The unspeakable joy of a permanent downgrade

LEAVING Hong Kong for my first trip overseas in over 2 years was somewhat unusual. The airport was empty. I walked towards my departure gate. It was set at the farthest node of the terminal like some secret gangrenous embarrassment. Upgrades were evident along the way. The colourful Covid-hugging fabric seats had been replaced with bland wipe-down hard plastic grey. Angular work spaces with charging points had sprung up. And fresh water dispensing areas were sprouting. Hurrah.

Water fountains have been seemingly installed at Hong Kong Airport to tease rather than actually work and they have long been a pet peeve. It was reassuring then to spot a few well-marked water stations coming up. I walked up to one. Stretched across the washbasin was a strip with the words: “DO NOT ENTER”. I have never successfully entered a washbasin or felt the need to do so, so I pootled off.

From empty airport to an empty plane bound for New Delhi where Cathay Pacific stewardesses heroically scurried about for 5 hours asking the few passengers to remain seated and to don masks (before the long return flight to avoid the quarantine). Then the stampede at Delhi Airport through a health declaration counter where a lone man slept at one end, brusque immigration, and the duty-free gauntlet, before passing customs and exiting into the bored throng outside. It was all deliciously quick. And it was hot.