Getting off the island, part I (We shall not be moved)

Sometime around 11 PM, the company driver dropped off me, my mondo two suitcases, backpack, and one of the cats -- K having gotten himself a last-minute flight on Air Turkey (or Air Egoyan, or whatever it calls itself) that left early the next morning, which made it more sensible for him to take one last tearful trip with our trusty personal driver.

I mused over the irony of finally appreciating, on exit, having some tip-hungry man swoop in and commandeer my luggage cart, as I was pretty much helpless with it on my own. We glided up to the business class counter, and I triumphantly presented my ticket, passport, and, then, AmEx card.

"For the cat fees," I announced.
"Cat?" said the desk clerk, looking very anxious.

Gentle Readers, let us fast-forward about fifteen minutes.

"There is an embargo," the desk clerk declared.
"No, no, no, no," I said, smiling aggressively, "no embargo. Hot-weather embargo for pets under the plane. This is pet in the plane."
Nice fellow, I thought, but rather stupid.

Readers, click the button another ten minutes.

"So what you're saying is there's no way this cat is getting on the plane?"
"It is written policy. No flights over twelve hours."
"So why did Delta allow me to make a pet reservation for this flight?"
"It is written policy. No pets."

...And another ten minutes.

"You call this number right now! My boyfriend made the reservation. He can give you the details. Call him."
"It does not matter who I call. The cat is not getting on the plane."
"Call him!"

So, the clerk called K, and then I spoke briefly to K, and the upshot of everything seemed to be that yes, according to K, Delta made the pet reservation, but also that there was no way that either the cat or I was getting on the plane.

Meanwhile, the clerk took away my suitcases and set them somewhere behind the security area, called up the next person in line, and told me to go sit down. Since we were nowhere close to having a plan of action for remedying the situation, and since all the clerk seemed to care about was keeping me off the plane, rather than finding a plane I could get on, I refused to budge. Eventually the person behind me physically elbowed past. I hovered directly behind and continued to glower at the clerk. In between customers, I resumed my place in front of him and kept asking him what he planned to do to solve the problem that Delta had created. Finally, he consented to call the manager, said it would be ten minutes, and told me to go sit down.

I stayed put. At the next three ten-minute intervals (I'm not fresh off the boat; I know what an Indian "ten minutes" means), I resumed my demands for him to call the manager again.

After the third time, a seven-foot tall, four-foot wide security guard ambled up to me. He looked like he moonlighted in Atlantic City, and talked like Muhammad Ali.

"Ma'am, you gotta take a seat."
"If I do that, I'll still be here in the morning."
"That's not how things work here."
"That's exactly how things work here."
"We can't keep your luggage behind the gate like that."
"It's screened."
"It needs to be checked."
"So check it."
"Which flight?"
"You tell me."
"Lady, you need to take your bags and go sit down."
"No."
"Then we will take your bags and put them -- and you -- outside the terminal."
"Try it."

He retreated.

This might be a good time to mention that I'd been suffering from projectile diarrhea all day, that my back was in spasms, and I was shaking with abdominal pain. Frankly, I really wanted to go sit down. But absolutely nothing topped my desire to get out of India.

An assistant manager came out.
"Where is the cat?" he snapped at me.
"Here," I said, pointing to the carry-on Sherpa bag.
"Where?" he asked, not seeing a crate or kennel, and hence, in typical cultural fashion, not seeing anything at all.
"Here," I sighed, and pointed.
"Where?"
"HERE, DAMMIT!"
"DON'T TALK TO ME LIKE THAT!" He got right up in my face. I didn't step back. We stood for a long moment, sweating and trembling, and flared our nostrils at each other.
"PASSPORT!"

I slapped it into his hand. He looked at it.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, gave it back with an awkward little curtsy, and trotted off to confer with the security guy.

The manager was procured in under two minutes.

He looked both harried and reasonable. I brushed past the assistant manager with a snarl, put on my winningest smile, and calmly explained the situation.

"...so in short, Delta made a mistake, but all I really care about right now is this: How are we going to fix it?"

The manager looked both grateful and relieved.

"I have reviewed the reservation notes, and Delta did make a pet reservation by mistake --"

-- here I mentally called off the team of assassins I'd psychically deployed to hunt down K --

"--but I think we can get you on another flight that does take pets. Would Air France be ok?"

Would it! I waived my arm regally in the direction of the assistant manager so as to say "this is how you do it, you jerk."

"Why, Air France would be lovely."
"Can we move your bags over to the seating area, and have you take a seat?"
"But of course you can!"
"I'll just go make the final arrangements, and then I'll bring you your new ticket."

Some forty minutes later, I realized I'd been tricked and abandoned. Worse yet, I was really stuck: bereft of luggage cart, extra limbs, or a continent set of intestines, it was going to be very difficult to move the whole convoy in search of a Delta official I could kidnap and ransom for passage out of the country. And then I saw the loveliest of all lovely sights:

K.