I’m in the Immigration line at the Zia International Airport in Bangladesh, waiting. Out of boredom, out of curiosity, I start reading the list of taxable vs. tax fee goods. Some of the more interesting items:

Taxable:
Music Centres
Refrigerators
Dish Washers
Electric Sewing Machines
Ovens – gas and microwave
Air guns
Candelabrums (tax assessed on the number of points)

Are these things that people usually bring with them on a plane? Curious.

Tax Free:
Electric ovens
Rice Cookers
Blenders
Type Writers
Manual Sewing Machines
Computer Scanners

Can’t quite figure out the logic behind the lists, but then again, since I’m not carrying any of said items, it probably doesn’t matter.

I’m fascinated by this system. I’m sitting in the Kathmandu airport, simply observing. My flight has been delayed. I was supposed to catch a flight to Dhaka, Bangladesh, at 4:40 pm; however, I arrived to the airport and was told it would leave at 5:40 pm. I’m in the waiting area, a throwback to the 70’s, with its dusty tiled floor, copper accents, and nondescript shops that are simply named “DUTY FREE.” The monitor says the flight will leave at 15:50, even though it’s now 16:00. Other flights have status of “Boarding” or “Delayed” or “Cancelled” or “Departed,” flashing by their flight number, but not mine.

I watch the comings and goings of passengers. There seem to be two categories – tourists dressed seemingly inappropriately in shorts and tank tops in this conservative culture, and Nepali men. Every so often, a Nepali man with a topi and walkie talkie scurries through the waiting area, yelling the name of a destination and herding passengers. I finally hear “Dhaka” and make my way towards him. He has a luggage cart laden with black plastic garbage bags. As I show him my boarding pass, he scribbles on it, reaches into the garbage bag, and pulls out a box with a smudged stamp that says “Catered by Everest Hotel.” I’m confused, but make my way through the second security screening.

I enter the second and final waiting area, the one designated just for Biman Bangladeshi Airlines flight 704. What immediately strikes me is that among the hundreds of people in the waiting area, I am the only female. The. Only. One. Everyone else is a young Nepali man, a labourer, making his way to a foreign country in hopes of making a fortune. I sit and read my book. A few minutes later a young Nepali woman enters the waiting area. She sits beside me. “Are you going to Dhaka?” she asks in a lilting voice. “Yes,” I nod.

We open our thin cardboard boxes. It contains a breaded chicken patty, crustless cheese sandwiches on white bread, a piece of fruitcake, and a mango juice. I’m curious. Is this the meal for the flight? Or is this the meal for the waiting area? I notice everyone else eating, so I do as well.

When the announcement is made to start boarding, the hundreds of men race for the gate, crowding each other in a mob. The young Nepali woman and I look at each other, somewhat shocked. We wait until all the men have boarded the plane before making our way to the gate.

On the plane, our seats are next to each other, the middle seats of the middle section of five at the front of the plane. We’ve been upgraded to business class, which is virtually empty. Why have we been assigned middle seats? The silver-haired flight attendant asks me where I’m from, then tells me unique facts about the Bangladeshi communities in San Francisco, Los Angeles, and New York. He also tells me his favorite movies, and that Charles Heston has died. He saw Ben Hur in the cinema in Dhaka when he was only 8 years old. I smile and listen. Without my asking, he then tells me he will find me a window seat.

A few minutes later, he guides me to the first row window seat. As I sit down, he says, “For you, my VIP.” I smile and thank him. A few minutes later he guides the young Nepali woman to the seat beside me. “She feels comfortable with you,” he offers, and with that we are off to Bangladesh, a mere 3 ½ hours late.

That “sweet lime juice” = orange juice in Nepal. I order sweet lime juice expecting a chilled, tart, refreshing drink and receive a glass of room temperature Tropicana.

As soon as I landed, I remembered. I remembered how magical Nepal is. I love the questions, the chaos, the beauty, the serenity of the people.

The immigration agent looked at my application for entry. “What is this Human Resources you say you do?” he asked in response to my answer for occupation. I smiled. “I hire people, and train them, and sometimes fire them.” “For which company you do this?” “It’s called Room to Read – we build schools and libraries.” He harrumphed and waved me through.

The hotel manager’s face lit up when he saw me. “Namaste! I thought I would never see you again!” I laughed. “Sometimes the world brings us surprises. I am back so soon.”

And so happy to be here.

Four number ones in the Final Four? I’m so sad I’m not in the US to partake.

How do we learn the concept of personal space? I’m sitting next to an elderly Chinese woman on United flight 869 who might as well be in my seat. As she eats, she props her elbows out so widely that they practically rest on my chest. I shift, trying to avoid her contact, to no avail. I would have to be not in my seat in order to not be touching her. And if I stand my ground? Doesn’t matter. She doesn’t appear uncomfortable rubbing elbows. So why does this make me uncomfortable? We’re in a small, confined space, an airplane. I realize, intellectually, that there’s limited real estate here. I’m not a particularly territorial person. Yet I don’t like her touching me. I sit here, trying to be okay with it. I’m not.

And yet. There’s something both endearing and incredibly irritating about her at the same time. Irritating because she waits until I am either asleep or deeply engrossed in work on my laptop to poke me and let me know she wants to go to the bathroom. I slowly rise from my aisle seat and let her out. And each time she comes back from the bathroom she pokes me, smiles, and then salutes me. That makes me smile. Until she starts rubbing elbows again.

This may be the first time ever that I’ve not looked forward to traveling. I was back in San Francisco for less than a month since my last international jaunt, and work was intense. We moved our offices from the Presidio to the Financial District. Moves are stressful, even when you think you have thought of every possible snafu. Because most likely you haven’t.

I had just opened all my mail from the last time I was gone and cleaned my apartment when it was time to pull out my suitcase and pack for this trip. Initially I was excited that I would only be gone for 12 days. 12 days – that’s the least amount of time I’ve traveled for this job. It’s not a month, or 6 weeks, or 3 months. It’s a mere 12 days, a blink of the eye. I’ll be back home before anyone even realizes I’m gone.

At SFO, I just felt tired. When the gate agent complained that she couldn’t figure out my ticket, and wasn’t sure where my bags would end up because my ticket was half electronic and half paper ticket, I didn’t have the energy to react. I couldn’t question, I couldn’t smile, I couldn’t fight. I simply looked at her, shrugged my shoulders, and asked if she had any recommendations on where to look for my bag. Hong Kong? Bangkok? Kathmandu?

As I entered the Red Carpet Lounge, another passenger asked me how to get to a particular area. I answered, not comforted by the fact that I had the wearied look of a traveler that had been there too many times before.

And I hate this. In theory, I think that I want the opportunity to travel. I love working with our in country teams. I realize I’m incredibly lucky to have the opportunities I do to travel and experience new things. So why am I dreading it? Why do I want to spend just one more night in my comfortable bed in San Francisco?

Traveling for 4 weeks in developing countries, eating at roadside noodle stands, never getting sick.

First day back in San Francisco, having lunch at a lovely downtown establishment, resulting in food poisoning.

The flight from Phnom Penh to Bangkok is 55 minutes. I assumed we might get beverage service; it was, after all, 9.30 pm. But no, we not only received a full meal, but watching the attendants in action was incredible. Two passed out food. Another two walked up and down the aisle with pre-poured cups of water, orange juice, apple juice and Coke. Another couple walked up and down aisles with open bottles of wine, both red and white. Another came by and collected used cups as soon as you were finished. Another poured tea. Another poured coffee. It was choreographed perfectly. An act that could compete with NASCAR.

And, when I went to the bathroom, there were fresh purple orchids there. Now *that’s* attention to detail.

I recently received news that my grandmother passed away. Even though she was old, and in a nursing home, and her health was failing, this news still came as a surprise to me. Maybe not a surprise, per se, but a disappointment. I wanted to see her just once more. I had planned to see her again, in April, for her birthday. I wasn’t quite ready for her to die.

She was my last grandparent still living. I suppose I should consider myself lucky. Many of my friends my age lost their grandparents long ago. Instead, I feel as though a string has been cut, that I’m now one generation closer to death.

She also was my favorite grandparent. Yes, she was racist, ridiculously and embarrassingly so. But she also was incredibly kind. And simple. She laughed a lot. She was direct. She made us tomato sandwiches on Wonder Bread. She froze too many leftovers that were never eaten, and saved too many twist ties and scraps of tin foil that were never re-used, a child of the Depression. She plaited my hair and told me stories about dropping out of elementary school to take care of her thirteen siblings, about one of her siblings dying when he got too close to the fire and burned to death, and then going to work in the mills for what seemed like forever. Stories that I heard, but couldn’t quite comprehend. Thirteen siblings? To me, two seemed like too many. Not finishing elementary school? How was that possible? Two generations, yet a world, away.

I wonder what she was thinking, what she was cognizant of, when she died. Had she received my postcard from Laos? If so, did she know who it was from? Did she remember she had two children, five grandchildren, and four great-grandchildren? Did she recognize how much we loved her? Were her last emotions ones of peace or of the ever increasing angry and confused moods?

Grief is unpredictable. When I received my father’s email that simply said, “Please call,” I knew why. Before calling, I tried to convince myself that there were a million other reasons he could have sent an email like that. Maybe they won the lottery. Except I don’t think there is one in NC. Maybe mom fell off a ladder again. Maybe…

As soon as I heard his voice, I knew. I sat quietly as he spoke, tears running down my face. A couple of times I tried to say something and was mute. My voice simply wouldn’t come out. We hung up and then the tears, the sobs, the wailing wouldn’t subside. For hours I laid there, exhausted from the effort of crying, empty from processing this by myself. There was no one to call, no one to hug, no one to share with. Grief is strange. Over the next several days, I made arrangements, I planned, I executed, and I rarely thought about why I was leaving Cambodia early. It was only when I was in the taxi on the way to the airport that the tears returned. And haven’t stopped since.