So where've you been? 34, New Delhi airport

Three days. Three Four Five Seven fucking days.

Delhi airport.

Plane is cancelled, madam.
Come back tomorrow madam.
You want refund, madam?

Delhi airport is one of the shittest airports on the planet. Airports in tiny leetle indian towns in the desert are better than Delhi airport.
You have to pay an airport tax to sit down. To go near a stall that will sell you a drink of water, and a nugget of deep fried something. (In the country of amazing food, there seems an unspoken law that all airports must serve only inedible deep fried snackettes and nescafe. If you're lucky.)
You have to pay an airport tax to find shade.

Left luggage? No, madam.

As with many bureaucratic organisations in this country, it's not till I'm granted an audience with the airport manager (after the standard five minute wait that demonstrates he's important) I learn there is somewhere I can store my luggage. Round the back of the arrivals carpark.
No, the airline reps don't know of it. Yes, of course there's a tax.

This allows me three days of fun and bargaining with Delhi taxi touts, who even by my standards of taxi-distrust (around the level of Pluto), manage to shock me by haggling for 650 rupees for a 40 rupee skip down the road.

And ... eventually, to the nearest shopping mall. Hey, I've been in Maharashtra and Punjab for a while, my creature comforts are powered down.
Bookshops with REAL books, not the shitty crap that Londoners leave in India when they don't want to carry it back home. Stores that sell clothes that don't fall to pieces in four minutes, that actually fit me. Cinemas. Juice stands. A Sony emporium. A supermarket, with the white lights and the clean stone flags, and the boulangerie and the charcuterie sections. Not a paan spattered shack containing what in other countries would be the contents of a hotel dustbin. A bloody supermarket.
And ... 'Choko-La'. A chocolate emporium.

With sofas.

There are no sofas outside of the US and Europe.

They have sofas and chocolate. Chocolate from Bernard Decai, Harrods' chocolatier.
I gorge on clafouti with brandy snaps. Coffee. Meze. Coffee. Rich dark mayan chocolate and praline. Coffee. Coffee.

When check-in time approaches, I'm clutching the warm brown leather and nearly crying. No. No! It's a sofa. You can't make me leave. A sofa. Don't you understand?