I'm feeling a bit depressed. I shouldn't be, but I am anyway; reading through my flist, my friends are all happy and Christmassy, and well, everyone knows how much I hate Christmas. Most of all, I hate it at the moment because everyone wants to be with their families on Christmas, and that means I have no friends and nothing to do except work.
I am at home, finally. I had a long, horrible day yesterday; it began with my getting up in Palam at six in the morning after four hours sleep, and going to the airport in mild fog that got thicker as we went along. The visibility slowly dropped to zero, and the everyone, strangely for India, was slowing further and further down until we were crawling, watching the trees and traffic loom appear like photo negatives in the grey. When we we reached the terminal, my mother went to check in. I sat by the departure board, which is not one of the electronic ones you get in Europe; it clicks over manually with pleasing clickclickclick noises. And I'd previously though that this was something you only see in cloying movies about being home for Christmas, but when I was sitting there, every flight on the board made the clickclickclick noise at once and shifted to "Delayed. Delayed. Cancelled. Resecheduled. Delayed. Delayed. Delayed", etc, etc, you get it. My personal favourite was a flight to Kolkata that was now apparently "Indefinite".
Ah, that wonderful fog. I made some inquiries. The fog was now so thick that all incoming flights were being diverted, and the one from Munich had been sent to Chennai and would have to be sent back. Chennai is very very far from Delhi. Very far. If you want to fly there domestic, it takes you nearly three hours. When my mother got back from checking in, it had become pretty clear that our 9.55 am departure flight was now going to be departing at two o'clock.
Four hours later - four long, boring, hours sitting in a departure lounge, unable to sleep and terminally bored - we were told the incoming flight wasn't comning until half past three.
At half past three, we were told five o'clock.
Seven hours' flying time after that, I landed in Munich. The flight itself was unremarkable, mainly because the attendants and crew were all apologised out and were simply sorry for existing at all. Munich was a shock to the system. It is, after all, in Europe, and that's always a jolt after India. It couldn't be more different, because, well, it's clean. It's organised. The floor gleams, the windows are transparent and there's no exposed wiring hanging from the ceiling. Most of all, it's silent, what with that British-and-European habit of not shouting in public places. It was almost worth the headache of rearranging my connecting flight.
We were lucky, actually; there still was a flight we could take (most of the other passengers were being shifted to hotels for the night) and I got to Manchester eventually, having been travelling for more than twenty-four hours and very much ready to go home. Our luggage didn't come. I didn't get pissed off, I was tired. And here I am now, safely home, and I've had some sleep and I'm feeling better, but now I'm sort of feeling that all I wanted, after Silchar, was to come home, and now I'm here all the things that make it home - like warmth and your own clothes and my friends - are conspicuously absent.
I guess I'm still tired. I was writing about what happened in India, I remember; I'd just got up to Ahmedabad. More on that shortly.
Edited to add: I'm not doing Christmas this year - I didn't fill in the card polls or the wishlist meme, I'm being deliberately Scrooge-ish because I can't face it all this year - and yet, regardless, people have sent me cards.
gamesiplay,
flickgc, thank you very much. Your cards were among the few bright things yesterday. Also, I have a card from Sarah, and am unsure if this is
apestaartje or
mettanna. In the absence of a Belgian postmark, I suspect the latter. Thank you, too.
I am at home, finally. I had a long, horrible day yesterday; it began with my getting up in Palam at six in the morning after four hours sleep, and going to the airport in mild fog that got thicker as we went along. The visibility slowly dropped to zero, and the everyone, strangely for India, was slowing further and further down until we were crawling, watching the trees and traffic loom appear like photo negatives in the grey. When we we reached the terminal, my mother went to check in. I sat by the departure board, which is not one of the electronic ones you get in Europe; it clicks over manually with pleasing clickclickclick noises. And I'd previously though that this was something you only see in cloying movies about being home for Christmas, but when I was sitting there, every flight on the board made the clickclickclick noise at once and shifted to "Delayed. Delayed. Cancelled. Resecheduled. Delayed. Delayed. Delayed", etc, etc, you get it. My personal favourite was a flight to Kolkata that was now apparently "Indefinite".
Ah, that wonderful fog. I made some inquiries. The fog was now so thick that all incoming flights were being diverted, and the one from Munich had been sent to Chennai and would have to be sent back. Chennai is very very far from Delhi. Very far. If you want to fly there domestic, it takes you nearly three hours. When my mother got back from checking in, it had become pretty clear that our 9.55 am departure flight was now going to be departing at two o'clock.
Four hours later - four long, boring, hours sitting in a departure lounge, unable to sleep and terminally bored - we were told the incoming flight wasn't comning until half past three.
At half past three, we were told five o'clock.
Seven hours' flying time after that, I landed in Munich. The flight itself was unremarkable, mainly because the attendants and crew were all apologised out and were simply sorry for existing at all. Munich was a shock to the system. It is, after all, in Europe, and that's always a jolt after India. It couldn't be more different, because, well, it's clean. It's organised. The floor gleams, the windows are transparent and there's no exposed wiring hanging from the ceiling. Most of all, it's silent, what with that British-and-European habit of not shouting in public places. It was almost worth the headache of rearranging my connecting flight.
We were lucky, actually; there still was a flight we could take (most of the other passengers were being shifted to hotels for the night) and I got to Manchester eventually, having been travelling for more than twenty-four hours and very much ready to go home. Our luggage didn't come. I didn't get pissed off, I was tired. And here I am now, safely home, and I've had some sleep and I'm feeling better, but now I'm sort of feeling that all I wanted, after Silchar, was to come home, and now I'm here all the things that make it home - like warmth and your own clothes and my friends - are conspicuously absent.
I guess I'm still tired. I was writing about what happened in India, I remember; I'd just got up to Ahmedabad. More on that shortly.
Edited to add: I'm not doing Christmas this year - I didn't fill in the card polls or the wishlist meme, I'm being deliberately Scrooge-ish because I can't face it all this year - and yet, regardless, people have sent me cards.
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