View: Flying into a tizzy, It's no fun to travel anymore
desert air hits like a shotgun blast. Or maybe more like those giant hair-dryer weapons they have in futuristic mafia movies — no bullets, no blood, just instant desiccation.
The bus makes its way through the invisible labyrinth on the sand-blasted tarmac, and deposits us at the terminal's door. We go through the security check, again for a reason that's never been clear to me.
We've just come through a stringent check at the first airport before boarding the plane. So why hold us up when our connecting flight is about to leave? Anyway, it's quick enough, this sieving of humans.
Then, one is surrounded by duty-free shops, eateries slinging caffe lattes at $10 apiece. A fancier place selling Gordon Ramsay Burgers, each almost the same price as a bottle of single malt.
And Porsches dangling as lottery prizes.
It's always a mistake to imagine that you know an airport, especially one of these Gulf ones, where they always seem to have the money to make renovations and add new terminals. Eventually, you take a long walk to the small train, then another trek to a spaceship garden, and then over a bridge to the relevant gate. Time enough for a quick raid on the duty-free.
They see you're in a hurry and process you quickly. One person fills your shopping bag, another adjusts your backpack, while a third fellow relieves you of your digital dosh.
At the gate, they rush you into the bus, and then you wait. The Delhi-in-May times three-level hot air punching in through open doors as they wait for the last few passengers to arrive.
Only the flights to and from major destinations get one of those mechanical tentacles. But I'm flying from a smaller foreign destination to a tertiary Indian one. Wherefore the buses.
After a while, the
