Mumbai-London-Denver – September 27, 2008

October 12, 2008

September 27, 2008 – Traveling home and London


I had really hoped to stay awake during both of my flights back home. Flying westward from one side of the world to the other is a freaky experience because the clock is just not your friend. My flight was scheduled to leave Mumbai at 2:50 in the morning on Saturday, and I was to arrive in Denver at 6:30 in the evening on that same day. However, in reality, more than 24 hours would pass between departure and arrival. That’s just weird. Anyway, since I was going to be arriving in the evening, I thought it would be best to make sure that I was really tired and in need of sleep when I got there. Ah, the best laid plans of mice and men…


Once I was on my first flight (Mumbai to London) and realized that I had pretty much exhausted the entertainment options and wasn’t that interested in reading my R. K. Narayan book, I found myself getting very sleepy. I managed to struggle through Adam Sandler’s Zohan movie (I don’t recommend it – it’s like a 10-minute SNL sketch, stretched to an hour and a half – but John Turturro is great in it) and was asleep by the time the credits rolled.


When we landed in London, it was early morning (7ish) and the fog was so thick that the crew had to land solely based on instruments. Visibility was practically nonexistent. In fact, once we were on the ground, if you’d looked out the window, you would have thought we were still in the clouds. The London fog was that thick. As we taxied to our gate, I thought about my layover in London. My flight from London to Denver wasn’t scheduled to leave until 3:45 that afternoon, and it seemed truly silly to waste all that time sitting (or shopping) in Heathrow Airport. I checked out the in-flight magazine and found that there is underground (aka metro, aka subway, aka “the tube”) connecting Heathrow to central London. When I was last in London, almost exactly 15 years ago, that didn’t exist. Once I saw that, I decided I’d spend the time sightseeing in London and squeeze in a little more travel. After all, I’d already slept, so I needed some activity before being trapped on a plane for another 10 hours.


By the time I actually got off the plane, changed terminals, got through security, made sure it was ok to leave the airport (US passport = A-OK), got some local currency, left my carry-ons at the left luggage counter and found my way to the underground, it was a little after 9. The underground was actually mostly overground for its 45-minute journey to the city, so I got to see a lot of suburban London as I rode. I’d grabbed a little tourist pamphlet at the Heathrow underground station, so I reviewed that during the ride to plan my whirlwind itinerary. Fortunately, most of London’s major sights are within about one square mile, so I knew I could take in quite a bit.


I got off the underground at Picadilly Circus and was delighted when I came to surface. Picadilly is undeniably London, and I found myself having one of those moments that I often have when I’m traveling. “I can’t believe I’m here,” I thought to myself.


From Picadilly, I high-tailed it over to the National Gallery, where some of my favorite paintings in the world reside. I stepped inside (the museum is free), grabbed a map and headed over to visit the paintings of Jan van Eyck. His “Man with a Red Turban” and the Arnolfini wedding portrait both hang on one wall in the Gallery. To me, these paints are legendary. I could soak in their brilliant details, deft brushstrokes, clever composition and subtle colors for hours. Unfortunately, I really didn’t have that kind of time. I quickly realized that what sounded like a whole day in London could really only be a few hours, allowing for travel time, getting through security and any unforeseen difficulties along the way. So I paid my respects to the works of Mr. van Eyck, spent a few minutes with some Robert Campin pieces, dashed through some Vermeers and headed back outside.


The National Gallery sits on the edge of Trafalgar Square, an area where I spent a great deal of time when I was last in London in 1993. At that time, the square was filled with the disgusting winged rats that people call pigeons. They were drawn there by all the tourists who insisted on feeding them. Well, I supposed it’s a pigeon-and-egg scenario. The pigeons probably came to the square for the fountains, but then they came and stayed in droves because people fed them. Anyway, there are no longer any pigeons in Trafalgar Square, and several signs order tourists (well, at least those that can read English) not to feed the pigeons, should they appear, so it’s a much nicer place to be. By now, the fog had burned off and it was warming up to a beautiful, sunny Saturday morning. Tourists roamed the square aimlessly, gazing on the beauty of the National Gallery, Nelson’s Column and the nearby Church of St.-Martin-in-the-Fields. I hung out there for a bit, and then headed toward the Thames.


As I slipped down a narrow street, I stopped into a café for a cup of coffee and a sausage-and-egg on a roll to eat while I speedwalked through the city. Damn, that sandwich was good. The sausage was not a typical American breakfast sausage, but more like a bratwurst. Mmm… And it set me back one pound and 80 pence, which is nearly four dollars. Yikes. But it was delicious.


Once I reached the Victoria Embankment along the River Thames, I was right next to Charing Cross station and the Golden Jubilee Bridge. I walked out on the bridge to get a great view of the landmark skyline. There, still somewhat enrobed in fog, were the London Eye (gigantic ferris wheel that didn’t even exist the last time I was there), Big Ben, Westminster Hall and the Houses of Parliament. I soaked in the sight, and then decided to descend back into the city for a closer look. And that’s where my marathon of sightseeing really began.


I swept past Big Ben, then went around to see Westminster Hall and the Houses of Parliament. The streets were absolutely crammed with Saturday morning tourists. Oh, like me. I then went past Westminster Abbey and considered going in, but the crowds deterred me. I wove through narrow streets until I reached Buckingham Palace. I then followed the Mall along the northern edge of St. James Park, where there were a million lounge chairs set up. There was also a petting zoo (see photos) on the northeastern corner of the park. All along the way, I was snapping photos, eavesdropping on conversations in a million different world languages, and maintaining an impressive and exhausting pace, especially considering that my feet were already sore and blistered from days of walking in India.


I cut through the area around St. James’s Palace and passed through Picadilly Circus again, making my way through the West End theatre district (at least, I think that’s where I was along Shaftesbury Avenue (which still makes me think of Bill Hicks’s bit about how England doesn’t really have crime, just hooligans), where I spotted a stage adaptation of Rain Man and the famous Spamalot. I then dropped into a fantastic little coffee shop called Caffe Vergnano 1882, right near Leicester Square on Charing Cross Road, for an iced cappuccino. With coffee in hand, I headed into the Leicester Square underground station and boarded a train back to Heathrow. Riding that train, high on caffeine, I couldn’t help smiling in a self-satisfied way. Many people would gladly have waited out their layover hours at the airport, but I got out and saw the city. Good for me.


Getting back through security and all at Heathrow ended up being much easier than I’d expected, so I had time to pick up a few English candy bars (I love by foreign candy – why is that?) and enjoy a pint of John Smith’s before I had to board again.


The flight from London to Denver was, once again, phenomenally boring. I resorted to watching The Incredibles, which was mildly entertaining, and fell asleep again. That might have been helped along by the fact that I kept insisting on a can of London Pride whenever the flight attendant came around.


Once in Denver, I more-or-less breezed through immigration and customs without incident, was met by my generous sister, and taken back to my car, which I’d left at her house, thus ending my adventure.



September 26, 2008 – Mumbai and leaving India

October 8, 2008

September 26, 2008 – Elephanta and leaving India


I awoke on Friday morning with a vision for a very long last day in India. I had asked my driver to pick me up at 11, so that I could sleep in, get packed and enjoy breakfast before checking out of the hotel and heading out for a last sightseeing adventure with Selvam the Reticent. After another delicious breakfast, which included a spicy treat called “chilly idli” (I think they meant “chile”), I met Selvam out at the car and began the long journey down toward Mumbai Harbour. I wasn’t really in the mood to make pained small talk with him, so I sat quietly in the back and made notes about my trip in my notebook (I’ll post those shortly).


As we were stuck in traffic near the Haij Ali Durgha, a breathtaking mosque that appears to float on the water, Selvam’s phone rang. He answered, then handed it to me. It was Gurunath, who works in my client’s Mumbai office. He just wanted to make sure I was ok and see if I needed anything. When I told him that I was planning to go to Elephanta Island, he asked if I’d like some company.


“If you’d like to come, I’d love to have you come along,” I said.


“I’ll meet you at the launch,” he replied.


When we finally reached the Colaba area, Selvam pulled up in front of a different shop and again told me that he could park for free if I popped into the shop for a few minutes. I told him I didn’t want to do that, but complied anyway. Once inside the shop, I immediately regretted it. They had absolutely beautiful stuff, and the salesman was very congenial, but I was just tired of dealing with salesmen. However, he pulled out something that I hadn’t yet seen – some painstakingly crafted and painted enamel elephants. They were tiny, but beautifully detailed. I was captivated by them, but tried not to show it.


“How much are they?” I asked.


“4000 rupees,” the salesman responded with a sphinx-like expression on his face. I laughed out loud.


“4000 rupees?” I asked, incredulous.


“How much would you like to spend?” he asked, ever the enigma. I told him that I would think about it, but that I was late to meet a friend. As I hurried out of his shop, he followed me, still asking how much I’d like to pay. I could still hear him talking to me as I stepped onto the street and wove aggressively through traffic, a skill I’d picked up by then.


I got down to the boat launch and saw no sign of Guru among the hucksters and tourists. Not wanting to miss him, and knowing that he was a man of his word, I finally decided to suck up the $2-per-minute charge and call him on my cell phone, and good thing. Guru was waiting for me at the kiosk where one buys tickets for the Elephanta Island ferries, about a block away from where I was. I quickly found him, we bought our tickets (he insisted on paying), and headed back to the launch, where men were hustling people onto the next ferry. By this time, it was after 1 p.m.


Of course, few things (other than the trains, I’m told) run on a strict timetable in India, so Guru and I sat on the deck of the ferry for nearly 30 minutes before it finally pulled away from the dock and began its 10-kilometer journey out to Elephanta Island. The ferry ride was beautiful, giving perspective on how the Gateway of India was meant to be seen (from the sea) and affording glimpses of Mumbai’s skyline that many tourists and residents never see. In fact, Guru had lived most of his life in Mumbai and never ventured out into the harbour. The journey took about an hour, enough time for Guru – famously economical in his speech – and I to get to know each other a bit better. Unfortunately, we had to struggle to be heard at times because a young man sitting across from us kept playing contemporary Indian pop music loudly on his cell phone.


When we finally arrived at Elephanta Island, Mumbai was no longer visible on the horizon. The ferry pulled up to a long jetty and we scurried off. We chose walking the jetty over the narrow gauge train that runs about a quarter mile. As we walked, we were approached by various hucksters, trying to sell books about the island or their services as guides. When we reached the end of the jetty, we were surprised to find another ticket window, charging a few rupees to continue on. Guru paid (he paid for everything) and we proceeded up a seemingly interminable flight of stairs that led us deeper into the jungle.


Lining both sides of the stairs were vendors hawking all manner of souvenirs and goods, from beautiful jewelry and ornate sculptures to tacky t-shirts and embarrassing geegaws. As we panted our way up the stairs – Guru and I are both in good shape, but were winded long before the stairs came to an end – I thought about the temples to Shiva that we were about to see, and a sentence kept repeating through my head: “I came for Shiva, not for shopping.”


When we finally reached the end of the cramp-inducing stairs, we were greeted by more vendors, this time selling palanquin rides up the trail to the cave temples themselves. We were also welcomed to the island proper by a posse of wild monkeys. This is the first time in my life that I have seen monkeys running around, loose and free to indulge their every whim. To be honest, I was both frightened and fascinated. But this was nothing compared to the awe and amazement I experienced when we spotted the main temple.


As near (or as far) as anyone can tell, the cave temples of Elephanta Island (named by the Portuguese for a crumbling elephant statue they found there) were dug out of the island’s basalt and granite hills during the 7th Century C.E. They’re scale and solemnity is positively breathtaking. Not only are the caves themselves impressive, but the pillars and larger-than-life sculptures of Hindu gods are, in the purest sense of the world, incredible. One can only imagine, given the limited tools available and the shorter lifespan of people at the time, that it must have taken entire lifetimes for the creators to complete this stunningly holy and wholly man-made wonder.


As we strolled through the various chambers – all the while dodging bats, monkeys and gigantic puddles – I couldn’t believe that Guru, a lifelong Mumbai resident and Hindu, had never been to this magical place, and neither could he. For him, it was an even more spiritual and meaningful experience than it was for me. He kept thanking me and telling me that I’d made his day by bringing him along. He’s such a sincere and earnest guy. I was delighted to have someone with me who could appreciate the experience as much as I did.


We climbed up above the temples, following a steep trail that led to Cannon Hill, a place high atop the island where a gigantic cannon rests. I don’t really know the story, and we didn’t make it because we were both worn out from the endless stairs. We paused for a breath near a vendor of cold drinks. As we stood and decided whether to keep climbing or to head back down, we watched an Indian woman purchase a cold juice from the vendor. The moment the plastic bottle was in her hand, a monkey pounced on her, grabbed the bottle, and scurried away. Her startled scream was still echoing as the monkey sunk his teeth into the bottom of the bottle and began greedily sucking out the sweet, cold liquid. At no point did the monkey have any interest in harming the woman. In fact, I just imagined that he (or she – but doesn’t a monkey always seem like a he?) stakes out that same juice stand every day and takes advantage of unsuspecting tourists.


Not surprisingly, Guru and I decided that we’d rather start descending. After the transcendent beauty of the cave temples, the prospect of climbing higher to see something as terrestrial and mundane as a cannon was rather uninspiring, so we walked back down to the ferry and began the long, soothing sail back to Mumbai. On the way, Guru spoke with Rahul and arranged to have him meet us back at my hotel. Upon arriving back in the city, however, we first strolled over to Delhi Darbar for a bit of a snack, in anticipation of a very long rush-hour journey back to the northern part of the city. We enjoyed chicken samosas and a spicy, Chinese-style chicken-and-chile dish. Well, they call it Chinese, but it’s definitely an Indian take on what Chinese cuisine might be like. Either way, delicious.


Once we were done with our snack, Selvam met us out in front of the restaurant and we began the long, slow crawl to the north. By the time we reached the hotel, Rahul was already there waiting for us. We bid a final, unceremonious adieu to Selvam, loaded my luggage into the back of Rahul’s car, and set off in search of dinner. Yes, we were ready to eat again. We went to a beautiful Juhu restaurant called On Toes (I have no idea why it’s called that) and ate several courses of Rahul’s choosing. After I told Rahul that I never eat any animal that lives in the water because it tastes like poison to me, he insisted that I try tandoori-style pomfret. I’m always willing to try, and it turned out this was actually remarkably good. For the most part, it tastes like tandoori spices, and it didn’t taste like poison (or poisson) at all. I was amazed, and he was pleased.


We still had some time before I needed to get to the airport, so Rahul drove us over to a nearby roadside paan stall, where men were rolling various tasty, digestive fillings into betel leaves. It’s quite common to eat these after meals in India, to freshen the breath and ensure proper digestion of the food. The men were seated on the ground with a shared work surface in front of them, and the walls around them were covered in jars of various unidentified substances. Rahul gave very specific orders to the guy who appeared to be in charge. In a few minutes, we each held a conical leaf, filled with, well, I really have no idea. We popped the packets into our mouths all at once and chewed. I was a bit squeamish about it, especially because I hadn’t eaten any food from a street stall in my entire visit and didn’t want to get sick during my 27-hour trip back to the States. However, it was absolutely delicious, freshened my breath, and left my gut feeling perfectly healthy. In some ways, it was the perfect last moment with my friends in India.


As Rahul dropped me off at the airport at 11 p.m., there were throngs of people in the departures area, apparently bidding farewell to some revered religious leader. I had to push my way through the crowds with my bag. When I neared a doorway, a man with a badge around his neck asked if I was traveling business class. I told him yes, though it wasn’t quite true, and he led me past the waiting crowds and directly to the guard who was checking tickets and passports at the door. He ushered me through quickly and, once we were in the terminal, told me we needed to tip the guy at the door for expediting. I reached in my pocket and pulled out a 100-rupee bill. “200,” the man said. I was now beginning to doubt his value to me and told him that was all I had, though it wasn’t true. He brusquely shoved the bill into his own pocket and led me to the check-in area for my airline. Yeah, I pretty much gave away 100 rupees. This also seemed fitting for my final few hours in India.


I got through security with relative ease and had hours before my plane departed, so I browsed through the airport shops, flirted with sales clerks and drank coffee from tiny cups, trying to remember what it all felt like. The airport was teeming with people, even though it was after two in the morning when my fully-booked plane to London finally departed. Crowded, like everywhere else I’d been in India.


Mumbai – September 25, 2008

October 3, 2008

September 25, 2008

Thursday was a massive day of sightseeing. After buffet breakfast at my weird little hotel (idly, paratha, sambhar, coffee), my car and driver showed up a bit before 10. I was expecting an English-fluent, tourism-wise companion. In my imagination, he would look at my wish list of sights to see, provide feedback on what was good and what was bad, and then suggest some fantastic hidden treasures. Instead, I got Selvam, a rather intense, somewhat aggressive Tamil with limited English, little to offer as a tour guide and even less interest in my comfort (he kept burping and, at one point, even pulled over on a busy roadway to take a leak – “my oor-in,” he said, meaning, “Dude, wait here. I gotta take a squirt.”)

Don’t get me wrong – he wasn’t all bad. He took me everywhere I wished to go (with only one exception, Banganga Tank, which he didn’t seem to have heard of, though that could have been my shitty pronunciation), he was very flexible in waiting for me, and he made phone calls for me to arrange to meet up with my college friend, Tina. Part of the issue is that I’m just not at all accustomed to using an Indian driver. Basically, they’ll drive you wherever you want to go and wait for you as long as you’d like until you’re ready to hit the next destination. It’s crazy, really. They’ll just sit in their cars, nap, read the paper and talk to other drivers for hours. At first, I couldn’t believe he’d just wait for me and felt like I had to make specific arrangements to meet him, but I soon realized that, no matter what time I returned to our meeting place, he’d be there, doing basically nothing.

Traffic in Mumbai is about as bad as it is in Bangalore, but perhaps slightly more orderly and containing significantly fewer cows. In fact, I never once saw a free-roaming cow while I was in Mumbai – though I did see several goats. And monkeys. But we’ll get to that. Anyway, getting from my hotel, which is in the North Mumbai suburb of Andheri West down to the southern tip of Mumbai, where the much-touristed Colaba district is, takes for-freaken-ever. Before heading that way, however, the driver took me for a spin through Juhu, the Beverly Hills of Mumbai. He, too, pointed out Amitabh Bachchan’s house (impressively huge, by India standards, and a shack by American) and took me by Juhu Beach. I had him stop in a no parking zone near Juhu Beach, hopped out of the car, and froggered my way across six busy lanes of traffic to, as the Fixx once said, reach the beach. It’s an absolutely beautiful beach, well-maintained and with absolutely zero hustlers. There was a gang of guys cavorting in the water, which told me that it must be safe, so I took off my shoes and waded into the Arabian Sea (which I think is not a sea at all since it is part of the Indian Ocean, but I never quite mastered that fine distinction). It felt like slipping back into the warmth, safety and exquisite comfort of the womb. I’m just kidding, of course. It felt like an ocean. Still, it’s no small feat (in spite of my small feet) to add a new continent visited and a new ocean touched to my world travel log.

After the beach, we started slowly heading south. Selvam’s less-than-helpful narration included phrases like, “This is a famous church,” and “That’s a mosque.” Still, I loved the drive through the city and was very happy to be able to ride in comfort for a while.

The first place we stopped was Mani Bhavan, a house cum museum that was actually the place where Gandhi stayed while he was in Mumbai. It’s a really informative exhibit, telling the story of his life and it made me very much want to watch the movie Gandhi, which I sort of can’t believe I’ve never seen. There’s a definite feel to the place – tranquility, wisdom and a sense of unity runs through the whole place. They’ve preserved Gandhi’s bedroom/study exactly as it was, and you can feel what it must have been like for him there. I learned things about him that I never knew, like that he corresponded with Tolstoy and once wrote a letter to Hitler. And he was big fan of Emerson and Thoreau, who I’m sure would have been big fans of his as well. The museum was totally free and there were even guides available in nearly every language. I actually eavesdropped on an Italian guide as he led a couple through, and was able to understand him well enough to benefit.

After Mani Bhavan, we cruised over to Malbar Hill and the Hanging Garden (so named because it sits on top of an enormous water supply). On the way, I spoke to Selvam as clearly as I could about my plans to meet up with an old Vassar friend, Tina, later that evening at the club/record label/recording studio where she works. He seemed really taken aback and almost giggly about the fact that my friend was a woman. Still, he took down her information and agreed to call her to find out exactly how to get to the club and when we should meet up with her.

Save for a few interesting topiaries, the gardens are neither remarkable nor particularly well-kept. A gregarious kid – probably 13 or 14 – approached me as I entered, trying to convince me, in flawless English, to buy a peacock feather fan for a dollar. I politely declined, but told him I might be back. I zig-zagged through the gardens and was approached by a man selling books of postcards. They were actually quite nice and had pictures of places I hadn’t gotten good photographs of, so I bought them, probably for too much money. He then asked me what the exchange rate was for US dollars. After we agreed on what it was, he produced eight dollars from his pocket and asked if I could change it. He must accept any currency people will give him, and then deal with exchange later.

After getting enough of the gardens, I decided to slip out through a side entrance to avoid detection by the peacock feather kid. Across the street was Kemala Nehru Park, another garden, but more kid-oriented. I wandered around there for a bit and found an amazing overlook that took in Chowpatty Beach and Colaba. Several other tourists were there. An English-speaking kid offered to take my photo, and I took his in return. After handing his camera back to him, I turned around to find the peacock feather kid standing before me. He started chatting me up again and walked me over to a display of bonsais.

“You said you’d be back,” he said, not accusingly, but just as a friendly reminder.

“Yes, well…” I’ve observed in this culture that anything other than an absolute commitment to a future action isn’t a commitment at all. He gave me his pitch about the fan again, and was very engaging. He then gave me the pitch in German. Then in French. Then in Farsi. Then in Japanese.

“How about Italian?” I asked. He did it. “What about Russian?” He did it. And so on. I couldn’t stump him, and with every challenge I issued, he one-upped me, spitting his slang in yet another language, and, assumedly, converting the currency as he went. Finally, he did the spiel in Arabic and broke into an Arabic song. I couldn’t help but clap along. Finally, I agreed to buy one from him, just because he had been so damned entertaining. “Where did you learn all of that?” I asked.

“Here, in the gardens,” he replied. “We get people from all over the world.” That doesn’t really explain how he was able to rattle it off so fluently.

“You’re a very smart kid,” I said. “What’s your name?”

“It’s Ravi,” he said. “Look for me on Orkut. There’s a video of me.” I will.

Here it is:

I got back in the car and we headed up the peninsula and back toward Colaba.

“I call your friend and she said no come tonight,” Selvam said to me as he drove.

“She said not to come?” I tried to clarify. He nodded. “Let’s call her again.” He dialed her number, greeted her when she answered, and then handed the phone to me.

“Oh, Eryc!” Tina exclaimed. “It’s you! The driver was so weird. The first thing he asked me was whether I was a woman or a man!” Once we got things straightened out, Tina said she absolutely wanted me to come by around 8:30, and I handed the phone back to Selvam to get directions.

“You want to stop for some lunch?” Selvam asked after he hung up the phone. I agreed and started thumbing through my guidebook to give him the name of a place. I remembered that Guru had recommended Delhi Darbar. Just as I was about to suggest that, Selvam stopped the car and said, “How about this place?” It was Delhi Darbar. Huh.

I was taken to the upstairs dining room (it’s quite common for restaurants here to have two stories), where I ordered mutton samosas, murgh kadai (a spicy, saucy chicken dish with the long, skinny jalapenos that they call capsicum), kulcha and a coke. Since it seems like a somewhat touristy restaurant (though Guru assured me that locals, including him, eat there), I expected to the prices to be insane, but I ended up getting out of there for about six dollars, and the quality was absolutely top drawer.

After enjoying my meal, I decided to take advantage of a semi-fancy restaurant’s toilet. I relieved myself and then looked blankly at the toilet. There was a toilet roll to the right and a gooseneck sprayer on the left. “Ah,” I thought, “they’re covering Western and Eastern needs.” But how to actually flush the toilet? There was another valve on the wall that appeared to be connected to the toilet, so I decided to depress it. Immediately, a stream of water shot out of a tube at the back of the commode and directly into my knees, with impressive pressure. I checked to make sure I wasn’t too soaked, closed the lid of the toilet, and walked out.

As I stepped out of the restaurant and onto Colaba Causeway, Selvam immediately flagged me down. He drove me a few measly blocks down to the Gateway of India, where I asked him to drop me off for a few hours of wandering. Once we were in the neighborhood, he said that parking was very expensive here (makes sense, right?), but that he could park for free if I walked into this mall and just browsed for five to ten minutes. This seemed suspect, but I didn’t really want to make a big deal of it, so I stepped out of his car and into an upscale souvenir and handicraft store. They immediately wanted to start showing me rugs. “Shipped to your country, free of charge!” the salesman assured me. Yeah, whatever. I told him I wasn’t shopping and didn’t have much money, but wanted a little something (again, I don’t want to reveal what it is for fear of ruining someone’s surprise). I bought that little something and high-tailed it out of the shop so I could start doing what I came to do.

I stepped out of the shop and into the Apollo Bunder, home to the Gateway of India. It’s an impressive victory arch, erected in 1906 in honor of a visit by King George V and Queen Mary. Unfortunately, the whole area around the arch – which used to be a carpark before the 2006 bombings – is swarming with hucksters and predators. There are people trying to sell you postcards, take your picture (for money), feed you unwrapped popsicles, hawk lame souvenirs, etc. At one point, a guy asked me if I wanted to buy a giant balloon, and when I politely turned him down, he said, “How about grass? Hash? Indian pussy? I have it right now.”

In an effort to see more of the Colaba area and get away from the hucksters, I began trekking up Chhatrapati Shivaji Marg, which becomes MG Road (yes, another one of those), one of the main drags, pausing a moment to take in the garish opulence of the Taj Mahal Palace and Tower, the over-the-top hotel originally constructed in 1903 by over-the-top industrialist JN Tata. The narrow sidewalk was made even narrower by a seemingly never-ending strip of stalls on the streetside, selling everything from cheesy t-shirts to tacky tourist crap to underwear.

By the time I reached the Flora Fountain, the hucksters and hustlers were far behind me and I could finally breathe easier. I sat down, tightened the laces on my Doc Martens, and took a moment to orient myself. The architecture of this part of Mumbai is a heady mixture of styles, periods and ethnicities, owing to the fact that the city has passed through so many hands throughout history.

I took a little detour over to Horniman Circle, which sounds like a place for lonely bachelors, but is actually a beautifully kept gardens that provides a secluded refuge from the city. Pocket parks like this are one of the great joys of urban life. It’s also right next to the 17th/18th century St. Thomas’ Cathedral, which is the oldest English building in Mumbai, and it sorta shows.

After a little Horniman breather, I retraced my steps and made my way over to the University of Mumbai and Oval Maidan area. The university buildings were absolutely striking, and the Oval Maidan was full of lunchtime cricketers.

By this time, it was time to meet back up with my driver. I wandered down Colaba Causeway until I heard Selvam call out to me. He drove me the short drive to the entrance to the Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Vastu Sangrahalaya, which used to be called the Prince of Wales Museum.

CSMVS (I want to adopt the Indian custom of abbreviating everything, even when it makes things completely incomprehensible) is an absolutely beautiful museum. In addition to being a stunning piece of architecture in its own right, it houses an impressive collection of largely Hindu and Buddhist scultpures, miniature paintings, artifacts and all sorts of stuff. It manages to be a natural history and art museum all at once. I learned a ton from the free English language audio guide (you could also get them in about 10 other languages). I got happily lost in the museum and accidentally learned the story of the origins of Ganesh, which I’d always wondered about. He’s one of the most revered gods of the Hindu pantheon. You’d recognize him as the Buddha-esque human with an elephant’s head.

My better-educated and/or Hindu friends should feel free to skip this, but I think it’s worth retelling for folks like me who might not know. I’ll probably get some of the facts wrong, but this is the gist of the story. It seems that one day, while Shiva (the preserver) was out doing whatever it is Shiva does, his wife, Parvati, got bored and lonely. She decided she wanted a son, so she scraped sweat and grime off her body and created a boy, whom she named Ganesh. Apparently, she was spent (and still a bit dirty) from this act of creation, so she decided to go take a bath. She asked her new son to stand guard and let no one in. Well, wouldn’t you know it? Shiva came back to the house and little Ganesh, taking his duties seriously, refused to let him enter. Of course, Shiva had no idea who this impudent punk was, so he sliced off his head. When Parvati emerged and saw what had happened, she was understandably distraught and explained the whole thing to Shiva, who was absolutely mortified and contrite about decapitating his son. He ordered his men to go out and find a head for his son. They found a dead elephant on the roadside, cut off its head, and brought it back to their master. Shiva attached the new head to his son’s body, breathed in some life, and then made him the foremost of the gods, as a way to make up for the whole beheading incident.

Anyway, I loved the museum, but knew I had to get outside to meet Selvam at 6 p.m. I went outside and was, again, accosted by hucksters. One offered me fresh juice, then changed his offer to pot when I turned him down. There are dozens of guys in both Bengaluru and Mumbai hawking hand drums of all sorts. They strike up friendly conversations, as if they actually want to get to know you, and as soon as you’re feeling comfortable with them, they appeal to you to buy a drum, almost as if you’d be insulting them by not buying. It’s downright aggravating.

It took an hour and a half to get from the museum to the area of central Mumbai where Tina works. The club, called Blue Frog, is one of very few club-like live music venues in the city. It is located in an up-and-coming part of town, which used to be textile mills, and now houses all sorts of hip hangouts.

Though I was half an hour early, Tina was very gracious and welcomed me to her workplace, immediately buying me a Kingfisher. We probably saw each other briefly at our college reunion five years ago, but we really hardly knew each other, but that didn’t stop us from having a great time. Tina was born in Mumbai, but has lived in the States and in Singapore, but she now can’t imagine living anywhere other than Mumbai.

“There are certain creature comforts you just can’t get anywhere else,” she said. By this, she meant things like drivers and housekeepers and the like that come very inexpensively here. “I know it seems silly,” she said, “but I can’t even imagine doing my own laundry.” I actually totally understood what she meant. Even though Mumbai seems to me like a very difficult place to live, I can see how a native – especially one of even middle class means – could see it as an easier place to live than elsewhere.

Tina and I also discussed what it’s like to be a single woman in India, as she treated me to beers and appetizers (which everyone insists on calling “snacks”). I told her that I’d observed very few women out and about in Bengaluru. She said she’s traveled throughout India, and that Mumbai is the only city in which she feels comfortable going out alone. She doesn’t feel endangered (except in Delhi, though she admits there’s an element of Mumbai/Delhi rivalry inherent in her judgements of that place), but just feels stared at and unwelcome when she goes out in other cities.

After a couple hours, I felt downright guilty about the fact that Selvam was just waiting in the car out there someplace. I knew he’d get paid for his extra time, but I also knew the pay would be a pittance, and it all just felt a bit exploitative to me, so I said my goodbyes and went outside. I found Selvam fast asleep in the car, woke him up and headed home for a good night’s sleep after a very full day of being a tourist.

Bengaluru / Mumbai – September 23-24, 2008

September 24, 2008

September 23 and 24, 2008

Tuesday was a pretty mellow day, all things considered. I got up, packed all my luggage (not easy) and grabbed a masala dosa and cold coffee at Indian Coffee House (I just love that place) while I wrote some postcards. I then checked out of my hotel and left my luggage there for the day. I went back to Java City, hopped on the internet, and spent a ton of time just getting updates and photos posted to the blog. While I was there, I enjoyed a filter coffee (essentially, an Americano with lots of milk and sugar) and a can of Coke (with real sugar – then I found out that Coca-Cola has been the focal point of all kinds of controversy here in India, including using unsafe water in its products and then dumping nasty chemicals into the water near its plants – awesome!) while I wrote and posted.

I had one last Bengaluru sight I really wanted to see, so I hoofed it across Cubbon Park (a lovely walk, actually) to the Vidhana Soudha, home of the Karnataka state legislature. After snapping some pics, I began walking back the long way to get my bags. On the way, I encountered an incredibly imposing building that turned out to be the main post office building for Bengaluru. Funny how it wasn’t mentioned at all in my guidebook, at least not at this location. I went in and mailed my postcards (I had already bought postage at another post office that I stumbled upon on Museum Road) and marveled at the swarm of people trying to get visas and passports. Before I got to the hotel, I slipped into Higginbothams again and bought a couple of small south Indian cookbooks. I’m determined to get better at preparing this stuff at home.

Ravi Kumar had told me the best way to get to the airport was to take an auto to a particular city bus stand, and then take the bus. I didn’t relish the idea of taking a bus, so I figured I’d just take an auto all the way. To keep from getting screwed on the fare, though, I went to the pre-paid auto stand on MG Road. This is a police-run kiosk where you tell a traffic cop where you want to go, they tell you the fare, and they give you a receipt to show to the driver, which guarantees that you only have to pay that fare. It’s sort of like the fare controls at NYC airports. So I told the cop I wanted to go to the airport.

“No, you don’t want to take auto to the airport,” he told me. “Take auto to the airport bus, then take airport bus. Auto to Mekhri Circle is 49 rupees.” Who was I to argue? I took my receipt and hopped in the nearest auto with my driver, Akbar. The drive out to Mekhri Circle, which is pretty far north of the city center, took about 20 minutes. Akbar tried to make small talk along the way, but our mutual language deficits made it tricky. Finally, we reached a bus stand that was clearly marked with an airplane, but was still more than 30km from the airport. I had plenty of time, so I wasn’t too worried.

As soon as I got my luggage out of the auto, a tiny white Indicab pulled up behind it. Most hired cars are marked with a government permit, but this one was plain. An older man hopped out and asked if I was going to the airport. I immediately tensed. “I’ll take you for 100 rupees,” he said, “same as the bus.” I didn’t believe him.

“100 rupees?” I asked with a thickly skeptical tone.

“Yes, no problem,” he said.

“100 rupees?” I repeated. “You’re sure?”

“Yes,” he said. This is exactly the kind of scenario that guidebooks warn you about. If a strange man with no credentials and unmarked car offers to take you somewhere for a price that is too good to be true, it probably is. Politely refuse and scurry away like a frightened mouse. But for some reason, I trusted this guy, and I really liked the idea of not hassling with the overcrowded bus. So I got in his car.

As soon as we were off on the road, my mind started playing out a variety of possible outcomes of this bad decision. He could drive me to some remote place and leave me there. He could take me to his lair and: (a) enlist me into slavery, (b) force me to do unspeakable acts with wild dogs, or (c) serve me for dinner to his band of thieves. To short circuit this, I started to make friendly chit-chat with him. After all, it’s much harder to kill, enslave or sodomize someone with whom you’ve discussed the new airport, right? Sure! The kms ticked away and the signs still indicated we were headed for the airport, so I just kept up the banter and the unfounded optimism. Within about 40 minutes, we arrived at the airport and I breathed an enormous sigh of relief. He hopped out of the car and grabbed a trolley for my luggage. I pulled out two hundred-rupee notes and handed them to my driver. “Thank you for being a good and honest man,” I said, somewhat melodramatically. He shrugged his shoulders, hopped back in his tiny car, and drove away.

I had tons of time to wait at the airport for my flight, so what could I do but eat? I got paneer butter masala, rice and a strange, vaguely fruity cola called Thums Up (no “b”), which was absolutely delicious. My palate is not refined enough to tell the difference, however, between really good Indian food and mediocre Indian food. Since this was the airport, I suspect it was mediocre, but it tasted great to me.

While I waited and ate, I decided I’d better make sure that everything was set in Mumbai. I had spoken to my stateside friend who was coordinating since I’d left Denver. I sent him a text, asking if our colleague, Rahul, was still planning to pick me up at BOM. He replied quickly, saying he was glad that I’d reached out, and that Rahul couldn’t meet me because his wife was hospitalized with malaria (I later found out she was very near death). I told him I could take care of myself, but before I could hit “send,” he sent me another text to say that someone from the hotel would be there waiting for me. I admit, I was relieved. On the other hand, I felt perfectly comfortable with having to find a ride once I go there. It’s amazing how far I’ve come since those early, helpless, dizzy days a week ago!

The airport, by the way, is nothing like the train station. In fact, while waiting at the Bengaluru International Airport, you could imagine yourself in any cosmopolitan airport in the world. It’s pretty small, but it’s well appointed and there is no one sleeping on the floor. Can’t really say that for Frankfurt, can you?

My flight on Jet Airways was similarly delightful. I sat in coach, but, thanks to a relative of Rahul’s, had a window seat in the first row, so was very comfortable. It’s only an hour and a half total plane time, so I had pretty low expectations. In the US, when you fly that kind of distance, you’re lucky if they don’t make you sit in an overhead bin. On Jet, however, they provided drinks on takeoff, a full meal in flight (your choice of veg or chicken biryani) and coffee or tea. It was pretty posh. Arrival in Mumbai was right on time, my bag showed up perfectly, and I headed out to meet my ride from the hotel.

My hotel in Andheri West (a suburb in North Mumbai) is called Karl Residency, and it’s a step up from the budget living at Curzon Court, without venturing into luxury territory. I arrived in time to unpack, iron some clothes for Wednesday, and go to bed. However, in light of what I’d just learned about Rahul’s wife, all the tiny, gnat-like bugs that seemed to have made themselves comfortable in my room unnerved me. In order to get to sleep, here are the ridiculous precautions I took:
• I sprayed industrial-strength-pollute-the-earth-mutate-your-great-grandchildren Off! all over my body
• I put on jeans and a long-sleeved shirt
• I put the bedspreads from both single beds onto one bed and slept on top of them
I’ve since noticed that these little buggers are everywhere, and can only assume that they’re harmless, though I haven’t asked anyone.

Though I wasn’t expecting my ride (Rahul) until 9:30, I was awakened Wednesday morning by a phone call at 7:45. The person on the other end of the line said something I couldn’t understand at all. In my sleepy stupor, I admitted that I didn’t understand and asked him to repeat himself. I still didn’t understand, but I said, “Oh, OK,” like a simpleton and hung up the phone. A few minutes later, someone rang the weird little bell at the door of my room. I opened the door to find a man from housekeeping.

“The ironing board, sir,” he said.

“Oh!” I smiled. I might as well have slapped my forehead like they used to in the V-8 commercials. He came in, grabbed the iron and ironing board that I’d borrowed the night before, and slipped away. About 10 minutes later, my doorbell rang again.

“Sir, you have any laundry for washing?” the man at the door asked. Man, it’s a good thing I wasn’t trying to sleep in.

After a good shower and a couple of room-made cups of instant tea and coffee (both very white), I went downstairs for the breakfast buffet. There, I found idlis and fried idlis with chutney, sambhar, parathas, toast and some other things I can’t recall. They even offered to make me an omelet. I ate heartily and went out to the lobby to wait for Rahul.

Rahul and I have spoken on the phone several times over the years, and I’ve seen his photo, but we’ve never met. However, when he walked into the lobby of the Karl, I recognized him immediately. We wove through the Mumbai streets (about as chaotic as Bengaluru’s), took a peek at Amitabh Bachchan’s house (big Bollywood action hero) in Juhu (nearby neighborhood where the Bollywood biggies hang), got my first glimpse of the Arabian Sea, and finally made it to the office.

It was wonderful to meet this group of five people whom I’d only known previously through phone conversations. I even got to have one-on-one chats with Gurunath, Rajul, Asmita, Amruta and Rahul. I felt very fortunate and it kind of felt good to have some work to do, if only for an hour or so. We then went to an amazing lunch at a high-quality chain restaurant whose name I’m forgetting. Urban Something. I also can’t really say what we ate. I let Rahul order everything, and everything was amazing. I was particularly delighted with dessert, which usually doesn’t do much for me. This was little deep-fried rice flour spirals, coated in sugar, and then drizzled with a kind of condensed milk. I’ll have to ask Rajul (the resident food expert) to email the name of the dish, and then I’ll be sure to update here.

After lunch, most of the gang had to go back to work, and Rahul and I drove around North Mumbai for a while, checking out the shopping district in Bandra, the sea bridge that will soon connect Bandra and Worli and various streets, overcrowded with stalls and people. I haven’t seen any cows yet, but there are still a lot of dogs on the streets here. The weather is also much warmer and much more humid here than it was in Bengaluru.

Rahul dropped me off at my hotel this evening at a little after 5. After much difficulty, I was finally able to get online (using the paid wireless from the hotel next door) and had a video chat with Sophia, who kept wanting me to show her things (I showed her Indian currency, mostly). My huge lunch left in no need of dinner, so I’ve just hung out here at the hotel, resting up for a big day of sightseeing tomorrow. I’m being provided with a car and a driver who knows the sights, so that should be nice. It’s not the kind of thing I’d normally do, but since I don’t have a lot of time here, I figured it would be silly to refuse it.

This area (or maybe just this hotel) seems quite prone to intermittent power failures. This morning, the power went out three times while I was getting dressed. Tonight, I decided to take the elevator downstairs to ask a question at reception (oh, here’s another purposeless job: a man sits on a stool in the elevator all day and pushes the buttons for you – thanks, man! What would I do without you? Oh, that’s right. I’d push a button.). On the way down, the power went out. It was one of my worst nightmares. There were two other passengers, but no one said anything.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said, breaking the silence and making my mounting panic known to my companions, who were sure to be the last living people I’d ever see. The elevator “operator” didn’t say a word, but continued to sit on his stool, mute. Actually, for all I know, he was dancing a little jig – it was pitch black in that little car. After what seemed like an hour, but was probably less than a minute, the power came back on and the elevator resumed its course. That just might have been the last elevator I take in India.

Bengaluru – September 22, 2008

September 23, 2008

September 22, 2008

For dinner last night, I went to a place called Tandoor on MG. It’s kind of a fine dining joint, with fantastic service and more white people than I’ve seen since leaving the Windsor. The food was fantastic: pakhtoon seekh (tandoori chicken, wrapped in minced lamb, mixed with spices), subz dum biryani (veggie biryani), kulcha (like naan, but with yeast), raitha boondi (raita with little crispy bits of deep-fried gram flour – like raita krispies!), papadum masala (papad with a kind of Indian picadillo), a liter of water and a beer (bottle of Foster’s, unfortunately). While I was eating, I realized that I had no idea where the talisman necklace that Shawna gave me was, and I worried that I might have left it at the Windsor. I’d have to make a field trip out there to find out (way easier than trying to figure out how to call them).

Relatively speaking, Tandoor was a pricey meal (about 18 bucks), but it was a ridiculously huge amount of food, and I couldn’t even eat half of it. I felt guilty though (remember how your mom used to tell you there were people starving in India?), so I asked them to wrap it up. I have a fridge in my hotel room, so I knew I could keep it fresh, but I had no way to reheat it. Nonetheless, after enjoying the food and the freezing cold dining room, I took my sack of goodies and headed off down the road. About midway to my point, I encountered one of the countless old lady street beggars this city has to offer. I usually just ignore them – not because I don’t want to give them money, but because I always worry that if I’m seen giving one person money, I’ll be accosted, more than I already am (children are particularly pushy with me, grabbing my arm and refusing to relent) – but this time, I looked the woman in the eye and handed her my impressively hefty doggie bag. She said a lot of things to me in Kannada – I’m assuming the gist of them was, “thank you.” I felt good because I helped her out in a very tangible way, but even more so because I unloaded my guilt-laced leftovers.

I was pretty tired after dinner and planning to get up early in the morning, but I decided I’d go out for one beer, just to socialize with locals and check out another of this area’s famous pubs. In honor of American Music Club, I chose the New Night Watchman (abbreviated as NNW – man, they just love to abbreviate things here – I guess that’s what happens when streets have names like Krishnarajendra Road [known as KR Road]). The place was infinitely cooler than NASA, but still absolutely dominated by men. I think I counted five women in the whole place, and all of them were with men (husbands, I assume, since I don’t think dating is very common). I took a seat at the bar and ordered a small beer. There were two DJs spinning a fascinating variety of music – from AC/DC and Metallica to Indian pop to house music. People seemed particularly animated during the rock set, cheering on tracks by Judas Priest (yep) and the Doors. At one point, two young guys walked in and ordered shots of tequila. Almost in synch with the return of their empty shot glasses to the bar top, the DJ kicked off Rammstein’s “Du Hast Mich.” The guys began to bang their heads and sing along with the German lyrics. Surreal, for sure. I finished my small beer and then ordered another because I really wanted to stay and use the toilet. By the time I finished, it was 11, and they were trying to close the pub in light of the impending curfew.

I got up at 5 this morning, with the plan of going to Mysore. I wish I’d thought that through better. Once I was ready, I headed out on foot until I encountered an auto (I’ve found out that the locals call the autorickshaws “autos” for short – that settles so much of my confusion). The guy took me to the city train station for about a buck.

The train station was insane mass of humanity, all making really no sense to me. There were people sleeping on the floor, in the parking lot, everywhere. There were red-jacketed porters carrying people’s luggage on their heads. There were buses and taxis and dogs and autos and so many people. It took me forever to even figure out how to buy a ticket, which cost me about 50 cents. I then made my way to what I believed to be the correct platform and waited. The train didn’t show at the designated departure time, but I figured that’s probably par for the course. I waited until it was about 20 minutes late before giving up and returning to the station. I found the timetable and discovered that the next train wasn’t for about 3 hours. I also discovered that the trip to Mysore takes a MINIMUM of 3 hours. As I did the math and realized I’d be spending at least 6 hours of my already-short visit riding the rails, the trip started to seem less and less appealing. I decided to head back to the hotel and re-evaluate my plan for the day. I’m disappointed not to be able to go to Mysore, but I’ve since been told that the way to do it is to plan a full-day tour of the areas between here and Mysore, which you can do by bus, and pretty cheaply. So I’ll just have to do that on the next visit.

Back at the hotel, I decided to pack in a mammoth sightseeing day: Tipu’s Palace, the City Market (KR Market), Bengaluru Palace, and Karnataka Chitrikala Parishat (which my guidebook says is a great art gallery. The gallery is also pretty close to the Windsor, so I figured I could drop by there as well. But before I could tackle such a demanding itinerary, I needed a good breakfast.

I strolled up Church Street and found Kaycee’s Prasad Coffee Shop. It’s just below street level and completely open to the elements, and it was packed. There’s a big Wipro office right around the corner, and a bunch of folks with their badges were there, which seemed like a good sign, for some reason. I mean, it’s not as if Wipro employees have a reputation for gourmet tastes. I don’t know. I just went with my gut, and that made my gut happy.

The setup was European style, where you order your food at a cash register and pay, then take your receipt to the folks who are actually preparing your food. I got a masala dosa (seriously, it’s the best breakfast you could have) and a coffee, and it cost me about as much as my now-useless ticket to Mysore. I sat at a table and was joined by another gentleman. We didn’t speak, but at what point, he got up and returned with a tin cup of water for me. Damn, people are nice.

I set out again on foot, in search of an appealing auto. When I found one, I asked him to take me to the Krishnarajendra Market. He looked at me like I was speaking, well, English. I corrected myself to KR Market, not realizing at the time that locals simply call this the City Market. My maps say KR Market, and it looked like it was walking distance to Tipu’s Palace, so I figured I could cover that area on foot. He told me we could use the meter, or we could go for 40 rupees fixed. I told him fixed was fine. Who’s gonna haggle over a dollar? When we finally arrived in the bustling busy-ness of City Market, I told him I didn’t think this was where I wanted to be. I then made the mistake of mentioning Tipu’s palace. I must have had a really good Kannada accent when I said, “Tipu sultan,” because he started speaking to me really rapidly in his native tongue. Judging by his inflection and his hand gestures, I gathered it was somewhat far (of course, folks seem to think that I’m in capable of walking two blocks here, so…). “30 more rupees,” he said. I told him that was fine in my best Hindi (yeah, I know how to say “ok” now – another few days and I’ll be fluent!). He probably felt like he really scammed me – and I felt fine about being scammed out of 70 cents.

So I toured through Tipu’s palace (really beautiful, but kind of a ripoff [relatively] at 100 rupees for foreigners [half that for Indians]. You can see it in the photos, but what you won’t see is the wonderful woman who tried to explain to me all about the palace in a language I didn’t understand at all. It might have been Hindi (not likely) or Kannada (more likely), but whatever it was, she was passionate about the subject matter. She pointed at pictures on the wall, at rooms in the palace, at Tipu’s “rockets” (the guy seriously had munition-propelled swords!) and told me all about them. I felt bad that all I could say was “hello,” “goodbye,” (cheating – they’re the same word), and “thank you.”

Once I left the palace, I decided to wander up KR Road to the market. As it turned out, it was a few blocks, so it was probably worth the extra auto ride. The market was full of fresh produce (you should see how people stack it into pyramids with painstaking care, but when I asked one vendor if I could photograph it, she refused), electronics, housewares, shoes, rat poison (yep) and every imaginable item. I couldn’t get enough of it. I looped through it a few times, intoxicated by the sights, sounds and smells (a fascinating combination of banana, roasting coffee, clove, diesel fumes and cow manure).

Since I’d studied my map, I knew that KR Road turns into Avenue Road and then into Palace Road, the road that leads to Bengaluru Palace, so I just started hoofing it. I wasn’t prepared for the continuing hustle and bustle that is Avenue Road. It’s as much of a market as KR, with stalls and storefronts selling absolutely everything. And every side street that crosses it is filled with more of the same. I decided to turn down one and get lost for a while. This is the old part of the city, so it feels very, very different from the MG/Brigade Road area where I’d been up to then. The roads are so narrow that cars hardly fit. There are tiny little “fast food” joints serving up lunches. And the people looked at me like I was from another planet. I absolutely loved it, and allowed myself to get completely sucked in, sucked up and turned around. Just when the buildings that towered over me and seemed ready to topple into the street started to feel a bit claustrophobic, I found myself back at Avenue Road and kept heading north.

At about the point where Avenue Road becomes Palace Road, an auto pulled over and I asked him to take me to the Windsor. The ride took just a few minutes and it felt a bit weird to be back there, with the obsequious and doting staff. I asked after my necklace at the front desk, and they called the lost-and-found folks, but we came up empty. There’s still a chance that it’s somewhere in my luggage, but I’m pretty sure I left it hanging on the dressing dummy in the room. Alas. I vowed that I’d find something special for Shawna to make up for it.

As I walked out of the Windsor and headed down the road, I encountered an older gentlemen with an auto. Most of the drivers look hardly 20 years old, but this man seemed to be in his mid-sixties. I told him I wanted to go to the Bengaluru Palace. As we headed out, he asked me if I wanted to do any other sightseeing. I was on guard about being taken (again, he didn’t turn on the meter – they almost never do), so I told him I was done with sightseeing. He told me he’d wait for me at the palace anyway and take me back to my hotel when I was done.

While he was driving, my driver told me about the bus tours to Mysore and that I shouldn’t waste my time on a train. He told me I must visit there. Then, as we approached the palace, he started telling me facts about the palace’s history. He also told me that Karnataka Chitrikala Parishat is an art college with an attached gallery and not really worth the trip. Then, he told me all about the various contributions that the architect and engineer Visvesvarya has made to Bengaluru and to India, from starting the first hydroelectric power plant in India to designing public gardens. Yeah, I got the world’s best-informed and most talkative rickshaw driver.

The tour of the palace costs 200 rupees for foreigners, but includes a free calendar (which I completely forgot on my way out) and, most importantly, the services of an English-speaking guide. You have to pay 500 rupees extra if you want to use your camera. This is a pretty common arrangement in museums here that allow photography. The guide showed me from room to room, telling me about the palace, its history, and everything that I was missing in Mysore (that’s the main palace – Bengaluru was the raj’s summer home). He encouraged me to take photos, and even offered to take photos of me. These are the first proof I have that I’m actually here. The tour didn’t take too long, but was far more informative and interesting than Tipu’s joint. When I finally decided I was done, I returned to my auto (my driver was happily chatting with one of the security guards) and we set off.

The driver informed me that he was 56 years old (ok, so I was off by 10 years), that he’s been driving an auto since 1974 (holy crap!), that he has three daughters and is a grandfather. He told me that he generally works 14-hour days and makes about 700 rupees a day and about 14,000 rupees a month (about 300 bucks). He feels that he makes a very comfortable living, but that he is no longer able to save any money the way he did when he started out. He places the turning point at about 1991. In addition to a transformation in the economy, there has also been an enormous change in the area of the city. He has to drive much longer distances now to carry his fare from the new airport, for example, which is on the northwestern edge of the city, to Electronic City, which is quite far to the southeast. He also mentioned that approximately six hours of his days are spent waiting at traffic lights or stuck in unmoving traffic. I wonder about the health effects of breathing all that pollution. Maybe that’s why he looks older than he is.

By this time, I noticed my driver’s name – M. Ravi Kumar – on his taxi license. Ravi asked me if I’d like to do any other sightseeing, or maybe some shopping. I told him I just needed to go home, but he kept pressing, as we drove through the high-end shops in the Commercial Road area.

Now, I’m no dummy. I know that drivers are often paid a commission when they deliver their captive fares to certain shops or hotels, and I also don’t blame anyone for that arrangement. In a dense city like Bengaluru, it’s hard for merchants to distinguish themselves and draw in the right clientele. And as for the drivers, we’ve already determined that the most experienced are pulling down the whopping sum of 300 bucks a month, so who would begrudge them an income augmentation? So, in that spirit – and given the fact that I was ahead of my loosely-crafted schedule due to skipping the art gallery – I decided to let Ravi deliver me to one of his favorite shops.

Once inside the shop (Ravi waited for me outside), I was attended to by a very polite – but not overly solicitous – young gentleman named Ibrahim. He pulled out all the stops in showing me his goods, which were really quite impressive, and made sure to tell me that he would make me a good deal in exchange for referring my friends and colleagues to his shop. I told him that I hoped he compensated Ravi well for bringing me there, and he told me that the shop only donated clothing and other necessities to Ravi’s family, as well as other poor families in the city. He had someone from the back bring me a cup of tea while he paraded his wares before me. I felt like honored, but not like my ass was being kissed, so that was nice. On my way out, Ibrahim handed me a stack of his business cards to share with friends and colleagues (I certainly will), and then showed me a file he keeps of business cards for all his clients. I was amused to see cards from GM, IBM, Accenture, Dell, Microsoft and many more name-brand mega-corporations in his collection, and I was sorry I didn’t have any of my own cards to add.

I won’t go into the things I purchased, but I will say that I spent more than I’d planned to. Still, I’m very happy with the few things I got, and I genuinely believe I was treated quite fairly. Back in the auto, I resumed my conversation with Ravi about how things have changed. He actually grew up in the area near the palace, and still lives there with his wife today. He’s happy with the changes that have taken place in his city, especially because the boom in commerce has meant a boom in education, and he feels that everyone is becoming better educated and that that will help the country as a whole.

As it turns out, Ravi specializes in using his auto (he calls it its other name, tuk-tuk) to show tourists the sights around Bengaluru. His home base is outside Windsor Manor. I’d highly recommend him to anyone visiting the city.

At the end of our ride, I told Ravi that I had no idea what to pay him, and he told me I should pay whatever felt right. I asked him for a little guidance, and he said 70 or 80 rupees. Now, considering that he’d driven me all over town, waited for me while I did sightseeing and shopped, and told me all sorts of interesting things about the city, paying him less than two bucks just didn’t feel right.

“How about 200?” I asked, handing him two hundred-rupee bills.

“That’s too much,” he said, holding up the bills and admiring them.

“It seems right to me,” I said. He finally consented.

“I’ll take it as a gift from you,” he replied. He then handed me a few of his business cards. In all seriousness, let me know if you want his info.

Once I was back in my ‘hood, I popped over to Café Coffee Day (the other big coffee chain) to have a drink and write a bit. Then I took a stroll over to MG, dropped in on Higginbothams book store and picked up an R.K. Narayan novel for 200 rupees. By this time, it was dark and I was trying to decide what to do about dinner. Suddenly, the power went out and the normally floodlit neighborhood was plunged into darkness. Within moments, however, the miracles of uninterruptible power supplies and good old-fashioned gas-powered generators got most shops and merchants into a passable state. As I walked by pubs, the deafening roar of Honda generators made them less appealing, but I imagine it was business as usual on the inside. I decided it was best to keep wandering while the power was out, so I did so for nearly 20 minutes, and everything lit back up again.

During the dark period, I had a slightly paranoid moment, brought on by the fact that all the violence against churches in Karnataka finally found its way here yesterday and caused a little mayhem, of which I was completely oblivious. Anyway, as I wandered through the darkened streets, I wondered if terrorists would cut power to a target area in order to render CCTV cameras useless and make it generally easier to plant their improvised devices. I wondered if I should be hopping in an auto and getting out of this busy, dense, commercial area – maybe high-tailing it back to the Manor. But I didn’t. I just kept wandering.

Once the power came back on, I realized that I was in no mood to eat a proper meal. Though I hadn’t eaten since having a Luna bar around the time of the Windsor Manor visit, my stomach just wasn’t feeling 100%. I wasn’t feeling sick, but just not great. I finally decided to pop into a supermarket here on Brigade Road and just pick up a 7-UP and some snacks.

Man, I’d forgotten how much fun it is to shop for groceries in foreign countries! I had so much fun browsing every aisle, looking at all the unusual snack foods (you can get pretty much anything masala-flavored – potato chips, tapioca chips, dried chick peas, peanuts, etc.), the teas and coffees (didn’t buy any, but this might be something I want to bring home), the ready-made foods (there’s a whole line of pre-packaged Indian delights from ITC, the company that owns and runs the Windsor Manor, among other top-shelf Indian hotels), the frozen treats (actual mutton chops, anyone?) and the European specialties (tons of Swiss dark chocolate and related tasties). In the end, I bought the 7-UP (critical), a pack of Indonesian Tam Tam chocolate-covered wafer cookies (gone), a RiteBite Choco Delite nutrition bar (unopened so far, but gotta love the cadence of that name), a packet of Lay’s “classic salted” chips (I just couldn’t bear the masala tonight) and a Lindt dark chocolate bar with hazelnuts (currently in the fridge). I already feel better.

I should mention why it’s so hard to find things in this town. You see, street signs and street numbers are the exception here in Bengaluru, not the rule. This makes orientation a little tricky, especially if you’re like me. I’ll look at my map, plot a course in my mind, and then set off. “Let’s see, we just walk up Church Street to Rest House Road. Take a left at Rest House and follow the curve until you reach Museum Road. Take a right at Museum Road and the post office is at #10, Museum Road.” Yeah, it doesn’t work like that. Every once in a while, a business will have its address on a sign in front of the building, which is an absolute godsend and gives you some way to assess what street you’re on and where you might be in relation to your goal, if it happens to be on the same street. Some of the major streets have signs at major junctions with other streets, but in some parts of town, these signs are only in Hindi, which doesn’t do a functional illiterate like me much good.

And then there’s the problem of malls. There are little shopping centers everywhere that hide all sorts of treasures. What might look like a small storefront from the street might open up into a whole alley full of shops or a multi-story building of businesses. And you don’t really know what’s in there until you go in because there are rarely signs in front to tell you.

Yesterday, I was walking not far from my hotel, on a street I know pretty well. An Australian woman approached me and said, “Excuse me. Do you know which street this is?” I looked around.

“Well, that’s Brigade Road over th – ”

“Yes, that’s Brigade Road, that’s Church Street and that’s MG Road,” she interrupted. “Everyone seems to know that, but no one can tell me the name of this one.”

“How long have you been in town?” I asked. She glanced at her watch. “Ah, just hours,” I said. “Is there something particular you’re looking for?” I thought that I might be able to point her to a specific hotel or restaurant in the neighborhood.

“I’m looking for this travel agency,” she said, “that’s supposed to be in a mall here on Church Street.”

“Ah,” I said, feeling her pain. “Well, sorry I’m not much help. Good luck!”

The other thing that’s remarkable about this city is the ubiquity of security guards. Nearly every business has at least one security guard. He might be posted in front of the building or shop, or he might be seated just inside the doorway. Sometimes he’s dressed in brown from head to toe (the color of clothing you wear seems to be very significant – almost all the rickshaw drivers wear brown shirts), and other times he’s wearing a very fancy and impressive uniform. No matter where he is or how he looks, however, his purpose is unclear. These guards rarely check people’s credentials, inspect cars going into garages or even interact with people – unless it’s the coffee/tea vendor who happens to be rolling his bicycle by. Then they’ll perk up and a get a tiny, steamy cup from the man’s airpots. There’s something reminiscent of communism in the absolutely purposelessness and waste in these jobs. It’s as if the jobs exist just to have jobs.

Today, I encounted two particularly absurd security guards. The first was at Higginbothams. After I’d chosen my book, I walked to a small, L-shaped desk at the front of the store. The man behind the desk rang me up and took my money, then handed the book to a security guard seated on the other side of the L. The guard (uniformed this time) slipped my book into a bag and waited for a computerized receipt to print out. Everyone present (myself, the cashier, an idle store clerk) watched in silence as he tore off the receipt, stamped it with a little red stamp and handed it to me, with great ceremony, but no apparent purpose. Have you ever been with an obsessive-compulsive and had to stand there quietly and respectfully while he methodically arranged the pencils in a cup or untied and retied his shoes? It was like that.

The second one was at the grocery store. The checkout was remarkably orderly, with familiar cash registers and scanners, and plenty of cashiers to handle the crowds. After I’d paid and received my change, the cashier handed over my bag and my receipt separately. About 10 steps away from that, and by the exit, a uniformed guard reached out for my receipt. I handed it to him and he punched it with a hole puncher, smiled in a friendly and self-satisfied way, and handed it back to me. This isn’t like the checker people at Costco who look at the stuff in your cart, scan your receipt and make sure you paid for everything. This appears to be a more-or-less purposeless activity, designed to keep someone busy. Maybe I’m misreading this completely (and given how naïve I feel on this trip, that’s a distinct possibility), but it fits with other things I’ve seen – like traffic cops who stand on little podiums at busy junctions and never intervene, or regular police who stand in the middle of the street and encourage cars to keep going in the direction they’re already headed.

One thing I really like about the culture here is how openly affectionate straight men are with each other. It’s not uncommon to see two men walking down a busy street with their arms draped over each other’s shoulders, wrapped around each other’s waists, or even to see them holding hands. Based on my upbringing and culture, I’m completely uncomfortable with that for myself, but I always smile when I see it here. It’s completely acceptable for men to physically demonstrate their affection for one another. I wonder how different US culture would be if that were the case.

Well, I must go pack now. After all, I have to check out tomorrow at noon, and then in the evening, it’s off to Mumbai.

Bengaluru – September 21, 2008

September 23, 2008

September 21, 2008

This morning, I woke up at 10, feeling very good. I was surprised that I was comfortable all night with just the ceiling fan and no AC. When I woke up, I realized that I had turned off the switch that controls the AC. Duh. So that’s fixed.

As soon as I was ready, I headed out for MG Road, intent on getting a coffee at the Indian Coffee House. As it turns out, they serve full breakfasts, so the stop was ideal. The place was packed, but I was able to grab one of the yellow formica tables and sit down. I ordered a masala dosa and a coffee. 28 rupees (about 50 cents). It was absolutely amazing. While I waited for my food, a man and his young daughter joined me at my tiny table, something that would almost never happen in the States. He was an independent software consultant (welcome to Bengaluru!), and we had a pleasant conversation about the economy, business and personal debt. I’ve had several people want to know where I’m from since I’ve been here, but very few who have actually felt confident or comfortable enough to have a full conversation. It was nice to connect with him.

I left the coffee house and headed up MG toward Cubbon Park, which is like a slightly shabby and rundown version of Central Park in New York, containing lots of open green space, beautifully landscaped gardens, the State Library, a few museums, and even the Karnataka High Court. My first stop was the Children’s Playground, which is a huge area with tons of playground equipment and even a little kids’ train that runs all over the park. I watched some of the kids play, missing my own, and then wandered on to the Government Museum. This is a rather drab and depressing collection of various archeological findings (primitive tools, sculptures, musical instruments, documents) and drawings of historical sites throughout India. It was very interesting, in spite of the lack of explanatory information. From there, I wandered into the Venkatappa Art Gallery, which contains artwork of all sorts by the 20th Century India artist, Sri K Venkatappa, who was the court painter to the Wodeyars, and also seems to have been capable of nearly any artistic feat. All of his art is on the main floor of the museum, but the other two floors contained art by other Indian artists that was equally compelling. As I wandered through both museums, I cursed my art history education for leaning so heavily on European art and teaching me absolutely nothing about Eastern art history. Oh, for the record, admission to the two museums cost 4 rupees – about a dime. Yep.

A funny conversation with the man at the government ticket window:

“What country are you from, sir?”
“I’m from America.”
“Are you from Mexico, sir? Mexico City?”
“No, United States of America.”

After the museums, I wandered through Cubbon Park and watched the various picnicking couples and families. I then wandered up and down Cubbon Road, looking for the Karnataka State Tourism Development Corporation office to find out information about city and Mysore tours, but never found it. I then wandered up to the furniture district, for no particular reason, before returning to the the MG area.

I’m now situated in a coffee shop called Java City, where I’ve just finished a paneer tikka roti roll and a cold coffee (which was really coffee and milk and chocolate syrup) and got caught up on not being online for the past couple of days. Amazing how dependent I’ve become on the internet – for everything.

One thing I’ve noticed about myself (and you’ve probably noticed it too): I’m kind of a wimpy traveler. I get overwhelmed really easily (though I do soldier on through it), I get self-conscious about my language skills (though I still try to talk to people) and I periodically need to retreat to my hotel room to recharge (though I spend most of the day out on the street). All of this aligns to what the Myers-Briggs folks would call “introversion.” Maybe so.

One thing I’ve noticed about Bengaluru: there seem to be a lot of laws that just aren’t enforced at all. For example, there’s apparently been a law on the books for ages the prohibits smoking in public places, but I’m currently sitting in a coffee shop in a cloud of tobacco smoke. The other area where laws seem irrelevant is on the road. There are signs everywhere, reminding people to stay in their lanes, to mind their speed, to stay off certain parts of the road – and yet, when anyone does any of these things, there is no enforcement whatsoever. I wonder if this explains, at all, what’s going on with the attacks on Christians. Even though religious persecution of any kind is a violation of the Constitution, the local government just seemed really reluctant to get involved, almost as if to say, “Let them work it out amongst themselves.”

Thanks for making it through all of this. As you can see, I’m not exactly editing these entries, and I’m writing them as I would for myself. I hope you’re not finding this too tedious.

p.s. i had to shrink the photos for faster uploading since my internet connection isn’t the best. hope they still look ok.

Bengaluru – September 20, 2008

September 23, 2008

September 20, 2008

I was awakened this morning at 5 a.m. by a very polite wake-up call. I sprung up, showered, had a cup of tea, and was out of the hotel by a little after 6. I needed to get way across town to meet my guide for a historic Bangalore walking tour, highly recommended by my Lonely Planet guidebook. I walked down to the Golf Course Road, which is usually teeming with autorickshaws and found none. I hadn’t thought about the fact that 6:15 a.m. on a weekend might be different from mid-morning on a weekday. I started walking in what I figured was the right direction, assuming I’d encounter an auto at any moment. I walked and walked and walked, following the route I remembered from being in the car. Several autorickshaws passed with passengers. I walked past an empty one near the Nehru planetarium, but the driver was asleep in the back seat and I didn’t have the heart to wake him.

By the time I finally flagged down an available driver, I had been walking for 30 minutes and the start time for the walking tour was drawing near. I hopped in with a sigh of relief and asked the very young driver to take me to the Ramakrishna Ashram. He looked at me blankly. I showed him the map I’d drawn and named some of the nearby streets. Still, the blank response. He leaned out of his cab and flagged down an old man who was passing by, asking him if he knew where the ashram was. All the old man was able to tell him was the district – Basavangudi – but that was enough to get us on our way.

I expected the autorickshaw to be a frightening experience, but it was actually better than being in a normal car. Sure, the horns were louder and the pollution was more, well, in your lungs, but there was something smooth and almost graceful about the way the little vehicle moved through traffic. Even when I realized that my seat wasn’t attached to anything at all, I felt comfortable and confident.

It took forever for my driver to find his way to Basavangudi and when he did, he had no idea where to go next. I told him the ashram was near Gandhi Bazaar, and that turned on a light for him. He took us near there and tried to make me get out, but he still had no idea where we were. I made him look at my map again, and named some more streets. He made another attempt, and then finally pulled over to ask another pedestrian. Finally, I spotted what appeared to be the intersection that I had been instructed to look for, and just asked him to let me out there.

At that point, I realized he’d never turned the cab’s meter on, and I had no idea what kind of charge to expect. I had probably been in the cab for 30 minutes. What’s that worth? I asked him how much and he indicated that he was unable to say in English. I riffled through my money and handed him 70 rupees. He looked at it and was somehow able to find the English word, “Thirty.”

“Thirty more?” I asked. He gave me the sideways head bob that means, “Sure. I guess. Yeah. Maybe.” I reached over the seat, grabbed the 70 rupees out of his hand, and replaced them with a crisp 100 (about $2.25). He gave me another head bob and I hopped out. Did I get ripped off? Should it have been much less? Did he charge me double? Did he just take me for a ride after taking me for a ride? Probably. To be honest, I don’t care.

The tour guide had emailed me very detailed instructions, with landmarks, for finding the starting point for the tour. She had asked me to arrive at 6:50, and I was alarmed to find that it was already 7:15. I hoped they hadn’t left without me. The instructions were perfectly clear and I found the tour guide, Savita, in no time, waiting near the Ramakrishna Ashram with one other tour-taker, Sunalika. They normally start on time, Savita explained, but with only a group of five, she thought we could afford to get a late start.

As we waited for the three other tour-takers, Savita poured white coffee from a Thermos and we chatted. Sunalika is a longtime Basavangudi resident, but wanted to learn more about her neighborhood, so decided to take the tour that focuses on it. I think that’s fantastic. How many of us take the time to learn the history of our own neighborhoods? On the other hand, how many of us (especially in the US) live in neighborhoods that even have any history?

Finally, a third tour-taker showed up, Manas, a photographer from Northern India who has been living in Bangalore for two years. Savita decided this was enough and the tour began – one American, two Bangaloreans and one Bangalorean tour guide. We began by squeezing through the locked gates that lead into a beautiful park. Apparently, they’re locked to keep out cows.

I can’t say enough good things about the walking tour, and can highly recommend Bangalore Walks to anyone visiting this city. As a tourist on my own, I don’t think I would have seen or experienced half the things that Savita facilitated. She has clearly studied the history of the area and was full of exciting stories, interesting facts and genuine passion. We explored the Cave Temple (aka Sri Gavigangadhareshwara Swami Temple), a Hindu temple that began some time before the 15th century – before Bangalore existed as a settlement – as a simple cave. Over the centuries, it has been turned into the kind of temple you might expect, but the insides are still very much a cavern. I went in, walked the circuit around the idol, and came out to watch folks deep in prayer in front of it.

Other tour highlights:
• a discussion of the works of R.K. Narayanan over a breakfast of white coffee, vadas, idlis and chutney, and halwah at Brahmin’s Coffee Bar, a famous local street spot
• a stop at Sri Sringeri Shankara math, a monastery (and some shrines) to honor the man (a saint, of sorts) who is widely credited with reviving non-dualistic Hinduism in India in the 18th century
• snacks at the famous Srinivasa Condiment Store in Gandhi Bazaar
• listening to the bats in the park by the Bull Temple
• circling the gigantic bull at the Bull Temple, and then being blessed and given a small garland of what smells like bergamot on my way out
• seeing women drawing elaborate chalk drawings in front of their homes to keep away bad luck – they used to use a substance that also warded off ants, but now they use a synthetic chalk and have to buy a separate powder for the ants – ah, progress!
• being asked to get down off a holy ledge where I was sitting and told that people were swearing at me for it
• ending the tour with a Cane-O-La (I had chat masala this time)

Amusingly, Savita used to work as a program manager for Sun Microsystems, and has even visited the company’s Broomfield, Colorado, campus, so we had much to discuss. How small can the world possibly be?

Oh, and how much did this whole walking tour experience cost – including breakfast, snacks, postcards, amazing sights, a wealth of information, jumping queues, and having conversations with merchants? 500 rupees. That’s about 11 dollars.

As we all parted ways, Savita asked which way I was headed. I told her and she asked Manas, who had ridden his motorcycle there, if he could give me a lift part of the way. “Otherwise, the drivers will charge him double,” she said. “They usually do that when they see white skin.” Manas graciously agreed, so he and I made our way back to his bike.

Manas has one of the biggest motorcycles I’ve seen in India – a 350 Royal Enfield. Since I arrived, I’ve observed that people driving motorcycles are pretty consistent about wearing helmets, which is good. Unfortunately, no one seems to carry a spare, so passengers are consistently without helmets. On other days, I shook my head in dismay at those unprotected passengers. Today, I was one.

I hopped on the back of Manas’s bike, planted my feet on the pegs, and tightly gripped the support behind me as we sped, weaved, dodged and darted across the city. Given my recent anxiety, you’d think I’d be freaking out. However, paradoxically, I couldn’t get the smile off my face. It all just seemed so funny and unlikely. I mean, I’m a risk taker, but not the take-your-life-in-your-hands, throw-caution-to-the-wind kind of way. Not usually. It seemed absurd. I laughed as we squeezed between Tata Indicas (the economy car of choice here), whizzed past little Honda motorbikes, hopped over rough roads, and passed autorickshaws on the shoulder. It was an exhilarating and intoxicating experience. Sure, I was afraid for my life at many points, but it all just seemed unreal and dreamlike. And everyone knows you can’t get hurt in a dream.

Before I knew what had happened, we arrived at Windsor Manor. Apparently, Manas had decided to drive me all the way to my destination, which I greatly appreciated and preferred to the prospect of flagging down another clueless auto driver. I hopped off the bike, sent Manas on his way with a handshake, and ran into the hotel. It was 12:15, and I was supposed to have checked out 15 minutes before. I dashed up to my room, washed my hands and face, pulled together my belongings, and was back in the lobby by 12:25. While I checked out, one of the bellmen summoned an autorickshaw to pull into the hotel driveway, a place where they’re normally not welcome.

This was an interesting moment. The bellmen at the hotel are used to sending their charges off in fancy cars that cost a week’s wages. Instead, they were having sotto voce conversations with the rickshaw driver, and then telling him to take care, and I felt like a child being sent out into the wild world. It was my passage from spoiled, coddled, protected five-star Western jet-setter (an identity that feels utterly foreign to me) to grungy, budget backpacker (which feels a lot more familiar). And it was marked by various bellmen loading my bags into a crappy autorickshaw. Be careful at college, son. It’s a dangerous world. You know about sex, right?

A brief aside here. I’m sometimes taken aback at how naïve and inexperienced I feel when I travel. It’s as if I’ve lived a completely sheltered life and never ventured outside of what was familiar and comfortable. I know that’s not true, but there’s nothing like travel – especially my first travel to developing country – to humble and awaken. So I beg the indulgence and patience of my well-traveled and more experienced friends as I continue with my wide-eyed wonderment.

My cabbie and I were quickly on our way to the M.G. Road area. We did our best to make small talk as we wound through the weekend traffic. Finally, he pulled his cab into Rest House Road, the end of the line in this part of town for autorickshaws, and asked at another hotel for directions to my hotel. After telling me how to get there, he tried to talk me into staying at the hotel he’d just walked into. I told him I was already booked at the other, and that seemed to close the conversation. He had been running the meter, and it now read 60 rupees. I gave him 100 and he thanked me, then reminded me that a taxi would have cost me 500. I agreed, but didn’t produce any more money, which I think he expected. I then pulled my suitcase through the busy pedestrian road to Brigade Road and found my way to Hotel Curzon Court.

So just how far have we fallen from the five-star hotel to the budget option? Pretty freaken far, actually. This hotel is perfectly safe and I still marvel at the fact that stone (mostly granite and marble) floors and stairs are de rigueur here, but if I walked into a room like this one in the States, I’d walk right back out. The AC keeps blowing a fuse and the furniture (I’m in a “deluxe” room, which means I have a sitting area for entertaining imaginary friends, street urchins and hard-up prostitutes) is stained with what I can only assume our fluids – bodily or otherwise. The beds (two singles) are hard, the lights are dim, and there are mothballs in every drawer. There are also things I care less about, like there’s no bathtub, the TV is a 19-incher, and there’s no internet. Yes, I know. Poor me. And yes, I’ve been spoiled by the five-star lifestyle. But if you could see this joint, you’d know what I mean. Obviously, it’s no “manor,” but it also doesn’t have very good manners. I actually tried to pull the headboards off the wall to check for bedbugs (I saw them do that on “48 Hours” once), but couldn’t do it. On the other hand, I have a mini-fridge for keeping cold all the bottles of water I stole from the Windsor, the reception is very nice, there’s a tasty-looking vegetarian restaurant a floor below me (masala dosas for breakfast tomorrow?), and I’m right smack in the midst of all the action of downtown Bangalore. Plus, nearly anything is tolerable for three nights, right?

Can I get an amen? No? How about an om then?

After getting settled in, I strolled out around the neighborhood, in search of free wifi. I made my way through Brigade Road, Residency Road, Church Street, Museum Road, Rest House Road and M.G. Road, checking out shops and people. The streets are incredibly crowded and filled with hucksters of all sorts – guys keep thrusting mini chess sets into my face and asking if I want a turn – but I’ve drawn on my big city experiences to adopt a friendly-yet-surly, purposeful demeanor for making my way through the crowds. But I don’t rush the way I used to. I’ve learned – from Clint Eastwood or Steve McQueen or Simon Lebon – to walk slowly and assuredly. I’ve also taken a cue from the locals, who touch and bump each other in an effort to get where they’re going. I don’t mind the crowds at all, and I feel pretty safe and confident here. I didn’t manage to find free wifi though, so I settled for using connected computers at a Coffee Day (the ubiquitous coffee chain here). They charged me 60 rupees (about a buck-fifty) for 30 minutes, and threw in some free cookies. I hung out there, checked my email, wrote a couple postcards, and enjoyed my cookies, then made my way back to my hotel room. By the time I returned, my clothes were soaked with sweat. I took a shower and then sat down to write.

Tonight, I plan to have dinner at Ulla’s, then check into a couple of the neighborhood pubs or lounge clubs for drinks. Tomorrow, I’ll be sightseeing around Bangalore, so I can afford to stay out a bit late. Of course, the 11:30 curfew in this city prevents things from getting too out of hand. Ah, how far we’ve come since Thursday’s freakout.

Time to get dressed and hit the town!

Well, the trip to Ulla’s was a resounding success. Just minutes from my hotel, I climbed the stairs to the first floor and was immediately seated in a plastic chair at a table on the terrace, overlooking MG. The man who seated me presented me with a menu, then asked if I wanted to order any meat. As far as I know, Ulla’s is a vegetarian restaurant, so I said no. He looked relieved, and opened to the dinner page. Soon, a waiter appeared at my side and pointed to the North Indian thali. I told him that I wanted South Indian food, but he informed me that wasn’t available tonight. In that case, I’ll have the North Indian.

“Do you want the special thali?” he asked. “It comes with ice cream and soup.” Well, ice cream and soup! How could I resist?

“No, I don’t want that much food.”

In less than a minute, a tray was set before me with naan, rice, some kind of paneer gravy dish (like makhani or labadwar or even tikka masala), a saag dish with potatoes (aloo saag?), an unsweetened kheer, and a bowl of cinnamon-y tomato soup with croutons. The tray was trimmed with a slice each of raw onion, cucumber and lime, which I left unmolested. I can’t say it was the freshest food available, but it all tasted great to me, and I devoured it with glee. In fact, I’d have to say I enjoyed it far more than the pricey feast I had last night at Dakshin. How much did this gustatory celebration set me back? Just 55 rupees, plus tip. That’s just over a dollar.

I visited the little handwashing station on the terrace, then made my way back down to MG, determined to find the fabled nightlife. The first place on my list was Taika, a rooftop lounge in the Pavilion. I went into the Pavilion, but was unable to find any signs for it, and there was no one around to ask. I moved on to Barton Center to find the 13th Floor. However, when I got there, there was a bustling Barista (Lavazza’s chain of coffee shops) in front, so I decided to have a coffee. An Americano and a scrumptious slice of chocolate cake set me back 120 rupees ($2.75), almost completely undoing the frugality of my dinner, but I savored both as I sat on the busy ersatz piazza with a bunch of young, urban hipsters.

Once done with coffee and chocolate, I made my way to the Barton Center elevator and pressed lucky number 13. Yes, the building has a 13th floor. When I reached the top, I could see Ebony, an upscale eatery, to my left, and 13th Floor, the hip lounge, to my right. I reached the door of the club just in time to hear the couple in front of me being turned away, with the explanation that the club was completely full. Knowing I had one last stop to make, I opted not to wait like a sucker.

I strolled back toward my hotel and hung a right onto Church Street to check out NASA, which is a stone’s throw from my digs. It’s a funny, spaceship-themed bar, with loud, techno music, but no dancing (I hear it’s no longer allowed in Bangalore – shades of Footloose) and very few women. With all the décor and the loud, bumping music, you’d think it was a nightclub, but it’s just a bar, decorated like the set of a 60s James Bond film. Still, it was packed. The only spot available was at the bar, so I took it and ordered a beer (for draft beer here, there’s pretty much just one choice: Kingfisher). Shortly after I settled in, another pale skinned gentlemen appeared at the door and approached the bar. There aren’t that many white people visible around town (other than at the five-star hotel, natch), so he caught my eye. He ordered a strawberry daiquiri (what?) and then asked me if the beer was any good. It’s neither good nor bad, really. It’s just Kingfisher. A seat opened up next to me and he sat down.

The young man, just out of college, is from a town near Lyons, France. He just moved here a couple weeks ago to work for the Alliance Francaise. He was surprised when I guessed it. We drank and chatted about the interesting blue laws that are cropping up around Bangalore, and their relation to smoking bans in our respective home countries. We drank some more in the ridiculously designed theme bar, and then, at 10:30, all the lights came on. Bars here must be completely closed and empty by 11:30, so NASA has decided to just do last calls an hour ahead to avoid any last minute skirmishes, especially when the cops show up to make sure everyone clears out. My French friend left shortly thereafter, and I settled up with my barman (280 rupees≈$6). He then told me I was welcome to sit inside (vs. at the bar), which feels like the inside of a DC-10. I sat and finished my beer contentedly, then walked the 100 or so steps back to my hotel.

The curfew is remarkably effective, because it is now 11:45, and the streets outside my hotel are nearly empty, and the honking has quieted to an occasional blast instead of the usual incessant roar. It’s a hair’s breadth from martial law, of which I’m not a fan. On the other hand, it will certainly make for better sleep. Good night, Bengaluru.