I call room service and order breakfast – toast with butter, orange juice, and hot water (I’ve brought my own tea bags from home). The waiter arrives with a tray which contains Corn Flakes, hot milk, mango juice, and black tea.

“I don’t think this is my order,” I say.

“Oh, yes. Bread was moldy, so brought Corn Flakes. Orange juice expired, mango juice better for you.” He sets the order down on the wobbly linoleum tabletop.

Hm. I’m grateful he’s looking out for my health, but a bit suspect of the food in front of me. I thank him and eat hesitantly.

Later in the day my colleague is not feeling well. He tells me he needs to return to his room to lie down, he thinks he may have food poisoning. “What have you eaten that could give you food poisoning?” I ask. “I’m not sure, but my breakfast tasted a little off. I thought I was safe ordering toast and orange juice….”

We check into our hotel. I feel as though I’m in a very bad 70’s film. The walls are moldy; the paint is peeling. There is a wobbly linoleum topped table in one corner of the room. The shower head is encased with rust and there is no shower curtain. I sigh as I watch a cockroach scurry across the stained carpet. This will be my home for the next five days.

I hand my passport to the immigration official. He looks at the passport, then looks at me. Page by page, he studies the passport. He calls other immigration officials over. I’m conscious of being one of only a few women, and the only white woman, visible in the airport. I’ve dressed conservatively; I remember very well what it’s like to be a Western woman in a Muslim country.

Soon eight military/immigration officials are paging through my passport, staring at me after the turn of each page. I want to disappear into the ground, but remind myself to stand tall and not slouch. I continue to watch them with a slight smile on my face. Surprisingly, or perhaps not, I’ve been in enough situations where I’ve been questioned/interrogated that I’ve figured out the best way to react. Stand upright, but not aggressively. Have a pleasant, though not overly friendly look on your face. Keep your arms by your side, don’t cross them in front of you. Don’t speak unless spoken to. Offer only information requested.

One of the military men notices my nose piercing. He smiles and points to his nose then to me. “You Bangladeshi.” I smile slightly and nod. They all stare at my nose and comment among themselves. Suddenly something in my passport has caught their attention. I hear murmurs. I think quickly. Are there any stamps which would raise concern among Bangladeshis? I don’t think so…

Finally one of them says, “1968? You?” I smile slightly and nod. He emphatically says something to the rest of the group in Bangla. They all stare again. I continue to stand, waiting for them to finish. “Look so young – you!” I quietly say, “Thank you” and remain standing there. I know that eventually they will tire of staring at me.

I am the only person remaining in immigration. My male colleague waits for me on the other side of the desks, laughing at the scene before him. The immigration officials look at me and say, “Alone?” I am eternally thankful I am not. I smile slightly. “No,” and I nod towards my colleague. The turn to see him waiting for me. I immediately get a stamp in my passport. “Welcome to Bangladesh!”

I returned to Hotel Renuka, exhausted, after a long day of work. I approached the front desk to retrieve my room key.

“Ma’am, your friend next door did not leave.”

I smiled. “Is it possible to move to another room?”

They looked at each other, then back at me. “As you wish, ma’am.”

“Great! What is my new room number?”

“Let us figure that out, ma’am. We will be up to collect your bags shortly.”

They moved me from 1A to 3A, a musty, hot room, but smoke free. Finally.

I approached the reception desk.

“Hi. I’m in Room 1A. The man in 1B smokes a lot and it’s coming into my room and bothering me. Could I change rooms?”

Three employees looked at me, wagging their heads back and forth as I explained this to them.

“There is not a non-smoking section of the hotel, ma’am.”

“Okay. But maybe I could move to another room and maybe the person in the room next to me won’t be smoking.”

I was met by blank stares.

So I tried again. “Okay. Could you tell me when 1B is checking out? Maybe he’s checking out today and this won’t be a problem anymore.”

They all nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, we think he will check out today.”

“But if he doesn’t, maybe I can change rooms when I return from work?”

“As you wish, ma’am.”

I wake up and the room smells like smoke. I sniff for a moment and realize the hotel is not on fire, but the man in the room next to me is smoking in his room and it is drifting into mine.

I call downstairs to reception.

“Good morning. This is Lori in Room 1A. Is it possible to get a non-smoking room?”

“Ma’am, are you smoking in your room?” the receptionist replies.

“No….” I answer, somewhat confused.

“Then you are in a non-smoking room.”

I hang up, thinking this will be best dealt with in person.

On the flight, I wondered how I would get to my hotel in Colombo. There was no way the driver could know I’ll now be arriving 3 hours earlier than scheduled, at a pleasant 3:30 am. In addition, they had switched not only the flight number, but the airline as well. I had the feeling I was on the wrong flight, but I was going to the correct destination, so I figured it would somehow work out.

I jotted down the address of the hotel and figured I would try my luck with a taxi. If they were running at 3:30 am, that is. Once in Colombo (and utterly impressed by the airport, it’s gleaming white empty hallways a stark contrast to the dirt and bustle of Delhi) I collected my baggage and headed out to the taxis. There stood my driver with my name on a placard. Confused, I asked him how long he had been waiting. “Since midnight, ma’am.” Even more confused, I asked him why. “Your flight was changed, ma’am. It was due to arrive at midnight. The sign has been flashing “delay” “delay” “delay” for the last four hours.”

How come everyone else knew my flight was changed except me?

I arrived to the airport 4 hours early for my 1:50 am flight to Colombo, Sri Lanka. At the Indian Airlines counter, the agent directed me to another row of agents. Here we go again- lines, lines, lines. Oh, India. I wasn’t worried; I had several hours before my flight. The area where he directed me to was empty, no flights for Colombo were listed. I went back. Annoyed, he sent a younger agent to walk with me. He couldn’t find the correct agent either. HA!

He instructed me to wait RIGHT HERE, so I did, observing the travelers around me. Business travelers, families, vacationers, I was mesmerized by the flurry of activity in the Delhi airport at 10:30 pm on a Monday night.

The young agent came back, clearly agitated. FOLLOW ME! I wheeled my baggage cart after him. He had gotten another agent to open his counter. I was impressed. I was expecting to be told to wait. The new agent was also agitated. When I made it to the counter, he shouted, YOU’RE LATE! Surprised, I retorted, “No, I’m early. My flight doesn’t leave until 1:50 am, see?” He merely shook his head. “Your flight was changed. To 7:30. Lucky for you, it’s running late. But it’s boarding RIGHT NOW. RUN!”

One last time, India always wins.