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(Transit Lounge, Dubai International Airport, circa 2007)


He answered
that he was from far Kazakhstan, 
“Exotic place,” he added,
which I know but could not pinpoint 
on my mental map.

She smiled
and said, “I am from India somewhere
farther to the northeast bordering China.”
“Hence her fairer skin,” I thought.

And she piped in,
“From Ethiopia,” and I could not
but think of just how much she paid
to have her curly hair straightened. 

From the counter
of their air-conditioned, compact
caravanserai, they all chorused 
the suggestion that I opt
for king prawn salad 
which, indeed, was so delicious
to the hungry eyes but just so rich
for my already travel-thinned billfold.

Thus I settled
for some salmon sandwich
and a bowl of curly noodles
that the Chinese had perfected 
long ago in those steaming kitchens
of their fabled silk road inns.

“Fragrant tea
from out the hot and humid hills 
of southern India,” the Ethiopian
said with flourish, bringing me
my mug to wash away
the fishy taste still lingering 
along the silk roads 
of my taste buds, as I vainly tried
to pinpoint far Kazakhstan
on my travel-weary mental map
while waiting, sleepy, for the call 
to put me, once more, 
on my way.

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