I am the wife of a Vietnamese-born man, so I guess I meet the criteria. Eight days until we would leave. The travel agent says she will FedEx the visas to the house within 3 days. Is that even possible? Three days days until we would leave. Forty-eight hours of travel!? Is it even worth it? Next month I would be too far along in my pregnancy to go, so we would have to go now. Alright, tickets are booked. We’re going. Mom and dad go back and forth on reluctance secondary to fears of COVID and pesky health issues. Ultimately, with a good 5 or 6 reminders of why we’re going (because grandmom is sick), they concede.
Mom and I spend 3 hours in Walmart picking gifts to bring for family—mostly quality over-the-counter meds and chocolates.
We pack 5 luggages and two school backpacks. Here we go!
I’ve never flown Qatar Airlines before this point. Nor have I ever been any further east than Italy. The red eye flight worked out well for sleeping on the plane. Qatar Airlines is very pristine, professional, and encourages gluttony. Every three hours on that 12 hour flight the lights would pop on for the crew to serve more food. I think I mainly ate out of boredom. Eating does not sit me well at this stage of pregnancy. Eating has pretty much not sat me well this entire pregnancy, but now it has less to do with hormones and more to do with the gestational gastric bypass that has seemed to have taken place from this little boy who tends to use his little butt to push my stomach tight into my diaphragm. God love him. I am able to mostly sleep on the flight regardless.
We arrive in Doha, Qatar—stinky and, oddly enough, a little hungry. Due to mom having difficulty walking far, we are encouraged to get a buggy. What an experience! Those buggy drivers are like Fast and the Furious, terminal edition. I swore we came close to running over a fair 20 persons during our 10 minute route. Doha airport is exceptionally luxury. Any brand you can think of seems to be there. Everyone looks and smells like wealth. I feel I look like a bum. And probably smell like one, too. The sleeping pods are booked up and the lounge is full. Time for plan C. We stop at Harrods, a UK founded tea shop, for some caffeine and munchies. Again we are encountered with pristine and professional function. After enjoying tea and java, and paying my first ever bill in qatari riyal, we make our way to the lounge.
Accents can be a beautiful yet difficult thing. There is no accent greater than another. There is, actually, no “correct” way to pronounce a word, despite what Oxford may tell you. Every form of speaking a language is a distinct expression—sort of like the clothes we choose to wear, or the hairstyle we choose to have. I might not understand why you wear your hair as a mullet, but that doesn’t make it incorrect. Qatar is the second densest expat country in the world. This means that English is the trade language, which make traveling a bit easier. However, sometimes, i’m learning, the people who are impatient are not the ones not understanding an accent, but rather the ones being misunderstood. At the Al Maha lounge, the concierge was yelling at my husband in frustration of him not understanding her accent. It was interesting to see this, because I am so used to seeing this more reversed in the U.S.; it struck us both as odd. Impatience can come from many feelings I suppose.
Anyway, we squat out the lounge, scavenge for some sleeping chairs for mom and dad, take turns showering, snacking, completing customs forms for our destination, and making good use of free printing.
Our 4 hour limit expires, and this time just mom and I take a buggy excursion to out next gate, which is nice because this belly is making breathing a little more of a chore.
Thought: tipping culture is the worst. I never know when it’s appropriate and in what countries it is practiced. Even Google cannot be of help sometimes.
En route to the gate we pass several prayer rooms segregated by gender. Qatar, as you would maybe guess based on its geography, is a muslim nation. The airports even have the prayer chime to remind travelers of the hours to pray. Following the prayer rooms were resting “quiet” rooms (also segregated by gender) with icons indicating comfortable lounge chairs inside. Once at the gate, I can’t stop thinking about those quiet rooms. With heavy eyes, an hour before boarding, and a donut pillow in hand i trudge off to the ladies quiet room. A perfectly designed vinyl lounge chair right next to the door (in case i fall asleep and my husband has to come for me) is perfect for my weariness. Despite the blaring terminal announcements over the intercom, I close my eyes and begin to dream.
Thought: there need to be more public sleeping areas. Especially in airports, but everywhere else to. We could all use a power nap here and there. What is the answer to world peace? Nap lounges.
“Babe… it’s time” I open my eyes to my husband’s sweet face peeking through the door of the lounge. I snag my pillow and follow him to the gate.
Once we had our single encounter with the buggy transported, we’d become permanently listed as “the party with the handicap lady”. Although we reject the offer of a wheelchair onto the plane for mom, over-the-top accommodations are still made. The attendant escorts us to the front of the line. As our documents are being reviewed, I notice one of the airline associates glancing down at my stomach occasionally. Strangers do this, so I don’t think anything of it.
“I notice you are pregnant, do you have you doctor certificate to fly?”
“No, I am only 29 weeks.”
“We require approval certificate by a doctor to fly after 28 weeks.”
“I’m 28 weeks and a few days.”
“You are passed 28 weeks, you require a medical certificate.”
“I brought my doctor with me,” gesturing to my husband, as if that would help.
“We need the certificate.”
I try to pull out my pregnancy app to convince them of I don’t know what, only to find that I am actually 29 weeks and a few days. No luck.
The male attendant (who reminds me of the guy friend who took me to senior prom) shifts his attention to my husband, “Sir, are you willing to continue your travels without her?”
“What?!?” my husband is incredulous by this odd question.
The attendant repeats himself.
“No way! She’s my wife!”
We’re going to have to ask you to step aside.
Supervisor is called, the question is again asked if my husband or in-laws are willing to travel without me, and finally after some nail-biting the supervisor (with seemingly more urgent things to address) apathetically gives us the go-ahead to board.
Because of mom’s handicap, we get the royal treatment of taking an industrial lift to a secondary entrance of the plane.
The flight has 1/4 capacity, so after take off we are each able to have a whole row to ourselves. Snacking, sleeping, and Who Wants to Be a Millionaire trivia fills the time.
When we arrive in Singapore at 2pm, we have no clue where we’ll be staying (as our final flight departs a 9am the next day). We follow as mom is wheeled by this kind man with an unsuitable haircut—he leaves us at an open lounging area.
After scouting by phone and foot, we find a transit hotel with room for us all. We all crash for several hours, my husband takes dad to a lounge to have a few drinks (and unfortunately expired cheese), and then we all sleep until check-out. The cheese catches up with dad in the morning and leaves him all kinds of sick. We grab breakfast at another lounge, only to find it’s already time for mom to be wheeled off to the gate.
I board last as I rush to finish an assignment for school with the few minutes of wifi I have left.
One last flight. Two more hours. One more airplane meal.
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