My Air India flight arrived from Singapore at something like two in the morning. Like a lost lamb, I edged my way through the chaos of coolies and taxi drivers badgering for business.
After I slunk into the back of a wonky taxi seat, the driver whizzed through the darkened Chennai streets. I had no idea which way he was headed. It was long before you could track your journey on a smart phone. But no need, because I was deposited at the dingy hotel someone had suggested to me in Bali. I still remember its cement floors and barred windows, and the hotel was still there on a recent visit not far from the Egmore railway station.