It was April 19, 1979. Approx 10 PM at Delhi Airport at the international departures terminal.

After eight months of traveling (mostly solo) through southeast Asia and India, I was going home.  Returning for the same reason so many travelers in their 20s do an about face home – lack of funds.  Looking at the bright side, it was becoming painfully hot in India, so exiting the heat seemed a worthy idea.  But “reality” was calling me home – time to figure out what to do with my life.

Like most of my experiences in India, this night was another sensory overload, full of emotion – sadness, excitement, nervousness – you name it.  And on top of everything, I had just said goodbye to the handsome travel agent from whom I bought my plane ticket. I liked Anoop, right up until about a week ago when he proposed to me, telling me that,  “he had dreamed of me wearing a red wedding sari.”  Quite hilarious if he hadn’t been serious. “Mrs. Anoop Sharma?” No, I don’t think so!  And even after I politely turned him down, the guy still hoped that I’d change my mind. He’d obviously watched too many Bollywood movies.

My goodbye had been firm and rather bitchy because I didn’t want him obsessing over me. But now, in the crowded and chaotic departure lounge, I felt guilty. I could have been more gentle with him. But what was done, was done.

Goodbyes are hard. It had been hard to say goodbye to my parents last August. It had been hard to say goodbye to some of my travel companions over the past several months. And it was hard to say goodbye to this epic adventure. But it was over and I was heading back to my old life.

Traveling on an Iraqi Airways charter flight (seriously!), I had checked my grungy, bulky backpack through to London. Once there, I hoped to have enough money to buy a one-way ticket to somewhere in the U.S. – as close as possible to my hometown in Michigan. I could only guess how much that onward ticket would cost. There was no way to know for certain until I got to Heathrow.

Finally they announced my flight. I stepped out of the raucous departure lounge into the cool quiet night to board the bus that would take me to the plane. As we approached the 747, I noticed a mountain of luggage lying around the tarmac. What the #*@*??

We were instructed to identify our luggage and load it onto a luggage cart.  In the dark.

(NOTE: This was MANY years before TSA-type security screening, clearly.)

Hundreds of passengers tripped over each other, wrestling with heavy luggage.  In the dark.  My backpack was easy to spot among the hundreds of black suitcases. I heaved it onto the luggage cart and trudged up the stairs, where staffers were doing yet another inspection of everyone’s carry-on bag. In the dark.

Even for India, this was extraordinarily confusing and chaotic.

Finally, I was inside the aircraft. It was at this point that I realized that there were no seat assignments. Seating was first-come, first-served.  I then realized that there was no designated non-smoking section. Flight attendants were oblivious and offered no assistance. At least they were consistent.

There was a commotion up ahead, and I saw a western woman wagging her finger at a portly Middle Eastern man. “No smoking in this section,” she announced with authority in an unmistakable French accent.

“I’m sitting with her!” I decided.

Turns out that I was one of exactly three Westerners on a flight filled with Indians and Middle Easterners.

The French woman’s name was Brigit, and she was making a quick trip to Paris. The other was Ed Reinhart, a sixty-something businessman from Washington, D.C. who’d had meetings with Indian executives and was now heading to Istanbul to present a research paper to a group of scientists. I settled in and got to know them:

Ed worked for the Rand Corporation and is probably a genius. But he asked good questions and listened intently as I shared some of my adventures. He called me a “gutsy lady.” I was glad for the conversation and the distraction from my anxiety. Ed was the best thing about the flight, besides Brigit, who quickly and officiously confronted anyone daring to light a cigarette in her self-designated non-smoking section next to the galley!

(NOTE: I’ve stayed connected with Ed for all these years, even B.F. – before Facebook.)

Not surprisingly, our flight left Delhi about two hours late. We were supposed to stop in Dubai, but that airport was closed as a result of a cargo plane that recently crashed. So we were routed to Qatar, where we had to wait for passengers transferring from Dubai.

In my journal I wrote, “I try to get some sleep but am not successful. Funny – I can sleep on an Indian train, but have trouble sleeping in these comfortable airplane seats!” Comfortable airplane seats???  That is a phrase I haven’t uttered in the last 30 years, I can tell you that!

By the time we reached Baghdad, not surprisingly, my connection to London has long since departed, so they booked me to Athens, with a connection to Copenhagen, and from there I was on standby for the flight to Heathrow. When I finally reached London, I remember the culture shock of being back in “civilization” took me for a loop.

I was able to buy a ticket to Detroit for £73 (about $160). My backpack, miraculously, had made all those flight connections. I placed a collect call to my Mom (who was elated), ate a bowl of Sugar Frosted Flakes and washed my hair with warm water in a bathroom sink.  Oh the life of an International traveler.  And the pièce de résistance – I spent the night sleeping on a big comfy couch – for free!

The saga ends there … as the onward flight was flawless and uneventful. Arriving in Detroit on schedule, the Customs agent inspected every nook and cranny of my backpack, looking for drugs, no doubt, contraband consistent with other twenty-somethings who had wandered the world with few earthly possessions and even less money.  I was delighted my friends were there to meet me and drive me to Saginaw.  The highlight of the drive? A much-needed stop at McDonald’s.

My family and friends were happy to see me. My brother had even put a big “welcome home” sign on the garage. My Dad was relieved I hadn’t shaved my head and wasn’t wearing orange robes. My Mom had just quit the job she had taken to distract her from constant worry.  Marilyn was home.  Things were back to normal.  Everyone said, “We’re so glad you haven’t changed.”

Of course, they were wrong.