I have a post up at Feministing today, about the joys and occasional risks of traveling alone as a woman:
My flight to Mumbai landed at about 4am local time. The trip from New York had been a long one: ten hours to Istanbul, an eight-hour layover at Istanbul airport, then another seven hours to Mumbai. I was, unsurprisingly, exhausted. Excited, but exhausted. I had one more flight left, to Goa, which is about an hour south down the west coast of India. To make that flight, I had to get from the international terminal to the domestic one, a simple transfer on an airport shuttle bus.
When we boarded the buses, the driver checked our domestic tickets and told us to get off at either the first, second or third terminal. He told me to get off at the third, and I climbed onto the bus, wondering what time my aching body thought it was.
The first stop came, and about half the passengers disembarked. The second stop came, and all the rest got off. Seeing that I was the only passenger left, and knowing that given my fatigue, there was a good chance I had misheard or misremembered the driver’s instructions, I got off the bus to check that my flight was indeed leaving from the third terminal. The driver said that it was, so I got back on the bus and waited. Alone. In the dark.
You can read the whole thing here.