December 19-20th Calcutta The Departure

Part 2 The Departure

Sunday 19th December '11

I wake up to an unrelenting shrill ringing. 

Where am I and what is that sound? Thats not my mobile. 

My disoriented brain struggles to re-orient. Through sleep-blurred eyes, I hazily make out peeling wall paint and a prominent Mizo calendar triggering the fact that I'm in Mizoram House - a state run guest house located in an area of Calcutta called Salt Lake City. Dazed, I reach out for my mobile phone, my only time piece. 

8.30 am. Bloody Hell, we only checked in a few hours ago.

The ringing of the room phone persists and exasperated, I snatch the receiver from its cradle, nearly knocking it from the table.

My irritation melts away when I hear my dad's voice at the other end of the line.

"I'm afraid you have to move rooms now"

Lovely. Only then I remember my dad's instructions to me yesterday in Delhi, when, traumatised by our missing luggage, I only half-listened .

"I've arranged a VIP suite for your first night, normally reserved only for top government officials as you will be exhausted and need to be as comfortable as possible. However, you will have to move room the next morning as it has been booked for that day."

"Sounds good dad" I had replied without thinking.

So here we are, packing yet again to move to a room not only below in floor level, but also in grade. As usual, the girls are good natured in their acceptance of the inconvenience and the 3 of us wearily trudge down and collapse almost immediately on our new beds.

We do not manage to get on the flight to Aizawl that day (having missed our confirmed flights the previous day); even my dad's long arm of influence can do nothing about the already heavily overbooked flight. So - having no option but to resign ourselves to another night in this delightful city, we wander, once rested and refreshed, in search of an internet cafe in the early evening as we all acutely need to get online. Many stray dogs, stray cows, street hawkers, rickshaws and indigenous stalls later (but no internet cafe), we return to our room for a Bengali feast, the highlight of which is creamy Hilsa fish in mustard. Have to say it is almost worth getting stuck an extra night in Cal for…. even the girls who are highly sceptic of native Indian dishes, especially those that involve bony fish, thoroughly enjoy it. 

So much for our day in the Bengal capital.

Monday 20th December '10

Apparently, Indian Airlines officials flying the Cal - Aizawl sector occasionally "off load" passengers or luggage when flights are over-subscribed. 

Acutely aware that I could be in that category, I resolve to check-in early and reduce the risk. 

So, well ahead of others, the girls and I breeze through check-in. Nevertheless - my uneasiness will remain until we land safely in Mizo soil with all 3 cases accounted for. The magnitude of our recent travel disruptions has pushed my patience and endurance to the limit and turned me into something of a cynic. 

Although this sector usually has its fair share of Mizo travellers, I don't expect (or even wish) to see any familiar faces as I have been away for years. I'm therefore astounded to bump into my own dear aunt (mum's younger sister) and her family. Lots of exclamations, shrieks and hugs later, we settle down in our gate for our mutual flight to Aizawl which, as far as we know, is on time.

But it is not to be. 

Alas the flight has the potent disadvantage of having ill-fated Babli on the passenger list. My little niece manages to watch 2 movies on my laptop while announcements blare out delay and further delay of our flight. My uncle's frustration, swearing and ranting does nothing to alleviate the situation…. as for me, I simply find resigned comfort in food. 

I indulge in hot Indian beverages -  teas and coffees made in the way exclusive to this part of the world - milky and sweet and served in insubstantial little plastic cups which look far too fragile to hold the piping hot contents. They are delicious though, and at Rs.15 (20 pence) a cup, are a far cry from the £3-£4 I dish out for their equivalent in my local Starbucks in London. I sample away at the singaras, barfis and pakoras - drawing a strange pleasure from their nostalgic flavours. My excuse….. I'm easing the stress of flight delays and feeding the travel-jaded soul.

Unfortunately, this is also the start of my journey of over eating, which, much to my downfall, will take over a considerable part of this holiday.

And finally we board. The space of time between exiting the gate and the actual flight take-off is about 12 minutes, which has got to be the most efficient boarding & take-off I've experienced to date. However, in spite of the pilot's valiant efforts to make up time, the flight is still about 3 hours late landing at Lengpui Airport, Aizawl.

My eyes are plastered like suction to the plane cabin window giving me a panoramic view of the rolling Lushai Hills…. they are as beautiful as I remember them, lush, green and hauntingly melancholy. Hungrily, they take in hill after hill, valley after valley, mist and fog spewed gorges, long winding rivers and vast stretches of thick bamboo groves.

The gang is at the airport and in full force with their welcome, three vehicles in tow. The relief at seeing them is gargantuan, a sentiment I know they share. Our perilous journey to Aizawl has taken 2 additional days - thats 4 days in all. 

How many times, over the course of the 4 days, did I question if we would ever get here, and whether our long suffering luggage would make it with us?

For all that….

…. as I watch the girls melt into the arms of their grandparents, I know that every trail and tribulation we have encountered getting here has been worth every minute, every sweat, every ache and every tear. There is no doubt in my mind that I will be willing to endure all that again, and more, if this is what awaits us at the end of the journey.

19-20th December Calcutta The Arrival

Calcutta 19-20th December

Part 1 The Arrival

A lone policeman, an antiquated rifle slung across his shoulders, stands in the hallway, boredom etching across his face and I catch with disgust a huge red stained yawn. Now we are really getting into the interior of the Indian sub-continent. We are in the Arrivals terminal of the Calcutta International Airport, the "paan" stained and decrepit aisles accentuating a huge contrast to their Delhi counterpart.

Our plane had touched down at exactly midnight, over 2 hours late. The car which my father meticulously organised to pick us up may have given up and left. 

Lets hope not.

Jay Miller had a suggestion just before we boarded,

"Lets enquire after our missing cases at the Lost Baggage Office at Calcutta Airport. Who knows, they may have some news for us."

The combination of the unearthly hour and unimpressive surroundings does nothing to bolster my rickety confidence for achieving anything. But yes - you never know…. anything is worth a try. My search for someone in authority bears almost immediate results and I am pleasantly surprised to find myself, after a short while, explaining my circumstances to a little semi circle of Air India officials.

"Your suitcases may be on the flight you just arrived in. Check the luggage which comes out" one of them points to a still conveyor belt in the baggage hallway which has passengers rapidly filling up around it.

I will do anything if there is even a remote possibility of locating them.

Kate and Jay Miller also decide to wait for the flight baggages to come out, even though we are acutely aware that the chances of our wayward ones being among this lot are very slim. Anxious to avoid disappointment, we impel ourselves not to expect anything and make idle chatter while waiting for the belt to start.            

Remi spots it first. Our first case. On the belt. The girls let out a whoop of delight and I silently cheer with them, from over my corner where I am standing with Jay and Kate. I try to play down my jubilation, not wishing to rub salt as there is no sign of theirs yet.

I notice another case very much like mine appearing…. I glance at the girls…. the look on their faces tell me that it is indeed one of ours, and sure enough, they scoop and pick it up.

Thats it. The third is just a formality - it will come out. 

It does.

The girls are ecstatic but the Millers' eyes remain, disappointed, on the rotating conveyor belt. I stay with them until the belt stops, and ruefully take their leave as they head off to talk to the Air India officials who had, only half and hour ago, offered to me a glimmer of hope at the end of this long, dark tunnel.

Even in my elated state, I try and make sense of the situation. The sheer impudence of our baggage to disappear and then miraculously appear as they did had me dumbfounded. The girls have a theory, and I'll give it them: every piece still has the original destination label on. All the bags were checked-in in London through to Calcutta, so they had CCU as the final destination. So two sectors made errors: first at Frankfurt for not re-marking the bags with new destination - Delhi, then at Delhi by making the unfortunate decision not to put out the bags with the rest of the flight luggage, and instead loading them automatically on the next flight for Calcutta (which happened to be the flight we were on)

Had we known that the cases were going all the way to Calcutta, we needn't have stressed out in Delhi. 

Putting the whole luggage affair behind us and armed with 2 trolleys' full, we triumphantly skip our way out of the terminal.

We have not seen the outside of an airport in 2 days. 

A warm breezy current flutters around me like a butterfly caressing my skin and the air in this Eastern Indian capital is rich and pungent, slightly musky and damp. 

I pause to take in the hustle bustle of the surroundings, finding it's familiarity comforting. Horns of different tones blare in unrestricted abandon to traffic which has no particular order, pedestrians and cyclists alike all compete for their right to use the streets…. we are approached by several offering transport and other services but years travelling to this airport has enforced a discipline in me to categorically ignore them.

My travel tired eyes scan the crowd for a card with my name on it. Will our luck hold and our car still be around?

It does not take long for me to spot it. Holding the card is a nondescript local who breaks into a broad smile as I wave and walk towards him. 

It is now 1am on Sunday the 19th - if things had gone according to plan, this part of the blog would have found us safely tucked up in bed in the comfort of my parents' house in Aizawl. However, the situation finds us in a different state (province) altogether. As the car speeds along the Calcutta highway, I take a moment to reflect on our incredible travel upheavals, paying a silent tribute to my parents who have been with me every step of the journey, encouraging, re-adjusting, worrying.

Special credit to friends from whom I have drawn superlative comfort; those who, inspite of undergoing their own ghastly travel experiences take the time to counsel and offer unflinching support.

Even in the bleakest of times, I knew I was never alone.

The snow storms in Europe are fierce are spare no one…. travelling from Asia, they face immense difficulties getting home to England, probably as much as I had leaving it; and as the girls and I approach the final chapter of our epic journey, I wonder when theirs will end.

Delhi Airport Saturday 18th December 2010

Delhi Airport Saturday 18th December 2010

Indhira Gandhi International Airport, Delhi, appears to have undergone a remarkable transformation since I last saw it. The white stone-washed walls and symmetrical array of windows glimmer in the sunlight as our shuttle bus approaches it. I take a minute to bask in the warm Indian rays just before entering the terminal building and absorb with satisfaction the faintly pungent air, reassuringly familiar, bringing back heart warming memories of a childhood in this incredible country.

We made it out of arctic Europe. Well done, old girl.

The calm and tranquility of the Arrivals Hall is a sharp contrast to the mayhem and disarray of Frankfurt. A heavily moustached man at immigration takes eternity peering at our passports and far from reprimanding the girls for poking fun at him, I join in. Being in Indian soil is liberating, albeit 3000+kms from our final destination. 

Our turbulent experiences of the past 30 hours has rendered us insensitive to the fact that we have just missed our connecting flight to Calcutta. 

I don't care. I've had enough anxiety to last me a lifetime - just want to take it easy from here on.

"Lets not rush or stress, girls, we'll take the next available flight to Cal as and when". 

They agree whole-heartedly.

And so we are in the baggage hall…. 

My eyes alternate between Remi sprawled lazily over our 2 empty trolleys and an equally empty conveyor belt going round and round. We have just watched, with envy and infinite patience, our fellow passengers pick up their bags and exit the terminal. As the unthinkable dawns on me, I fervently pray that I find an answer to this latest development before the girls catch on. Too late - from the corner of my eye I notice Zoi chatting to another family - the only ones, besides us, who are left in the deserted belt area…. and she is beckoning at me.

There has to be a simple explanation why our luggage has not come out. Surely its just a little mishandling error because of the change of route - I'll enquire at the Lost Baggage Office and they'll sort it out. After all, the staff at the Air India desk in Frankfurt assured me that our luggage, which had been held in their system, had been loaded on this flight to Delhi, with us. 

Not knowing what to expect, I walk over to Zoi and am introduced to a young family - a couple, Jay and Kate Miller and their 8 year old twin daughters, who appear to be in a similar predicament. Further chatting reveals that they have been caught up, incredibly, in exactly the same ordeals….. from London to Frankfurt and now Delhi. My feelings are mixed from one of sympathy for them, to relief that the girls and I are not alone in facing our latest tribulation.

I feel a renewed charge of life - I have support, and surely, together, we can get to the bottom of this.

Armed in numbers, we proceed to the Lost Baggage Office, and are not surprised to find it unmanned. Waiting around bears no results, and Jay marches off in search of an official whilst I keep vigilance in the office.

Worry, confusion, uncertainty - emotions I thought I left behind in Europe rear their ugly heads again. My mind goes over and over again to the time I had that final exchange with the Air India staff member back in Frankfurt, just before we board the plane for Delhi. 

"Your three pieces have definitely been loaded on your flight, madam", I am assured after having checked on her system the second time on my insistence.

So where the hell are they?

Sighing, I let my eyes wander over to where my girls are keeping the Miller twins entertained…. sliding easily into big sister roles. I watch the four of them race around and playfully bump each other using the empty luggage trolleys…. acts that would, under normal circumstances, warrant a telling off, but nothing has been normal for us so far. 

It is another waiting game. The Lost Baggage Office is now filling with irate passengers from other flights. Finally, the officer emerges after what I can only assume as having enjoyed an extended lunch break followed by a siesta. Now I am being rotten. Perhaps I've been away from my country of origin far too long, and no longer used to the way affairs are conducted here. 

Taking no account of the fact that I had been the first one in the office, the officer brushes past me and is immediately jumped on by half a dozen other complainers who happen to be a lot more outspoken than I. Getting a word in may call for different tactics on my part, but not being a pushy sort of a person, I wonder if I will ever get attended to.

I survey the scene in front of me…. a sudden wave of weariness and loneliness hits me, and I totter on the verge of breaking down. Every step of our journey so far has been a real effort and plagued with hindrances. Why me?

I feel I have reached my limit of endurance - the tears are brimming as a sense of unfairness of the whole situation engulfs me.

But - in the background I hear the squeals of delight from the Miller girls as my girls entertain them. My heart swells with pride at the way Zoi and Remi have handled the arduous journey so far….. taking all the disappointments in their stride with good humour and ever so supportive, cheering me on, and I realise that even at my age I still have a lot to learn from them. Being a mum of teenagers, one expects the worst - tantrums, sulkiness, whining and complaining. However, they have not disappointed me so far….. and I know I cannot disappoint them. 

Taking a deep breath, I plunge in, elbowing my way through. In Rome do as the Romans do. I raise my voice as high as I dare, and the officer finally takes notice. 

He pushes a piece of paper at me, "fill this". 

It only takes me a couple of minutes to fill the lost baggage form and I hand it back to the officer, who places it at the bottom of his pile without glancing up. I cannot help but admire the speed with which he works his way through them, re-affirming my opinion that Indians, as a race, are very efficient - when they want to be, that is.

As I patiently await my turn, a harassed looking Jay turns up and declares that his little girls are starving, it is imperative that they get something to eat very soon. But he has only just started to fill his form, and I know that it will be a while before he is seen. His frantic desperation tugs at my heart and I swap form positions with him, and he is seen next. The look of sheer gratitude he throws my way as his family exits the area tells me I have made friends for life.

Soon enough, I watch the officer peer at my form and punch in the luggage tag codes in his system. 

Please let him have some good news for me, God knows I need it.

"Your luggage cannot be traced. However, I have put a search out for them, and when found, they will be sent to Calcutta and you will be informed". 

There is nothing anyone can do anymore at this stage. 

I'm not completely satisfied and still quite dubious regarding the whole matter, but I know that, sometimes, making less noise is more effective and I reluctantly depart the Baggage Office, leaving our three suitcases containing laptops and other peripherals dangling somewhere in the airlines baggage system between London, Frankfurt, Delhi and Calcutta. 

"At least we don't have to lug around any heavy cases" I attempt to lighten the somewhat somber mood as the three of us leave the area. 

But no one is laughing. 

We manage to get on the 8pm flight to Calcutta. Checking in for this flight, for a change, is relatively hassle free, perhaps partly due to the fact that we have no luggage to check in! (another unfunny joke) I am happy to see the Miller family checking in with us. An unspoken bond in adversity weaves us together. We join forces, and even with the unpleasant aura of our missing luggage hanging over us like an unwanted third wheel, we shop, eat and wait at the gate together, finding a strange, mutual comfort in the similarities of our travel ordeals. 

"We should write travel blogs, our experiences have to be shared" was a joke to start with, but I have acted on it - I believe the only one amongst us.

Our flight to Calcutta is delayed by 2 hours (surprise), which had me wondering whether I jinxed every plane I flew on. As we take off into the Indian skies, I cast a lingering look at the Delhi city lights and my last thoughts are with our missing suitcases, where in the world they are at this time and if we will ever be re-united with them……

Frankfurt 17th Dec

Frankfurt Friday 17th December 2010

The German landscape unfolds before me from my lofty viewpoint…… a sea of white, occasionally broken by coloured patches and shapes. Quite beautiful really, and I marvel at the wonder of mother nature's gorgeous bounty wrecking so much havoc on people's lives. 

We land without further ado and make our way briskly but somewhat naively to the area which holds the reservation counters, to rebook ourselves on a flight to Calcutta.

Nothing, I repeat - nothing, prepared me for the chaos which calls itself Frankfurt International Airport.

Several hundred travellers are bunched up together in a large mass in the hallway. They appear to face reservation agents who are far against the wall, too far from my vision. I check to see if it is the right mass of people (you will notice I refuse to use the word queue) for re-connections. Shakily, I join the mass, putting myself at the mercy of the distant unseen reservationists whose existence is evidenced only by the hoards of people waiting to be seen.

There appears to be several hundred people before me. Please God, I pray, let the mass before me move quickly. 

The mass and I become one…. we move together…. thankfully in the direction of the ticket agents, but the move is painfully slow, charged with emotion, sweat, tears and a desperately tired body. But the heart remains defiant and committed to a single cause - to get the three of us out of unpredictable Frankfurt as soon as possible. 

The mass is unruly but I am one of them. I join those who are vocal in criticising Lufthansa, Frankfurt airport and its facilities. I speak openly of my frustration with the airport staff, the Germans, the weather. In fact the situation is turning me into a person I am not - a whiner. 

I am horrified at Lufthansa's treatment of those unwillingly stuck in Frankfurt.  There is no one in the hallway managing the lost and confused multitudes - families with small children and the elderly are left to fend for themselves; those of us who are fit are too wrapped up in our own affairs to assist them. Perhaps there are too many of us…. but surely, 

The airport could have been better prepared.

The situation with the queues (or lack of) and dearth of facilities is abominable. I constantly ask myself how Germany, a model of a highly developed nation, could fail so miserably in the most basic form of customer care, and as I look around me, I have to remind myself that I am not in a third world country. Through trained eyes developed by years working in the service industry, I can see that the disorganisation can be rectified easily by simply having more staff on duty - in the halls managing the people, and at the ticket desks seeing to the crowds quicker.

Bad weather would have been forecasted; cancellations and missed connections resulting in masses stranded should have been anticipated - after all, Frankfurt is one of the busiest hubs in the world!

So - why does the airport appear to be so unprepared and running on skeletal staff? 

I remain with the masses…. my girls, sympathetic at my plight, chuck bottles of water, packets of crisps and chocolates to me, as I dare not leave my position. My "position" involves feeling like a sardine, reminding me of the last time I travelled in a London tube during peak hour, squashed and pressed against other commuters in a most undignified manner. This ordeal, though similar in that respect, will span several hours.

Having no choice, I form alliances with several who are immediately around me. As the struggle to get to our respective destinations continues, we are oblivious to the snow storms raging outside which brought us together in the first place. Ironic really. 

I hear through the "mass" grapevine that most of the long haul flights out of Frankfurt are already fully booked, and we the inconvenienced, far from given preference, are dumped on waiting lists and shoved hotel vouchers for indefinite stays in Frankfurt. Never, I resolve, will that be my fate. I also hear that there are only 3 reservation agents working their way through the vast multitudes of stranded passengers. A real slap in the face.

The lack of sleep, physical fatigue and sheer mental exhaustion are beginning to catch up….. I sway a couple of times, but the proximity of others support me. Two people faint, and are seen to by one of us who happens to be a doctor. Folks around me start to get irritable and small arguments erupt. As for me - I keep staring straight ahead, passive, willing the agents to work faster or some more magically appear. It is a trial I have never faced before….. the feeling of being let down by Lufthansa and Frankfurt airport is overwhelming, and I am bitterly disappointed with their treatment of us which can best be described in one word - inhuman.

My perseverance finally pays off, and I see the ticket agent at 9.30pm….. 5 hours after we land.

I'm past caring the repercussions of appearing too demanding and I make it quite clear, right at the onset, that staying in Frankfurt is NOT an option. Should flights to Calcutta be a problem, we do not mind flying to any Indian city, via any route, any airlines. Please…. just get us out of here.

The need to leave Frankfurt has become incessantly urgent. I lock eyes with the agent and give him a determined look that tells him that I will not leave his desk until I go away with definite boarding passes.

"There is a flight to Delhi which departs in 30 minutes. Do you think you can make it?" the agent finally looks up at me after what seems an eternity.

Waves of relief flood through me. "Of course" I am so gratified, I can hardly get the words out. I gear the girls up while the agent prints our tickets.

Only when we run for our gate I realise that the agent has also included tickets for a connecting flight to Calcutta. Bless him. 

As our plane taxis onto the runway, about 3 hours late (we needn't have run after all), I manage to relax for the first time that day, and drift off to an uneasy sleep. Things cant possibly get any worse now.

Or can they?

whattajourney

Heathrow Friday 17th December 2010

The alarm goes off at 3am, I look out through my half drawn blinds, noting with satisfaction the clear and crisp early morning air. Great, I think, looks like a good day for flying. Completely worry-free, I log on to Skype, and even at that last-minute hour, I chat casually to a friend overseas. "Wish you a safe journey and a wonderful time with your family", he says. I beam back at him in agreement - little did I know the journey which lay ahead would be the most memorable one to date. 

And not for the right reasons.

Addison Lee's reputation as a reliable cab company is not unwarranted. By the time we tug our somewhat over-sized cases out of the front door, I've already received a total of 3 texts and a phone call announcing the driver's arrival . The journey to Heathrow's Terminal 1 is quite uneventful except for the faint smell of puke wafting around the car…. I believe a legacy of the previous customer (admits our embarrassed driver). Never mind, I think, visions of exotic India and a grand re-union with my parents taking over my mind. Nothing can spoil this moment….. 

Or can it?

My daughters and I are bound for India, the remote north-eastern part to be specific, an area sandwiched between Bangladesh and Burma called Mizoram - land of the hills, the free-spirited and of beautiful souls. Lufthansa, for economic reasons rather than personal choice, was chosen to be our carrier. The sectors involved are London - Frankfurt - Calcutta, with a 2 hour stop-over at Frankfurt. Next in the schedule is a night's refresher stop at Calcutta before the last leg of our journey - a flight the next day to Aizawl, the Mizo capital. Sounds pretty uncomplicated. 

We make it well on time to the airport for a relaxed and stress-free check-in. Just what I need for a great start to a great holiday, I think, a smile spreading across my face. Even so, I streak ahead in eagerness, leaving my two barely awake daughters to play catch up. Then I stop dead on my tracks. 

"What the f….." blurts out Zoi, my older daughter, her amazement at what she sees taking precedence over her normally controlled language. Zone K, the check in zone for Lufthansa, resembled, what can only be described, as a cattle market on a super busy bargain-sales day. Travellers in their hundreds milling around, bumping, shoving, queueing, blatantly flouncing rules, some sprawled on the floor. I look around in vain for airline or airport staff directing and assisting people. But, from where we stop to gape (as it was impossible to move further) we can only see the faint line of red jackets of the check-in agents behind their desks - their images masked and hidden by throngs of people. No signs explaining the situation either. Nothing.

"Are we in the right zone?" Remi's mouth is agape in bewilderment. I look at my younger daughter, but am speechless. Getting them to wait with the luggage, I battle my way through the crowds towards a harassed looking staff member, and enquire what we needed to do to check in. I'm fully conscious of the absurdity of my question - checking-in is a very straightforward procedure, even my daughters often travel alone and have checked-in independently tens of times before - but the disorderly crowds and chaos in the hallway cast self doubts on my ability to carry out this simple procedure…. I needed clarification. The staff member points to a line which looks far too long to enable us to make the flight, but realising there is no choice, I dart back, join the queue and await our fate.

Chatting to my fellow sufferers-in-queue I discover that several flights to Zurich and Frankfurt had been cancelled the previous night and early this morning because of severe weather conditions in Europe. Many of these droves of people are actually weary travellers who have been forced to spend the night in the airport, hoping to latch themselves on another flight, namely my own. I cast my head down in shame, acknowledging that I had not bothered to read any news the past 12 hours which would have put me in the picture and prepared me better. Ah well. 

Mercifully, the queue moves extraordinarily quickly. At last I'm seeing signs, finally, of German efficiency, I remark to my girls in relief. 

Later, much later, I laugh at that remark. 

"Is the flight on time?" I enquire of the Lufthansa agent as she hands us our boarding passes for the London - Frankfurt and Frankfurt - Calcutta sectors. 

"Yes", she beams back at me, "enjoy your flight". 

HA

We happily cruise through immigration and security, shrugging away a few further minor queues, which is not unusual for Heathrow. After a satisfying breakfast and some dutiful duty-free shopping, we land up, supercharged and raring to go, at gate 5a. 

Never could we imagine, at this stage, that this is to be our camp for the next 7 hours.

To start with, we did not board on time. The first warning sign. We did not board an hour later. I start to get worried. What of our connecting flight to Calcutta?

"No planes can land on or depart Frankfurt" assures the staff member to whom I directed my concern, "your connecting flight is most probably delayed too".

Grudgingly I return to my seat. Our 7am flight is already hours late, estimated departure time ambiguous. The clock ticks past 10am, we are still in Gate 5a. We have a serious problem now. My mind darts ahead to our final connecting flight to Aizawl from Calcutta, scheduled for the next morning. Tickets in this sector are gold dust in this season and chances of getting our flights changed last minute are as thin as my present patience.

I cast a worried look at the girls, but they appear more resigned than I - reading and gaming on their I-phones. Thank goodness for youth and their ability to accept lightheartedly what is beyond our control. My parents call every half hour and I tell them what I know - zilch. The lack of information is appalling, but when meal coupons are announced at 11, I realise with a sinking heart that we may not be flying for a while yet. 

Finally taking a leaf from the girls' books, I sit back for the first time since we arrive at the gate, pick up my copy of the Economist and attempt in vain to loose myself in the power struggle between USA, Europe and the emerging markets - a topic which would normally engross me, but even that cannot hold my concentration, as I constantly glance at the clock and scrutinise the movements of the staff for any giveaway signs which may reveal how close we are to boarding.

We finally fly at 2.05pm, exactly 7 hours after the scheduled departure time. A quick check before boarding reveals that our connecting flight has indeed departed Frankfurt - without us.

Ah well. At least we are one step closer to our final destination.