Asshat Bypass

Short Version:
One fat dwarf, two skinny moustaches

Long Version:
Sometimes, we're as bad as the next traveller; leaping from our seats to rescue our carry-ons from the overheads only to stand, bent uncomfortably, in the aisle while strangers without recourse to other behaviours frot and be frotted as the ire, along with the temperature in the no-longer aircon-enabled aircraft cabin, builds and builds until finally there's movement at the front of the damned machine where the wealth-gluttons have been basking, and then eventually you get to walk forward two paces before you're halted by the couple with three under three who had decided to be patient but have reached the end of their tethers pretty quickly and are failing to merge into the aisle with elegance or efficiency, but at least you no longer have what was hopefully the corner of a suitcase pressed firmly into the back of your thigh, and eventually you get to try for a smile and manage a grimace in response to the cheery farewell from the uniformed peon who's almost as keen to see the back of you as you are to be off this damned plane and into another queue at immigration control.

Arriving at Delhi for the second time, though, we stayed seated and carried on reading. For ages. And then the voice on the intercom announced that we were still waiting for the stairs to be brought to the plane, and we were smug, and turned another e-page.

Off plane, onto bus, into terminal building, past visa-on-arrival* counter and on to Immigration, where we tried not to stare at the moustachelets on the upper lips of the two friendly young chaps manning the desk as we chatted about cricket. All went swimmingly, apart from the whole "Oops, we've lost an entire container of luggage somewhere" thing, but they found it eventually and the spectre of having to share underwear abated, and we were picked up by a nice man from the fancy hotel we'd booked ourselves into and driven past all of the chaos and carnage of Delhi - including a fat dwarf - to the oasis of calm amidst the madness: Shanti Home Hotel.

When we researched places to stay in Delhi, we did note that pretty much every review of the place mentioned that it was "a little out of the way," or words to that effect. And they weren't kidding. But it wasn't THAT far to the Metro, and after a delicious butter chicken lunch at the hotel's well cool rooftop restaurant, we set off to walk to the station in the face of mild horror and bemusement on the part of the hotel staff. We learned pretty quickly that it was further than it looked on the map, and we learned which bits of which streets were smelliest, and where the footpath was missing sections, and where the people did wees (definite correlation with the stinkspots), and we only got lost once and didn't get freaked out much at all.

And then on the train, a miniature Sikh gave up his seat so we could sit.










* = Also known as The Asshattery Desk