Airport

[Not to be confused with Arthur Hailey’s exemplary work of fiction. On second thoughts, why would it? Everyone calls it an airport; he merely accompanies it with some exceptionally vivid literature].


Most people hate stopovers. I love them. But most people don’t have as much time as I do, or the inclination to spend a few precious hours observing Homo sapiens and their intriguing ways. I rank airports among the top in my list of “pensive, thought-provoking, muse-inducing” places, second only to the fringes of a water body and Park Avenue and 46th Street.

To me, there are few things more fascinating than playing the observant “stranger in the crowd”, reason why I have spent a fair bit of my 20-something life lost in many muses amid the animated bustle of NY Penn station where most people have only one thought (Am I going to make it to the train?) and the pandemonium at Mumbai’s Victoria Terminal where the average thought process gets a little more profound (Am I going to get killed making it to the train?), but limited nonetheless (as evidenced by the not uncommon sight of people running through, under and over trains while getting to them).

Now, an airport provides all of that, and then some. Some meaning a barstool at a safe distance from travel-plagued, time-hungry commuters, not to mention endless cups of coffee and a bagel, whose less-than-desirable toasting I ignore on account of the range of delightful views my situation affords: people sauntering, strolling, striding, stumbling, fleeing or downright hurtling (often dangerously) to the airport newsstand, café & restaurant, restrooms, customer service, telephone stalls and gates (in that order). And for once, I actually watch people without judgment (well, unless it’s as unavoidable as that guy picking up a copy of Cosmo at Daily News or the girl in stilettos struggling to carry a dime-sized piece of luggage).

And if you’re fortunate, you grab that last table by the window overlooking the runway, so you can occasionally turn your sights from the many flaws of humankind, where planes replace people and conduct themselves with slightly more aplomb, proving that man-made machines are indeed more poised than man. However, sometimes you get luckier still and watch bags and boxes topple over each other as they make their way to the cargo hold and contend that the inanimate does fail occasionally (the result of which is a suitcase I will never use again and another that turns around and rolls in the opposite direction just for the heck of it, offering a bout of pleasure to perhaps a likeminded soul).

So, I find myself luxuriating in the wait time of an hour and 20 minutes at Charlotte Douglas International, oodles of coffee, an untoasted bagel that makes up in sheer amount of cream cheese, too many muses and a sorry laptop that bears the brunt of it all (mostly in the form of some visible caffeine and a slightly less efficient keyboard)......

Letting go of the wrong dog

There must be something to this unconditional devotion to a team cos try as I might, I have been unable to shed my allegiance to the faltering, losing, fault-plagued Eagles this season.

Since I have always extolled sticking with the winners, I’ve been making quite a few attempts to let go of the wavering birds from the land of brotherly love, albeit unsuccessfully.

I decided the Colts were a safe bet (a 10-to-0 safe bet to be precise) and much as I love their seeming infallibility and the Peyton-Marvin duo, I realized, to my dismay, that I’d much rather root for the controversy-&-hernia-ridden Donovan pass to Owens, and watch TO play maitre D, however rare or impossible a sight that might be.

My next choice was the other Manning-led team, serving not only the city-state of endless joy but also playing in my older much-loved residence -- you’d think that would be allegiance enough. But much as they are aw-w-w-w-wesome, I was watching the birds play the giants last afternoon and couldn’t quell that teeny little hope that a McNabb-less, TO-less Eagles team that has been fumbling all season long was going to perform a magic act and actually beat the leading team in the NFC East. Didn’t happen.

Since I am in the process of trying out, I then tried out the Steelers (I’ve spent many a day, week and month in the steely town and owe denizenship on account of a couple best pals inhabiting the cloudy sun-less city), but even the enthusiasm of Big Ben and his rushing buddies wasn’t enough to keep me hooked onto them.

Finally, my last resort: the team from my most recent older dwelling, powered as much by fond memories of the mile-high state as the fact that the Broncos seem indefatigable this year (not to mention the observation that their QB is the hottest ever in the NFL ;)), but my channel-surfing seemed inexplicably to come to a stop on the Eagles game, even while Bell was scoring TD after TD on the next station (and considering my surfing abilities, that is saying something).

I find it quite baffling cos I don’t like rooting for losers. And it takes me down memory lane, to when I sat in a packed living room with family and friends and cheered for the Indian cricket team till my lungs deflated, even in near-impossible scenarios. No doubt, it had a lot to do with being Indian, but it also had a lot to do with a team you started your love affair for a game with...something far more binding than geography, personnel and principle...a sort of unconditional devotion if you will, no questions asked, no answers expected...

I am not revising my stand on rooting for the wrong dog because if I were to (God forbid!) start watching the NBA tomorrow, I would sure as hell start with the Spurs. My love has nothing to do with the Indian team being the underdogs then or the Eagles being the poor prospect now, just a certain inexplicable bond established at a time when they earned my fondness, that the loss of a couple players, a few bad games or pathetic performance an entire season is not going to take away.

Same reason why, as much as my adoration for Sampras was based on his invincibility, I couldn’t give up on him in his final faltering two years, cheering him on as I did till the minute he hung up his racket. And now Roger can rest assured of my undeterred adulation for as long as he holds one (this, in the face of his defeat to the miraculous Nalbandian at the Masters'.)

So while the offense is doing a pathetic job and barely able to complete a first down, I am quite content to sit and root for Kearse and Trotter who are doing all they can to keep them in the game or yell in delight when Reggie Brown steps up to the plate and helps out a faltering, unseasoned QB by making a near-impossible touchdown catch...

Now, with the Eagles’ playoff hopes dim, if not non-existent, would it make my life just a wee bit easier to root for the Colts? Sure, but loving the quadrupeds is that much harder after having loved the birds all too dearly so long...quirks, TO, sports-hernia and all...

Can I get a tall cup of happiness.....

With some whipped cream...
And a li’l bit of chocolate drizzle...
Thanks...

I was watching the Lenscrafters' commercial with the ‘unconditional happiness guarantee’ and my first reaction was amusement.

I have never believed that happiness can be bought (or guaranteed for that matter). Reason why the two professions I can ever imagine being in both pay a pittance but usually give me oodles of happiness, one with some stipulated conditions (make sure a microliter is ONLY a microliter) and the other quite unconditionally thus far.

But that was when I was green and naive and closeted under the cloud cover of family in the next room or an o/n bus-ride away, a sworn "friends-forever" clique that loved you no matter what or a campus desi bunch in an alien land (read: whose lives revolved around you as much as yours around theirs ;)) that guaranteed taking you out for beer or hosting you for a well-cooked meal whenever you were low.

But when you’re single AND working in a foreign land and you’re sprawled in front of the very television that comes as close to the happiness guarantee as the commercial you are watching proclaims, you begin to agree that happiness does sadly (and may I say, thankfully) come in little bits of paper, also called the "dollar".

Since I base all my statements on fact ;), here’s my evidence...

I don’t feel like getting out from under the comforter and goin to work.... hmmmm, maybe I'll stop at Starbucks and pick up a mocha with their patented whipped cream. A surefire way to spring out of bed....

I couldn't spend an entire weekend without Bill M's Real Time! Are you kidding? An HBO subscription for 80 bucks a month to make sure you have a good weekend when your limited number of pals have nothing exciting planned [not to mention Sex & the City and Coupling at the touch of a button (disclaimer: if Comcast is your provider, 3 more and an interminable "One moment please")]

A few hours spent at the local B&N: unfortunately it ensures more than just a wonderful feeling – an upto-50 bucks “impulse” buy -- that book I always wanted, the CD I gotta listen to or that oh-so-fancy-I've-never-seen-before writer’s pen (isn’t that what pens are for?)

A co-worker comes up to you and says, ‘I’ve had a bad couple of days... The sun’s out and I thought today could be crepe day?’ Any day could be crepe day, and I haven’t exactly had a great couple of days myself. Sure!

The girl hiding inside me that occasionally cries out for the Rachel-Green-Carrie-Bradshaw cure-all - a cloth-shopping spree at the neighborhood mall, sometimes resulting in something as outrageous as the very floral, pink skirt hanging in my closet :) But as long as it’s not a 400-buck-pair of shoes (made merely to make the process of walking on the leveled, macadamized roads of Sam's land feel like mountain climbing -- now, if you're at EMS, that's a couple hundred worth spending), I am sure I’m still sane, a little disoriented yes, what with the bright spots of color, but sane, nonetheless.

For the weirdoes out there, the complete First season of Friends DVD: may cost 50 bucks but also unfailingly delivers 12 hours of unconditional cheer (now that’s a commercial Warner Brothers might want to lay their hands on)...

And when I am feeling especially spendy (or especially sad), a trip to the land of unadulterated joy (for the uninitiated, that would mean an hour-long, fifty-buck trip to NYC, short for the city-that-never-fails-to-pep-me-up).

So, can happiness be bought? Not really, but sometimes it does come dangerously close to counting on your wallet (or what’s in it, as the case may be ;)).....

Would you rather just be nice?

Ok, after a few months of Dubya-inspired hate posts about Sam’s land I decided it’s time to tell the world (I really do live in my tiny little one, don’t I?) one of the things I love about this country, which ironically, is also one of the very reasons for Dubya being where he is...

Americans don’t ask for much. They really don’t. They might want extra cheese on their burgers and super-sized drinks in their value meals, but they sure don’t ask for much from people. 'Just smile when you see me and don’t kill me.'

I was watching the Eckerd saleswoman explain patiently for the fifth time to a fresh-off-the-boat middle-aged desi what “aisle 1” meant and it took me back two decades. I grew up in Delhi for ten years, knowing that we would always be the “Madhraasis” who didn’t say their ‘kaun’s right. (I did belong to the scornful younger generation that wondered how hard it could be to say the “n” without the “u” but my mom and aunt still don’t get it ;)). My point being that while some in the north of that tiny little subcontinent still have issues with some in the south, Americans seem to be able to dismiss the divide of race and ethnicity and color and nationality quite effortlessly by comparison --- well, until you force them to say your 16-letter, tongue-twister of a last name ;) And even there, they try their darndest best.

It’s not hard to be accepted and loved here: you don’t need to have a Caucasian skin tone, you don’t need to be of more than average intelligence, you don’t need to know how to use your forks and knifes right, you don’t need to speak with an American accent, you don’t even need to be understood, all you have to be is “nice”.

My first encounter with the American fad for “niceness” came quite shockingly during an appraisal for a potential candidate for our lab in graduate school. My boss came up to me and said, “What do you think of X? Do you think he’ll be a good addition to the lab?”

As usual I rattled off more than I needed to, and in this case it seemed, totally off the point as well. “I think he’s really smart. He can definitely think and his background in molecular biology seems pretty solid.”
My boss nodded politely and then said, “Sure, but is he nice? Do you think he’ll get along with everyone?”

Is he nice? Is that why I had been chosen to be part of this lab? Because I was nice? For a person that would rather pass off as obnoxious than dim, that sure was not a compliment.

Not to be unfair to Americans, I do think you can do extremely well in this country if you are conscientious and good at what you do; you may not need the light skin tone or the right accent, but “being nice” is an inextricably integral part of it. You’re sooner criticized for being mean and rude than for being incompetent and unintelligent.

The upside is you just have to be yourself. The downside is Dubya can become president. I have an oft-repeated statement that I take a lot of pride in delivering: I’d rather have Cheney be president than Dubya cos he is smart and can pronounce. I understand it is not a popular opinion. I don’t really mean that, of course (then who’d give Maher and Stewart their fodder?), but sometimes you gotta go to such lengths to make a point.

Recently, Jon Stewart said that TO got fired for being a dick. Talented idiot, was his term for him. My problem: I’d rather watch a talented idiot than a nice fool. And that is not a popular opinion in this land of we’ll-excuse-you-for-being-stupid-but-we-can’t-excuse-you-for-being-bad. Reason why people like the conans over the mahers, the lewises over the owens’ and the dubyas over the kerrys.

I’m trying, of course, to pin this on a whole country where it could quite as easily just be me.

I have always been so fascinated with intelligence and talent that I haven’t bothered too much with this thing called character or moral values or whatever it is they are calling it these days. The best evidence to this is while I can safely say that I am a nicer person than I reflect to the world, I am also a stupider person than I reflect to the world (within the bounds of Randianism, of course, which is a mantra I live quite staunchly by).

The truth is I have actually never met a person in this world that I can call a “bad” person. People say I am hyper-judgemental. Sure I am.

That person didn’t know who Kofi Annan was...
This guy has a really strong desi accent...
She doesn’t come off as being very cultured...
I don’t think he has read a book in his entire life...

What I don’t do is judge people on the basis of character. That, I think, is for that elegant piece of fabrication they call Judgement day. All of us, and I repeat, all of us do stuff from time to time that is repulsive, insensitive, ruthless, even callous, but circumstances and impulsive rushes of emotion drive us to them. If people were always given 24 hours and peace of mind to think and go over their impending actions, I don’t think torture would happen, I don’t think man would kill.

In other words, I think it’s fairly easy to be nice. It’s intelligent and wordly-wise and efficient and talented that is hard to be and Americans quite easily hand out a free pass there. All they ask is that you be nice. I wish my need was that little, my request that trivial, my demand that easy.

I wish someday I could look beyond that baseless, superstitious remark, a badly pronounced English word, the inexcusable grammatical mistake or that conventional, close-minded judgement. I’m kidding, of course. I never could. But I’ll continue to applaud Americans that can.

Meanwhile, when I turn around and look in awe at that perfectly perfected yankee accent by a once true-blue desi or ogle at another that can eat his/her medium rare steak in synchronized perfection with a meat-and-potatoes bonafide, my American friends will have to excuse me, as long as I am nice.....