All that glitters in Europe, is not gold!

Ladies and gentlemen, I had written about the somewhat degrading processes that we need to face to get a Visa for a trip to the America/Europe earlier, here. The experience makes one ponder the futility of life for sure. I had also written about the, in my mind, completely unfair lampooning of Indian tourists, in this blog.

So therefore, for a change, let us my dear fellow Indians, bash the western ‘developed Europe’ a bit. 

Arming ourselves with the coveted Visa, self plus The Wife landed up at Heathrow airport a few weeks back. Taking the advice of Uncle Goldy (who had once travelled to Bhutan a few decades back, and is hence considered no less than Vasco De Gama in our family circles), it was decided that we would rush for immigration as soon as possible after landing to ‘beat the rush.’ 

The Wife however, felt that a trip to the bathroom enroute to immigration, would be a good idea. I stamped my dainty foot. I considered arguing too, but if there is anything that my keen sense of observation about life has taught me, it is that no force can stop a woman who needs to visit the bathroom. End result? The seven-minute delay saw hundreds of fellow passengers jump ahead. 

Notwithstanding, when we finally reached Immigration I was delighted, and even stunned a bit to see barely any crowd at the Immigration lines. People were just whizzing past the counter at about 5-10 seconds per individual.

‘Wow!’ I said.

‘Wow!’ added The Wife.

Wowing so, we lunged towards an empty counter, grinning (it turned out like idiots), passports held triumphantly in our hands. Only to be stopped by a security guard. He redirected us towards another area a couple of 100 feet ahead with the quiet efficiency of one who disappoints Indians for a living. Apparently, the empty counters were for passengers whose passports emitted the alluring aroma of the EU, America, Australia and some such. 

‘What the hell!’ I said.

‘What the hell!’ added The Wife.

For the queue here appeared to be so long that it seemed to have started from our start point, Hyderabad; and comprised, to my eye, mainly Indians, Pakistanis and Bangladeshis. This queue was NOT moving at 5-10 spi. As a matter of fact, it was hardly moving.

We joined the long queue. The thoughtful authorities, under the impression that us South Asians would only feel comfortable in conditions reminiscent of home, had created the climatic equivalent of Mumbai in early June – by having an enclosure devoid of air conditioning, or even ventilation. It would suffice to say that The Wife’s bathroom trip translated to an additional two very hot, very sweaty hours.

A couple of weeks later, having recovered from the immigration ordeal, we decided to continue with our onward journey to Europe. 

Our outgoing Easyjet flight to Berlin was scheduled from Gatwick Airport at 0800 hrs. The airport being about 75 km from our place of stay, we prudently decided to go to Gatwick the previous evening and stay the night in a hotel. We got up nice and early, and started heading for the hotel checkout. Only to be stumped by an SMS saying the flight had been cancelled! They did of course, ‘apologise for the inconvenience’, which really brightened our day.

Cursing (and yet glad for small mercies that we hadn’t yet checked out) we went back to our room and spent the next couple of hours trying to find alternate flights. Locked onto one with another airline at 1300 hrs at about Rs 40000 (yes Forty thousand!) per head, as against Rs 11000 paid earlier. And not to Berlin, but to Cologne! 

Beggars it is said can scarcely be choosers and hence this couple of beggars chose Cologne. Reached the airport, as all Indians do, ‘well in time’ at 1000 hrs, only to find the checkin counter closed. 

We waited. Silver lining? We were third in queue. 1030 hrs, then 1100 hrs.  The counter remained closed. The queue got longer. 1145 hrs. Still closed. Queue got even longer. Passengers started getting antsy. 

1200 hrs and a lady, old enough to be Sarojini Naidu’s contemporary, doddered over to the counter with stolid dignity. She then slowly put the paper spools, pens, staplers and other assorted ‘working gear’ onto the counter, one by one, with the deliberateness of someone handling the crown jewels of England. Thereafter, she pressed the power button on her terminal and waited patiently for it to boot up. So patiently that she dozed off. 

A slight noise woke her up and she looked mildly surprised that her terminal hadn’t booted up yet. She moved to an adjoining one, making several trips between the two terminals to shift her ‘working gear’ at a speed that just about beat continental drift. 

Time meanwhile, 1215 hrs. Finally, she called for help. You would have noticed that whenever some software help is needed, up steps an Indian. This time was no different. I felt a degree of pride. The two fussed over the system, alternating between the terminals till the technician called his superior, (another Indian of course. It made it all seem a family affair). The terminals finally got going at about 1230 hrs. 

Check in over, we rushed for security. 

The Wife sailed through. But me? I was hauled to one side and asked by the official, as officiously as possible, to open my bag and step aside. I did so nervously. He poked into the contents and came up with two bewildered bananas that The Wife has secreted into my bag.  The bananas were found blameless after some further Explosive Trace Detection checks and we were let through. 

Rushed to boarding gate. When our turn came however, the system started beeping maniacally, startling everyone, especially the security staff. Four of them encircled us, but at a discreet distance, keeping their hands firmly on their pistols. Things were getting hairy.

They looked at us nervously. We looked at them, even more nervously.

Turns out the ‘system’ could not find us. After a lot of frantic ‘phone calling’ and ‘walkie talkieing’ it was revealed that Sarojini Naidu’s contemporary had checked us in for, I don’t know why, India!  Maybe she felt that anyone holding an Indian passport, whatever they may profess orally, would deep in their hearts want nothing more than to go back home.

Hehehe! Everyone but us, had a hearty laugh.

Onwards then we headed to Cologne and Europe, where other than a minor ‘security’ incident due to the same two blasted bananas, immigration was smooth. Another short hop flight saw us land in Berlin.

Had four excellent days in Berlin/Potsdam and an even more exhilarating time at our next stop, Prague. If I was to recommend one trip to anyone, I would unhesitatingly point to Prague. It is breathtaking. 

Now it so happened that we had planned to take a train from Prague to our next stop, Munich. Reached the train station and were a bit surprised to see a large number of homeless people sprawled around in the small park opposite the station. Maybe the Ukraine war has been having a debilitating effect on the country I mansplained to The Wife. We noted however, that the homeless in Prague seemed better dressed than say, those in London. 

Only to find ourselves becoming one with the homeless a few minutes later. There was a bomb threat you see (yes such things happen in countries other than the ‘third world’) and the station had been sealed off. We were flummoxed and had no idea what to do next. Hence, we too sprawled in the same small park.  

Two hours later, the all clear was sounded, yielding a mad rush of about a million people headed for the station entrance. This, plus the fact that a large number of trains across various stations had been cancelled, had caused considerable confusion and system failures. So we just stood there scratching our heads. 

Fortunately, we found a young girl who took pity on our baffled looks and guided us in her Czech/German/hand gestures to our English/Hindi/face expressions  to the correct platform. More importantly (because train platforms in Europe can be quite long and trains comparatively smaller) she told us to go to the South end of the platform. 

The train was to depart in four minutes, so The Wife took off like a hare. I followed at a somewhat laboured walk. And I’ll tell you why. Because I being a man was left, in accordance with those unsolvable mysteries of life, the heavier pieces of luggage. The Wife, had accordingly picked up my much smaller bag allowing her freedom of hare like movement, and left her much, much larger one to me. 

We huffed to the platform, looking for the South or ‘S’ sign, sighted it and rushed to the far end of the platform. Disconcertingly, for it was now only two minutes to departure, the ‘S’ platform was sans train. We did sight a train at the other end of the platform though. And that is when we learnt that there is a sub-committee in the Czech Ministry of Tourism whose sole aim is to confuse tourists. For the ‘S’ in Czech stands for, haha, North. Now dear readers don’t go assuming that South would be ‘N’ then. For the same sub-committee has deemed it appropriate to nomenclature South as ‘J’.

Another sprint with me carrying the much, much larger bag resulted.  We caught the train just as it started moving out. Whew!

I will get back about the rest of our trip back to London via Munich, Heildelberg, Cologne and Brussels some other day. It would suffice to say for now that we carried with us the comforting thought that when it comes to creating chaos, Indians are not alone. Inefficiency and generated confusion travel freely across borders, without Visas, with or without bananas.

All that glitters is indeed not gold. Not in Europe.