This time was also different in another way: expats weren't being evacuated all at once. Within the four-ish months that India was open to travel, a lot of expats who had been waiting to move to India since before Covid started had been able to come. But with more people came more evacuation complications. So instead of chartering a plane out of India, families left a few at a time on commercial flights. We had an ongoing bet with our siblings about what date we would actually arrive stateside because--as we've learned--nothing is certain until your plane leaves.
The company set up an empty room in the office
for Covid tests; by this time we were old pros.
Our flight wasn't until the middle of the night this time, so the kids did online school and Brandon worked like normal. I spent the day stripping the beds and doing all the last minute laundry and other things that needed doing. Finally, when everything was finished, we watched Netflix until it was time to head to the airport.
It all had a deja vu-type feeling to it. Hadn't we just done this? But there also wasn't the same kind of anxiety or relief. It was just . . . resignation.
A middle of the night departure meant that everyone slept for at least part of the 10-hour flight to Paris. After the layover, there was the flight to Atlanta, and then another short flight to Houston. (Instead of letting us choose which airport we wanted to fly to, this time the company paid our way to Houston or the equivalent, and we had to pay for any flights beyond that).
When the company moves you, you get the nice seats.
We spent a jetlagged night in an airport hotel, and then woke up the next morning for the final leg of our journey: our flight to Utah.