In Transit (Boston to Kathmandu)

We are waiting at the transit desk in the Delhi airport. We’ve been here 45 minutes trying to determine whether, as in-transit passengers, we can pass through security to get to bunk beds—which we pay for by the hour, or whether we’ll simply have to camp out on the floor until we can board our flight at 6:30 a.m. More precisely, we are next to a PepsiCo vending machine. On it, there is a semi-angry looking Indian man painted green and red and doing some sort of karate chop. I want to buy bottled water. A young Indian with a turban approaches. It appears his sole job is to sell items from the vending machine. We buy three bottles of Himalayan brand water. A few minutes later, Betsy and I decide Lucie and Eli should try nimbu pani, a lemon water that saved Betsy and I from the oppressive heat when we were in Delhi 5 years ago and the mercury soared to 115 degrees. Again, the vending machine man approaches, appearing from nowhere like a genie out of a bottle. He charges us 20 rupees above the advertised price, gives us the bottle (brand name = Nimbooz – no alcohol), and writes us a receipt. The stuff is good!
We are still waiting to determine where we’ll spend the night and whether we should pass through security. Going much further than where we’re at will likely earn us a scolding (or worse) because we don’t have visas for India. We notice a man wearing a distinctly Nepali hat (someone we tried to follow when we exited the plane but his pace was too quick for us—especially with 6 carry-on items and a trombone in tow). He’s already spoken with the folks at the transit counter and emerges with two suitcases. He’s wearing a grin that would be more fitting if he’d just returned from a safari, shortly after the kill.