I'm not saying it's the most pitiful thing in the world, but it certainly makes the list: the dorky, desperate hope that compels you to keep checking all the bags lurching past on the conveyor belt, even though you've checked them twice before.
Maybe third time's the charm! Maybe this time the navy blue suitcase that clearly isn't my navy blue suitcase will, um... magically be mine! Maybe it will contain all the stuff I'm generally indifferent to -- the 11 different iterations of breton-striped shirt, the mediocre hairbrush -- but now treasure with a fervor usually reserved for snake handling or fan fiction.
But nope, my suitcases decided to loiter in Frankfurt, for the pretzels and beer, apparently. Meanwhile, I arrived in Bangalore.
Unlike when I moved to China and my bags went missing for several days, however, this time I vowed to handle it with fewer tears and more equanimity. A man named Franklin is on the case, and when he told me that maybe my bags went to New Delhi, I did my best to smile beatifically. Who wouldn't want to go to Delhi? It's great there!
He said maybe they'd arrive tomorrow, but maybe not. Swell! I'll just toddle over to the village and buy a sari!
Welcome to India. I really am thrilled to be here.
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