It was April 1979 when I boarded my Iraqi Airways 747 in New Delhi.

I was finally returning home after having left Saginaw, Michigan eight months before to embark on what would be the most transformational experience of my life. I’d visited the Philippines, Singapore, Malaysia, Hong Kong, Thailand, Sri Lanka, Nepal and finally, India. A change of plans had me traveling solo, with a backpack, living on just a couple of dollars a day. I had a stash of traveler’s checks (remember those?) pinned into my underpants – all the money I had – and, I hoped, all the money I would need to get myself back home. In that pre-internet world, I had no idea how much my return flight would cost.

I’d been scrimping and saving – literally – every rupee. I would often forgo splurging on one of my favorite treats in India – mango lassi – which cost 1 rupee at that time. “Too expensive,” I’d tell myself. “You need to save your money.”

One rupee was fifteen cents.

When I arrived in Delhi in early March I visited a travel agency to inquire about flight costs to the U.S. My handsome travel agent, Anoop Sharma (with whom I have a very interesting story which I’ll share at a later date), counseled me that the cheapest way would be on a charter flight. And I would need to book many weeks in advance because they filled up quickly. I panicked at this because I still had all of northern India and Nepal to visit, and deciding on a departure date posed a dilemma. I’d been free from deadlines for so many months. I did some calculations and figured I could cover every place I wanted to see so that I could leave in about six weeks.

“What are my options in April?” I asked him.

He pulled out a giant book and leafed through it. “Iraqi Airways has a charter to London for $375. You can buy a cheap flight to the U.S. from there.”

So that was it. I’d be heading home on April 19. I was booked as far as London but still had no idea how much a ticket to the States would cost once I got there. And no way to find out. There would be no more mango lassis for the duration of my stay in India.

That departure date came all too soon, after some wonderful experiences in Rajasthan, Nepal and Kashmir. Anoop met me at Delhi Airport to say goodbye and help me through the insane check-in queues and Immigration procedures. And then I was on my own. When I got to the gate, I learned the flight was delayed. No surprise. “This is India,” I told myself for about the thousandth time.

After about an hour, we boarded a bus and were driven out to our aircraft parked on the tarmac. It hit me that I was officially on my way home. I thought about the day – many months before – when I had similar apprehension, as I rode in the backseat of my Dad’s Chevrolet to Tri-City Airport. I was a different person then. And I wondered what awaited me upon my return.

The old bus ground to a stop and we disembarked into the dark night. There were no lights. I heard someone bellow, “Go identify your luggage.” It was then that I saw all the checked bags scattered around the tarmac at the front of the plane. This was long before the strict security measures we endure nowadays. But there was no arguing the point. Fortunately, my backpack was a dirty mustard color and was reasonably easy to spot in the sea of black canvas bags.

After giving the backpack to one of the luggage handlers, I boarded the stairs to the plane, where flight attendants rifled through every passenger’s carry-on bags. Did I mention it was pitch dark?

And then I remembered that there were no assigned seats on the flight. It was first-come, first served. Fortunately, I was among the early boarders. There was a small section of seats next to the galley about half-way to the back. A bossy French woman – the only other Caucasian I could see – was scolding anyone who took a seat in that section, “No smoking here!”

I shuffled into her row and sat down, admiring Brigit’s assertive ferocity with every man who dared sit in her private non-smoking section. Most were Indian or Iraqi men, and I doubted whether they understood her words – but they certainly got the message. Most kept walking to the back of the plane.

A middle-aged white man in a suit took the seat next to me. “Hello. My name is Edward.”

We traded travel stories. He explained that he’d been making presentations to an audience of aerospace engineers and was heading to Istanbul. He was fascinated with my story and commended me for my fortitude and courage. Edward was a boost to my ego. “You’re a gutsy gal,” he told me.

The flight was very late leaving Delhi. We were supposed to land in Dubai but learned that that airport was closed due to the crash landing of a cargo plane. So we were re-routed to Qatar where we waited a couple more hours for the Dubai passengers to arrive.

I tried to sleep but wasn’t too successful. I wrote in my journal that night, “Funny that I can sleep on a wooden berth on a 3rd-class Indian train but am having trouble sleeping in these comfortable airplane seats!”

In case you’re wondering, I did eventually get myself home. When we finally landed in Baghdad, my connecting flight to London was long gone, but they did re-route me. I took Olympic Airways to Athens, from where I caught a flight to Copenhagen, where I was a stand-by passenger who got the last seat on an SAS flight to London. I feasted on a dinner of chilled shrimp, cold cuts, paté and herring.

I was definitely not in Asia anymore. At Heathrow Airport I was conspicuous with my pink cotton floral skirt and flip-flops, surrounded by well-heeled passengers in wool tartans and Burberry coats. I bought a one-way ticket on TWA to Detroit for £73 – less than $160, which was less than I expected to pay. I was going home with money in my pocket!

I washed my hair in a bathroom sink with the first hot water I’d experienced in months. In the upper level of the terminal, I found a bar with big plush sofas. I ordered two orange juices and slept there for the night. Early the next morning – finding no mango lassi on any of the menus – I splurged on a bowl of Sugar Frosted Flakes.

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Edward and I have stayed in touch through all these years – the old-fashioned way. We exchanged letters and phone calls. He has visited me in California a few times. I wish I had a picture. I’ve yet to visit him in Virginia, although I have a standing invitation. “I don’t walk as much as I used to, but I want to take you to the new Museum of African American History,” he said.

We spoke on the phone earlier this week, which is why I’m re-tellin this story of our connection all those years ago. He just turned 93 and had spent the day pruning ivy and transplanting rose bushes in his McLean, Virginia garden. His bucket list includes riding a train along the eastern seaboard to the Maritimes, studying Spanish in Madrid and getting his Ph.D.

You just never know who you’re going to meet on an airplane!

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What about you? Who’s your most interesting seat-mate?