Thursday, November 6, 2008

Going to California - I

 When I flew to Dubyaland the first time, my travel agent had my interests at heart. He felt I could use a world tour - the itenarary was Bangalore -> Bangkok -> Japan -> LA -> Denver. He figured I needed some proteins in my diet - didn't bother telling them airline folk that I needed veggie food. He also decided that I'd need exercise after eating that delicious airline food, the connecting flights were all less than an hour apart. I've since decided that he's too good for my puny travel, and I'm safer buying my own tickets.

After I said goodbye to the nearly 150 relatives at the gate, I dragged my bags to the line noting how incredibly heavy one of the 2 was. Did dad pack me an anvil? The chap at the checkin counter was a Malyali, and spoke with an accent that almost reeked of toddy and coconut oil. The bags were several kilos (go metric!) overweight. The solution that was presented to me, in his own words, were "Dake the heavier bag, pay for egg-stra baggage, and make it as a third bag". The first two parts I kind of, sort of, understood. The third part needed prior knowledge of how south Indians translate their thoughts to the Queen's tongue. I figured he'd account for my super heavy bag as 2 bags (hence the "third" invisible bag), and let me fly in peace. Curiously, dad had an enormous wad of notes, and I paid the dues to another enterprising Malyali in no time at all.

I rejoined the line (actually, I cut off a Jap and American tourist - it's my country I say), and presented the bag and receipts. He looked at me curiously and asked me where the 3rd bag was. After some "clarification" I understood his demands - "Take this bag, pay for heavy baggage, buy a new bag, split the weight in the two and then come back". I asked him, very politely, where I'd find could find an "extra" bag. He told me, equally politely (God these passengers are so retarded), that I should buy one. I enquired, politely of course, about where the fuck (sic) I'd find a fuckin' (sic) bag store at 11-fucking-30 PM (sic) in a broken down airport. While we squabbled thus and I thought aloud how a chap with zero communication skills and an even more damaged sense of logic could serve foreign travellers, people started gathering. At last some senior officer showed up, and pointed out that since I'd already paid enough for an extra bag, I might as well go live the American dream. The good Malyali then warned me "note to do yeet again" and let me go.

To be contd...


a million different people said...

It's Dubyaland only for a couple of months more! Aaahahahahah!

Sorry. Actually, no sorry.

Thanatos said...

Yes, no need to be sorry. The country that elected him, TWICE, shall be called Dubyaland till the end of time.