There was a crash of an Air India jet last week.  I know it wasn’t the plane I was on – it’s newer than that.

On November 6, 2005, I flew from New Delhi to Hyderabad on an Air India jet.  I could look up the flight number if necessary.

It was a late-night flight, and the sun rose while we were in the air.

It illuminated my breakfast very well. I have no idea what this is – no photos of the menu (if there was one).

Coming in to Hyderabad, I got to see tanker trucks parked for the night

and a big factory that struck me as a bit odd in retrospect:

then I figured it out. There’s no parking lot! I’m not sure if the workers all use auto-rickshaws or two-wheelers to get there, or if the straight lines on the lower left of the building are dormitories.

We landed safely

and were soon encouraged to follow traffic rules

India, I miss you. Part of it, I’m sure, is the first-class treatment I got from the people. On this flight I had forgotten that I had a pocket knife still with me, standing in line at the airport. This was a knife my uncle gave me, imported from Europe.

And once I remembered it, my luggage was packed away.  I stuffed it into my carry-on, but they found it (good security!  Bad for Steve!).  And then boom: first-class service.  They offered to put it into an envelope, have the pilots carry it in the cockpit, and return it to me at the other end of the trip.  And that’s exactly what happened.  I’m still using the knife today.

Thanks, Air India.