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. —-

Right? Well, dudes, judge for yourself.

Leg 1: Detroit to Chicago (3:10 pm Eastern 12/3/2009)

YAWN. I’ve done this trip so many times I can do it in my sleep. In fact, I HAVE done it in my sleep. The weird thing was getting to the airport in the DAYLIGHT and after lunch not before breakfast. We boarded on time, we left on time, we taxied from the FURTHEST runway to the terminal. The only downside about the actual flight was that the guy in the seat next to me did the CHICKEN ARM thing – y’know, where you point your elbows out at right angles to your body, therefore blocking anyone else from getting the middle armrest?

That’s okay – I finished the fucking crossword puzzle in the American Way magazine. There’s no way he could have done that in a 40 minute flight.

Once I got to O’Horror, the fear of “Will my checked bag have made it?” started. Fifteen minutes later, I had my bag and was on my way from Terminal 3 to Terminal 1. I got in line to check my bag (15 minutes) then into the security line (40 minutes) and then made my way through to the lounge.

My two free drink tickets lasted about 30 minutes. I tweeted a couple of tweets and waited for the rest of my group to appear.

One of the cleaning guys came by and asked if I was done with my glass.

Yes, unfortunately.

I said. I smiled at him.

He handed me three more tickets. Told me to sleep well on my flight. I think I’m in love.

*****lalalalala*****

Leg 2: Chicago to London (9:07 pm Central 12/3/2009)

YAWN. This time, though, it’s not boredom that’s causing my jaw breaking yawns – it’s pure and utter exhaustion. Well, that and the 4 glasses of wine and 2 Benadryl. The flight attendant asks me if I’d like to order dinner. I decline – but accept another glass of wine.

This is the first time I’ve ever slept with a wig on. Giving a small prayer up that I won’t awaken with the back of my hair covering my face, I recline my seat (NOW! Lay flat beds on United Business Class!) and fall asleep half listening to Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. Hint: Selecting a movie that you’ve already seen guarantees that you won’t be too sad when you miss the end (and the middle) (actually, everything except the first 10 minutes) because you’re snoozing.

When the normal morning bustle starts (it’s pushing 10 a.m. in London) I accept breakfast and coffee and then make my way to the bathroom to make sure my hair is on straight. I brush my teeth and try not to drip toothpaste down my t-shirt. I fail.

After circling London for several minutes, we land and disembark. Four (of the eight) of us make our way out of Terminal 1 and head over to Terminal 5. On a bus. I’m the only one who printed their boarding pass before leaving home – so after the others get theirs, and we get through security (London, I could kiss you for not making me take my shoes off!) we have about 80 minutes before we have to board our next flight.

Full English breakfast, anyone?

says the one English guy on this trip. We bypass the Club Lounge to head over to Huxley’s Bar and Grill for Egg and Sausage sandwiches. I chug three glasses of water and start to feel almost human.

We meet up with the other four once we get to the gate to board. We’re ushered to another bus and carted out to the middle of the tarmac to get on the plane. Next stop – Hyderabad.

Wonder what they’re going to make of me – a woman traveling with 7 men. Snirk.

*****lalalalala*****

Leg 3: London to Hyderabad (1:40 pm London 12/4/2009)

British Airways secludes its Business Class passengers in these little pod-like things. Once we hit the air, I take out my laptop, order a ginger ale and start writing. The flight attendant hands us our menus – I order the lime prawns with cashews and lamb kohlapuri (curried lamb). “What the hell”, I think, “I may as well start eating the Indian food right away.” Three bites in, my mouth is burning and my nose is running, but it was delicious.

I turned on “District 9″ while I ate. By the time the flight attendant was back to clear away the dishes, my eyes were crossing.

According to the little plane icon on the little screen in front of me, I wake up over Abu Dhabi. With approximately two hours left before we land in Hyderabad, I have breakfast and watch House and E.R. Nothing like a little Hugh Laurie to brighten up a girl’s morning.

The sky is still dark since we’re supposed to land at 4:40 a.m. Indian time. I think of Mr. Hot, try to count backwards and figure it’s about 6:30 p.m. the day before. What day is this anyway? Oh, right. It’s Saturday mornning in the sky. And it’s about to become the longest fucking day of my life.

When the wheels touch down and we arrive at the gate, we stand up to gather our belongings. A voice comes over the intercom.

Will Ree the Hotfessional please see a flight attendant before disembarking?

Everyone I’m with immediately looks at me and I shrug my shoulders. Working against the people trying to leave the plane, I finally make get to the woman holding the microphone. “You called me?, I ask. She points to four Indian men with clipboards. I grab our travel coordinator and tell him he better come with me. I’m not heading off the plane – alone – with four strange men who don’t speak my language and are holding official looking papers.

One of them speaks.

“Ma’am, your bag is not on the plane. You can skip baggage claim and go to the customer service desk.”

Seriously? My luggage. All of my clothing for 12 days in India. I’m wearing a pair of jeans I’ve slept in twice, a shelf-bra camisole instead of a real bra, a t-shirt and hoodie, white sweat socks and ripped, comfortable underwear. I have one pair of pants and a sweater in my carryon.

This has got to be a horrible nightmare. I try to wake myself up. But, sadly, no. It’s true. The B.A. representative hands me a form to fill out, a sealed ATM card worth fifty pounds, and tells me that my bag will PROBABLY be on the next flight from London. When is that flight? Twenty-four hours, of course. There’s only one flight from Heathrow to Hyderabad every day, and I just got off the one for that day.

To Be Continued….

—- However, in other news, Mr. Hot is coming to Chicago today to spend the night. I’ll yack at you tomorrow if I come up for air. —-

I have to

• Pack
• Charge all of my electronics
• Print boarding passes
• Print itinerary and hotel reservation documents
• Pack
• Make a copy of my passport & my visa
• Make sure my credit card companies know I’m going overseas so they don’t shut down my cards (business & personal)
• Call Shortman and tell him to make sure to study for his finals and that I love him
• Remember to tell him to call his Dad once in a while
• Pack
• Get the wig that is soaking in the bathroom sink out so it dries
• Find a big enough/small enough carryon
• Pack
• Write one more post to schedule
• Make sure I have the right electric outlet adapters
• Um, pack?

And! Tell you all to BEHAVE while I’m gone. No wild parties, no boys in the bedrooms. Make sure you take your vitamins and brush your teeth. I’ve left money for pizza on the kitchen counter. I don’t want to know if the police have had to visit. Make sure the dog gets fed and walked. Change the cat litter. DO YOUR HOMEWORK!

Be good to each other.

—- I’ll check in if I can, but if not, I’ve left you with a bunch of wonderful posts from some guest bloggers. And please forgive me for the lack of email responses this week. See above list. XXXOOO —-

Back in 2004, when I first went to The Land of the Tiger, I was armed beforehand with a list a mile long of things to get, things to do, things NOT to do.

Don’t drink the water. Or milk. In fact, don’t drink anything where you haven’t opened the bottle by yourself. Don’t eat any food from a street vendor or any fruit that you can’t peel. And forget the ice. Learn to love room temperature beer.

Eat only with your right hand. Accept gifts only with your right hand. Avoid winking, whistling, pointing.

Expect to barter for pashminas, jewelry, rugs.

Don’t make eye contact with the monkeys. Or the beggars. Don’t be surprised to see people urinating on the side of the road.

If you’re in a car and you hit a cow, get out and RUN. Far and fast.

Take your own syringes in case you need to be admitted to the hospital. DON’T get admitted to the hospital.

If you’re bitten by a snake, make sure you remember the markings so you can accurately describe it to the doctors (in the hospital you don’t want to go to).

Make sure you have the strongest mosquito repellant that is sold. Don’t forget your malaria preventative. TAKE IT.

Get your immunizations:
- Polio booster
- Tetanus
- Hepatitis A & B (the whole series…no skimping)
- Typhoid

Take Immodium with you. You WILL get diarrhea. (AKA Delhi belly.) (Just make sure you don’t let one of your travel companions use yours when she forgets hers, because by the time you need it, there will be none left. Ehem.)

The list goes on. And on.

Annnnnnyyyywayyyyyyyyy, I remembered all of this when I found out I was, once again, leaving on that jet airplane. Last Wednesday – when I figured out we’d be leaving in two.weeks. – I also figured that I should check with my friend the travel nurse to see if anything had changed – any new vaccines I needed or rules I hadn’t heard of.

Why yes, Hotfessional, your typhoid immunization is only good for two years. You’ll need a booster.

Of course, when I offered to come in immediately to get poked, I was told that the first opening they had was on December 7th. Four days after we leave.

After making 17 calls, in Michigan AND in Chicago, I had struck out. Not only did I need the typhoid shot, I needed the malaria pills AND the antibiotic. (Did I forget that? Oh, yea – you should also have Cipro with you. Just in case.) (They never tell you ‘just in case’ of what. And really? Do you want to know??) No one would give me the prescriptions unless I came in for the consultation. And no one would give me a consultation because EVERYONE is apparently going to the underdeveloped world for Christmas.

I finally called our travel coordinator and told him I couldn’t go unless he pulled some strings. He pulled.

I’m getting my shot. (Arf, arf.)

At 7 tomorrow. Seven in the morning. A. M.

—- I hate injections. I hate mornings. Do you see how tomorrow is going to go? Send vodka. Sealed. No ice. —-