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So, my last night in town for a bit. It was fun. Not as fulfilling as I’d hoped, but fun nonetheless. I said goodbye so a few of my better friends, got drafted to help behind the bar and with security at Mercury, and took advantage of my upcoming two month absence to say some things to people that otherwise I would not have. If you are reading this and suspect you are one of these people, you probably are. J.C. impersonating a wrecking ball.

Next morning, locked the house up and left. Taxied to the airport. Caught the same flight out of Southville as one of our visiting international counselors, Steve, from Paris, France. In Newark we grabbed some food and drink together before heading off to our respective departure gates. Twice now, from two different airports, I have seen the New York City skyline, but never been there. I’m thinking now, that when I return in two months, I might have to stop for a night or two. Maybe I can crash at The Turk’s place.

Now I’m in Schipol airport, outside Amsterdam. Security really gave me a working over here. I haven’t gotten it this bad since having long hair, returning from Central America, and making the mistake of telling the customs officer that I worked in the bar industry. This Dutch guy takes a gander through my passport, then looks at my itinerary, and the fact that I do not yet have a return ticket to the US, and decides I am Up To Something. He asks what I do, then doesn’t seem to buy it and asks a bunch more questions, including, but not limited to:
“Who pays for all this travel?” (about three times)
“What do you study at this university?”
“Why do you need international students?”
“Don’t you have enough people in the US?”
“Do you speak Arabic?”
“What were you doing in Cyprus?”
Now, I quickly get it that the whole purpose of this is to get under my skin and fluster me, so that if I am Up To Something, maybe I will contradict myself. This realized, it still does not quell my urge to snap at him after awhile or say something smart-assed that will end up getting me a cavity search, like:
“Cyprus, oh you know, brokering arms deals. Wait, wait, sorry. Different trip. I mean attending an educational fair at the US Fulbright office. My bad.”
Luckily, I control myself. Feeling he has given me enough scorn and distrustful looks, he lets me pass.

The flight to Mumbai is not bad. The plane is packed, but I’m on an aisle and the seat next to me is one of the few empties on the plane. Score. At this point I’m trying not to calculate the time in the US, or how much sleep I have had. The flight arrives at 11pm local. I wait for the tour organizer for about 15 minutes, but still not seeing any sign with my name on it, I get my own cab. It’s about a 12-mile drive to the Taj Lands End in Bandra (North Mumbai) and only costs about $6.50 US. Love it.

I check in and then decide to see if I can’t begin resetting my internal clock. One trick I believe in is going to the hotel bar for a late night drink. My brain may still know it is only early afternoon in the states, but my liver and kidneys are fooled into thinking it's last call, and together they carry more weight. My brain will have to fall in line. Inside the faux English pub are a few stragglers and a couple of Filipina OCWs (Overseas Contract Workers) singing Indigo Girls and Guns n’ Roses. They finish their set and one joins me at the bar, inviting me to eat at the hotel café with her and her singing partner. I sit with them for awhile, but now getting tired, and suspicious of a business pitch around the corner, I excuse myself and go to bed. I wake at 7:30am, grab some breakfast buffet, and now here I sit. We’ll see if I can beat jet-lag in just one day. Oh, and catch up on all my e-mail. Yuck.