American Diary

Not All Water Sparkles

My son-in-law had upgraded us to “Premier Class” for our flight from Chicago to Los Angeles. As we settled into the comfortable-looking leather seats, the haggard, harassed, aged air hostess lumbered up to us and demanded in a rasping voice, “Anything to drink?” Why not? So, “Champagne,” said I. “No champagne,” came the response. “A glass of white wine, perhaps.” “Sure,” she said, flinging a plastic cup of the most ghastly plonk at me, and a diet coke for the wife. There followed an unappetising plate of cold pasta (no choice, the lone item on the menu). Arriving in LA, it took nearly an hour for our luggage to surface. Where on earth was the famed excellence of the services industry in the private sector? Oh, Air India, why don’t you fly to the West Coast?

So, we took the train on the return journey from Los Angeles to Chicago. That’s 2,500 miles through six states—California, Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado, Kansas, Illinois—and over 45 hours, about as long as from Thiruvananthapuram to Delhi. My first. To discover that the USA is not, as one had imagined, a congeries of similar-looking airports, but a land of the most amazing geographical diversity and social inequalities. For even as the train pulled out of Los Angeles, the underside of American prosperity came into view, ramshackle shacks housing the really poor and deprived, the railway track, home to the flotsam and jetsam of the unsuccessful, abandoned pick-ups in the backyard, junk and twisted scrap, not suburban gardens, to deck the environment, The Grapes of Wrath in reverse gear.

The journey began with unintelligible announcements in incomprehensible accents. “There even are places where English completely disappears/ In America, they haven’t spoken it for years!”: Prof Higgins in My Fair Lady. Fortunately, we have our daughter with us who, after eight years in America, serves as our interpreter. The staff are hospitable enough, but prone to behavioural excess, shouting aloud through the intercom, “Janet, party of two; Paul, party of one; Mani, party of three. Come down. Now.” in stentorian tones. No, “Please”, no “Mr”, no “Sir”, just stentorian commands. Democracy in America apparently means the right of the lower orders to be rude to their social superiors. This goes by the name of “customer care”.

Rocky Mountain Kung Pow

I wake next day to the most spectacular scenery: we’re skirting the southern Rockies and have stopped for a moment at Williams Junction to allow travellers more fortunate than us to disembark for the bus to the Grand Canyon. But never mind. We soon enter Moonland. Hills of rock climbing wildly into the sky, stuck against one another by who knows what law of gravity. Stark, forbidding, awesome. Interspersed with scrubland and sage brush. But I do not see any cactii. An occasional elk, little scampering creatures rushing into what cover the desert offers.

A sign along the hillside announces the home of Chief Yellowhorse and his tribe. The sierra along the horizon is called the Blood of Christ after a Spanish priest who fell to his knees as the sun came up blood-red over the mountain snow, crying, “Sangre de Jesus”. Pretty little stations, built in the style of the Spanish colonialists, bearing names like Lamy and Raton, are no more than cement sidewalks alongside the rail track. Incongruously, a battered building comes into view, proclaiming itself, “Great Wall, Best Chinese Food in Town”. Do they have a second Chinese takeaway for a population of 189? The highway runs along the tracks, but several minutes pass before a lonely car, an suv more often than not, inches its way past giant container trucks, petroleum tankers, and heavy-duty carriers. There are dirt-tracks and crumbling wooden houses set in barren dust-laden homesteads. The electric poles, amazingly, are not made of steel, but tree trunks.

Tossed Salads

To aid the uninformed tourist (us), the Southwestern Chief, as the train is called, is outfitted with a sightseeing carriage where a running commentary on the history and attractions of the places we race through is recited. Unfortunately, the lady manning the microphone is barely able to read, much to the amusement of the passengers, stumbling over her lines and making a fine mess of the Spanish words and names with which the text is overrun (this land was a Spanish colony stolen from the Mexican Aztecs before the American settlers stole it from both the Spaniards and the Native Americans, who were decimated if they resisted—“Red Indian” is no longer politically correct). The next day, we’re told the food has run out. Lunch is a choice between Greek salad, a concoction of limp lettuce leaves with a stinking slice of Feta goat cheese thrown in, or a veg burger. Take it or leave it. I choose to leave it. No tea, we’ve run out. Sorry, no coffee either, we’ve run out. However, we have arrived at Chicago Union. Oh, Indian Railways, where are you?

Last week, I had occasion...

To recall flying to JFK from Chicago on Jetblue, an all-economy carrier. Comfy seats, leg room, excellent cabin service, on time. Faith in American private enterprise restored, I spoke to Mallya on the need for an airline for the upper segment of our modest middle class.

Mani Shankar Aiyar is a diplomat-turned-politician