I'm sitting in the departure lounge of gate B1 at the Albuquerque International Sunport. (Apparently this airport used to run a government-subsidized service to and from Mexico City, which I now realize was entirely intended to get the 'international' in the name and thereby legitimize an otherwise provincial and neglected spoke of the domestic flight-wheel).
My flight to Delhi leaves in roughly 11 hours, counting time differences. Looking at my fellow passengers yields a queer feeling: unlike all my previous flights, I am now an exception: I am not going to see family, do business, or return from a trip to Albuquerque. Every person I look at yields the thought: are you going to India?
Of course they aren't.
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