I swear, that's who the guy who drove me the four hours from the airport to my hotel looked like.
Well, if Danny Pintauro were Indian, anyway.
SO. I'm here. 26 and a half hours of travel, door-to-door. It's four something in the morning here, not that my hotel room has a clock for me to be sure. Consider it a reasonably informed guess. I think I'm due in the office here later this morning, but I'm not totally sure. Hopefully I'll get that figured out shortly.
Other than the bare fact of having made it to India, there's not a lot to report. The CDG airport in Paris is utterly dreadful; I had to take three different shuttlebuses to get to my conecting gate. And here I thought a two-hour layover was plenty. Besides that, I have been in planes and cars, driving through the dark. I think every corner we passed had the same tan-colored, flop-eared dog. I could be mistaken.
More to follow later, after I've had a bit of rest and a day in the office. Wish me luck! This is still irretrievably strange.