"Just relax"

Kolkata's Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose Airport looks like something out of the sixties. We exit the plane on the tarmac and are loaded into a bus that sags on its wheels. We take a short rickety ride to the terminal. As we get off, a man behind me taps me on the shoulder. "Your first time in Kolkata?" he asks. "Yes," I answer as I put my backpack on. The man is young, with a modernly dressed wife and a daughter with a photogenic smile. "Enjoy yourself," he says simply. I nod my thanks as I get off into the sweltering heat.

We wait nervously for our bags. We have not seen them since New York and they contain our life for the next 10 months. Finally, we get both of our large backpacks. There is a third back--a regular suitcase--that we had to check at JFK. It does not appear and has not appeared when the luggage carrier stops. Jenna and I look helplessly at each other. All I know is that the toilet paper was in that bag. We are about to start searching for a help desk, when a man wearing an ID badge comes up to us. "Sir, is this your bag?" he says. Jenna and I see that is our bag. "Yes!" we cry in unison. "Namaste!" I fumble out unexpectedly. I am too happy to see the bag to care how I come across. The man looks weirdly at me and says, "Namaste."

We exchange our dollars for rupees (as especially pleasing exercise since the exchange is 44 rupees for one dollar), go through customs, and exit the airport into an oppressively hot night. At the door, behind a metal railing, is a young boy who looks to be no older than 15. He is holding a sign that says "KYLE PALMER, ATI". I wave him down. He nods back and starts walking briskly across a busy street. Jenna and I rush behind him. "Hello. What's your name?" The boy looks behind his shoulder as he is walking and flashes a smile: "Ahmed." I continue to pepper Ahmed with questions as we walk. His limited English makes his answers incomplete.

We reach a beat-up Ambassador. An older man meets us there and unlocks the trunk. He smiles has he takes our bags and lays them gently on top of a spare tire. The older man and Ahmed get in the front. Jenna and I get in the back. The roof is too short for me so I have to scrunch down in my seat. The older man who loaded our bags is the driver, and he rolls down his window with a manual crank. Ahmed does the same. Jenna and I do it, too. As the man pulls out of the airport parking lot, Ahmed looks back and says, "Just relax." Maybe he can sense our trepidation. Maybe he wants to be friendly. But relaxing is the last thing on our minds.