off. After an hour and a half, during which he must have wondered if there was a link between nephrologists and airline pilots, he got up and accosted a gargantuan airhostess at the back. I saw her give a wide grin, shake her head and point to the seatbelt sign that was still on. She said something too, probably, ‘Oh, you lucky man, you might score a basket, if you are patient.’ He returned, a grim look on his face and walked past our seats, all the way to the toilet in front. He was stopped from entering by another gigantic figure, the purser herself, this time. This aggressive point guard, wearing a cool, I-cannot-understand-such-a-need look on her face, said something to him. He replied, moved past her and went in, leaving her staring at the door.When he returned, looking a little like Peter Sellers in the film The Party, I asked him what magic he had worked to get past the lady. He said she had protested that the captain didn’t want anyone to leave the seats, but he had countered that his need was greater than the captain’s command and he would take responsibility for any problems that might arise because of his noncompliance.And while on the subject, he went on about what he thought was wrong with the design team of aircrafts and terminals. The team should also include anatomists who know about the capacity of the human bladder and some statistically smart, medically aware engineer-MBA types who can provide inputs on human outputs, so to speak, so that the necessary conveniences are in place before they hustle a few hundred people into a flying aluminium tube or several thousand into terminals, he snorted.Having got this off his chest, he settled down to watch the world below. I twiddled with the buttons on the seatback screen for a bit before switching it and myself off. As in-flight entertainment, VK chose the screen that gave a constant view of the map of the world and tracked our flight. The map did not indicate political divisions; one had to make inspired guesses. Were we flying over Iraq or Iran? He wasn’t sure, he later said, but at one point he saw what appeared to be military vehicles—semi-destroyed ones—against a desert background. Soon after, mountain ranges, with and without snow, were clearly visible.The entire flight was in daylight, so meal and sleep times didn’t sync with the body, though we never said no to any meal provided. Even looking out of the window needed some energy. In between bouts of sleep, VK watched parts of Russia and, perhaps, Scandinavia, missed all of the North Atlantic or, at least, the seas north of the Atlantic, but woke up to look down on ice and snow and more of it over Greenland and all the way to the Canadian airspace. And they appeared in so many different patterns. So much of white, arranged in diverse ways.As for me, I stuck to my plan of sleep, walk, eat. Curling up as comfortably as an economy class seat would allow, I focussed on sleeping as much as possible. There was a guy in front who was absorbing drinks like a sponge and I kept a close watch on him while awake, hoping for some entertainment, but alas. He had a very simple plan up his gullet—drink, drink, sleep, sleep, drink, drink—and he stuck to it.I managed a few walks too. After an ambitious walk along all the aisles that stressed me out, trying to dodge the human impediments, some of them carrying laden trays, I decided to limit myself to walks to the galley and the occasional one to the loo. The galley was well stocked with chocolates, fruits, nuts and drinks. Not a fan of soft drinks, I would go for water, the good old Adam’s ale, and return to my seat with some fruits, nuts or chocolate. VK would take some nuts and go back to peering down the glass window while I’d move my feet, chomp on the fruits, and then curl up again.Under the watchful eyes of VK, the green and brown of soil and vegetation gradually began to appear along with the white of snow and ice. Soon the green and brown took over completely, to be followed by buildings, roads and all the signs of being near a big city. VK woke me up. I strained my eyes, hoping to see the intricate criss-crosses of runways and taxiways I had seen in aerial view pictures of O’Hare airport, but before I knew what was happening, the plane had landed and, bumping along, we observed instead, sights familiar at most big airports in India—other aircraft and vehicles, mostly tractors towing luggage or equipment or taking men one way or the other. But there was one difference—there was a striking mix of colour and ethnicity. This was the U.S.It was 3 p.m. on 27 April when we landed in O’Hare International Airport, Chicago. Time had turned on its head. Aha, so this was what caused the jet lag people who travelled abroad talked about, though I never could quite understand it. Well, to be honest, I never tried to find out but always politely asked people who had travelled, even from Colombo, ‘How’s your jet lag?’Once the doors opened, the plane emptied itself, in order and in silence, with passengers patiently waiting their turn to get up and collect the baggage from the overhead bin before moving forward. What a refreshing contrast to what happens in India, where the moment the plane touches down, you hear the clicking of seat belts being unfastened, followed by passengers jumping up, and then being cautioned by harried air hostesses. They sit down as if on pins, ready to leap up as soon as the plane comes to a standstill, and, then, stand poised on one foot, giving the impression they would love to shove their way to the exit doors if they could.The flight attendants bid us cheery goodbyes, appearing obscenely fresh, while we mumbled pleasantries in response, looking as if we had been churned without detergents in a washing machine. As we came through the gate, I changed the time on my watch once again. I wasn’t able to linger for a bit and savour the special, ‘I’m actually standing on U.S. asphalt’ moment, for we had to keep the other passengers in sight. I had learnt through experience that the best thing to do after landing in a strange airport is to follow the crowd to know where to head next, or at least pick a sensible-looking duo and trail them. They could end up leading you to the washroom, but that’s a risk you have to take.We had been told we’d take a long time getting through immigration and that was no exaggeration. We were led by the crowd to the CBP (Custom and Border Protection) Processing Area and there we stopped short, all at sea in an airport. Everyone but us seemed to know what to do as they headed for machines that we later came to know were APC—Automatic Passport Control—kiosks. We’d come into a country where self-help and machine help were considered the best help. There were volunteers around with ‘We Can Help You’ on the backs of their t-shirts, but when we approached an enthusiastic guy who had just finished assisting a blonde, he waved us towards a machine and went to the next attractive young thing. They should change the text to, ‘We can help you—if you are young, female, and blonde,’ I thought to myself.VK watched the actions of others, then ventured, very cautiously, to follow suit and succeeded in getting the required receipts. We had been given forms to fill on the plane. We added those to the receipts and joined the tourist visa queue. The rest was very easy and once we collected our baggage, we headed to the exit lounge. The airport was warm and lulled us into a false sense of comfort, so much so that VK took off his coat before setting to work to insert the new SIM into his phone, and, voilà; it worked.