As a somewhat desi person, and the child of a decided nationalist, I'm doomed to be a hapless passenger on the Pakistan International Airlines.

Granted, there have been a few documented instances of 'flight-outside-the-fright' where I was lucky to try the carrier of other less accident prone and rule-following nations, but those have been few and far between. Generally, we fly PIA whether we like it or not. And we do not like it.

Last month's visit to the US was no exception to this. When my dad asked for the particulars of my upcoming journey - when, where, on what - I specifically said "anything but PIA." My father leveled his eyes to mine with a resigned but touchy understanding and answered "I'll try." That means, I'll ASK the prices of the other airlines, but you know very well that PIA will be the cheapest, so that's what you get.

My dad does understand though. He's a far more seasoned traveler than I, and a connoisseur of the in-flight experience. He knows the value of those squashy little pillows, the flimsy acrylic blankets, the airline food, comfortable seating, dutiful stewards and tolerable bathrooms. It's not that PIA doesn't provide these things. They do, in fits and starts.

Typically when you fly PIA, those necessary pillows will be passed out - to some of the passengers. Apparently, they take their leave for airborne hospitality services from the homeland, where many sleep without pillows, or use some so hard you wonder who is getting the greater cushioning in the bargain - your skull or your pillow.

If you don't believe me, think of those gaun/gol takian that seem to be in everyone's living room. The only thing those things could be good for is for launching at India during times of unneighborliness. They are in no way comforting. Here, pillows are for whooses. I think the PIA staff figure if you're namby-pamby enough to want a pillow, you'll have to ask for it, following which the uppity stewardess with the purple skin and fake hair-scrunchy may and may not remember to provide one to you.

The plastic-packed blankets though, are nearly ALWAYS passed out to all passengers. That's because I think that PIA has probably learned the hard way that after delivering a cargo of frozen passengers. They tend to be a bit overly generous with the air conditioning system, forgetting that the upper atmosphere is not the scorching tropics they come from and doesn't need to be battled with the same zealous knob turning.

The problem is they don't give you ENOUGH blanket. I'm one of those people with perpetually blue fingers who dies in autumn and spring and spends most winters as a popsicle. I need all the blankets they can muster when I'm on a PIA flight, but all I get is my sad single allotment.

Or maybe I'm getting it wrong. I could accidentally have booked my seat in the refrigerated cargo area without having realized it. Or maybe PIA is knowingly refrigerating all its flights for free as an added service to all those homelanders who've clandestinely packed perishable mithai, fruits, juice and other foods in their carry-on. I'm sure it's greatly appreciated.

The food on PIA isn't so bad. I mean, comparatively speaking. All airline meals sit like a rock in the belly and cause heartburn for hours, so it would be unfair to expect otherwise. What bothers me though, is that for a Pakistani airline, they seem to do Pakistani food shabbily and without defense. If a Pakistani airline, practically owned by the Pakistani government, can't make a decent salan and pilao, then something is wrong in the world.

If you don't get the tolerable continental (which is always either a chicken sandwich or slimed baked chicken), then you're stuck with what we call Curry-Slurry. In that 7X4 inch aluminum box they commit more crimes against the desi cooking tradition then I manage in months, and if you've eaten my biryani halva, you know that is something. They use that little space to include a small portion of grease-soaked rice, congealed meat mush and a vegetable side containing an odd mix of overly hard and overly soft peas, potatoes and carrots. It's that magical combination that's high on pepper but short on taste and completely indigestible - the hallmark of cheap cooking.

But I can't really blame PIA for the seating issues I sometimes face. They don't make the planes. They just run them badly. And economy class is a tight fit in any airline. The problem with PIA seating is the company.

I always seem to be placed beside some old dear who, immediately upon take-off will remove her shoes and socks, loosen her shawl, and pull her feet under her. She'll then proceed to ooze over the arm-rest that guards the sovereign 1.5 feet of territory you paid to occupy for 20 odd hours and will eventually reach your shoulder or arm. She also tends to ask you to repeat all the announcements given by the staff, as well as fill out for her any and all forms the airline expects.

But still, this type does have its merits. The ladies are usually very attentive and are nice to talk to if you're feeling inclined. And I don't mind sparing a few inches of my seat if it helps make their flight more bearable. Economy class is uncomfortable enough when you're a young, healthy and smallish person, so I imagine it's torture if you're ailing, elderly or finding the seat a tight fit. At least I'm not sitting beside the least savory of all flight neighbors - the 'attentive' young Pakistani male. *shudders*

The stewards and stewardesses, however, are completely the domain and responsibility of the airline. I remember when I was younger the airline hospitality staff only came in two varieties - evil and attitudinal or kind and beneficent. These classifications, of course, all depended on whether they gave you that extra glass of Sprite you wanted and provided crayons and coloring pages unasked or if they smiled through clenched teeth, okaying condescendingly to your request only to disappear for the rest of the flight.

Now that I'm older, the labels have changed to harried and confused and harried and irritated. I think it's because I no longer want that hard-found extra glass of pop or coloring book. I only ask that my stewards and stewardesses do the basics - like remember to offer the continental instead of slapping down Curry-Slurry unasked, not passing over me when they're handing out newspapers as my gender and age doesn't mean I'm allergic to information, silencing the child behind me who's been screaming 'Yay!' to a beat for the past half hour with a kick to my seat to go with each shout and occasionally asking if everything is alright.

But we rarely seem to get all that. Airplane hosting is a hard job, what with having to stay thin on a diet of prefab slop and salted peanuts, the demands of needy passengers, having to contain wild children, having to smilingly handle constant unwanted passes, air turbulence, stiff hair, caked makeup and insecurity, so it's all good. I bear them in good humor and hope they have time when we land to relax, get some quiet time, and maybe rethink their career choice.

Last but not least - the cubicle of despair, the tiny box of horror, the flying torture pit - the plane bathroom. I shall not speak of the bathrooms on board a PIA flight except to say that they look EXACTLY like ANY public bathroom in Pakistan that doesn't have a full-time minder on hand to dole out the toilet paper, flush your toilet, dry your hands and wait for a tip - which is abominable. Shame on all of us.

That wraps up my PIA experience this year. I got to the States and back in one piece, Subhanallah. Next time though, could I please PLEASE do another airline, hmm abbu?

Um, hey, I’m back in Isb. Haven’t informed my office, or the world at large yet, but I thought you guys should know.

I can’t really sit and sort out my experiences from the past month and some. There have just been too many, too fast, and too overwhelming. What I CAN do though, is catalog the stuff in my suitcase. Or better yet, I could just enlistify all the things I took home with me from my vacation in the States.

Here we go...

* A mondobeyondo head-cold and minor respiratory infection. That mild Chicago summer was killer for me. I’ve been in tropics too long. I’m lucky I got out alive.

* Two new nicknames from my week as a counselor at Muslim Girls’ Camp – ADD Woman and Kenny – one for my habit of wandering off and looking to the sky during meetings and lectures and the other due to similarities noticed between myself while hooded and a one-dimensional death-prone cartoon character on Southpark.

*A long-handled blue ice-cream scoop (thanks Baji!).

* A Trogdor shoulder bag (again, props to the T). I was looking forward to using it as my in-flight carryon, but decided that a bag with “The Burninator” on the shoulder of my Muzlamical personage might worry the airport security.

* A yellow Bissel-block man accidentally dropped into my suitcase by my 10-month old nephew as he sat in the midst of my things, helping me to pack in his own gooey way.

* A renewal of some excellent friendships and the formation of even more new ones. You girls know who you are *sniff.* We’re readying Chateau de Chateau for your en-mass invasion this winter.

* A Playstation 2, Dance Dance Revolution Max and playing pad from aforementioned excellent but insane friends.

* My traditional camp take-away - poison ivy - from that last counselor challenge hike. It’s not smart to nominate yourself as a token blind person when you’ve got a weird magnetism for all things contagious.

* Matching bruises from the same hike.

* A wardrobe of American clothing that I’ll probably never wear again. If anyone in Islamabad wants some neato shirts, lemme know.

* Grandma magic and the promise of a visit, if only Abez and myself manage coordinate our eventual marriages.

* A 2-inch bendable Spongebob Squarepants in a bunny suit procured from a fifty-cent machine in Petco.

*Fake gnarly teeth.

*Memories.

That’s about it. Yep. Now I guess I should go and unpack and stuff.

We have been in the States for exactly 38 days and today is our last. Funny how even a vacation in the 'Real World' causes you to measure each moment. We race even when relaxing.

Our plane leaves tonight. This has been fun, but it’s time to go home now. I am ready to return to exile.

Please pray for a safe journey.

*staggers in the door*
*sheds giant duffle bags*
*throws off mandatory road-trip stupid hat*
*tosses down purse*
*collapses*

I’ve gotten back to my elder bro’s house, which is sort of command central while we’re in the US, following a week down in Indiana. Most of the time was spent in the magical and marvelous company of my splendiferous grandmother – the one and only Gramma – eater of chocolate, watcher of Matlock and Westerns, keeper of cringe-worthy homevideos of yore, reliquary of wonderful wisdom, distributor of popsicles and living love and light. My mom’s mom is the salt of the earth, and if any of you say otherwise, well then… no Hersey’s kisses for you!

But yeah, adventures at Gramma’s will be reserved for another blog. Right now, I wanna say thanks to Cybermom, the very own mother of our globetrotting lawyer on the loose- T-baji. She played hostess with the mostess for me and Abez for two nights when we came down to attend T-baji’s engagement party. She made sure we were well fed, coffeed, caked, mithaid, Derby pied, entertained and slept, all while masterfully managing a house full of guests and planning a great bash. I aspire to such domestic greatness and tip my hat to you.

But if I’m passing out thankyous, I gotta drop props to Chai for being the mad-woman she is, renting a car and making the three hour drive alone down the backroads of rural Midwestria to my grandmother’s so we could party with the family. You, my dahling dear, are crazy and beautiful.

And if it weren’t for fellow Muslim of multiracial origin Marshawn (who is supposed to be learning the Thriller dance so we can both perform it somewhere, sometime) we’d have never made it home. Jazakallah and thank you for getting us back to the white house on the hill alive and well junked even though I know you were feeling poorly.

The last kind soul to step forward and help get wayward Abez and Aniraz back to Chicago was their own elder bro - Z1. Muchos gracias gringo, for coming to get us late at night when you were sick and tired. I'll make it up to you in fewer younger sister smart-alleck remarks and greater goodwill, promise.

And thanks Ismo, for schooling me in pool and running laps with me around the basement. I’m still tryna get Chai to make a kid-bro swap, but she has politely declined. Hmph.

I think I’m on a roll here. Now I gotta thank my Aunt Elaine and Uncle Les. You two have always made we out-of-place Waki-half-Pakis feel welcome and loved despite our obvious weirdness. Thanks for the fish-fry, graham crackers and company. You’re my favorite river-rats.

I dunno if the rest of my Hoosier relations read my blog, but I’ll send a shout-out to ya’ll anyways. Thanks to Uncle Rusty for the rib-cracking bearhug, Aunt Linda for the chat and letting us use her house as the halfway point, and Aunt Nancy for the ice cream and sandwiches.

You guys know you’re invited to Islamabad. All yous. Let us try and return the kindness. ;)