Doah, Quatar
October 30, 2012
Altitude: 66'
Whoever said that "getting there is half the fun" hasn't flown Qatar Airways Flight QR928 from Montreal to Doha, Qatar. When I bought the ticket, I couldn't imagine who would be on this flight. But it was a full one, full of Indians and Pakistanis and Sri Lankans and the full Asian melting pot that's become Quebec of the 21st century.
It was also full of screaming children, and a large handful of white Westerners and more people in ethnic dress than I'd seen in a long time.
Welcome to Flight QR928!
Steve brought me to the airport late afternoon on Sunday the 28th. Until then the whole trip had been an abstract. But half way up I said to him, "It's really happening." I'd not wanted to think about it too much. Like many of my long-haul trips, I always get a bit anxious about what's in store.
But I was off, and the flight was, too...promptly at 11:40 pm. We flew directly north under a clear October night, past Quebec City, past Labrador, past the far northern polar communities of Kimmirut and Qukiqtarjuaq. We skirted the eastern shore of Baffin Island. By then the double whammy Xanax/Ambien cocktail had taken full affect. I was exhausted and slipped off to sleep.
I'd wake periodically--once over the fiords of Norway and another time over the eastern end of Turkey. Seven hours after takeoff, though, I was full awake--as were the legions of screaming babies.
We flew past Baghdad, and then past Tehran. By now the view from my window was an endless stretch of sand, and dry, sinuous rivers as we flew over the Arabian desert.
But I was trapped in an airplace--albeit a sleek Boeing 777. Paul Theroux once wrote that he disliked flying. "Whenever I'm in one...I always suspect that the land we are flying over is rich and wonderful and that I'm missing it all."
I did feel that way. I tried to imagine life in the tiny villages I saw dotting the desert landscape. I tried to imagine standing at the one point where the Tigres and Euphrates Rivers meet--the cradle of civilization we'd learned about in 6th grade Social Studies. I tried to imagine strolling through the streets of a safe Baghdad or Tehran before their worlds erupted in violence.
I'd flow this route before--sort of--on a Royal Jordanian Singapore to Amman red-eye. It was August 1990, Kuwait had just been invaded by Iraq, and I'd been dangerously sick in Singapore and actually checked myself out of the hospital to make the flght. I wanted nothing more than to get home. What with me being an American in a Muslim country and half out of my mind with fever, I thought it best to get out of Jordan as fast as I could, but that is another story in itself.
An hour before landing, we passed Kuwait and over Mesopotamia. Oh the stories that could have unfolded had this been a land crossing. Instead, I was trapped in a by-now dirty cabin listening to the white noise of whooshing air filters, and the never ceasing cry of babies.
I was more than delighted when we touched down at 5:40 pm local time--11 hours, seven minutes and 6,472 miles later.
Shuttles met us at the plane. I was the only person to get off and enter the arrivals terminal. Everyone else was enroute to a connecting flight somewhere further east.
By now I was spooked. Well...actually I was spooked a lot earlier. As I have often done, I silently whispered a prayer. OK, God...you get on the first shuttle bus and get there a few steps before me.
I had no visa, but getting one at the airport was easy. "Welcome to Quatar, Sir. I hope you enjoy your stay," said the immigration official. It seemed like a warm welcome.
I'd booked a room at The country's only youth hostel and the taxi driver got me there without incident. "Mr. Daniel?" asked the man at reception. "Welcome."
I was tired, but not exhausted. It wasn't late, but darkness had set in by 5:00 pm. I'd lost Monday, what with the long flight, and the fact that I'd slept seven hours thanks to the cocktail and the fact that we flew east through a short night and then a short day and by the fact that the windows on the flight were always closed. I was in the usual time warp that flights like this can do.
Shortly after I arrived, I met the only other guest in the hostel--a woman from Italy.
But that is a totally different story.
I was safely in the Middle East and the adventure had begun!
October 30, 2012
Altitude: 66'
Whoever said that "getting there is half the fun" hasn't flown Qatar Airways Flight QR928 from Montreal to Doha, Qatar. When I bought the ticket, I couldn't imagine who would be on this flight. But it was a full one, full of Indians and Pakistanis and Sri Lankans and the full Asian melting pot that's become Quebec of the 21st century.
It was also full of screaming children, and a large handful of white Westerners and more people in ethnic dress than I'd seen in a long time.
Welcome to Flight QR928!
Steve brought me to the airport late afternoon on Sunday the 28th. Until then the whole trip had been an abstract. But half way up I said to him, "It's really happening." I'd not wanted to think about it too much. Like many of my long-haul trips, I always get a bit anxious about what's in store.
But I was off, and the flight was, too...promptly at 11:40 pm. We flew directly north under a clear October night, past Quebec City, past Labrador, past the far northern polar communities of Kimmirut and Qukiqtarjuaq. We skirted the eastern shore of Baffin Island. By then the double whammy Xanax/Ambien cocktail had taken full affect. I was exhausted and slipped off to sleep.
I'd wake periodically--once over the fiords of Norway and another time over the eastern end of Turkey. Seven hours after takeoff, though, I was full awake--as were the legions of screaming babies.
We flew past Baghdad, and then past Tehran. By now the view from my window was an endless stretch of sand, and dry, sinuous rivers as we flew over the Arabian desert.
But I was trapped in an airplace--albeit a sleek Boeing 777. Paul Theroux once wrote that he disliked flying. "Whenever I'm in one...I always suspect that the land we are flying over is rich and wonderful and that I'm missing it all."
I did feel that way. I tried to imagine life in the tiny villages I saw dotting the desert landscape. I tried to imagine standing at the one point where the Tigres and Euphrates Rivers meet--the cradle of civilization we'd learned about in 6th grade Social Studies. I tried to imagine strolling through the streets of a safe Baghdad or Tehran before their worlds erupted in violence.
I'd flow this route before--sort of--on a Royal Jordanian Singapore to Amman red-eye. It was August 1990, Kuwait had just been invaded by Iraq, and I'd been dangerously sick in Singapore and actually checked myself out of the hospital to make the flght. I wanted nothing more than to get home. What with me being an American in a Muslim country and half out of my mind with fever, I thought it best to get out of Jordan as fast as I could, but that is another story in itself.
An hour before landing, we passed Kuwait and over Mesopotamia. Oh the stories that could have unfolded had this been a land crossing. Instead, I was trapped in a by-now dirty cabin listening to the white noise of whooshing air filters, and the never ceasing cry of babies.
I was more than delighted when we touched down at 5:40 pm local time--11 hours, seven minutes and 6,472 miles later.
Shuttles met us at the plane. I was the only person to get off and enter the arrivals terminal. Everyone else was enroute to a connecting flight somewhere further east.
By now I was spooked. Well...actually I was spooked a lot earlier. As I have often done, I silently whispered a prayer. OK, God...you get on the first shuttle bus and get there a few steps before me.
I had no visa, but getting one at the airport was easy. "Welcome to Quatar, Sir. I hope you enjoy your stay," said the immigration official. It seemed like a warm welcome.
I'd booked a room at The country's only youth hostel and the taxi driver got me there without incident. "Mr. Daniel?" asked the man at reception. "Welcome."
I was tired, but not exhausted. It wasn't late, but darkness had set in by 5:00 pm. I'd lost Monday, what with the long flight, and the fact that I'd slept seven hours thanks to the cocktail and the fact that we flew east through a short night and then a short day and by the fact that the windows on the flight were always closed. I was in the usual time warp that flights like this can do.
Shortly after I arrived, I met the only other guest in the hostel--a woman from Italy.
But that is a totally different story.
I was safely in the Middle East and the adventure had begun!
No comments:
Post a Comment