I wasn’t paying attention and when I stepped off the plane, I was back in India. Woohoo! I would miss my cousin’s wedding, but I could go back to Rajasthan or hiking in the Ladakh. This misstep couldn’t have been planned better.
Parched from the flight, I asked the woman with the long braid where I could get a chai or a samosa. She scowled at me and shooed me away.
I tried to ask in Hindi.
She stopped sweeping the bathroom floor and stared me down.
Wait a minute… There are rows of toilets in these bathrooms. And they are each accompanied by trusty companions of toilet paper.
Oh no… I’m not in India. I’m in NY.
It seems like JFK is run entirely by Indians. Indians sweeping the floors, Indians selling magazines, Indians checking boarding passes. They must do it on purpose to trick hopeful tourists returning from year-long trips abroad. Those jokers.