Welcome to the Dheli Airport! Would you like an uncomfortable seat with your extra-long wait?

Isn't the point of having a blog the constant upkeep of it? Oops...missed that one. So, its been a month since I posted, but seeing as how its been a month since anything of substance happened in my life, I think the two kind of even themselves out. For those that are seriously interested (mom), my last month in America was mainly bland. Lots of satellite TV (Gremlins 2 at 3 in the morning? Yes, I DO think so...), lots of "this is seriously my last beer before I leave dude" with Ben and Brian, lots of putting off of the support raising, lots of...tedium. So there's that. I've been in Nepal for a little over a week now, and the blog, she needs an updatin'. So grab a cup of coffee and a powerbar, curl up in your precious recliners, and gather the children. Thus begins the tale of an awkward furlough in the Forgotten Country...

I'm of the opinion that if you're going to leave behind country and kin for a year, the best way to do so is to be pissy over breakfast. What better way to say, "Farewell, you gave birth to me and came to all my crappy tee ball games and sat through my saxophone solo at band concerts in PA's lower gym, you put me through college and taught me to read and how to shop for bananas and let me chew on your sleeves during church when I was young, and I love you I love you I love you!" than to scowl at the table and complain about how nobody is ready, and yes, my laptop is charged up. I have been in better moods, and I have been in worse, so to describe my attitude upon leaving America, I would have to say: surly. Pitiable. Grousey. Cancer-inducing. I am wicked son, a lazy friend, and the future leader of America. Crap.

Final day in America.... A drive to Fayetteville one last time, spent silent in the Accord's backseat spent reminiscing about the Pig Trail last fall and world geography and how much I hate flying. Lunch at the Marketplace Grill with the family and Jake Newell, who shows up for hugs, kisses, and a free wrap of some sort. (pssst. I had a steak. No beef in Nepal you know. Just for the record, it was a Cajun ribeye. Medium. And I didn't eat the baked potato, watching my caloric intake) The purchase of a picture frame in Tuesday Morning, aptly named, because that's when their shoppers usually leave in bewildered fashion after getting lost in the store of over the course of a weekend. At the airport a whole 2 hours early so that....Oh. Crap.

Our flight has been postponed. Take an earlier flight or wait a day. I've only been waiting, oh, 2 months now to leave. So tired of people thinking I'm dead, in Limbo, in Denmark, wanting to know why I'm still in Fayetteville, and YES, I've gotten all my shots. "This earlier flight, when does it leave?" asks the Jason. "In 25 minutes," says the underpaid and confused United Airlines attendant. "Oh," say Jason and I. "Oh," says Jessica Gudino, who will be joining us on the first leg of our flight. "Oh," say Jason's father, step-mother, and my father in unison.

So we leave in 25 minutes. American Airlines is verrrry understanding, to the tune of charging Jason an extra $260 for his 2 extra bags of charitable items for the orphans. "Oh," says Jason. "They're for orphans." "260 please," replies the attendant. We pay, or that is, Jason pays, I just hold the card. And stress. I'm sweating, my bag hurts my shoulder, and I don't want my father to carry any because he had a heart attack in an airport, and dear God, Dad! I can't handle you dying today! I got a yellow fever shot that turned my shoulder brown for this. DO NOT DIE.

3 minutes to take pictures. Shaun supervises, and for a moment, he is more of a mother than my Mom is. My parents do not cry. Jason's parents bawl, or at least his mother does. Jason's sister Krystal is weepy. Shaun is weepy. Jessica is weepy and has already retreated to the flight lounge. My brother does not cry, as he has been asleep in the car and barely understands what is happening. My family's parting words? I have no earthly idea, something about unicorns and taking care of the legacy.

We are stopped in security, all our bags searched. Of course. My shoes have to come off, while the guy behind me line, who just told me how great I am for "doing the Lord's work," curses out a guard for having his travel toothpaste trashed. American Christianity, goodbye!!!! The plane has left, I am thinking. Jess is off on her own, stretched across my seat and hers, eating my peanuts, charging vodkas to my Visa card. No, she's probably hijacked, held at bay with a straight-edge ruler and calculator battery. Lucky, I am thinking. The guard gives me back my shoes, unlaced. Of course. Jess wore Chacos, smart girl.

The plane is still here. I run into an old friend from Camp Timberline (the Hirschy-Jordan saga continuing to run full circle), we trade life stories, hers is better, and I brag to Jess about how many beautiful married women I know. Plane boards, silent flight to Chicago, Jason takes pictures, I practice asking for the American embassy in Nepali. In secret, I also learn the phrase "My friend here is an international terrorist. Please you make arrest of him. I scared."

O'Hare airport in Chicago for an hour layover. I love this city, too bad all I see of it is fluorescent lighting and overpriced Chili's Airport 2Go. Jess begins crying in the airport, the meaningful kind. She is preparing herself to "be mean" again since she is re-entering Europe. I pray for her while thinking, "Efff. Aren't missionaries supposed to be joyful and excited? I am screwed. And I smell already." With every head bowed and every eye closed (every being Jess), I change shirts in the airport. I call Hunter Goff back and leave him a message. I call my mom, she starts crying over the phone. Crap. Jess hears her crying via cell phone, begins crying again. I. Am. An. Idiot.

I sleep nearly the entire trans-Atlantic flight to Germany with my feet on my bible. The food is good, but I don't remember it. The in-flight movie is "Over the Hedge," so I play Guess-the-celebrity voice while Jason sleeps. Garry Shandling, tough one. Let me know if you figure out the exterminator. German airport is busy, we part ways with Jess, she is no longer crying, and board another flight to India. Germany looks nice, all 12 seconds of it. Never got to see the gigantic lake Garrett Lewis always obsessed over. Sleeping on the plane all the way to India as well. Shouldn't I have been reading or praying or something? Scratch that, bible gets left on the plane when we disembark. Way to go moron. (I packed 2, but the backup is NIV. I'm a bible snob, deal with it) And now....the Indian airport in Dheli.

Welcome to Hell. No, scratch that. Not hell. My bad.

Welcome to Purgatory. The 12th century Catholic church was right, the place exists. Not quite hell, thanks to the bathrooms and Subway shop, but pretty close to it. How to describe, how to describe... Jason and I try to go through customs, but are refused because we don't have Indian visas. Instead, we are ushered into the Transit room by a uniformed officer who has us fill out our baggage information in a ragged logbook. No computers, no Microsoft Excel, no nerdy lady with a Virginia Slim cough and disapproving stare. A ragged logbook. Made out of human flesh. Ha, just kidding...its more of a spiral-bound.

We are ushered into a nightmarish Underworld of Hindi madness and Escher-esque bewilderment. No one will help us. The information desk is unmanned, and the few men on duty look around frantically as if they are making up answers on the spot while looking for somebody more official-looking to send Jason and I chasing after. I go into the bathroom and come out weeping inconsolable: holes in the ground. Jason buys an Italian BMT for something along the lines of $4 US because he has to have exact change. I visit the Subway later and find that the price has been raised to $13 US. Salami inflation, it ruins entire continents and endangers the international fast-food deli market. I try to haggle with the owner, and somehow the price goes up to $350. I suck at this.

Jason and I wander from bench to bench trying to find a place not already occupied with sweaty people or sweat pools left behind from said sweaty people. I am not a Christian. I am an airport critic, and I hate this place. Jason wanders around looking for people to tell us where our bags are and how we are supposed to leave without boarding passes. I pretend to read A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius while secretly judging all the people in the airport and imagining different ways in which I will punish the Subway owner when I rule his country. Annnnd....this post is running long. Polly Dacus long. To be continued...

Next time: Escape! Grand Theft Auto Kathmandu!! Dhal Baat!!! At war with the crab spiders!!!! Orphans and tyranny!!!!! And some stuff about Jesus...