An (Un)Expected Journey: A Blitzbesuch in India

Flying back to the Philippines from Europe is never a quick hop. Even on a “good” day, it’s a marathon of terminals, time zones, and that strange in-between state where your body is in Munich but your mind is already sweating somewhere near the equator. Add my 82‑year‑old mother to the equation—frail, exhausted, and not exactly built for long distances anymore—and “smooth” becomes the only thing you pray for.

That’s why we usually choose Qatar Airways for this route. For us, it has been the best balance: a comfortable Business Class product (especially when you’re travelling with an elderly parent), fair pricing compared to some competitors, and—most importantly—connections that get us to the Philippines without turning the journey into a multi-day ordeal.

This time, the plan was clear:
Munich → Doha → Cebu → onward to Davao City.
Almost direct. Almost perfect.

And then, somewhere over the dark skies between Doha and the Philippines, our perfectly planned return trip turned into my first “Blitzbesuch” in India—an accidental overnight in Hyderabad that none of us had asked for, and none of us will ever forget.

Munich to Doha: The easy part

The first leg out of Munich went exactly the way you want these trips to go: uneventful, organised, and calm. My mother settled in, we kept checking in on her, and I felt that familiar relief you get once you’re finally in the air—when the “getting to the airport” stress disappears and all that’s left is to endure time.

In Doha, we transferred as planned. Nothing unusual, no warning signs. Just another long-haul travel day.

And then we boarded the flight to Cebu.

Flat bed heaven… until the alarms started

On the Doha–Cebu sector, I did what Business Class is made for: I turned my seat into a bed, stretched out, and fell asleep. That deep, heavy sleep you only get on planes when your body finally gives up.

Until an alarm started ringing.

Not an aircraft alarm. Not turbulence. Not a warning light.

A cellphone alarm.

Somewhere a few seats away, a passenger’s phone decided it was time to announce something meaningful to the entire cabin—loudly, relentlessly—while its owner slept like a rock. He managed the impossible: waking up every single passenger in Business Class… except himself.

Eventually, a flight attendant tracked him down and stopped the noise. The cabin settled again. People tried to return to that fragile, half-dreaming peace you get at 35,000 feet.

And then the mood changed for real.

“Is there a doctor on board?”

A few minutes later, the crew made the announcement that instantly tightens your stomach:

They were calling for a doctor.

My first thought, thank God it’s not because of my mother.
When you’re travelling with an elderly parent—especially one who isn’t in perfect health—you’re always listening for the sound of trouble. Every cough, every long pause, every time they shift in their seat can trigger a new wave of worry.

I looked for Lizz. She had been travelling in Economy Class to keep costs low and had been trying to get an internet connection working so she could message me. When I found her, she was tense—eyes wide, already imagining the worst. She thought the call for a doctor might be for my mother.
Telling her that my mother was fine was one of the rare moments that day when I felt genuine relief.

But the truth was: something serious was happening.

The announcement nobody wants to hear: diversion to Hyderabad

Not long after, the pilot came on the PA.

Per medical advice, we will divert to Hyderabad, India, for landing.

Hyderabad.

India.

Not a transit point on our itinerary. Not a place we had visas for. Not a place you want to “improvise” with an 82-year-old who can barely walk properly.

You could feel the collective calculation happening across the cabin:

• How long will we be on the ground?
• Will we miss our connection?
• Will we be stuck in the airport?
• Do we even have the proper documents to enter the country?
  And the biggest one:
• What happens next?

On the ground… and in limbo

We landed in Hyderabad and soon learned the medical emergency was connected to a pregnant woman in her sixth month, who was offloaded with her companion for treatment. At that point, we still assumed we’d refuel, handle paperwork, and continue.

The crew seemed calm, but also caught in a situation no training manual could fully script. The crew were speaking with Indian ground staff, trying to coordinate, and you could sense frustration building—not anger, but that helpless feeling when decisions are being made somewhere above your head.

The plan, we were told, was a short stop. Around 90 minutes.

But then we sat.

And sat.

Still on the plane, still waiting, still not really knowing.

Hours passed.

Finally, the news came: we would not be leaving soon. Not even close.

Because of crew duty-time limits, we were now looking at at least 12 hours in Hyderabad.
And the frustrating detail: the crew was apparently ready to continue, but the decision had been escalated and enforced by local air traffic / operational control constraints. In other words, it didn’t matter what any of us wanted—legally and operationally, the flight could not depart with that crew.

Now the question became urgent and practical:
Where do you put an entire aircraft full of international passengers who have no Indian visa?

A 12-hour wait in a transfer hall on metal seats? Camping beds under fluorescent lights? I had read stories like that. I was already imagining my mother trying to sleep upright in a crowded terminal, in pain, unable to walk far to a restroom.

And then came the surprising announcement:

We would pass immigration.
And we would be taken to a hotel.

Just like that, an unconfirmed diversion turned into an unexpected entry into India.

Welcome to India—now climb into this bus

What followed was fast, chaotic, and physically hard—especially for my mother.

We were suddenly outside, trying to organise ourselves, surrounded by other passengers doing the same nervous math: luggage, passports, instructions, queues, confusion. And then the bus arrived.

Not the sleek, air-conditioned airport shuttle you might picture.

It was the kind of older bus you recognise from old Indian movies: high steps, narrow aisles, fancy decoration with bobbles and LED lights, no air-conditioning, seats that feel built for short rides—not for transporting exhausted people after a medical diversion.

Those high stairs were a real challenge for my mother. Every step required time and support, and you could see how draining it was for her to even board.

Then we drove.

And drove.

More than an hour through Hyderabad, traffic, unfamiliar streets, and that strange feeling of being somewhere new without having chosen it.

HITECH City and a surprise: Trident Hyderabad

Eventually, we arrived in HITECH City and were told to get off.

In front of us stood a hotel that, honestly, didn’t match the chaos of the moment: Trident Hyderabad.

Impressive, modern, almost luxurious—like stepping into a different film altogether.

But luxury doesn’t prevent logistical madness.

Imagine three buses full of passengers—all tired, many stressed, some angry—arriving at the same time to check in. The lobby was overwhelmed within minutes. Staff were trying to manage lines, coordinate room assignments, and explain procedures. Passengers were asking the same questions again and again because nobody felt sure of anything:

• When do we leave?
• Do we need to stay awake?
• What about our luggage?
• What if the flight suddenly departs earlier?

The hotel tried to direct us to lunch first, and only later to room keys.

I looked at my mother and decided: no. Food can wait. Sleep cannot.

I went straight to reception and explained, as clearly as possible, that we didn’t need lunch—we needed rest, immediately—pointing at my mother, who was visibly struggling.

To the hotel’s credit, even under pressure, they stayed calm and professional. They made it happen.

A little later, we were in our room—and it was huge. The kind of room that makes you pause for a second and think: How is this real? We were just on a diverted flight an hour ago.

The shower felt like the first truly human moment of the day: washing off the cabin air, the stress sweat, the feeling of being stuck.

Food, finally—and my mother’s unexpected happiness

After some rest, we went down again. Timing was awkward: the lunch buffet had just closed, yet the staff still managed to get us food. Not long after, the dinner buffet opened.

And this is where the story took a turn I didn’t see coming:

My mother loved it.

She ate well—properly well—for the first time in what felt like days. Real Indian food, flavorful and comforting. And she was entertained by the entire unexpected situation, like life had handed her a secret bonus level.

Later, she would tell us, almost laughing, how handsome she found the Indian men she saw on the street, in the hotel, along the way. While the rest of us were calculating delays and consequences, she was enjoying her accidental India experience like a delighted tourist.

That might have been the most surreal part:
The most vulnerable person in our group was the only one truly having fun.

Before going to bed, we exchanged phone numbers with another passenger. It seemed like the smart thing to do. None of us trusted that we’d receive clear updates, and we wanted a backup channel—someone to call if the airline contacted them first.

Then we collapsed into bed and fell asleep instantly.

The phone call – two hours later

It felt like we had just closed our eyes when the phone rang.

The flight was continuing.
We had to gather in the lobby—immediately.

Two hours. That was all we got.

Some passengers hadn’t even slept yet. Others had gone outside to buy basic things—sleepwear, toiletries—because nobody knew if this was a “night” or just a “wait.”

By 11:30 pm, our so-called rest was over. Back onto the bus, back through the Hyderabad night, back toward the airport in the same kind of rattling vehicle we had arrived in.

At the airport, the airline arranged helpers who pushed my mother in a wheelchair through the halls. They moved fast—so fast we had trouble keeping up. It was efficient and kind, but also another reminder of how physically vulnerable an elderly traveller can be in disruptions like this.

We also learned passengers had been divided across three hotels, yet everyone seemed to funnel back to the airport at the same time—creating another wave of crowding, waiting, and uncertainty.

Applause for the crew—and a rare feeling on a flight

When the crew finally appeared at the gate area, something unusual happened.

Passengers stood up and applauded.

Not the polite “thank you” applause you sometimes see after a rough landing. This was different. People cheered. Smiled. Some looked genuinely emotional.

Because whatever frustration we had felt earlier, one thing was clear: the crew had been dealing with a medical emergency, a diversion, duty-time rules, immigration complexities, hotel logistics, overtime, and a cabin full of tired people—and they were still standing there, smiling back at us, ready to do the job again.

They had been accommodated closer to the airport and had more rest than we did, yes—but even so, the situation was unprecedented for them, too. Later, a supervisor told me it was the first incident of this kind in their entire crew’s experience.

Cebu: one more moment of chaos (and a forgotten detail)

We eventually boarded again and continued to Cebu, arriving one day late.

In Cebu, passengers bound for Cebu disembarked, while those continuing to Davao remained onboard. We thought the drama was finally finished.

Then another announcement:
Ground staff were looking for two passengers who were supposed to get off in Cebu as well.

The crew searched the plane. No luck. A flight attendant looked increasingly nervous.

I stopped her and said what seemed obvious to me:
The two passengers they’re looking for were likely the pregnant woman and her companion—the ones who had been offloaded in Hyderabad, the very reason for the diversion.

Her reaction was instant: hand over mouth—pure “How did we not connect that?” shock. She rushed to report it, and for the first time in hours I saw a bit of laughter and relief among the staff. Not because the situation was funny, but because it was a human mistake in a day full of high-stress decisions.

And finally, we continued onward.

The part that stayed with me

Later, we heard that the pregnant woman had given birth. We never learned more than that—no details, no outcome, no names, nothing we could confirm.

And maybe it’s better that way. Because the truth is, the moment you really think about what she faced—an early delivery in transit, in a country that wasn’t home, surrounded by strangers, in an emergency situation—the inconvenience we experienced turns small. What she went through is beyond imagination.

For us, it was delay, exhaustion, and confusion.

For her, it may have been fear, pain, and life-changing uncertainty.

What this “Blitzbesuch” taught me (and why India is now calling)

I used to think the worst-case scenario on long-haul flights was a missed connection or a lost suitcase.

Now I know: the real challenge is not knowing, and trying to protect the people travelling with you—especially those who cannot easily walk, wait, or adapt.

And yet, I also learned something else:

When things go wrong, the way an airline and its partners treat you matters more than anything printed on your ticket.

Qatar Airways’ crew handled the situation with professionalism and empathy. The ground operation in Hyderabad—hotel rooms, buses, coordination with immigration—was not a small thing. It could easily have turned into a night on airport chairs. Instead, we ended up in a proper hotel, with real food, and at least a short chance to reset.

And the strangest “review” of all came from my mother—the one I worried about most:|
She was the only one among us who truly enjoyed India.

We didn’t see the famous sights. We didn’t visit markets or monuments. We barely saw the city beyond night roads and airport corridors. But we did see enough to feel the pull: a glimpse of landscape, the energy of Hyderabad, the modern skyline around HITECH City—and the promise, according to everyone who knows India, that some of the best biryani on earth is made right there.

So yes: it was our first time in India, and it was accidental.

But the idea has already taken root:
Maybe one day we’ll come back—on purpose next time.

Practical lessons from an unplanned stopover

• Always keep essentials in your carry-on: meds, a change of clothes, chargers, and basic toiletries.
• If travelling with elderly family members, request assistance early (wheelchair assistance can be a lifesaver during disruptions).
• Exchange contact details with fellow passengers when a situation becomes unclear—information spreads faster person to person than through official announcements.
• Advocate calmly but firmly for what you need (in our case: rest for my mother instead of waiting for a meal plan).

More soon from us. Happy travels!

Lizz & Andi