Checking in

I am at Chicago's O'Hare airport, waiting to check in for a flight that leaves more than five hours from now. We are flying to Abu Dhabi, where we will change planes and arrive in Bombay about 25 hours from now, 31 hours from when we left home.

Traveling used to be glamorous. When I was a teenager living in Kuwait, I loved going to the airport and listening to the two-toned, smooth-sounding bell that preceded announcements usually spoken by a woman with a deep and competent voice. I used to watch the board that listed flights, the white letters and numbers on black flaps clicking quickly as they changed, indicating another plane had landed or taken off. Amman. Cairo. London. Frankfurt. Colombo. Delhi. I liked guessing who was heading where. And I was familiar with the airline logos.

I used to dress up to travel in those days, even wearing heels when I flew. Now I aim for comfort. Birkenstocks and capris and a comfortable shirt. Socks for when the air-conditioning is cranked high. My journeys are longer now, not the quick hop from Kuwait to Bombay or the slightly longer one from Kuwait to London.

Still, I am astonished that soon I will be in my parents' flat in Bombay. Just over 31 hours to get from door-to-door, from one world to another still seems like the blink of an eye.