The rose-tinted pashmina slips off my shoulders for the umpteenth time. At the very same moment that the Gucci aviators fall off their prime position atop my head. While my oversized Bottega tote droops off my weary arm in silent defiance. But, valiant soldier that I am, I plough on with determined intent, certain in my belief that the Sephora counter at San Francisco Airport will yield a few bottles of precious Benetint, Benefit’s au naturelle cheek blush liquid.

Airport shopping should be recognised as a crucial branch of shopping art; maybe with manuals that offer a listing of stores and their contact numbers across the aerial units around the world along with opening timings (so that you don’t arrive two hours early for check-in, to be faced with closed shutters because it’s only 5 a.m.) and the all-important terminal information.
Knowledge of the latter would have saved me unnecessary brain drain at the Milan Malpensa Airport. Having pre-ordered a much-needed Bvlgari steel and gold watch after a tedious, translator-required conversation with the sales staff at the airport store, I arrived well in time for take-off, but, at the wrong terminal. My ticking beauty was far away, tucked into a corner of another terminal at least a few kilometers walk (or so it seemed) and I was left with a few thousand euros of travellers’ cheques of no use to me.

Luckily, I did find a Ferragamo outlet which relieved me of some of the excess funds that I was just carting off home. The boarding pass I left behind at the wallet counter, however, caused an unreasonable amount of inconvenience – the airline stewards and I spent a merry few minutes locating the little paper scrap so I could board the flight without further delay. This, despite making it for said departure three and half hours before schedule!
Why one can’t simply deposit the cumbersome passport and pass at the boarding counter immediately after security check, I cannot imagine. If all airport officials, terminal planning agents, flight staff and what not, paid heed, it could guarantee lifelong blessings from harried women who curse their way through time-consuming searches of their Birkins and Speedys to present these supposedly vital documents to every demanding and officious check post that comes their way.

Which brings me to beepers…or pagers…or reminder ringers. I elaborate through example. The above flight I took from Milan involved a short stopover at Vienna before I re-boarded for Mumbai. I alighted on Austrian turf with bubbling excitement, impatient to get my hands on the much-heard of Gustav Klimt prints that this airport’s shops are known for.
In all the anticipation, I left behind the Ferra-gamo key chains and scarves, Milka bars and local chilli paste jars that I had snapped up from the no-Bvlgari Milanese terminal. Halfway through another round of Milka buying in Vienna, I had a rush of memory (my wrists were free of weight and shopping baggage - how could that be?). I raced in every direction (remembering where exactly I had alighted would have been a futile effort) before spotting a slow-moving stewardess, bent into submission with two heavy parcels of chocolates, condiments and Salvatore symbols. Now, a beeper on flight to alert me to my stowed-away goodies when I landed in a still-groggy state after a refuelling nap would have saved us both this lost-and-found chase.