This whole date thing breaks down with too much travel. ďTodayĒ consists of Douala to Paris, Charles de Gaulle International Shithole, and the flight to India. Itís all fine until I decide my contacts are too screwed up to keep wearing. Chucking them, Iím basically blind beyond 10-odd feet. Wouldnít be a problem if I could just stay near everybody, but Iím 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. Iím so pissed that she canít give me any type of written documentation of the rules and Iíve 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.
Iím asleep for most of the flight, so nothing to talk about there. Even though I canít 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. Iíve 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. Iíll buy extra and try milking Air France for money back in the U.S. Whatever: Anahitaís 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 flightís malfunctions.