Cast Out of Eden

I don't even remember this being taken - Spaniard, Drunky & Bad Influence

The night that I first tried to leave India was emotional to say the least. My travel companion, a beautiful Spaniard who I am so blessed to have met, caught the brunt of it. If anyone has seen me at a wedding or post-barn dance, they will have an idea of what I was like. Essentially, I was having a temper tantrum fueled by one too many Kingfisher beers. Xabier the Spaniard (yup, that’s his full name), and I had spent my last night having great conversation over cheap beer in Bombay. At one point, a friend from my cohort and probably the worst influence ever, walked by randomly and joined us. Things got a little fuzzy for me after that but I remember back at our hotel, packing for my 4am flight, and throwing rupees around and crying not-so-prettily. There was ranting involved. I think I threw money directly at my Spaniard while yelling “Take it, I don’t need it anymore because I’m LEAVING. WAHHHHHHHHH”. Not really my finest moment. 

But Xabier was patient, and with a gentle kiss to my forehead, he put me in a taxi. I cried the entire hour to the airport. My driver pretended not to notice the emotional cripple in his backseat and happily pointed out landmarks along the way. With a heavy heart, I entered the airport, praying for a natural disaster to impede me from getting on my plane. I checked my dirty backpack with Korean Air, sullenly accepted my boarding passes and found the nearest seat to sink into.

I don’t know if I consciously sabotaged myself, but what I do know is that at 4:50am, when I woke up from an impromptu airport nap, I had officially become my own natural disaster. I had missed my flight. I have never been so panicked and simultaneously self-loathing in my life. The man next to me, sporting a huge turban and the sweetest mustache ever, was taken aback when the sleeping pile of booziness next to him jumped out of her seat and flew down the hall cursing loudly. I'm not sure what I was thinking, but I thought that going through security was a good idea. They stopped me there and pointed out that I was an hour late for my flight. And so began an intercultural exchange that I will never live down. I was dragged throughout the airport, into back offices, scary security rooms and all over the concourse as they shook their heads (no Indian head bobbles now) and tried to figure out what to do with me. I was apologizing the entire time, berating myself for my own stupidity and still in shock. I don't miss planes. I am hyper-organized and would never miss my plane. Was this a dream? My dad is going to kill me. Staff and airport security spoke in Hindi and only occasionally addressed the panicked white girl, usually to ask "why you so stupid Canadian?" 

I sat in a room of attendants while it was sorted out. They thought it was hilarious that I just sat myself down and passed out, not even considering finding my terminal to at least sleep there. I, on the other hand, didn't find it hilarious. But in connecting with them, I felt suddenly like everything would be ok. This is India after all. I had heard the words 'In India, anything is possible" all over the country whether I was trying to buy my way onto a packed train or covertly asked someone where I could find a decent steak around here (turns out, Pondicherry!) I slowly calmed down, and began to listen to their stories about their families, their friends and spouses. I quickly learned that they all wanted to come with me to Canada. They asked me if it truly was as beautiful as people say (damn straight it is!) and if there were many Indians where I lived. They asked how much I would pay them to clean my home or drive my car for me. Most had friends or family living in Toronto. They asked if I had any single friends who would like an Indian wife to cook for him, or perhaps an Indian husband to make the pretty babies with? I had such a great time joking with these people that I almost forgot about my bonehead move.

Gateway to India, Bombay Harbour

But this bonehead move was the best drunken mistake I have ever made. Korean Air was amazing, and laughingly teased the sleepy, drunk Canadian as they sorted out my fate. As it turns out, the same flight was leaving in two days. I could be on that one. They didn’t charge me anything. They sent me back into Mumbai as the sun was rising over the hazy city and I felt such peace. I had my carry-on luggage, my hand sanitizer, the clothes on my back and I was ecstatic. When I arrived at the hotel, Xabier opened the door, boxer-clad and sleepy eyed. But even in the early morning hours his grin and broken English line “I knew you would be back”, really cinched the fact that I was where I belonged.

Two days later, and much more sober and emotionally level, I did leave India. I was ready. I took in all the sights I wanted and made some beautiful new friends. And when I arrived at the airport, I felt like a rockstar. Everyone knew my name! It was like the t.v. show “Cheers”, only with semi-automatic rifles and baggage tags. People teasingly asked if I had a nap that day. Others asked how many beers I had consumed and if my father was as mad at me as I had thought he would be (turns out no, he’s awesome!) Korean Air staff even found me, pre-flight, as I was greedily eating my last masala dosa. They wanted to ensure I wasn’t nodding off in a corner somewhere. And when the wheels pulled up from the Mumbai airport tarmac, I was at peace. I was going home. Home to my family, my cat, my home and the awesome people I am so lucky to call friends.

Taj Mahal Palace hotel, site of 2008 terrorist attack and one beautiful monument