One incentive of my job is
that I get to go places, meet new people, learn new cultures, and make new
friends. Getting to know the unknown, hearing the unheard and seeing the unseen
is quite thrilling. We, after all, have one life alone to experience the
unexperienced!
It dates back to an afternoon
quite a few years ago, when my then manager asked me if I’d like to take up an
assignment in Amsterdam. ‘Of course’ was my immediate reaction! I mean, just
how could I say ‘no’ to something I always wanted to happen but had not until
then? As my travel date drew closer, I’d get goose bumps visualizing myself in
Europe. As an ardent reader since an early age, I’d read so much about the
glorious history of Europe; I had so many times felt the rise and collapse of
the Roman empire; I could feel myself close enough through imagination to some
of the fiercest battles fought on the European soil. And I was going to fly out
to that continent in few days. That was incredibly unbelievable. For me, it was
not about the clean roads or the pollution-free air or the nice people; it was
all about the experience I thought was waiting for me.
I had an option to choose
between New Delhi and Mumbai for my visa stamping formality. For no obvious fault
of New Delhi, I chose Mumbai, where I had a pleasant stay in a Santacruze hotel.
I had a whole day and a rented Maruti Esteem car to explore Mumbai, a city where
my ladylove (who later became my wife) was born. She had told me about the
hospital she was born in; only if I could trace that! The chauffeur of the car
was originally from Tamil Nadu who along with his father had migrated to Mumbai
when he was very young. With a great deal of energy, he kept driving me across
the city and showing me places he thought I must not miss. The Chatrapati
Shivaji railway station looked iconic and beautiful. Nariman Point was quite an
attractive place, and what added to the beauty of the view was the gentle and
occasional drizzle. It was not like a typical hot Mumbai day, which is why I
didn’t mind frequently stepping out of the air conditioned car. The Marine
Drive was a thing of beauty. I spent most of time at the gateway of
India. I was being hounded by a battery of photographers who were as if born
only to click me in front of the Taj hotel. I finally obliged one of them. I
had to admire the architectural beauty of the hotel and the gateway of India. The
Arabian Sea was graciously calm and I was among hundreds of tourists and locals
who were appreciating the rippling water. I had some great food for lunch at an
uptown mall whose name I cannot recollect now.
I had a rather smooth run at
the Dutch consular office later in the afternoon. I remember my father had to
travel from Agartala to Khowai, my place of birth, to get a fresh birth
certificate issued by the authorities. One of the mandatory documents for the
visa grant was a birth certificate not older than six months. When my father
finally got one done and couriered it to me, I saw my first birth certificate
as an adult! The office was too small to accommodate the large number of visa
aspirants that had queued up there. I met few fellow professionals from my
city, Bangalore.
Even though I was a veteran
of the domestic sky, my only experience flying along international skies was
between Kolkata and Agartala when the aircraft must hop across Bangladesh. The
office travel desk worked with me and decided an itinerary; I would fly Air
France from Bangalore to Paris and KLM from Paris to Amsterdam. Paris! The
fashion capital of the world, the romantic city was going to be my first
touch-point in Europe. Boy, wasn’t I excited?
As I collected my boarding
passes at the Bangalore International Airport, I felt myself closer to Europe.
As I walked to the immigration officer, I realized I was holding a passport
that was still virgin; one last time! Facebook had not become a phenomenon in
India yet and I didn’t have an account either. No Facebook ‘check-in’ you see.
I however had an Orkut account, which was precious as a pearl to me!
My dream flight did take off.
Soon I was flying. The
aircraft was bigger than any I’d boarded till then. The cabin crew was polite,
looking well after my comfort and dining needs. I was served good food and
quality wine. Most of my fellow passengers were Indians; there were some
Westerners too. Gradually, I realized a nine and half hour journey could feel
longer than it was with limited leg room in the economy class and nobody to
talk to. Most people were sleeping; as if they’d never slept before! I envied
them because oversleeping was something I couldn’t do. I read in-flight
magazines, learned about places, watched movies and documentaries.
As I stepped out of the
aircraft and set my foot on the European soil, I was welcomed by the French
summer. It lasted a minute or so until I got into the airport bus. I had few
hours with me, good enough to explore the Charles de Gaulle airport before my
connecting flight to Amsterdam would take off. I felt sorry for an old Indian
lady who seemed lost in the airport while she confusedly searched for the right
terminal or gate for her onward flight to somewhere in the United States. She
was soon attended to by an airline official who would guide her. I quite liked
the airport. What was most fascinating to me was that I found myself in a sea
of people who looked diverse, spoke different languages, and wore a variety of
clothes. I was witnessing my being amidst all of them. That made me feel great.
The duty free line of shops had a good deal of collection of items worth
falling for. I don’t remember buying anything from there perhaps because I knew
I could soon travel from Amsterdam to Paris on a short trip and buy things I
wanted to at a much lesser price. I was happy not to have given in to the lure
of all things glossy.
My experience with the Air
France ground staff was thoroughly unpleasant. I felt I was being discriminated
against – may be due to my skin color – going by the way they spoke, looked at
me, frisked me, and joked at me. It was clearly not standard operating
procedure, not because of what they asked me to do, but how they asked. I
remembered reading about some passengers’ experiences with Air France who
called the airline racist! I wouldn’t say I faced racism, but those officials
certainly didn’t know the basics of politeness, and they didn’t know how to
talk to the customer!
I boarded a much smaller
aircraft for the next leg of my journey. I was seated next to the emergency
exit. A member of the KLM cabin crew approached me and few others from another
seat and asked, ‘Do you all follow English?’ We nodded, to which she explained
the customary things we should do in the unlikely event of an emergency. It
seemed like an Indian domestic flight except that I could hardly find any
Indians onboard. It was around mid-day, making sure I had a great aerial view
of Paris after takeoff. A very short flight it was and I soon descended on the
Netherlands. The Schiphol airport was going to be a place I’d come back to
quite frequently in the next many months.
Now it was time for the Dutch
summer.
(to be continued...)
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