This whole date thing breaks down with too much travel. “Today” consists of Douala to Paris, Charles de Gaulle International Shithole, and the flight to India. It’s all fine until I decide my contacts are too screwed up to keep wearing. Chucking them, I’m basically blind beyond 10-odd feet. Wouldn’t be a problem if I could just stay near everybody, but I’m the last through the transit security checkpoint (useless, stupid) and the French woman running it has had a bit too much espresso. Suddenly, the 2 carabiners (small metal hooks used for holding ropes in climbing) clipped to my carry-on bookbag are dangerous improvised brass knuckles that she absolutely cannot let through the checkpoint. I’m so pissed that she can’t give me any type of written documentation of the rules and I’ve taken the damn things on 3 flights in the last week and a half that I waste half an hour going all the way outside of security to check in what has to be one of the smallest bags ever.
I’m asleep for most of the flight, so nothing to talk about there. Even though I can’t see much, Indira Gandhi International is vaguely familiar. And as frustrating as last year: Air France has lost our largest box. Of course, this bag contains nearly all my possessions. I’ve got a Frisbee, a book, CDs, my MP3 player, and not much else. Scratch that: I managed to leave the MP3 player on the plane. Great.
An hour of bullshitting earns me 4,000 rupees (~$94, damn falling dollar) spending money and a toiletry kit from Air France. I’ll buy extra and try milking Air France for money back in the U.S. Whatever: Anahita’s mom has such superb Indian food waiting for us when we arrive at her house that I can almost forget about the shitshow that was Cameroon and the flight’s malfunctions.