In and out of Bombay

Arrived to Mumbai International aka Chhatrapati Shivaji International Aiport, with the now especially unfortunate code (BOM), and took a taxi through the vast surrounding slums of North Mumbai, on our way to the swankier neighborhood of Colaba to the Hotel Suba Palace. Once past the slums, Bombay is the city I can identify with most readily.  Bombay has rules in place and enforcement to go along with them which keeps the financial center and tourist spots much nicer than most.  The roads are paved, the drivers honk less, people beg less, public urination, spitting (and worse) are greatly diminished.  I sense the ghost of European colonialism in the familiar order of things, the older Victorian buildings and the city’s arrangement along the water’s edge. It’s in this area, on the bay’s edge in Colaba, where the recent terrorist attacks took place.  Clearly they chose the most western influenced spots to hit. Oberoi Hotel:

 

I am glad to be here because it feels more familiar, it’s cleaner, and I like the idea of coming to visit despite the vicious actions of stupid, ignorant, angry scum. I felt good about offering solidarity in some small way, just by showing up, and in doing so, also offering up a big FU to terrorists. The Indians refer to this day as 26/11 (in colonized-by-the Euro style, date comes before month) and it is very much their 9/11.

 

The Hotel Suba Palace where I’m staying is not quite a palace like the Hotel Taj Mahal; it’s quite puny actually, but we are only there for two days and its location is nearly perfect. We are near the waterfront where the boats will launch to go to our next destination, and also near the big fancy hotels and restaurants (where all that awfulness took place), and near the cooler tourist spots, which is fine with me.  I am on an adventure down-swing, and I welcome the idea of menus in English and paying for comfort, ease and beer. One of the most popular tourist hangouts in the Colaba area of Bombay is Cafe Leopold.  We went there twice. You can still see remnants of 26/11 there:

 

But life goes on.

 

 

My mission for Mumbai (or at least on of them): a tailor-made suit.  A suit you ask?  And your confusion is of course, entirely justified, but here’s my thinking:  While I may not have much need for a business suit at present, working from home and all, I can actually afford to have a skilled tailor make me a suit here, and it will fit. Plus it just seems so cool. It’s something I couldn’t likely afford at home, and when am I going to be in India again?  Who knows? I could have a meeting someday, or get an actual job that doesn’t allow pajamas in the work place, so I think it’s a wise and practical decision. I chose the tailor after much online research and because he is not listed in the Lonely Planet (again, if you’re heading to India and want the tailor’s name and address, email me and I’ll share. The suit came out really nice).

Chander, our point man in the tailor shop is very good, as is the ever silent Muslim tailor. I never realized picking out materials and styles for such a thing would be so difficult (I think it would have been good to have a well thought out plan and some photos. That way I could’ve shown Chander what I meant by more Sarah Palin, less Margaret Thatcher—next time), there are so many options. Oh the burdens of the wealthy, I had no idea.  

After the first fittings, and being oh-so-glamorous as I am, we went to the beach resort town of Murud for a few days while the clothes were being refined. I am a happy person when I swim.  Getting into the Indian Ocean was a necessity.

Bombay to Murud was a long journey by boat, bus, and taxi. The Murud area is more tropical and humid and lush than the other areas of India we visited, and I was happy to see this side of the country. I could tell that we had barely scratched the surface of the India still, and now I could see that places in the South resembled some of  my romantic India fantasies more closely. But I could also tell that if this is Southern India in winter, I would have a really hard time in the summer.  The weather must be unbearable for a sahib chick like me in the hot season. Even in winter it was 85 degrees and humid. And the locals must not have thought it was the least bit warm, nobody was on the beaches or swimming.

 

 

In fact, the whole three warm days the beach was all ours, except for an English couple from our resort.  Strange how empty the beach was, but I am not one to question a secluded, clean beach on a hot day in India. Sure, there were warning signs about rip currents and such, but Kahn, the resort manager, informed that those were meant for non-swimmers. I assured him I was a pro, and I didn’t let Tim’s warnings of some  razor-backed, toe-snapping, deadly Indian sea floor bastard mystery fish deter me either. It is hot. I see ocean. I get in.

The place we stayed was called the Prakruti Resort, just outside Murud on Kashid Beach. It’s a weekend getaway for Bombay people who can afford it.  Perfectly manicured grounds, really good swimming pool, nobody else swimming, nice big room, balcony overlooking pool.  I loved the place.

But as is the case with such all buffet, all the time, all-inclusive places, it was hard to escape. And I am not such a fan of the buffet. Too much food, already visited, picked over and rejected by strangers.  This is just not my thing. We got a car to take us into the town for dinner at a seafood restaurant.  The car costs about ten times as much as the dinner and the resort staff is baffled by our desire to leave the grounds and skip the included buffet. They keep asking us if we want something less spicy. What we do want is seafood, which they don’t seem to serve even though we are right on the beach, and there are fishermen all over the place. I have the feeling that seafood is poor man’s food here and the resort is catering to the yuppity Bombayites, so maybe they just skip it.  Who can say? (We say that a lot with our bad Indian accents as well; it is befitting of pretty much every confusing situation.)

Incidentally, they appear to be adding some sort of disco/conference center that seems out of place (I should talk), but still kind of cool:

 

No matter. I am swimming daily and getting sun, and not being pestered in any way, except by mosquitoes. I think warm weather and humidity bring them out, so if I’m going to get the malaria, it will be here. I don’t care. They can’t get me so long as I swim.

Three days of sun and swimming is very good for a Hawaiian Californian attempting India. I think we did a pretty good job of alternating cities with peaceful, chill places overall. It always seemed like the serenity came just in time. Locals seem to have a way of keeping mellow regardless.

 

 

These lovely ladies spent the entire day scrubbing the bricks in front of that new disco-y building at the Prakruti Resort. I don’t know if it’s the huge population in need of work that prevents them from seeking better tools, but I’d be bitching for a power washer at this point. 

Next time, from Murud back to Bombay, then home, via Dubai it turns out (have told Jet Airways to suck achar, and will come home on Emirates instead–I may have already told you about that since I’m skipping around some).

Further ramblings;

-So what do you think? Decent or expert?:

-I forgot the tacks for my friggin’ mosquito net. I have been eaten alive in the south. Remind me to take the malaria pills for two weeks after I get back.

-People carry stuff on their heads a lot. I think the weight pressing down on them eventually makes them bow-legged. 

-Chickoo juice is good.

-That clothes-pinned nose, high-pitched singing style that exemplifies every female Indian singer is fine in small doses, but now it’s starting to get to me. They could use an alto,  perhaps some Hindigo girls?

-It’s not a vacation– it’s a trip, a journey, an opportunity, a gift, and many lessons. Lesson number one: lucky me, lucky you.

Love & Phir milenge…

 

Last night in Delhi

I wrote this next bit when we returned to Delhi after four nights in Ranthambore Nature Preserve:

On the train from Ranthambore we met another kind couple, this one from Delhi, Mr & Mrs. Jain. A first-class compartment seems to be a good place to meet people and have interesting chat.  Third-class is no place for large Americans with big suitcases where people are crammed into the cars with plungers and shoehorns and opportunists wait for you to doze off and relieve you of your stuff. In first-class (a place in life I so clearly deserve) the local people are more likely to speak English which makes it possible for us to speak with them. This is especially appreciated since my Hindi is limited to “Go away, leave me alone.” “I hope I see you again soon,” and “I honor the divinity in you.”  Doesn’t leave a lot of room for delving into life’s complexity.

As you can see first-class is super classy!:

 

Anyway, Mr. Jain is in diamond sales.  Fortunately he did not ask us to help him carry any precious gems into the US for him (apparently that’s a common scam that must catch the really naive and greedy types, similar to those who respond to unsolicited email from Nigerian strangers wanting to make them rich.).  The Jains were really nice to us, and as happens all the time on trains, they shared their snacks and were interesting and interested in talking with us. They were looking forward to Barack Obama becoming our new president (as was every Indian we talked to, from the tuk-tuk drivers to the head of finance for the municipal railways system).  They lived in what I think is the good part of Delhi, not the shady Paharganj area that we were going to be staying in:

I don’t have too many good shots of the worst places because I don’t like to break out my phat camera and draw attention to myself, my touristy-ness and my apparently immense wealth.

And I’m  always bummed that I forget to bring food to share on trains. Anyway, when leaving the train in Delhi, Mr. Jain helped keep shifty luggage grabbers away from us, made sure we were walking in the right direction to find our taxi, and most memorably, gave a great recommendation for a restaurant in Delhi—actually their 23 year old son called him and suggested the place. 

I think local twenty-something university students are the best people to ask for that kind of advice—they know all the coolest places. This restaurant was off the Lonely Planet’s beaten-to-a-pulp track. It had great atmosphere, was full of locals (and us), had really good food and happy people working there.  It was just what we wanted, so I hesitate to name it for fear it goes the way of many Lonely Planet recommendations–the last place we went to in Jaipur came out of that book–it was so full of white-haired, white tourists, it was how I imagine eating dinner on a Kathy Lee Gifford Carnival Cruise ship must be. Anyhow, that last night in Delhi dinner was grand. We are much more at ease in Delhi now.  I’m not sure if the city chilled out somehow or I am less culture shocked now, but either way, it seemed less scary, crappy, crowded and intimidating, and more enjoyable, even at night. 

 

 

If you plan to be in Delhi in the future, email me and I’ll spill the name of the restaurant. =)

 

Thoughts I had in Delhi the next day:

 - Any spoiled American child would benefit from a trip to Delhi. Tough town.

- Always bring snacks to share on the train.

- I woke up feeling mean. I blame Jet Airways. Still grappling with them.  I hope I make it home sometime this month.

- I have stopped trying to fit in here; it’s hopeless. I am too tall, too (comparatively) white, hair’s too curly and too short, clothes are too dark, unflowy, unsparkly,—let ‘em stare. Not that I’ve started going out in miniskirts and tube tops mind you, but I have accepted the fact that in India, I am a circus freak.

- By the way, staring shamelessly at women is perfectly acceptable here. But now I feel secure enough to stare them back down with added stink-eye when I’m in the mood.

- I am also now capable of successful arguments with even the most supremely pushy taxi drivers. Apparently it is their job to press, and mine to resist firmly, but then smile in the end.  

- All barfi is not created equal.

- Never acknowledge beggars at all. Period. To acknowledge their humanity increases their intensity and numbers.  If you acknowledge them and then don’t give, they turn on you and get angry as if by acknowledging them you have pledged a donation. This is how they intimidate the tourist into giving and it really pisses me off now. I think they sense newbies, and I am happy I am no longer one of them. It is better to be callous and indifferent, or at least to seem that way.

-People think nothing of asking how much you make, or what you paid for anything—it’s normal for Indians, but awkward for me. I have developed some pretty effective evasion techniques though. Sometimes I look confused and I pretend I don’t understand, or can’t do the conversion (which makes me seem kind of stupid because the conversion is not very hard, but it usually ends the line of questioning), or I say something humble and flattering, and then change the subject: “I make not so much as a diamond seller of course, but enough to go on a journey once in a while. Do you know what the name of the next station is?”

-I’ve figured out that Indians don’t want to disappoint you or answer negatively, even if this causes confusion. This is so unlike us. Now that I understand this, I have an easier time, and even try to beat them at their own game.

-I think Sunday is haircut day for men and they all get their haircut by barbers in the street. As far as I can tell, no Indian women get haircuts–ever.

- Red-brown betel-nut chewer teeth are most unfortunate.

- So many dogs, but where are the cats?  This gives me pause.

Next destination: Mumbai which I will call Bombay from now on because I like the sound of it better and so many Indians say that anyway I don’t think it matters much.  I’m happy we’ll be flying–ever heard of Kingfisher Air? Kingfisher is also the name of their most popular beer, the Budweiser of India. So it’s like if Budweiser had an airline, we’d be flying on that.  Sweet.

 

 

For you, special price.

Seems as good a time as any for a camel:

So we took a train from Haridwar to Jaipur, as we are now aware, the Indian train not the Orient Express, though I bet there is the occasional murder on it. Skanky though my vast Indian train experience has been, we still managed to extract the best from it, thanks to our First Class sleeper cabin mates, Mr. and Mrs. Satya Jeet from Rishikesh. The sleeper was unimpressive, but this was more than made up for by conversations with Mr. Jeet, retired Indian Air Force pilot, and current Hindu guru and philosopher. I think that like us, they were somewhat disappointed with the accommodations, but willing to roll with it. After settling in with our big suitcases, it didn’t take long to figure out that Mr. Jeet was someone to whom we ought listen. He read our palms, told me I had “great feeling,” but was also “rash.” (Huh, go figure.) He said everything is as it should be, accept god’s will, all religions are good as they all lead to god, and like Jesus, we need to welcome suffering, resistance is futile–of course I am paraphrasing the much more eloquent and windy Mr. Jeet. It was a long, overnight trip and we did a lot of listening. It was the kind of conversation you hope to have when you finally get to India with the kind of person you wanted to have it with— Mr. Jeet is deep, but not too swami if you know what I mean. Tim’s new catchphrase is now “welcome suffering” said in a bad Indian accent, usually  right around when I start bitching about something, at which point the suffering often does become his to welcome.

Arrived Jaipur at 4 am on whatever day that was. If you recall my impression of Indian train stations from previous postings, you can imagine the gloriousness of arriving to one at that hour and fighting off the ever present glut of swarming pedal and auto rickshaw drivers jockeying for the one fare likely to show up for the next couple of hours. Enough said.

I’m sitting now at a table in the restaurant of the Hotel Menghiwas, which I unfairly labeled the Hotel Meningitis initially, but actually it’s really nice. (Though they did hire a driver for us I thought for sure was going to give us whooping cough—cover your mouth when you cough much?) .

I’ve decided that today will be an actual work day, to earn a little bit and compensate for my weak haggling skills. As an added bonus I am listening to the streaming radio show of my good friend and favorite local dj Lawrence Alberti, live from 107.3 KOWS lp Occidental. He’s in the process of playing lots of cool sitar stuff and chatting. Very nice to hear the familiar voice and really cool to have someone talk to me on the radio from home while I’m in India. Though I coulda lived without his discussion of my travels in India leading into Beck’s “Loser.” Am I being too sensitive here? I’ll let it slide just this once Lawrence. ; )

Anyway, Jaipur, the Pink City, home of many forts and palaces, and just outside the town of Amber and the Amber Fort and another famous edifice whose name I can’t remember. I can safely say, I am over seeing anymore amazing buildings. Don’t get me wrong, there are some incredible buildings and structures here, see Jaigarh (?) Fort:

..but I’m glad to have them checked off my bucket list.  I can only take so much “sightseeing”, and sometimes they just don’t live up to my imagination. Behold the less photographed angle of the Lake Palace of Jaipur:

The palace is amazing, like a mirage, but no Lonely Planet guide tells you about the rest of it. Why is that?

Anyway, I prefer doing stuff more than looking at stuff. Usually if a lot of tourists are doing something, I’d rather not. It also turns out that when I go too long without burning off steam in the form of real exercise, I get weird and a little agro. Stretching my legs on the short hike up to the top of the Amber Fort and to whatever the other thing up there was, was a relief, and reminded me that I need to get moving more often.

So I scoped out a local gym in Jaipur and went yesterday. It’s no Coach’s Corner (my home gym), but a great improvement than the sedentary samosa-grazing lifestyle to which I’ve become accustomed. Nice people there helped me figure out how to do my thing there, and convert my weight to kilos for the machines. An especially nice woman named Uman explained that the gym closed from 10:30am until 5:00pm (I still don’t quite know why)…so I’ll probably go tonight again at 5, hopefully she’ll be around so I can ask some of the burning questions I have about India, and get straight answers from someone who isn’t trying to sell me anything.

When not looking at buildings, eating or searching for elliptical machines, Jaipur is all about shopping, which I have done to the best of my ability. I got my shop on, found the jooties in my size, and lots of other stuff. It is precisely this shopping frenzy that inspires my workday today, in fact. I get a bit anxious with such an imbalance of inflow and outflow, shall we say (and we shall).

I also wanted to work to recharge my female empowerment battery—this country can really sap a grrrl’s strength if you let it. The constant staring at my foreign, relatively fair-skinned, tall, non sari-sporting person gets old. Women are not supposed to have shape or form (or sometimes even faces depending on which religion one is being oppressed by), hence the flowing clothes head to toe. Sure, they’re pretty outfits and all if that’s your style, but it isn’t mine, and it really galls my American feminist ass to be subjugated, and pressured into hiding my self in order to prevent someone else’s pervy propensities. But despite my rebellious and diagnosed rash nature, this just isn’t my war, so I have made a few concessions. I bought a couple of cheap, loose, hippie-style skirts and blouses to try to shake what appears to be socially acceptable ogling done by some nasty Indian men. If you know me pretty well, you know I’d not likely take that shiz in the US, but when in Jaipur, wear the diaper (or the sari):

On that note, I’m back to work, workout Indian-style, and then to a Bollywood movie in “Rajasthan’s biggest theater.” They loves them some hyperbole in India….more on that topic next time in the best blog ever, written by India’s number one traveling writer goddess! (pictured here reflected in the world’s biggest silver thing, or so they say.):

namaste.

Fleeting mental tidbits:

-Indian grocery store (at least the one I found) not as exciting as I usually find foreign grocery stores. It was full of dusty, old, expired, and discontinued American crud, sad looking vegetables and lentils.

-The Jaipur City Palace wasn’t all that. Serves me right for doing the expected tourist thing. I’m told I still have to check out some fort in Ranthambore, but after that, I’m off the grid.

-The same movie is playing at every movie theater in every town in India—an action movie called Gahjini starring a guy who must be the Indian Jean Claude van Damme. (The original version, of course, starred that Kahn dude.)

-A red light in Jaipur is like the Tijuana border checkpoint, but instead of Chiclets and pottery, they’re pushing model airplanes and glow-in-the-dark stars—perhaps these items are chosen in response to the inability to actually see either of these things through the smoggy air.

-All of India has cell phones too.  Funny to see a craggly, old guy in salwar kameez (jammie-like traditional outfit) driving a donkey wagon full of sticks, talking on his cell.

-First class on a train=fewer mice.

-India has more festivals annually than there are days in a year. Tomorrow: Jaipur Kite Festival.

-God, what is that funky smell?

 

Ganga Aarti

Haridwar, India

Writing to you about Haridwar from Jaipur at 6 AM.   Can’t sleep, was awakened by peacocks yakking (serves them right that you can buy a fan made of their feathers for a few rupees) and speeding truck horns. Not a problem though as the Muslim call to prayer has just begun, I might as well get up.

Haridwar is a holy city along the Ganges. I get the impression most cities along the Ganges, or any river in India, are somewhat sacred, why not? But Haridwar is particularly special in that Hindus believe that the Lord Vishnu left his footprint there where the ghat  (stairs leading into the river) is, and left behind some of his holy nectar. (That’s right, I said holy nectar.) There’s a big temple there, and a candle ceremony is held every night at sunset. I have video of that, but having trouble posting, so here are a couple of pictures of the temple in the morning instead:

Approaching the ceremony site is a challenge, especially the first time. There are guys in blue who claim to be official something-or-others, and demand donations to enter the temple area. We are of the mindset that donations by definition must be offered freely, not demanded in a mafia-style shakedown, and we also notice that we are the main target of this “donation request,” and nobody else seems to be getting this treatment, so we move on past the growing number of men in blue assembling around us.  In our haste, we don’t notice that we’re supposed to take off our shoes upon entering the holy site.  The people let us know pretty quickly though and we scurry back out, preparing to make our next attempt to break on through to the other side. This sucks because outside the temple is where the begging is focused, so we have to be fast, take off our shoes avoid stepping in shit while balancing on one foot and fend off all kinds of beggars: sadus, little kids, old, old ladies, guys without limbs on makeshift skateboards, women thrusting their latest tragic babies at us with one hand and holding out the other for rupees…We remove shoes and start putting them in a bag to head back in, but no, no, this is not allowed, says some guy.  You must check your shoes at the official shoe check, get a token and pick them up later after a small donation. I’m not too worried that any local is going to take my black Converse Chuck’s on accident, though they would look pretty cool with a sari.

We shove our way into the crowd around the shoe-check, leave the shoes and begin to try to approach the river again. People with flowers and priestly looking guys call us over.  The first time we went to the ceremony, we didn’t approach any “preists”, but instead received the bindi from some little girls/touts.  I have video of one of them telling me that “if you don’t give me the bindi money god gonna be very sad.” (If I can figure out how to edit it or make you tube upload faster, I’ll post that one too.)

The next time we go to the ceremony, we get the blessing from a “priest”–usually they’re men sitting in small temply stands; they offer to apply the bindi, perform a hand-washing ceremony and provide a bowl made of leaves filled with orange and red and yellow flowers, as well as an oil candle to float down the river in order to receive blessings for family members’ long life, and also blessings for those who have departed, and, of course, hoping for multitudinous offspring.

We participated in the ceremony, repeated the Hindu words of the priest as best we could, inserted our families’ “good name” when instructed, and then, when asked how much we’d like to provide in order to bless our families, “one hundred dollar, two hundred dollar, five hundred dollar…”, we opted for one hundred rupees instead, figuring that Vishnu would understand. Then the ceremony begins.

The ceremony itself is powerful, and active, with glorious low-toned bells clanging, chanting music being played loudly, and worshippers bathing in the waters, praying, and sending flowers and candles down the river. It’s truly moving and easy to get caught up in the beauty and intensity of it. The lit baskets floating down river, the big fire chimneys being waved around as blessing by priests, and the devotion are magical, Religion here is all, not just a Sunday gig and then forget it.  It permeates everything and that makes it feel genuine, despite so much ungodly behavior taking place all around.

The ceremony ends quickly, and the people dissipate just as fast. The bazaars fill up and it’s the liveliest time to be out.  Food cooks everywhere at outdoor stands, chaat, chapatti, and all sorts of mysterious smells waft over…and every shop is open, fairly lights and all.  Huge piles of red tikka (the source of the world’s bindis) is on display…

…which of course I buy, because you never know when I might need to rock a bindi again.

I score some barfi at my local Brijwasi Mithaiwalla:

…and head back. I go to bed early and get up early here. Partly because of the noise and also the exhaustion that happens when everything is new and strange and difficult. Our hotel, Havili Hari Ganga, is a good refuge.

And in closing…

-Indian Idol–as lame as American Idol, only now with extra raga!

-India could use a good copywriter. Sample sign: “Carefully drive, safely arrive.”  Still, an important sentiment I suppose. (Will be taking notes of any further literary awesomeness spotted.)

-The water is so hard (and Vishnu knows what else) that you can’t get bubbles out of your soap.

-A thali is a typical large Indian meal which includes a couple of entrees, lentils, rice, yogurt with cucumbers, bread, pickles, salad and dessert.  I had the more expensive version in a restaurant last night for 70 rupees (around a dollar forty).

-Sometimes I eat just to be able to chill in a restaurant for a while and get out of the crowd.

-The price you pay for anything here is in proportion to your ability to step out of your comfort zone. Bargains require courage.

-I am obsessed with the lime pickle stuff.

-Indians and peroxide don’t mix.

Until next time, carefully drive, safely arrive everybody…

 

A room with a view.

Agra, India

 

In my effort to catch up, I’m throwing in Agra now, even though that was two towns ago.  Can’t exactly just skip over the Taj Mahal after all. When last we spoke, I mentioned that I could see it from the hotel window. Here’s the view from the Hotel Taj Plaza:

 

 

Amazing sight.  

I thought it was smoggy at first, like Delhi, but turns out it was mostly foggy, likely caused by smog, or so the newspaper said. (I read the Hindustan Times daily now–quite a sad little rag really, but I read it with my morning chai and get to find out which corrupt government minister is going down each day…and you thought our government was shady. But I digress…)

Agra without the Taj is not much to visit as far as I could tell.  The touts are plentiful (by the way, since two people have asked me now, ”Tout” is a word I got out of the Lonely Planet which refers to a local a-hole that gloms onto tourists to pester them into buying shit.–I don’t think that’s precisely the Oxford English Dictionary definition, but you get the picture. India is lousy with touts, especially around the gates into the Taj Mahal.) But anyway, the Taj Mahal. It’s a nice place to visit…

 

 

…a really, really nice place to visit…

 

 

…but I wouldn’t want to be an eleven year old rooftop dung-brick maker who lives there:

 

 

Just outside the Taj, lovely girls in beautiful, colorful clothes working the cow poop. India is constant contradiction. Amazing beauty attached to wretchedness, gentle, kind people, grabby scrounges, tranquil swamis, and over-the-top heel-clicking servants. Graceful ceremonies and yoga practice alongside overwhelming litter, lepers, mean beggars, and mangy dogs, a million sights and sounds, and smells (wait, I can’t leave you there. The smells aren’t all bad, I swear–think spiced chai, nag champa incense, orange essential oils…ahh there, that’s better…)

Nevertheless, it all dissolves into the mist and I’m on to the next thing. Next stop in the blog, Haridwar. (I think that’s where I start to relax and sink into it better. After that, I’ll be writing about my current place.) For today, I’m off to the Pink City, Jaipur.  We’ll find out how long my window for seeing awesome old buildings stays open.  I give it two hours. Then I’m all about jootie shopping (jootie=sweet bedazzled Indian slippers with pointy toes.), and ayurvedic massage–800 rupees for an hour, about 16 bucks. 

 

random thoughts, observations:

-rooms in India have about ten light switches per doorway and one electrical outlet.  Actually, I think all of India comes down to a single outlet with extension cords.

-Never use the bathroom on an Indian train.  Just don’t.

-the Indians think we want endless supplies of white bread toast at breakfast. We are just that interesting.

-sometimes I think having a taser would be nice. (I would like to hear a tout say, “Please not to taze me bro!” in Apu accent.)

-I love, love chai, morning, noon and night, and my new favorite thing to eat: “barfi” –and not just because the name is so awesome (google it).

 

Namaste homies.