“Excuse me? Does your phone work in India?”

           After making it through the surprisingly efficient line at customs in the brand new Air India terminal, and then surprisingly having no trouble claiming my luggage and changing my dollars for rupees, I headed for the firing squad of drivers awaiting their corresponding travelers.    Pacing up and down the line, I searched intently for my name among the sea of placards.  After about ten minutes of unsuccessful searching, I did what I always do when I feel lost or abandoned.  I looked for someone smarted than I.  Unfortunately, by that time, all of the intelligent individuals in the crowd had found their respective rides, and I was stuck with the family from the New York security line with the overly confident father, the under-enthused daughter, and the appeasing mother who seemed to be the glue of sanity between them.

            “Sir, you said you’ve been here before, correct?”   I asked with a glint hope in my voice. “I don’t have a phone yet, does your phone work in India?”   He looked at me; his eyes mirrored my confusion.  He informed me that he could receive calls but not place them.  To which I responded, “Alright, if you have any luck, let me know.” I never saw them again.   I made my way over to the line of pay phones, where an attendant was there ready to assist me in placing a call and taking my money.  I showed the attendant the first number I wished to call.  I connected with Roopchand, the company’s driver who was tasked to pick me up.  However, though he was talking to me, and I to him, not much communication was taking place.  I hung up the phone.  “Sir, I can take American Dollars if you’d like”.  The call was 6.06 rupees (about 12 cents, American).   I gave him a ten-rupee bill and got exact change.  I then called the company’s administrative assistant, Kalpana, and informed her that I’d been there looking for about thirty minutes now, and Roopchand was no where to be found.  She instructed me to go outside and look for him there.

            Now I was hesitant of the outside world at this point.  I had read and heard countless stories of overzealous cab drivers at the New Delhi airport ready and willing to rip the luggage from the first incoherent Caucasian traveler in sight, and then fight amongst themselves over who was going to get the potential massively inflated fair.   I stood by the glass sliding doors and to the best of my ability, assessed the situation at hand.  It seemed that there was a second barricade between the arrivals and the rest of existence.  Feeling that I was all right as long as stayed on my side of the barricade, I ventured beyond the environment-controlled terminal and into the unknown in search of the elusive Roopchand.