The phone rings once at 5:40 a.m. and then stops. I try to get back to sleep, discover it’s useless and watch Juno. The subtitling is hilarious. “Shit” is what comes out of their mouths (it’s televised in English, but also subtitled), but the words on the screen say “Crap”. Juno’s stepmom bitches at the ultrasound technician and “Dick” is what I hear, but “Aggressive” is what I read.

By the end, I’m crying. I don’t know if it’s because I’m so flippin’ tired or because I still don’t have my luggage, but decide I’d better wait until I calm down before I call Mr. Hot. It’s after 9 p.m. at home, and I know he’s watching college football and sitting in the blue recliner with the pets. I can’t wait any longer to hear his voice, so I pick up my phone. At $2.50/minute, it’s a quick conversation, but I feel better so I get up, shower, and try on the shirt I bought at the bazaar.

Here’s what I discovered: Indian women have no boobs.

If I wear this shirt in public and have to sneeze, everyone’s going to see a lot more of the Hotfessional than they bargained for. I put on my (thankfully dry, finally) underwear, my jeans (these fucking things are going to get burned once I have more clothes) and the t-shirt I wore on the plane. My socks still aren’t dry, so I rummage through my stuff for the other toiletry kit I snagged. The socks they pack in those things are good for one wearing and that’s it, so if my bag doesn’t arrive today, I’m going to have to go barefoot in my sneakers.

I walk down to the front desk and ask about my bag. The clerk tells me that they don’t know where my bag is, but she’ll check. I go get breakfast and then head BACK to the lobby to see what she’s found out.

The B.A. desk is closed until 2 a.m. ma’am, so our airport representative cannot get your bag, if it has arrived, until then. We see by your records that you’re checking out at 8 am, but we should have your bag here by 7 am tomorrow.

I swear, it’s all I can do to not break down sobbing (again). I head back to the restaurant to have another cup of coffee and try to figure out if it’s worth the possible shame of exposing everything if I take a deep breath. One of the guys from work is there, so I sit down with him. One of our hosts comes by and offers to take me shopping. A waiter comes up and hands me a phone,

It’s the front desk ma’am. They wish to speak with you.

Fearing the worst (my bags went back to Chicago?), I say hello.

Ma’am, we’ve just spoken with British Airways and they have your bag. It is being couriered here and will be here and we will deliver it to your room within the hour.

Thanking her profusely, I hang up the phone, finish my coffee and dream about the conflagration I’m going to build when I torch these Levis.

Three hours later, I’m sitting here, still wearing these gawddamned jeans and t-shirt. As they say in India, they are “in-time”, but not always “on-time”. I just hope “in-time” is before we check out tomorrow morning or I’m not leaving.

*****lalalalala*****

5:00 p.m.

Oh mah holy hell. I have clean clothes. I may survive this after all.

—- The Bucket List was even funnier in its subtitles. Entire sections of the dialogue were just…missing. —-

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