New Delhi via Moscow: Sometimes it IS about the Journey

In the late winter of 1993, I found myself on an Aeroflot flight from Warsaw to Moscow. Aeroflot's reputation was shaky at best, and my expectations upon boarding were extremely low. But the jet was suprisingly modern and clean. A few minutes into our flight, a cloud of cigarette smoke wafted my way. I looked above my seat to check: Yep, I was still in the nonsmoking section. In those days, planes had smoking and nonsmoking sections, and I was always sure to request nonsmoking. And for good measure, I also tried to sit at least a few rows away from the nicotine haze.

I motioned over the flight attendant to point out my puffing fellow passengers. We may have still been over Polish airspace, but apparently Western rules no longer applied. The flight attendant didn't just wave off my concerns, she flat-out refused to let me move, even though the plane had plenty of empty seats. I happened to be sitting near first class, and one of the Russian passengers there kindly intervened on my behalf, striking up an argument with the flight attendant. He asked her to move me up to first class, where no one was smoking (and where hardly anyone was sitting). This seemed only to annoy her further, though, and she made it her mission to ensure that I stay put for the rest of the flight. She even had one of the pilots come out to scold me.

All I could do at that point was laugh, sit back and endure. After all, the flight wasn't very long, and I had a much-anticipated journey to India to daydream about. After a layover in Moscow, I was heading to New Delhi. I was excited at the prospect of seeing the Taj Mahal (and shedding my winter clothes).

When we landed in Moscow, I didn't want to waste six hours waiting in the airport when such an exotic city was just outside the doors, so my travel companion and I hunted down a taxi driver willing to take us on a tour. Red Square, with its St. Basil's Cathedral (below), is a tourist must-see, so it was our first stop. Duly impressed by their size and beauty, we then jumped back in the cab to continue our whirlwind tour past churches, squares, statues and parliament buildings.

When our driver finally deposited us back at the airport, I was more than ready to board the plane to India. Except for the outfit in the above photo, I had left all of my winter clothes in Poland. It was a relatively mild day for a Russian winter, but I was chilled to the bone and ready to take in some sunshine and greenery.

The flight from Moscow to New Delhi was considerably longer than the one from Warsaw, and our Aeroflot jet was considerably larger. It was also considerably older. My seatbelt barely functioned, and the bolts holding our seats in place were loose enough to jiggle. I could even have walked down into the luggage bay if I had wanted -- the staircase was right next to our seats. (Sometimes I wonder if I had imagined the stairs, but it's been stuck in my memory for so long it must be true.)

After that morning's experience, I was almost thankful when the flight attendants ignored us. They seemed far more interested in flirting with the wealthy-looking gentlemen sitting a few aisles away than in letting the rest of us have our beverages and snacks.

Hungry, thirsty, and barely strapped into my seat, I finally dozed off. A couple hours later, I was jolted awake by the sound of screeching tires as they met the ground. Excited, I thought we had finally arrived in New Delhi before it dawned on me that we were due in the morning -- and wherever we were, it was still night. Apparently we had made an unannounced and unsheduled stop. At this point, I decided ignorance was bliss and forced myself to drift back into dreamland. The next time we touched down, I really was in India, and a whole new adventure was about to begin.