Walking through the airport, passport in hand, we’re herded, single-file, into a roped-off area. Military personnel request the H1N1 document that we had had to complete on the plane.

After answering questions about whether I’d cared for anyone with the flu, whether I had been in a pandemic area, or whether I’d recently had a fever, I was asked to stand in front of a video camera. As I watched, the camera showed an infra-red picture of me on the screen in front of my questioner.

We all must have been cool (pun intended).

Three hours later, we’re in the hotel and I take a shower. A long, hot shower. Just so that I can put on the clothes I just took off. I do manage to wash my underwear, socks, and t-shirt. Unfortunately, even though I do have a real bra in my carryon, along with the sweater and pair of dress pants, I forgot to pack any extra socks or … you guessed it … underwear. The pair I just hand washed (with shampoo) are still dripping, and I’m supposed to be in the lobby for breakfast in 15 minutes.

I decide that going commando in jeans, rather than dress pants (that gawd only knows, I may have to wear to presentations on Monday) is my only option. A cotton sweater, the same Levis and socks from the toiletry kit the airline handed out get donned and I make my way to the restaurant.

Fortified by very strong coffee, we decide to take a walk around the grounds to snap some photos. It’s 85 degrees and extremely humid. I’m wearing a fucking sweater. I can feel the sweat tricking under my wig. It’s only 11 am. Exhaustion has come back and it’s knocking hard.

Be in the lobby at 2:30 for a city tour, pearl shopping and dinner.

we’re told.

Gratefully, I make my way back to my room, get undressed and slip between the sheets to try to nap. Just about the time I’m drifting off, my phone starts ringing. I pick up the receiver.

Mrs. Hotfessional, this is British Airways calling. We’re having system problems and therefore the ATM card we gave you will not work until tomorrow at 10 a.m. We will not be able to activate it before then.

I ask about my luggage.

We most assuredly expect that it will be on the two-seven-seven flight that arrives at 4:40 am, and at that time we will send it over to your hotel.

“Most assuredly expect” doesn’t sound very promising, I think to myself. Then I toss and turn for two more hours until it’s time to meet the rest of the group.

Plans have changed. We’re no longer going to the city because of civil unrest and rioting. We will, instead, go to a craft bazaar and then pearl shopping. I’m reassured that I will certainly be able to find something to wear at the local mall where the pearls are sold.

We arrive at the bazaar and I realize that this place is HIGHLY UNLIKELY to accept Visa or Mastercard, and I have been in such a brain fog that I completely forgot to exchange any money for rupees. One of our guides takes me to a stall selling beautiful cotton tunics. I look at her, I look at me and say, “There’s no way that any of this is going to fit me”. She laughs and starts asking the proprietress about sizes. They finally pull out a blue and burgundy print with mirrors embroidered into the yoke. I hold it up to my chest and try to figure out if it will fit. “Maybe once I have the sweater off”, I say to her. She nods and convinces the woman to let me have it for 220 rupees rather than the 300 the woman was originally asking for it. She also pays since I did let her know that I had no Indian currency – and I promise that as soon as I can get the money that B.A. tells me is on that non-working ATM card, I will pay her back.

I walk away with a hand-embroidered cotton shirt for the equivalent of $4.50.

When we finish at the bazaar, our hosts decide that the city still isn’t safe for us to visit and so we go to a road-side shop for pearl shopping. One of our group walks away with a single strand of real pearls, two pairs of earrings and two rings for $90. I’m busy standing outside watching the traffic go by and listening to my stomach growl.

After everyone has finished their bargaining, we head to dinner. It’s the grubbiest group that ever walked into a 5-Star restaurant and the manager makes sure to seat the fifteen of us FAR AWAY from the rest of his patrons. After some local beer and biryani, we don’t much care anymore.

At 11 p.m. Indian time, I get online to G00gle chat with Mr. Hot for a bit before falling asleep. By the time morning rolls around, I’ve managed five or six hours of shut-eye spread between 11 and 6.

—- I seriously consider burning the jeans when I wake up. —-

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