Easy flight from Pit-Detroit-Amsterdam-Bangalore.
Impressed by Terminal A at the Detroit Airport. I took a train from the middle of the terminal to the end to enjoy some Pinkberry. While I'm sure this multi-million dollar sleek, silent train was built to rush passengers through to tight connections and not to take hungry and bored newbie backpackers on a snack break, walking and taking the train up and down terminal A proved a good distraction for my 3.5 hour layover. (Clearly need to get out more - which, I'm working on).
Next stop, after a two seater all to myself, was Schipol Airport, Amsterdam. It has always made me feel wordly and superior to know the name of Amsterdam's airport. We used to fly KLM when I was a small child and Schipol was the first foreign sounding airport name I ever learnt. A real point of pride. Nevermind that I couldn't remember what country Amsterdam and hence, I was in, for a good half an hour after landing there, but I was in Schipol, and therefore one of the travelling elites. By the way, there was Gouda cheese all over the place! The year I actually remember to bring my dad his favorite cheese from the US, I fly through Amsterdam where I can get the original and have a jet lag fuelled panic about whether it's the Indian or the US customs form that asks you to declare bringing dairy into the country (trick question - there's no longer an Indian customs form). I also muse desperately about the USD to Euro conversion rate, mind is blank - I'm not sure if €10 is $20 or $5. I leave the original Gouda behind, avoiding imaginary confrontations with the drug sniffing dogs of customs agents in Bangalore.
Amsterdam-Bangalore. Four seater to myself. That moment on the journey home when you're at your gate and everyone around you is suddenly varying shades of brown. You're no longer the one sticking out like a sore thumb. It reminds me of subway rides I used to take from Queens to Brooklyn on the E/F trains. Colorful, to more homogeneous to colorful again. It's a comfort in a way, to look around and recognize your features, your heritage in faces around you. That quirks of your skin and shape are really not all that unusual. And to know that no one in this crowd is going to say to you "That's such a pretty name" or "You speak English so well" - when it's the only language I'm fully fluent in. I can be anonymous again, until I get to the immigration counter in Bangalore and bring out my passport and open my mouth - then there's that sense of homecoming and otherness again, coupled together and a constant companion no matter which home country I'm in.
My flight got in 40 minutes early, a tailwind and not weighed down by luggage, perhaps - so that I'm out the door and in the surprisingly humid Bangalore air by 12:15, my original ETA.
And then, just a sense of peace and feeling that I'm finally where I've needed to be for months.
Thus concludes - the journey to the journey.
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