On an East-West flight from Delhi to some really, really small town in India, our intrepid and fearless traveler finally met his match.

At an ungodly early-morning hour, the bespoken suited and bespectacled hero stumbled through the various security procedures to finally get outside, into the already searing heat. Walking along he saw a plane headed to Nepal with a pack of adventurous airport staff trying to load a canoe into the hole. A canoe. On a plane that has had one too many canoes shoved inside. Thank God he’s not on that flight, he thought.

When he walked off the spongy staircase through the five-foot high doorway, he caught a glimpse of some hair through the ajar cockpit door. Thinking nothing, he installed himself in Seat 1C and waited for his sweet lime to which he was entitled for being a Maharaja, umm, in Maharaja Class. He waited for some time. The stewardess came on board and as usual, she had a classic Indian beauty spiced with a perky Southwest Airlines temperament – if not attire. "This might not be so bad," he thought to himself. Still, he was worried about the flight. A friend had earlier said, "Landing at that airport is like trying to flip a quarter and hoping it lands on its edge." At that moment, the airline pilot came on over the p.a. system.

"Hello, everyone." Our hero had a strange breath of relief after hearing these words, spoken with the unmistakable accent of someone from the Southern United States.

"Ok, a Yank. Good," he said to himself.

"I’m the captain of this flight. My name is Danny Desai," the words echoed cheerfully, with dramatically elongated alliteration. "Thank you, thank you very much for flying East-West Airlines," he said as the cockpit door swung open revealing a man with a thick, droopy mane over which no pilot’s cap could fit, a sequined outfit complete with captain’s stripes, and, God no, red cowboy boots. He smiled over the cabin and shook his hips. "Like, I said my name is Danny Desai, and I just want to say that if you need anything, anything at all, feel free to ask any one of these luvvely ladies who’ll be serving you today. They’ll perk yuh right up!"

Our hero started to perspire. He was flying on a low-budget Indian airline through some of the most treacherous mountain passes in the Western Himalaya with a Bollywood Elvis at the yoke. He tried to meditate but was interrupted by a brief rendition of Hound Dog and a charming comment regarding the particular assets of one of the stewardesses.

"He’s a real-life Elvis impersonator on his off-nights," the buxom flight attendant related to Mr. Maharaja. She was blushing in awe at having been part of the pre-flight message.

"In Delhi?" he asked.

"Thass right," she said, putting on a terrible imitation of a Southern accent.

"Get me some Smirnoff!" our Maharaja pleaded.

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