We made it to the airport, and from what I could see of Islamabad through the window of the taxi, I wasn’t missing much by leaving right away. At the steamy terminal building, I paid the driver and shouldered my bags through the masses of people loitering there. I had to ask a couple of them for the location of the PIA ticket counter, but eventually I found it and waited until it was my turn at the glass window. It reminded me a lot of the glass window at the Moscow airport, and I hoped this wasn’t going to be a repeat performance of that fiasco.

But the man behind the glass spoke English this time, and when I inquired about a flight to Lahore, he told me that I could get on one at 1:10 that afternoon. “How much?” I asked, though it didn’t really matter; I was prepared to pay almost any amount by then. “1400 rupees for business class, 1100 for economy,” he replied. “I’ll take business class,” I said, feeling that I had earned a little comfort, and besides, it was only about $8 more.

So he handed me my ticket, and I looked around for a place to grab some breakfast. The pickings were mighty slim. In fact, there seemed to be only one restaurant in the whole terminal building, a place advertising fast food. Not exactly what I had in mind, but I was hungry enough to eat almost anything. As it turned out, the offerings were much better than I had expected, and I had a thin omelet, some toast, jam, and milky tea to perk up my spirits.

Thus refreshed, I made my way over to the departure security check, and after satisfying the police that I wasn’t carrying and weapons, drugs or alcohol, was ushered into the check-in hall. Since my flight wasn’t leaving for another four hours, I had to cool my heels on one of the broken seats in the vast room, but hey, I figured, at least they had seats.

So I sat there, flies buzzing all over me in the warm room, waiting for check-in for my flight to begin. I must have looked pretty disreputable, since many Pakistanis chose to stand around rather than take the seat next to me. But after sitting there for three hours, while I read all the stuff my guide books had to say about Lahore, the little departure light finally clicked on next to my flight on the departure board, and I dragged my bags over to the check-in counter.

I was feeling so much better (in comparison) by this time that I joked with the ticket agent that she may not want to seat anyone next to me, as I had just survived a sixteen hour bus ride, and hadn’t had a chance to clean up yet. But she evidently failed to see the humor in that, and gave me my boarding pass without even glancing up. Ah well, some people just don’t find smelly foreigners funny, I guess.

Since there was still a half hour before boarding began, I took my shoulder bag with my soap and towel into the bathroom, and cleaned the road grime off my face and arms. There wasn’t anything I could do about my clothes, though, and I hoped that whoever got stuck next to me had a defective sniffer.

Then boarding was announced, and we were bused out to the 737 for the half-hour flight to Lahore. Some poor Pakistani businessman in an immaculate suit won the jackpot, but he didn’t seem to notice any unpleasant smells emanating from me, or if he did, he was polite enough not to react to them.

We landed in Lahore and as soon as I stepped off the plane the heat and the humidity whacked me like a sledgehammer. The air was as cloudy as a steam bath, and rivulets of sweat started running down my arms before I had even made it to the terminal building. Yeow, this was really something, much worse than I had ever experienced in Mexico. Once inside the broiling terminal building, a quick glance at my thermometer showed the temperature to be 104 degrees, and I figured the humidity must be around 99.9 percent. Impressive.

After getting my bag from the conveyor belt, I made my way upstairs to confirm my flight to Bangkok with Thai Airlines, and then waded into the sea of touts and taxi drivers clamoring for my business. I picked one at random, and asked him for his price to the Services International Hotel, the least expensive of the supposedly top-end hotels listed in my guide book, and close to the airport. He started with 200 rupees, I countered 100, and we settled on 150. Just like that, I was in his air-conditioned taxi, with the blowers relieving me with cool air.

He asked me again for the hotel name as he slipped some sort of leaf-wrapped substance into his mouth, and I noticed that his teeth were stained a bright orange. “Services International” I told him. “Oh, is closed, sir!” Yeah, right, I thought, the old bait and switch. “I show you!” he protested when I looked at him skeptically. “OK, show me.” And we set off down the airport road, while I checked the map in my guidebook to make sure we were heading for the right hotel.

Sure enough, there it was, apparently abandoned. Perhaps they’d been a bit too reasonable with their prices, I wondered, and considered my next option. “I show you nice hotel” my driver offered, spitting out some of his orange gunk on me as he said the word “nice.” “How much?” I asked. “Maybe, 1500, 2000 rupees, is very nice!” He sprayed me again. “OK, show me.”

He drove me towards the center of town, and turned off on a narrow, dusty road. The hotel there looked fairly new, but there was a big guy leaning on a car in the parking lot with an AK-47 slung over his shoulder, and the neighborhood looked like his type was needed to keep the guests safe. I wandered inside and asked the desk clerk for the rate. “You look at room first, yes?” OK, I thought, not a bad idea. Though fairly new, the carpets were badly stained, and the room didn’t look all that clean either. But the clincher was the view out the window; to a brick wall four feet away. No, I couldn’t see staring at a brick wall for three days, so I went back downstairs and told them I’d get back to them if I couldn’t find anything better.

So the driver loaded up my bags again, and we set out for the Ambassador hotel, the next one listed among the top-end hotels. It was in a better neighborhood, right downtown off the main road, called The Mall. But the desk clerk wanted 5000 rupees ($120) for the night. Even though I had convinced myself to splurge, that was a bit too rich for my blood, so I grimaced and asked him if he had anything cheaper. Without hesitating, he came down to 3000 rupees and threw in free breakfast. Wow, that was easy, I thought. They must be really empty. I decided to take it.

So I hung out the Do Not Disturb sign, locked the door, stripped off my smelly clothes, and had a very long and refreshing shower. I was going to live it up for a few days, and forget about the road.

I lounged around for the rest of the afternoon, watching Princess Diana’s funeral on the TV, and then wandered down to the restaurant for dinner. It was a buffet, something I usually avoid, but this one had a large selection of very spicy Pakistani fare, and I enjoyed sampling something from all the steam tables. The room was empty except for me and a small group of German tourists, but in the corner a couple of musicians were playing a sitar and tablas. Minnie-ji and Pathan Boone must have had the night off, and so we were entertained with traditional Punjabi music, which pleased me no end. Not bad for five bucks, I thought. Though a tall, cool gin and tonic would have really hit the spot. Not much chance of that in Pakistan, though, sadly.

Still, a good filling meal. And after returning to my room, I managed to get a short phone call through to Vilma to make sure she still loved me. She said she did, so then everything was good with the world, and I turned off the lights and went to sleep.