Tashkent to Delhi

 Awake too soon. I pack my bag, check out and hit the airport. Another miserable check in with UZ air. When I walk into the airport there is security. My bag and I are scanned. Then I stand in a line to have my visa checked. Another to check in and get my boarding pass. Another for passport control. Another for security again. One more line to board for good measure. I know all of this sounds standard but for some reason the lines just feel longer here. The airport is crowded. Families stay with their loved ones for as long as they can which gums up the terminal. The lines aren’t laid out well so people often have to swim upstream to exit. Passport control was the slowest I’ve ever seen and I don’t know why. It felt like every other person had to explain at length why they should be allowed to return to their home countries. Security had to manually shuttle empty bins to the front of the line, sanitary disposable sock covered were littered everywhere, and the British police were repatriating someone and had to explain their handcuffs. I of course added to this nonsense when I went through with undeveloped photo film. I pulled out the canister and insisted it could not go through the scanner. The guard had a back and forth with me before relenting. At that moment I realized he was about to pop open a tube that said “pain” on it and decide if it could come on an airplane. Awesome. He let me through.

On our flight to Delhi the only meal option is chicken and many of the passengers are disappointed. I am as well, this breaded kotlety looks like the kind of thing that would get rejected from an American school lunch. Yikes.

Passport control and immigration go smoothly enough. Now that Uzbekistan is visa free, this is the only visa I’ll need for this trip. Now to metro to my hotel. I’m a little dazed from the lack of sleep and the flight. After some effort I determine that I have to stand in a line to buy a metro card from a person here. Weird but whatever. I hop the train and gaze out the window at the haze as Delhi rolls by.

This place is polluted. I thought Patras had bad air but this is a new level. If Patras and Tashkent are like smoking this is like eating cigarettes. The AQI is about 450, a number I haven’t seen back home outside of a wildfire and out here it’s just par for the course. Even in the airport you can see the haze hanging in larger buildings. 

I exit the train and cut through the sea of people to my hotel. I’m staying in Karol Bagh which my local friend (VS who I saw in Eindhoven) describes at “where the motorcycle fixing shops are.” This is not a pleasant or touristy area. It sounds like a car horn testing line and feels like an ashtray. Red spit from betel but is everywhere and it’s nearly impossible to walk. Somehow I make it and check in. My room is shockingly well maintained for the neighborhood and in some ways, better cared for than my suite in Tashkent. Since I travel with earplugs and a sleep mask I’ll be just fine here.

After settling in and catching up on some rest I tried to leave the hotel and instead wound up taking with some folks I’ll meet later. Most of my time in India will be on a tour and I’m thankful for that. This place is overwhelming and I have no idea where I should go. I meet a retired couple in their 60s who are doing the same. They’re from Calgary as well like Beth and Brian from back in Corfu. I suppose winter is a good time to jet out for a bit. They’re a pair of friendly adventurers and seem like good people to travel with. After chatting for some time and a cup of tea at the hotel, I set off for dinner.

VS sent me a recommendation for a spot which has, to me, the most unhinged menu I’ve seen of any restaurant. Indian fusions and wacky takes on traditional dishes. He knows me well. I eat biryani until I’m about to explode and wash it down with a Long Island which I am advised is a house specialty. The metro winds down early here so I booked a cab back to mine. Curious as to what it means here, I took a black car. A clean crossover with a polite driver and cloth seats. A far cry from the Olicarchmobiles of Tashkent and their pedestrian crushing driving style.