After eight hours of delay at Heathrow airport (there was a security threat), our plane reached New York’s Kennedy Airport at around 2 in the morning. All the connecting flights to my destination had long gone. After this tiring journey, from Kolkata to Bombay to Rome to Paris to London to New York, and in the cloud of jet lag I lost sense of time. And I was very worried about how I was going to reach my destination. The staffs at the airline counter informed us that they had arranged hotel accommodation for all the passengers in the city and they provided shuttle service. In the early January winter, at the wee hours of the morning, New York city looked eerily quiet. The street lights high up on the poles created foggy clusters around , shading hazy yellow lights around and down. Grainy sands of snow were blowing whimsically on the smooth pavements and were gathering in small grayish heaps around the curb. I saw only a few cars on the way, before I reached the hotel intercontinental. Contrary to my worry, I checked in very easily at the hotel. The staff knew in advance that the passengers would be coming. They appeared to have had the experience of the type of people, the new comers, would be and our little knowledge of the American lifestyle. On a separate piece of paper, he drew the direction I should follow to go up the elevator.
“It’s the eleventh floor and room twenty-three will be on your right,” he told me warmly and pointed me to the elevator. “Would you prefer a wake up call in the morning?”
“Beg your pardon?” I did not understand him; but I knew what to say if I did not understand.
“I can telephone you to wake you up in the morning,” he was nice to talk slowly so I could follow him.
“Yes, Yes,” I was very grateful to him. “My connecting flight will be in the morning and I need to get up at six.”
“That will be fine, sir,” he nodded with a smile. “Have a good night.”
Walking down the hotel corridor in my floor, it was lonely and quiet. The room had two beds. The sheet was starched white. The bathroom looked spick and span; a big mirror, a clean sink and the sparkling bathtub. Layers of clean towels of different sizes were arranged on the holders and on the sink area; couple of small soaps, two tiny bottles of shampoo were kept nicely on a small basket! And what is this? Another tiny bottle? It’s body lotion. They give so many things in the hotel!
I took shower in warm water after three days; it was 3 o’clock in the morning. Of so many towels I could only use one. I felt greedy, as if I had to use at least a few of them someway. This was the first time in my life that I was in a hotel and that in America and they have so much here! My cousin in India went to a private English school in Kolkata; studied business degree and he had friends from rich business families. My cousin would easily throw off names of big, well known foreign business houses that he would die to work for. And he once described to me how some of his friends had traveled to Singapore with their rich parents.
“You know what?” he used to call my attention, “they always stay in five star hotels!” He would stretch his eyes wide open to show his amazement. “These are big posh hotels in the center of the city,” he continued. “Very tall and shiny! And there are servants everywhere to help you”. Now I know what he meant. Only no bell boys helped me with my luggage in New York. May be it was too late at night.
The flight next morning was at ten o’clock and I was told that I must report to the ticket counter two hours in advance. So I had to be at the airport at eight o’clock in the morning; I must then get up at six to get ready, have my breakfast and catch a taxi back to the airport. I had only two hours to sleep!
Early in the morning, a friend, who had arrived in the country early, called. “Kee re kemon lagche (Hey, how are you feeling in the new place)?” he asked with oomph in his voice. “Daroon (fantastic),” I told him gleefully. “Kee bathroom re mairee (what an astonishing bathroom my friend)!” “Dara na (just wait a bit),” his voice could hardly hide his enthusiasm , “ja desh na ekta (this country is just awesome)!” He told me that I must finish my breakfast soon and head to the airport. “Don’t pay for the breakfast,” he cautioned. “The airline should take care of it.”
Down at the hotel restaurant, I chose an omelet from three eggs and toast with butter and jam. Omelet from there eggs! I might have had from two eggs at best; but never with three egg before. It was amazing! Every table had packets of sugar, jam and jelly on a fresh clean napkin inside rattan basket. Greedily, I tasted each of them one after another. I was like a kid in the candy store with no one to stop me. The jams and jelly tasted like the fruit morobba I that I bought from the street vendors at Bowbazar. Actually, morobba tasted better.
My plane to Kansas City was on time. Each time the plane landed in an airport, I carefully listened to what was announced in the intercom. Only a few hours in the USA, I had difficulty picking up the American accent. After I got my visa back in Kolkata, certain that I would be going to USA, I went to watch a few American movies. That way I get some feel of the language and culture. ‘Paper Chase’ was one movie that I watched in Tiger theatre, at the cheapest seats in front of the screen. That’s what I could afford with my paltry research scholarship of four hundred rupees a month. There were bed bug in the seats. I scratched my thighs as I watched the movie. And tried to follow the accent.
But, the real thing is different. So when I heard Kansas City in the announcement, I got down from the plane and headed to collect my baggage. The airport is big with long carpeted walkways. A white Hare Krishna devotee in dhoti and kurta approached and gave me a copy of the Gita and requested some donations. He had a shaved head with a white tilak in his forehead and was wearing a long pony tail; like he was a real Vaishnav from Bengal. I felt reassured, seeing someone following my religion in this distant land.
But my suitcases were nowhere to be found on the luggage corral. After waiting for about half an hour, I talked with an airport employee of my situation. He checked my ticket and told me that my luggage went to Kansas City. “What do you mean it went to Kansas City?” I asked him. “Is this not Kansas City?” “This is St. Louis,” he smiled. I was stupefied! How could I not check where I was landing? What will now happen to me? The plane has left. I realized my mistake: I did not understand the announcement and got down in an earlier airport. It was more than that though. Something I did not know at that time. Several sleepless nights and the jet lag had then contributed to my mental laxity. Kansas City would be the next airport. I was completely at loss. I had enough in this trip! I missed the flight and how would I now going to Kansas City? I ran back to the Trans American counter. The airline staff did not seem to bother much. With a smile in his face, he scribbled new seat number on my ticket with a red felt pen and told me that another flight will be there in fifteen minutes and I should board that plane. I was amazed! The plane schedule here is like the bus schedule in my little town. “Oh, thank you so much,” I gratefully looked at him. “You are very welcome” he smiled.
It was a one stop flight: from St. Louis to Kansas City. I made sure that I did not commit another such mistake. As the plane touched down the runway, I looked through the window. Outside, as far as I could see, the ground was covered with layers of white snow; a lonely wind-speed-indicator with a pink plastic attachment blew straight horizontal. This time, I was extra careful; I asked the airhostess at the door if this was indeed Kansas City. “Yes, it is”, she smiled. Beyond the terminal, through the big glass windows of the airport lounge, I could see a few green blades of grass, poking above the white snow, blowing wildly in the chilly Midwest wind. And a pale yellow splash of lifeless sun barely brightened the winter afternoon. Before I left the airport, I went to clean up in the bathroom. As I stood peeing in one of the men’s urinals, my eyes met the eyes of a African American man, peeing in the next stall. “How are you doing?” he smiled at me. ‘How am I doing this peeing? What kind of question is that?’ I suspected some evil motive from the Negro man (the way I knew it then), and my Indian-bred prejudice came out raw and naked. I started imagining all the bad things he could do and I remained silent, little scared. He realized my situation. “In America,” he nicely mentioned, “we say ‘How are you doing?’, when we say ‘Hello.'” And then he quietly left. I felt little better as he left. But I started guessing if he had realized what I was thinking about him. I felt embarrassed. As a newly arrived student in this country, he was my first teacher. And he gave me a lesson in culture that I shall never forget!
I collected all my luggage and headed for the exit. I saw a young Indian man with a placard, with my last name scribbled on it, in his hand and he seemed to be looking at me as well. The school must have sent him to pick me up from the airport. “I am UV,” he extended his hand towards me.
With a sigh of relief, I extended mine. “I am Manik.”
Dragging the luggage with me, we walked towards the exit. I could see the snowy cold wind howling outside. I had finally reached my destination in America.