Continued from here

Clean clothing. What a freakin’ luxury.

Dinner that night was out on the patio surrounded by sweet-smelling tropical flowers – none of which would have been blooming on December 6th back home.

One of the highlights was meeting a woman – an American woman – who was living in India as an ex-pat with her husband and 10-month-old daughter. Finally! Someone who could relate to the hell I’d been through – she understood how disgustingly helpless I had felt without a wardrobe full of clothes clean pair of underwear.

And! She drank vodka, not Kingfisher. We ordered Cosmos and commiserated.

*****lalalalala*****

The next morning, we packed and checked out of the hotel. The plan for Monday was to sit through vendor presentations from nine to six, then head to the airport for a night flight from Hyderabad to Bangalore.

Considering the fact that I hadn’t UNpacked, it was no big deal. However, the thought of checking my luggage again? I wondered if I could convince one of the drivers to take me the 350 miles. Then I remembered how they drove.

Instead, I threw as many clothes into my carryon as possible.

*****lalalalala*****

Back at the Hyderabad airport, boarding passes in hand, we made our way to the lounge (did I mention that I never, EVER, want to drink a pint of Kingfisher again?) for a quick bite (french fries!) before heading to security.

I’d forgotten about security in Middle- and Far Eastern countries. Women go to a separate line and are wanded/frisked behind a curtain. I made my way to the SHORT line (Ha! Take that, you penis-bearing co-workers), stuck my laptop case and carry-on onto the conveyor belt and slipped behind curtain #2.

My bra and socks (WTF? they were just plain cotton socks) set off every alarm there was. Fortunately, the armed, uniformed (and very bored looking) (female) guard waved me through.

As I reached for my stuff coming through the x-ray machine, her male counterpart (lounging in one of those old metal patio chairs with frayed webbing) stuck his baton between my hand and my bag.

You have fuckers in there?

Well, that’s what I heard anyway.

Excuse me?

I leaned in further to see if it was just my perpetually stopped up ears or if he’d really asked me if I had packed a vibrator in my bag.

You have fuckers in there?

Leaning closer wasn’t helping.

I’m so sorry, I don’t understand what you’re asking me.

I tried, in my nicest, most non-threatening tone.

“Gawddammit”, I thought, “What now?” I had visions of being taken to a secret room and strip-searched or worse – never to be found again. Sweat started trickling down my back. What would Mr. Hot do without me? Would he mount a search like Liam Neeson in Taken?

I was mentally running through everything that could be considered a “fucker” in that bag.

My mascara was a little small to be mistaken for anything like that, wasn’t it?

Pluckers?!? Tweezers!?!

He gestured towards his own massive eyebrows.

Oh! Yes. Probably.

I smiled weakly, ready to hand over my favorite ‘pluckers’ just to get away from Major Manjeet. He laughed and told me, “Go ahead”

I grabbed and ran to where the guys were just exiting their own security lines and we made our way to the gate for the next leg of our adventure.

—- Did I mention that Kingfisher is not only the name of the national beer, but also the name of the airline we flew from city to city? —-

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