The Ease of Indian Air Travel

One underrated aspect of Indian travel is that most airline tickets are refundable. Not entirely refundable, but with a reasonable fee (typically somewhere between Rs. 250 - 1000 per direction), you can get out of a ticket. With the Indian Airlines faction of the Air India pilots striking, this refundable property came in quite handy over the weekend.

I bought tickets for a quick day trip up to Amritsar to hit the two major sites in and around the Punjabi city: the Golden Temple and the Wagah ceremony at the Pakistani border. We were scheduled on JetLite (the discount version of Jet Airways) for the trip there and Air India for the return. Originally, I had decided on the Air India flight because it was just under Rs. 1500 (like $35 per ticket), and it's just fun to say you can buy a one-way ticket for $35 so I jumped at the opportunity. Unfortunately, on Wednesday came the strike.

In light of the strike, which hit random flights, the group I was buying tickets for (which consisted of the wife, my Indian boss, and my American boss, also known as three people I should probably try to keep happy) decided to error on the side of "let's make sure we get back to Delhi on Saturday night". Thankfully, for around $20 per person, we were able to make the switch and get onto a Kingfisher flight back an hour earlier. The most surprising thing was that Kingfisher had done the right thing and elected not to gouge potential customers. Even buying the ticket the day before the flight, the price remained constant (about Rs. 4000) to the one I had ignored ten days previously in favor of Air India.

The airport seemed busier than usual. The non-Air India counters were full so it took more time than usual, but it was faster than it could have been since my Indian boss somehow talked his way to a shorter line and we jumped over after were quickly checked in and through security. Our JetLite flight was ultimately delayed about 90 minutes, which was annoying but wasn't the end of the world. The dude I ultimately sat next to on the plane was headed back home to Amritsar for the first time in two years after working as a laborer in Australia. He had arrived in Delhi from Australia last night, had his Air India flight canceled, and was still in good spirits after spending the night in the airport and a fresh delay from a new airline.

Even with all these challenges, I've got to admit, the entire air travel process in India is easier and more customer friendly than that of the United States; that is, as long as you're fine with getting frisked, an act which is performed on 100% of air travelers in India.

A Lesson Learned

When last night blended into this morning, I learned a valuable lesson about picking people up from the airport: always check the most recent email with flight arrival information.

On Tuesday night, as a blizzard blanketed Chicago, we received an email (as expected) that Lindsay's Mom's flight was canceled and that she was being rebooked for a later day. She included a new itinerary that included a stop in London before boarding an Air India flight set to land at 3:20am Saturday. Very few flights from Europe arrive in India at a convenient time so the hour wasn't unexpected and we planned to sleep a few hours before heading to the airport at 3:00am to welcome her.

On Friday morning, we received an email from Lindsay's Dad saying that Mary Jean was at the gate in Chicago. I skimmed that piece, figured all was well, and didn't think twice. The part I missed was the flight details indicating that she was now on a British Airways flight arriving in Delhi at 4:55am. In my defense, I later learned that Lindsay hadn't even opened the email, but to be honest I'm not sure which is worse.

And so we left our apartment for the airport at 3:00am, arrived at 3:27am, which was only notable because that was the exact time listed for arrival on the Air India website for the original question. Lindsay, nervous with excitement, hurriedly walked to get to the terminal so we wouldn't be late (even though I, remaining calm as usual, knew there was very little chance a flight arriving at 3:27am would process passengers through customs and baggage claim before 4:00am - I reminded her of this later, as you might have guessed). At the arrivals hall, you actually have to buy a ticket for Rs. 80 to get inside. We paid and then quickly walked the wrong direction (we're typically on the "getting picked up" side of this situation) before being redirected, the stress level rising the entire time.

Anxiously chipper at 3:35am

Finally we arrived where every person arriving on an international flight in Delhi clears customs. I checked the flight board, the flight had arrived, and I thought it would just be a short wait. But then we waited. And waited. And waited. I started stalking checked baggage tags and realized that flights that had landed 40 minutes after the Air India flight we were waiting for were spitting passengers out of customs. Finally, we decided to call her cell phone, figuring if anything were wrong she'd probably have it turned on. It wasn't. The next step was to call Lindsay's Dad to see if he had heard anything. He hadn't. Thankfully, Lindsay mentioned we were considering calling the airline to see if we could find out if she had checked into the flight (though I'm not even sure they would give out that information). He seemed surprised that we would call Air India when she was flying British Airways. Finally, a light bulb illuminated above our heads.

At this point, it was 5:15am, twenty minutes after it was supposed to arrive. I went to the arrivals board, and found the flight. Of course, it was the one flight with a blank spot indicating whether it had landed and if not what the expected time was. Seconds later, a word appeared: "Landed". Finally our wait was over. Or so we thought. Technically, it was over an hour later when her Mom finally emerged through customs with a carry-for herself and two suitcases containing 100 pounds of goods for us to restock our imported American wares.

Deliriously excited at 6:15am

Lesson learned; next time I'll read the entire message regarding flight information. While Terminal 3 is a much more welcoming place than the old terminal, landing in India after twenty or so hours or travel can be a little discombobulating. On the bright side, at least we were two hours early and not two hours late. Of course, I never thought I'd have a three hour wait at an airport for a flight that was on time and basically give myself jet lag in the process.

Finally able to pause for a photo on the world's longest walk to a parking structure

Pat Downs All Around

I live in a country where I've heard of people using their work identification card to get through security at an airport and onto a domestic plane. Not some sort of government provided work identification card, but their privately-owned, company-provided card that they swipe for access into a building. My initial reaction was outrage. After all, what kind of place would allow me to use my work badge to get onto a plane? However, after thinking this one through a little more, I asked the question, "Who's the bigger threat - someone who is who their government provided ID says they are or someone potentially carrying hazardous materials?"

While my answer, to the average traveler, may make me sound risk-loving and somewhat careless, it's the obvious answer. I'd much rather someone be physically screened before they provide some sort of official identification. Granted, both are good, but let's be honest, if someone wants to do something bad on a plane and has the resources to do so, they're not likely to get tripped up with something as basic as an identification card.

Part of what makes me comfortable with my careless decision is that I also live in a country where every airline passenger gets patted down. There's no random selection; everyone gets patted down. Men pass through segregated metal detectors and stand on a platform for the wand and pat down; women pass through their segregated metal detector and into a partitioned area for the same.

Maybe I've been in India too long (after all, I got patted down on my way into brunch on Sunday), but I struggle with people's reaction to the TSA's new security procedure to pat passengers down. Granted, I haven't seen any footage of the pat downs so I have no idea whether it's as invasive a measure as some passengers cite. I tried to watch an NBC News feature online to get some idea; however, MSNBC would only show me the 30 second Tide laundry detergent commercial before telling me the segment was restricted for international IP addresses.

Maybe it's careless, but I guess what I'm saying is that if there is a security measure being taken which increases the chance that I walk off a plane, I'm good with that.

Delhi's Sparkling New Terminal 3

I have a little more to share about Turkey but wanted to give initial thoughts around the new terminal in Delhi and it's quite possible other notable things might happen in India between now and the time I get around to finishing Turkey posts. As a result, I'm reserving the right to go back and talk more about the trip. Since I'm in charge here, that's allowed.

At 3:30am Tuesday morning, our Turkish Airlines flight pulled into Delhi's sparkling new Indira Ghandi International Airport Terminal 3, known also by the title of Schwarzeneggar's blockbuster film, "T3." I had read a couple headlines while away about it being a disorganized mess but found, for arrivals at least, it to be quite the opposite. Other than Lindsay not liking the carpet choice along the walk from the gate to immigration, the first impression of India is much more positive than with old Terminal 2.

When approaching the immigration counter, two things struck me. First, there are huge hand sculptures affixed to the wall in various yoga and/or spiritual poses. A nice touch. Second, the hierarchy (as I'm defining based on the proximity to the bottom of the escalator where passengers emerge) for passport holders to get to the appropriate immigration desk: (1) Diplomats, (2) First/Business Class, (3) Foreign Passport Holders, (4) Special Needs, (5) Indian Nationals. Maybe it's just me, but the fact that "special needs" being fourth wasn't the biggest surprise. It was the fact that Indian citizens being forced to go the furthest. The signs were electronic and easily interchangeable, but it still kind of seemed like they were saying, "Welcome home! Now, keep walking." It's quite possible it's a courtesy they extend to foreigners and I'm probably way overthinking this; however, wouldn't that be a nice little touch to extend those returning home? At the immigration desk next to us, there was a Greek family that we overheard was headed to a hospital (have no idea the reason) but there was some general confusion about their entry. They also had a plastic grocery bag stuffed full of fresh tomatoes. The tomatoes looked delicious, as far as tomatoes go, but something tells me they probably weren't still with the Greek family when they ultimately cleared customs.

At baggage claim, the bags starting coming out quickly but it still took over a half hour for our's to appear. Bags kept slowly appearing, just not our's. That's pretty much always the way it goes for us. Poor us, but not the end of the world. The only other minor slip-up at the baggage claim is that backpacks and other odd-shaped items come out in a plastic tub so that straps and pieces don't get caught. This is good. Unfortunately, once on the conveyor, the tubs would get caught on the lip where bags came out. Just a small quirk that they may or may not work through, but in the meantime it gives the attendant at the baggage claim something to do.

After claiming bags, we quickly cleared customs and our trusty driver Kailish was dutifully waiting for us, even though it was now after 4am. The walk to the car was longer than the old airport, but we also had to walk all the way to where the car was parked rather than just out to the curb. On the walk, the skyway between the elevators and the parking structure wasn't air conditioned but rather had been outfitted with industrial looking fans. For an airport claiming to be "world class" this seemed an odd place to stop short; however, it's possible that it's not 100% complete and it will be changed in the future. Regardless, not a big deal.

As a whole, other than the distances between places within the airport (which it's logical to expect that a new airport would be larger, so it's hard to find fault there), it was a pleasant experience and definitely a step up from the previous terminal. It looks like it should be more than sufficient for October's Commonwealth Games. Now, whether the rest of the Delhi area will be ready is an entirely different topic all together....

The Kingfisher Experience (aka, Goa, Part I)

Five years ago while in India, we chose not to visit Goa and instead headed to Kerala, primarily basing that decision on Goa being known as one big beach resort and Kerala having more culture and history. This time around and having not left the National Capital Region (NCR) for nearly two months, we decided the beach resort was exactly what we needed.

I had only flown domestically from Delhi one time in the past and had two vivid memories; nearly having an iPod docking station confiscated at security because I had packed the cord in the checked baggage and couldn’t make the strange new machine “work” and having to visually identify our checked luggage once we went through security prior to it being loaded on the plane.  Since that experience, Delhi had opened a sparkling new domestic terminal from which our Kingfisher Airlines flight departed.

The check-in experience was surprisingly pleasant. As soon as we hopped out of the car a Kingfisher porter approached and helped get us into the terminal and didn’t even make it seem like a tip was required, which of course encouraged me to tip; maybe I am a sucker. No line to check-in and would have been the same at security; that is, if I had obeyed the signs and removed all electronics from my carry-on, not just the laptop. So it came as no surprise that my bag, which still containing two digital cameras, a bag of cords and adaptors, a Kindle, and an iPod dock (the same dock that caused such confusion years before), was pulled aside and forced to go through the x-ray a second time. Once inside security, we were met with a modern, clean facility with shops, food options, and laptop stations that put any of O’Hare’s terminals to shame (though I suppose that’s not saying too much).

The “gates” were really just holding pens on the ground level that resembled a bus terminal (I’m not saying that in a bad way). When a flight was ready to board, they called the flight number and passengers loaded a bus and were taxied out to the waiting plane. I had always found the “bus” approach somewhat inefficient and amateurish, but for some reason it seemed to work here.

The “Kingfisher Experience”, which passengers are reminded to enjoy on the welcome video from the company’s chairman, who portrays himself to be the Indian Richard Branson (for those unfamiliar with India, Kingfisher Airlines is a subsidiary of a conglomerate that also brews India’s most popular beer under the same name and logo) was truly that. It’s pretty much what I imagine flying in the ‘70’s to have been like, minus the smoking and drinking; hot meals are served for free, the plane is plastered with Scotch ads (which is somewhat ironic since alcohol is banned on flights within India but a good advertising opportunity for Indian Branson), and the stewards were all female and dressed from head to toe in red. Absolutely no complaints with Kingfisher; with the check-in experience, the flight, and what I found to be their practice of holding back exit row seats, I’d willingly pay a small premium to fly them again.

The flight departed fifteen or twenty minutes late; however, the arrival at Vasco de Gama airport in Goa was still on time. The checked bags (absolutely no liquids are allowed on flights within India, so if you’re traveling overnight, you’re basically checking a bag regardless of size) appeared quickly and we found the hotel placard with our name. The only travel hiccup of the day was a minor brainfart on my part and something I would mercilessly remind Lindsay of if she had done the same. As we were walking to the car, I allowed the hotel representative to take Lindsay’s bag and a somewhat similarly dressed man took my bag as well.  Lindsay immediately asked, “Is that guy with the hotel?”  I mumbled, “yeah probably” as I was relieved of the labor intensive responsibility of wheeling a 22 inch roller no more than the length of a pool, thought for a few seconds, and finally asked the hotel guy (whom I would have thought as my thin defense would have proactively said something) who said, “Nope”. The guy with my bag was just a local looking for a tip that preys on unsuspecting tourists that I actively steer clear of in Delhi; at any rate, I not so politely got my bag back, felt like an idiot, and soon enough we were at the car.

The ride to the hotel was uneventful by Indian standards, which is to say our lives were at risk no more than one time every two minutes. We quickly left the main highway, which was actually a divided four lane road and drove through a few small villages. Goa has a Portuguese influence and brightly painted buildings of pink, purple, and orange seem to explode from the jungle. At that point though, we were ready to relax, and approximately eleven near death experiences later, we finally approached the gates of our destination, the Alila Diwa Goa.

More to come on the actual trip….fish markets, a concierge named Ranger, Russian tourists, screaming children, tawdry beach massages, and yet a beautiful and relaxing hotel.

Flight 292....I Mean, Flight 9222

Travel from Chicago in January tends to be very weather dependent, so it came as no surprise when four days prior to departure we learned of a large winter system approaching that was set to dump six to twelve inches on our date of departure.  On the plus side, we were on a large international flight, so I was confident we’d get out of Chicago at some point that night.  When the first delay was announced, I was pleasantly surprised.  Selfishly, I now knew I had at least a chance of catching part of the BCS National Championship.

Unfortunately, there were no additional announced delays, so as Mack Brown bravely lead his team onto the field, I was making my way to the gate.  After a short ground delay and the typical deicing routine, we were finally on our way, allegedly to begin the adventure of a lifetime.

About an hour into the flight, the dreaded “is there a medical doctor on board?” announcement came over the PA system.  I didn’t think too much of it, and went about my way enjoying “I Love You, Man” (a good movie the first time and much better the second).  Then, somewhere slightly south of Hudson Bay, the captain came back on the system and announced the situation had not improved and that we were headed to the nearest large airport, Boston’s Logan International.

Upon landing, the paramedics greeted the plane and headed to the back to help the ailing man.  A few minutes later the ailing man and his wife shuffled down the aisle.  To be honest, I was expecting the worst, something like a heart attack or a stroke or at least to see someone on a stretcher.  The true culprit?  Urinary blockage.   Apparently the doctor felt it important enough to turn around a plane when an aging passenger can’t urinate for 15 hours; and to be honest, who am I to question that?

We sat on the ground for about an hour while American figured out how to handle the situation.  The captain kept us informed of what the possible options were, including (1) returning to Chicago and trying again the next day (bad option since the weather in Chicago still sucked), (2) canceling the flight and letting everyone fend for themselves from Boston (bad option for obviously reasons), or (3) continuing the flight after giving the crew time to rest (good option).   When the final decision was made, we learned option three was selected but that we wouldn’t leave until 6:30pm that night (it was around 5:00am ET at this point), effectively pushing back our arrival in Delhi by one full day.

At this point, I went to stand in line to rebook and Lindsay went to the bathroom, which turned out to be her best call of the day.  She ended up walking past the Admiral’s Club which had no line and found a faster way to get our new plans finalized.  A nice gentleman, Hector, saved our day.  Not only did he get us set up with a room at the Hyatt, he held the duty free purchases we had made onboard (through all of this, a primary problem to solve was determining how we’d get our duty free purchases (i.e., 2 liters of liquid) back onto the plane).

After a six hour nap and a quick meal, we were back at the airport waiting for the flight.  All things considered, it was a fairly comfortable way to spend what could have been a very inconvenient situation, though I’m certain if I had been going for a specific meeting or vacation, I would have had a very different attitude.

American handled the situation quite well.  If nothing else, it would make a great case interview question, “Three hours into the flight, a plane from Chicago to Delhi gets diverted to Boston.  How much money does this cost the airline?”  I shudder to think the expense and don’t have the mental capacity to work through the problem right now, but suffice to say there really are no winners in diverted flight situations (perhaps other than hotel chains).

The actual flight to Delhi was uneventful.  Lindsay befriended the stewardess, Marty, which helped for two reasons; (1) she held back a nice bottle of wine for us and (2) Lindsay was able to get the scoop on the passenger in front of us, who turned out to be a bit of a handful, was flying on some sort of pass (or as Marty called him, “non-rev”), and had requested that Marty remove all the white nuts from the mixed nut bowl.  She declined.

Upon arrival, customs was no issue; for some reason I was concerned the amount of electronics we had on our person (2 work computers, 2 personal computers, 2 cameras, 2 Kindles, and lots of power cords) but decided a “don’t ask, don’t tell” strategy would work best.  As we walked into the arrivals hall we easily found the hotel placard with our name.  They seemed surprised at the amount of luggage we had as they hadn’t brought a large vehicle like we had requested.  They then claimed they didn’t expect us to be coming as the flights from Chicago had been canceled the past two days.  I decided against reminding them that they held a placard with our name.  After all our delays, an extra fifteen minutes wasn’t going to hurt anything.  If nothing else, it provided me the opportunity to see some dude (that worked at the airport) wearing potentially the greatest sweater vest in human history; that is, a white vest with Jim Morrison’s face covering the entire front.  I briefly considered offering to purchase it.  If you’ve seen better, I’d love to hear about it.

We arrived and checked into the hotel, where we’ll be living for a few days as our apartment gets finalized.  Today’s schedule includes a whole lot of nothing; a stop at the gym promises to be the most productive part of the day; that is, unless you count “testing” the Slingbox.  As I type, I’m in the club lounge, alternating between listening to Lindsay read the Sunday matrimonials from the Hindustan Times and listening to two hotel employees perform a delightful sing-along to an elevator music version of Celine Dion’s blockbuster hit, “My Heart Will Go On”.

On deck for the coming week; getting settled at the office, registering at the Foreign Regional Registration Office (FRRO), hopefully getting into our apartment, potentially joining the country club, and the arrival of the first familiar faces from work next weekend on a short business trip.  Not surprisingly, a lot of "hopefully" and "potentially" mixed in there.

Welcome to India.