Welcome to the "Good Times"

I had a little trouble finding a flight from Kochi back to Delhi. Internet booking with a foreign credit card doesn't always work, and travel agents tend to be sketchy and largely useless. They either call the airline or go to a public online booking website. The one agent in Kumily couldn't find me anything on an airline I was willing to fly, and my attempts online got me nothing. I was getting a little nervous, because flying into Delhi means risking an overnight delay due to fog, and I have a lot of stuff to do there before flying home early Wednesday morning. Finally, I managed to call some airlines directly and get myself a flight for a decent price. Sure, I'm stuck in Chennai airport for 6 hours between flights, but otherwise it's OK. I called up Kingfisher Airlines, the best of the domestic carriers, which happens to be owned by the same guy who owns Kingfisher beer. He's an Indian Hugh Hefner type, who likes to call himself "The King of Good Times." When I got through to the ticket agent, I was greeted with a "Welcome to the good times, Miss Karen," and I knew I must have made the right choice.

To be honest, I was kind of hoping I wouldn't get a ticket and would have to delay the whole thing. Leaving Kochi meant a goodbye I wasn't looking forward to. Now that I've left, I know I was avoiding it with good reason. It was probably the hardest farewell I've ever had to say. All of India seems to exist within a strange time-space warp, but this time I just couldn't get it to work in my favour. After a tear-filled night and a morning that came way too soon, I was reluctantly whisked off, bleary eyed, peering out the back window of the white Ambassador taxi to start my journey back to a city that I love to hate.