When The Bee said hat they were looking for people who’d been to 70 countries I wrote Carlos Alcala, to gain a place on their roster. A was second tier, but was glad to be there. Check out the article:

http://www.sacbee.com/2010/01/24/2480367/around-the-world-many-times-bee.html

For better or worse here’s a longer narrative.

In 1988 at the stunning site of Pagan, Burma (a world class attraction too-seldom seen due to the junta’s ham-fisted management of tourism) I discovered another stunning attraction. She was 5’2″ and I was hit with an anvil the moment I saw her. She had a most engaging personality and lightning wit. Though I was QUITE taken, I had to leave Pagan the same day we met owing to Burma’s idiotic visa policies.

But all was not lost. I was headed to India via Bangladesh while she was going to Nepal. I could catch her in Katmandu if I could keep my wits and change my schedule to skip Varnasi.

Arriving in Calcutta my first order of business was to go to Air India and change my ticket.

Calcutta was crazy. I was struck by the fact that tourist hotels all seemed to have “we have generator” signs. The reason became obvious when, upon trying to change my ticket (at an airline offices in the basement of one such hotel) the power went out. While awaiting those generators switching on the paperwork went on by flashlight.In the midst of this tumult I’d asked the agent for the appropriate change. What a scene. I can’t speak Hindi, but two Spanish Hare Krishnas were in line and I COULD talk to them in espanol. By the glow of flashlights my papers got filled out. When the lights came back I got handed a ticket. It had been a slow and dark (obviously) process in a stuffy basement room and took two hours, but back in the daylight I was pleased to clutch an early ticket to Nepal.

Alas, this was India. Back at my hotel room, shared with a British lad who was finishing 6 months with Mother Teresa I discovered the agent had written the wrong day. It was for the same date I ALREADY held to fly out of India. I KNEW an all-day battle was now needed. It had seemed too easy.

When I hit Air India’s central office the next day I was stunned to see the line. It was 50 people long. Computers were down and nothing moved. I sat at the end of the line dismayed. THEN a guy yelled from across the room that I was cutting-in. He was, in fact, the real end of the line. I did a quick head count. There were 147 people waiting in this first of many lines. A guy next to me who looked as though he came from the area near Burma turned and said: “You didn’t know. Stay where you are.” I said “Thanks, I think I will.” It was kill or be-killed.

For hours I ping-ponged around the cavernous room. Among the blockades to resolution was the fact that the flight I needed was fully booked. Asking everyone I could get eyeball-to-eyeball with if there was not SOME way this simple issue could be resolved I found myself camped out next to the office of a Mr Ram. A lady with the desk closest to his door sat fanning herself saying he should be here “soon”. Soon could be soon, and it might not be on the same day. I wasn’t going anywhere and stayed parked next to the big electric fan outside his office. But by-God Mr Ram did show after 90 minutes with a man in tow. I leaped up and gave him my spiel making an audition with what I hoped would prove charm. Both men seemed to chuckle at my forceful (and now well-oiled) presentation. Mr Ram was a man of authority. He sized up my story, smiled and said “Mr Banerjee can help you – and he WILL help you!” He directed me to the 2nd floor with a jolly handshake and instructed me to relay my tale to Banerjee. I might finally be getting somewhere I thought but, it so happened, the Communist Party had chosen the giant stairwell to hold a rally in support of some labor action. They sat on the steps chanting and singing. After picking my way past the participants – a long process as the density of bodies in India is a different thing than in America I got to the reception desk.

I asked for Mr Banerjee and was told no such person worked there. I insisted that no less than Mr Ram had directed me. “I’m sorry Sir there is no one here with that name” he maintained. I elected to blow past him in the best Ugly American style to look for myself. I strolled brazenly past work stations reading name tags. Two minutes in I found a thin man with “Banerjee” on his tag.I grabbed his hand and said I was glad to meet him since he could resolve my problem. I had been assured of it. Banerjee assessed my tale. “We have contingencies for such developments” he verified and sent me back to the lady with the fan. She had not been able to help I opined, but Banerjee told me what magic words to say and assured me she’d know what to do.After pointedly muttering “There is NO Mr Banerjee here.” to the clerk at the desk – who did flinch – I made my way BACK down. Past boisterous communists waving placards of hammers & sickles I moved back to the fan lady. When I said what I was told to say she smiled, put down the fan and whipped out pieces of paper. She stamped them. Stamping was always good I figured. My lady, now fanless, took me on another journey through headquarters to another woman in a red sari who apparently monopolized the ability to produce real tickets.Red Sari read my papers, looked at the stamps, observed the fan lady and then exercised HER power to produce a piece of paper good for travel on Air India on the flight needed. I had prevailed and it had only taken 6 hours. A quick TKO by Indian standards.

I felt fairly certain that somebody who THOUGHT they were flying to Katmandu was going to remain in Calcutta when the time came to fly, however. I was equally certain that I was NOT going to be that person by virtue of being the first in line at the airport on flight day. I was second, actually. A Dutch kid named Jacob was first; a veteran, I think, of the Indian wars. We signed-on and winged north as hoped. As it turned out we flew in immediately aftermath of a squall that had left the city powerless. Downed lines were everywhere. A panic at the soccer stadium left 40 dead. It was a grim day for Katmandu, but not for everyone as I found my gal that night despite conducting a search in a blacked out district of guest houses and restaurants lit by candles.

And that begins another story. A more colorful and interesting one than this. But one I’m not telling. hey….. an update….