kindly court workers who invited me to join them for chai

I’m continually humbled by the kindness of strangers and never more so than when I’m traveling in, what from an American standpoint are, remote corners of the globe.  While Mumbai (or Bombay as the locals here still call it) is not exactly a small corner, it’s certainly very remote from my little hometown of Chattanooga, Tennessee.  I had been suffering some incredibly severe pangs of homesickness the past few days.  As if in response to some cosmic cue, a multitude of kind people reached out to me yesterday and invited me to share in some small portion of their lives. I was and am sincerely touched and grateful.

In addition to being incredibly homesick (or heartsick), I had also been feeling overwhelmed by the magnitude of sights and experiences the giant country of India has to offer compared with the relatively small amount of time I had to open myself to her.  It was clear from the start that I couldn’t see it all and eliminating options is not one of my strong suits. Everything seemed of paramount importance as I was faced with every traveler’s choice of spending more time in a few places or little time in many.  Additionally, I had become used to having my own transportation during the 10 months that I traveled Southeast Asia by motorbike. This was not going to be possible for me in India given the particular places I wanted to be on particular festival dates and the vast distances between them.  Accordingly, I had been forced to make train and plane reservations which meant planning ahead – which completely cramps my travel style.  All that combined with a little jet lag had left me feeling less than on top of the traveling world.

Samarsingh Thakur with his amazing art work

Seeking to soothe my soul, I did what every heartsick, jet-lagged, overwhelmed artist/traveler would do … and headed to an art museum.  Bombay’s National Gallery of Modern Art was a help. I enjoyed the eclectic variety of paintings, sculptures and mixed media pieces exhibited there. As is always the case with art for me, I connected with and was inspired by some while others were meant for another viewer. I left feeling better but my heart was not completely full.

As I wondered along a bit farther, I came across the first street vending chai wallah I’d seen in Bombay. Several men were gathered around drinking chai out of small clear glasses and allowed me to photograph them. Then they surprised me by inviting me to join them and treating me to some chai.  They were staffers at the High Court and had stepped outside their offices for an afternoon chai break. They hospitably inquired about my trip and allowed me to practice my limited Hindi with them.  Their hospitality coupled with the the delicious warm, milky, sweet, spiced tea certainly did wonders to warm my heart.

Only about 100 feet or so beyond the chai wallah’s stand, I happened to look into the open door of a building and saw some amazing art work that I’m certain physically grabbed me and pulled me into the building. All I could think was, “Wow!”

The colors were vibrant, the graphics were strong and there was obvious rich symbolism in the semi-featureless women who stared without eyes back at me from the paintings. I was mesmorized. The paintings were filled with movement and great energy but simultaneously conveyed a quiet spirit. I wasn’t sure if I should whisper or shout for joy. The paintings seemed to invite both reactions. The bodies of the women in the pieces were primarily simplistic torsos covered in beautiful swirling wallpaper-like designs. The tops of each of the their heads was missing leaving me to wonder if information was escaping their heads or if they were open to receiving vast quantities of messages and information. In a number of the pieces, one woman would be featured front and center in bright colors while multiple others were gathered behind her in shadowy blacks and grays, perhaps her shadow self.  I was reminded of a number of Indian women I’d encountered who dressed in vivid colors that demanded my attention and yet were too shy to be able to speak to me and only giggled, hiding behind their hands.

Samar and me with more of his art

I was so enveloped by the art that, I’m embarrassed to say, I barely noticed a group of men sitting at a table that I walked past until one of them got up to greet me.  I couldn’t believe my luck when the man introduced himself to me as Samarsingh Thakur, the artist responsible for my momentary shortness of breath.

Samar generously spent quite a bit of time talking to me about his work. He explained his message – his observation that women sometimes use design to conceal their own personalities perhaps remaining strangers even to themselves, while style can simultaneously be an expression of personality and even emotion.

Apparently I was very fortunate in my timing because Samar’s exhibition was due to be dismantled in a matter of hours.  He introduced me to several other artists at the table, many of whom were to be part of the new exhibit being installed immediately after.  Among those I met were Rakesh Kumar Singh (who paints contemporary stylized and symbolically rich scenes from the Gita, the Bible of Hinduism) and Ram Bali Prajapati (who both paints and works in mixed media. His paintings for this particular exhibit focused on a maternal theme but are far from sweet and simple. The preview I saw was simultaneously evocative, challenging, rich and nurturing.) They invited me to join them for chai and we discussed art, travel and the “must sees” of India.  Samar gave me the contact information for an artist/professor friend of his who lives in Udaipur, one of cities I’ll be visiting in the next couple of weeks. They also invited me to the opening reception of Rakesh and Ram’s work the next day at 4pm and emphasized repeatedly that I was to be their guest. Needless to say I can’t wait!!!

I left the men and did a little more clothes shopping as my few changes of clothes were all being laundered and I hadn’t yet purchased enough to use during my trip. In the process, I found and splurged on a beautiful dress for the next day’s special art opening.

Finally, I headed for a late dinner at almost ten o’clock. The restaurant I wanted to try was completely packed. As I waited for a table to open up, a kind family of four sitting by the door saw me and invited me to join them.  Initially, I thought they were inviting me to sit with them just until my own table was free but then they offered me some of their food that had just been served.  I sat with them but was torn about the food, thinking I was just sitting their temporarily. I didn’t want to take part of their meal which they had clearly ordered only for 4, but also didn’t want to offend them by refusing their hospitality.  They insisted repeatedly and it became clear that I was being invited to join them for the entire meal, not just “sitting for a spell.”

post-dinner with Rachel, Dean and their two sweet children

I enjoyed several new and delicious dishes – “lollipop chicken” similar to the drumstick of chicken wings but crunchier and without the buffalo wing sauce. We also had a spicy, somewhat thick beef broth based egg-drop kind of soup that had lots of ginger and spice (here things are called “beef” but because of India’s reverence for the cow, they are often buffalo or camel).  They also ordered two different kinds of fried rice, one spicy and one not. The spicy one was called chicken fried rice but Rachel, the “mom” explained that it was what she called “triple rice” because it had rice, noodles and then a gravy sauce which contained the chicken. It was all delicious.

Over dinner we discussed the delights of Bombay but also its commuting distance problems, what it was like to travel and learn new languages, and how many Indian families had settled into the U.S. Dean, an employee at a call center, was interested in moving there but was having trouble figuring out the logistics of relocation and employment opportunities. He and Rachel wouldn’t permit me to pay a single rupee towards dinner so afterwards I invited them to my hotel where I gave them one of my art pieces which they seemed to enjoy.

All in all, it was a lovely day and my heart is feeling more full, my soul soothed.  What more can a girl ask?

Although this wasn't "my Swami-ji," this most looks like him though he was clad all in white, with a cap and his top fully covered his torso.

Day 2 in India started off interestingly enough. What I thought was a room under construction adjacent to my room turns out to have been the kitchen hotel. Not only did the men working there wake me at 6am chatting and banging their pots and pans but I discovered that they had a view right into my bathroom!  While the toilet under the window was shielded from sight, the European style non-curtained middle-of-the-room shower was in complete view.  While I hadn’t caught any of them trying to peek in, I felt too uncomfortable with the possibility to chance it. So I headed downstairs bright and early to see about changing rooms, hopefully in time for a peep-free shower that morning.

The hotel clerks laughed knowingly as if we shared an inside joke when I asked them if they had another room where men could not see into my bathroom and where I wouldn’t be awakened by kitchen clamor so early. Their chuckles, which didn’t seem to be at my expense, did still seem to say “Ah, yes.  You discovered that did you? We were hoping you wouldn’t notice.”  Given that my night-time shower had gone unobserved (at least as far as I knew) it was really a case of no harm, no foul other than the interrupted sleep so I felt free to join them in smiling about the situation.

The hotel was booked to capacity and I was asked to wait until people checked out to see which rooms would be available.  Concerned they would forget about me and my request in the all the chaos of checkouts and newcomers checking in, I didn’t want to wander too far from the front desk.  I noticed a room labeled “Restaurant” and wandered in to check out the menu.  The room was filled with many men, lots of them dressed all in white. As I looked around attempting to determine who was in charge, one of the white-clad men walked up to me and pointed to another standing right in front of me and said, “This is Swami-ji.” While I don’t know precisely what a swami is, I did recognize that he was some sort of revered holy man in the grand scheme of things. I put my hands together in front of me and gave him my best “Namaste” greeting. He “Namaste’d” me back. I asked him in Hindi how he was and he chuckled, replying he was fine. He began speaking in rapid-fire Hindi so I told him in Hindi that I didn’t understand what he was saying. Several other men rushed over to tell me again that this was Swami-ji. Swami-ji seemed to get a big laugh out of the whole encounter and invited me to join them for breakfast. It was then I realized that a buffet of Indian food was laid out on the table behind the men. The swami seated me and then prepared a plate of food for me.

Roger, I’m very sorry to report that, although I asked the names of the dishes and they told me, I was unprepared to write them down and they have escaped my memory.  Naturally, I didn’t think to bring my camera with me to merely ask to change rooms so I was unprepared to take photos of either the food or of Swami-ji.  But here’s a description of what I was served: one dish was a sweet, sticky rice that had golden raisins in it and perhaps a little cinnamon. The other had the texture and consistency of grits and was a bit spicy. There was also a very pureed chutney the color of chickpeas and the consistency of a watered down puree to mix into the other two.  It was (you know I’m going to say it) very delicious!

The men were eating in traditional Indian style, with their fingers.  When in Rome and all that jazz.  I dove in and did the same.  I thought I was doing pretty well, at least for someone not used to eating grits with her fingers. Someone had pity on me and brought me several napkins and a spoon.

I chatted with the men while we ate.  The group of about 15-20 were from several different cities. Each in turn asked if I had been to his city or state and I disappointed them all as I repeatedly told them that I had only arrived the day before and had only seen Mumbai thus far.  Yet comically they kept asking “What about my city? Have you been to Kerala?” “What about Bangalore?” They admired my daring for traveling alone and said they appreciated how social I was with them. As they filed out of the room, most of them introduced themselves to me and shook my hand. One of the last invited me to join them for dinner that night at 9:30.  Seems like an interesting prospect. If I can make it back in time, I think I might.

After the encounter with Swami-ji and his entourage, I wandered back to the front desk to check on my room.  The men working are highly entertained every time I say a single word in Hindi. They repeat each word, smiling and laughing to each other, the way adults do when a child adds a surprising new word to their vocabulary.  While my efforts seem to be appreciated, I also get the feeling that I’m not being taken seriously. “No madame, we still have no room available.” “No madame, the internet is still broken.”

On the upside, my cotton blouse was returned from the press-wallah.  In India, “wallah” means someone who does something or is from somewhere.  So people from Delhi are called Delhi-wallahs and people who serve the yummy chai tea are called chai-wallahs.  Following this train of thought, the people who iron clothes are called press-wallahs. The press-wallahs typically only charge a couple of rupees to iron a piece of clothing.  Since the price is so inexpensive, Indians regard anyone who doesn’t have their clothes neatly pressed with great disdain as either being too poor to afford even a few rupees or too uncaring about their appearance.  In my ongoing attempts to ingratiate myself to the locals, I had delivered my blouse to be pressed. As always, the hotel tacked on a double or triplicate charge for having served as the “arranger” so my blouse cost 10Rs to be pressed. I’m not sure if it’s a good thing to continually put things in the context of my home economy.  On the one hand, it seems ridiculous to have a discussion over what is literally a difference of either a dime or 15 cents.  On the other hand, I don’t like continually being taken advantage of.  I figured I’d pick my battles and only exert energy over the larger items. As a foreigner, this was clearly going to happen a lot and it was easier not to sweat the small stuff.

one of the funny little "mini trucks" sporting the ubiquitous "Horn OK Please" slogans (the swastika here does not carry any bad meaning or association with Nazi Germany)

I caught a taxi from my airport hotel into the heart of Mumbai. The hour-long drive provided an entertaining introduction to the city. I was happy to spot many motorbikes on the road and noted the names of the platformed kind I preferred to buy or rent (the Activa and Suzuki Access were two) and to spot at least a few women driving them. Also, the traffic wasn’t nearly as congested or as “crazy” as in Hanoi or Saigon and I had easily driven in both places. Horns were more prevalent, however, undoubtedly encouraged by the signs and bumper stickers on the backs of many trucks and auto-rickshaws that read “Horn OK Please.” Although it seemed to me that the slogan was a mere invitation to strike up the so-called symphony, in reality it’s encouragement for drivers behind the “Horn OK”-bearing vehicle to honk before passing to advise of their presence since many of the older vehicles here don’t have side-view mirrors.   Equally amusing was the size of most of the trucks … most had the usual cab and height size but the back looked like it was missing half or even 2/3 of the length.  The cargo portion of some is as short as 3 or 4 feet long!

"New High Class Restaurant"

Mumbai reminded me very much of Phnom Penh, Cambodia’s capitol city.  The streets were wide, littered and dusty and the sidewalk pavers were badly broken and upheaved in many places.  Businesses of all kinds spilled out of their shops onto the frontage sidewalks. The city seemed to be divided – half the people bustled along the street while the other half sat and watched the world go by; half of the vehicular traffic were cars or trucks and half were motorbikes.

I was pleased to see that there was a designated home for senior women and also a day care for street kids.  I was amused by the dichotomy of a shoddy-looking store front underneath a sign that read “New High Class Restaurant.” I was impressed by the architectural beauty of the Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus (CST) train station which has, understandably, been named a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

My new hotel did not have WiFi but they did have their own version of the Gideon’s Bible, so prevalent at American hotels.  Awaiting any guest in a wall storage unit was small book written entirely in Hindi and featuring Ganesh, the elephant-headed Hindu god on the front.

I had read repeatedly that Indians are very conservative when it comes to women’s clothing and that I would receive a greater welcome if I dressed as they did so my first goal was to obtain a couple of “salwar kameez” (also called “Punjabi dress”) – a long, top and scarf worn over loose pants. I love the beautiful Indian fabrics and thought these would also make some interesting souvenirs.

CST - the main train station in Mumbai

As I headed to FabIndia, a highly recommended store which sells such clothes, I was intercepted by a man selling maps of India. He advised me not to go to the overpriced FabIndia but to follow him to a wholesale shop where the prices were much better.  I walked with him for 20-30 minutes to a shop which showed me 4 different pre-made salwar kameez. I wasn’t thrilled with the selection but thought perhaps if the price was right I might buy one so as not to be rude to me “helper,” who was undoubtedly getting a commission for bringing me.  At 4000Rs ($80) each, however, the price was certainly not right!  Clearly my guide was getting a gargantuan kickback! When I told the owner I didn’t want to spend more than 1000Rs ($20) per outfit, he laughed and said it was impossible.  Only half a block later as I wandered through a nearby market, I stumbled upon a tailor who said he would MAKE a salwar kameez for me for 600Rs ($12)!  He also agreed to alter a tunic I had purchased in the US for an additional 40Rs (80 cents). Needless to say, I didn’t even try to bargain. I chose some beautiful teal colored fabric. (tailors shop phoot) My new outfit will be ready a mere 24 hours after ordering it!  Also needless to say, I dismissed the map-seller who was still following me around, undoubtedly trying to take me to the shop of another “uncle.”

Next, I headed to book an interesting tour I had read about of the Dhavi slum.  The Dhavi is the largest slum in Mumbai and apparently it houses quite a number of cottage industries run out of the shanties that comprise it. I’m told that many of the residents collect recyclables and make new plastic, nails and other items that they can sell.

India's "Gideon's Bible"

On my way to the tour office, I encountered another Indian man who began to stroll along beside me, eager to chat me up. I’ve experienced this a lot in the bigger cities in Asia and usually, but not always, the friendly person wants to sell something or take me somewhere where they will get a commission for whatever I’m enticed to purchase.  I don’t begrudge these encounters and have sometimes made legitimate friends through them. More often than not, however, my role is merely that of a meal ticket in some regard so I’m usually a bit guarded. Given my most recent brush with such hospitality, I wasn’t in the mood and was pretty dismissive of this man.  Undeterred, he walked along beside me assuring me that he didn’t want anything from me.  I didn’t particularly believe him and I wasn’t paying that much attention to him but when I’d walked almost to the end of the short street without seeing my destination I told him what I was looking for.  “I WORK at Reality Tours!” he exclaimed, exactly the place I was looking for.  He lead me there (it was down a side street) and delivered me to the booking agent.

After I booked the tour, I decided to search out a different hotel that would be cheaper and closer to the action than my current one. The man spotted me and joined me again.  He introduced himself as Sanju and walked with me to 2 prospective hotels.  Although they didn’t have WiFi (which apparently isn’t as prevalent in India as it was in Vietnam), they were certainly much cheaper and right in the heart of Colaba, the area I wanted to be. I decided to return the next day when they would have empty rooms to make arrangements (call me particular but I have a thing against rooms that smell moldy or blankets that reek of mothballs so I’ve learned that room inspections at the Asian hotels that fall in my price range are necessary).

While walking through the rest of the market area, a young girl approached me and hurriedly tied a bracelet of fresh, fragrant flowers on my wrist.  She also assured me she didn’t want anything but said I could buy her some rice if I wished. I do know that I can be a sucker but I also have a hard time turning down anyone’s request for food. I follower her across the street to buy her what I thought was an evening meal.  Instead, she lead me into a grocery where she pointed to a large bag of rice that must have weighed 10 pounds.  “These are on sale so you can buy me two of these for 1000Rs ($20),” she advised me quite seriously.  “Bilcul nihi!” I exclaimed in Hindi (“certainly not”). “I will buy you one meal,” I told her.  “Milk is even more expensive,” she said rather practically, misunderstanding “meal” as “milk.”  I couldn’t figure out how to explain “meal” to her so I told her I would spend no more than 100Rs, easily enough for one ready-to-eat hot meal.  In response, she picked up 3 smaller bags of rice and pointed to the sign which advised me that 2 bags were 99Rs and the 3rd one was free.  The look she gave me said, “You see! This is a much better deal than a simple meal!” I couldn’t help but laugh at both her ingenuity and her bargain hunting skills so I purchased the 3 bags of rice for her.

Dining companions Sanju and Alastair at Laxmi Vila restaurant

During this whole time, Sanju had tagged along teaching me new Hindi words and encouraging me to use the ones I already knew (hence the earlier “Bilcul nihi!”) He was entertaining company though I still couldn’t figure his agenda. I was getting hungry and, at least at the moment, he seemed harmless enough so I invited him to join me for dinner.  I was headed to a place called Bagdadi that my boyfriend Roger had read about and advised me to check out.  Sanju said he would love to go there but that restaurant only served “non-veg” meals and, as a Hindu, he couldn’t eat meat on Tuesdays (this reminded me of my childhood observation of the Catholic tradition of not eating meat on Fridays). “Besides,” he said, “I know a place that’s much cheaper and serves delicious Indian food!”

He introduce me to Laxmi Vila which I HIGHLY recommend to anyone visiting Mumbai. It’s just around the corner from the famous Leopold’s Cafe.  I love to order thalis at Indian restaurants because you get a sampling of a variety of dishes. Laxmi’s had 4 different thalis on the menu and Sanju recommended the Punjabi Thali for 100Rs ($2). Since there were no explanations beside any of them, I took his advice. Most thalis I’ve ever ordered come with 3-4 different dishes.  This one came with 11 and an endless supply of chapatis! (For my foodie, Roger, who I know is curious, I will list them: chal pulum, palak paneer, dal frey, chana masala, mutter, suki bagi, pur alat, raita, dehea hiwada, achar or lime pickle, and sweet lassi. Please pardon what are undoubtedly some misspellings!)  Sanju ordered the dal durka which was also delicious.  We befriended a Scotland-residing Englishman named Alastair at the next table and invited him to join us.  All 3 of us went away with full bellies.  Total price including 2 bottles of water = $269 Rs (less than $5.50).

Alastair suggested we had to nearby Leopold’s for an after dinner drink.  Sanju warned us that this was very expensive but we went anyway.  As we waited for the drinks to arrive, Sanju pointed out some bullet holes in some of the pillars and in the ceiling, telling us that this was one of the 4 places attacked by terrorist gunmen in 2008. Ten people were killed in the restaurant, another 35 among the other 3 places (2 hotels and the CST train station).  Given how small the restaurant is and how closely packed the tables are, it’s amazing to me that more weren’t killed in Leo’s as there would have been no place to hide and no way to run. I later read that Leo’s re-opened to packed and defiant house a mere 4 days after the attacks; so packed in fact that police closed the restaurant again which reopened the following day.  Sanju was right about the prices. One beer and two cappucinos came to 300Rs ($6). While not expensive by Western standards, to put it in context, the 3 drinks totaled more than our entire dinner!

Punjabi Thali at Laxmi Vila

I said good night to Alastair and Sanju kindly insisted on walking me back to my hotel since it was far away and he was concerned about me walking alone after dark.  He was great at helping me practice my Hindi though he taught me so many new words so quickly, I only managed to retain a few.  My name is universally difficult to pronounce and I wondered what I would be called in India. Sanju was no exception and after attempting “Beverly” several times, he said “Bubbly” is a name people in India will know. You should go by Bubbly here.” I’m called that often enough at home though more as a descriptor than as a name, but that seemed fitting enough so I guess in India I’ll be “Bubbly.”

Aloo Pakoda for breakfast

So as not to leave you wondering, the Milan Hotel did not send an airport shuttle for me but I was able to secure a taxi to the place and they did indeed have my room reserved and ready.

The blankets smelled like mothballs and, due to the close proximity of the hotel to the airport (the reason I chose it after my midnight arrival), I heard planes roaring all through the night as they took off and landed, from the sound of it, from inside my own little room.  The first time I head one, I nearly had a heart attack. I would have sworn an airplane was crashing and headed straight for my hotel! Needless to say, I didn’t sleep particularly well until exhaustion took over and I fell into a Rip Van Winkle-esque slumber around 8am. I slept through my alarm and only woke when the hotel called my room at 1pm to ask if I planned to observe the noon checkout.  They were very kind, allowing me time to shower and pack my belongings.

They referred me to the restaurant in the hotel for “breakfast” where I ordered aloo pakoda, lightly fried potato puffs that were more puff than potato. Two fried chilies came with the dish too and they certainly woke me up! The meal was served with a sweet tomato sauce which had the texture and taste of off-brand ketchup.  Interesting. Not my favorite dish, but still it was nice to start the day off with something other than Wheaties to confirm that I was definitely “not in Kansas anymore.”  Total cost = 100 Rupees (about $2). Given that I know that chai (the delicious milky spiced tea ubiquitous in India) costs 4Rs (vs the 45Rs charged by the hotel restaurant), I expect I could have eaten for about $0.25 if I had headed out to the street!

Rickshaws

While I waited for my food, my attention switched back and forth between the buzz of activity in the street outside and the TV which was set to a local news station with English-speaking reporters.  The hotel was situated in the curve of a narrow, dusty lane which contained small piles of crumbled cement blocks on the sides as if the buildings were tiny mountains that had sustained little avalanches.  The street was lined with black and yellow auto-rickshaws, 3-wheeled golf-cart sized motor vehicle taxis that steer and accelerate with motorbike-like handles.  Many of the drivers loitered about either congregating in small groups visiting with each other, sitting in the driver’s seat chatting on their cell phones or taking a small siesta on the back customer’s bench, all waiting for business.

boy carrying a tiffin

Women dressed primarily in traditional saris hurried past, many with children in tow carrying tiffins (a multi-tiered silver lunch pail that keeps each dish and snack separated from the other), presumably to their working husbands.  I spotted my first unattended cow as it wandered, seemingly somewhat purposefully, in front of the hotel.  In Southeast Asia, I became accustomed to seeing livestock, usually cattle or water buffalo, walk in the roads. There, they were prized possessions and always attended by a “babysitting” youngster who held the beast’s rope “leash.”  In India, cows are regarded as sacred, of course, and are allowed to roam freely as their own masters.  I have read that many are “cared for” by dairy farms during their milking years but let loose to fend for themselves once their milk is dried up.  Though regarded as holy, painstakingly avoided by all motor vehicles and painted up for festivals and holidays, I understand that they actually have rather sad lives, at least in the cities, where they’re left to scavenge, often in the garbage, for their own food; frequently ingesting plastic bags which do horrible things to their stomachs and lead to painful deaths.

The unattended cow was followed several minutes later by a child leading a different cow by a rope.  Hmmmm … I was confused. I’m sure this wouldn’t be the last time I’d be left scratching my head during my stay in this foreign place.  While pondering the fate of the Indian cow and trying to discern the difference between the two I’d seen, the  repeated use of the word “bungled” on the TV news show caught my attention.

bullock cart

A reporter was discussing some criminal investigation that had been “bungled.”  The station switched back to the news anchor who tsked-tsked at the bungling committed by the police department.  Apparently frustrated, she advised the viewing public that “Such bungling has been going on for some time now. Why is such bungling allowed to continue?” Although it wasn’t quite as entertaining as if both journalists had used the word “bamboozled,” the repeated use of “bungling” was enough to flip the switch on my giggle box.

In the next news story, I learned that a “chartbuster” Indian song by the name of Kolaveri-di had inspired a new dessert in Mumbai called the “Kolaveri di-ssert.”  The reporter advised that it was available in only a few places throughout the city at the moment and could be had for 5Rs (about 10 cents US).  Although she didn’t specify what was in the dessert, it looked like some kind of nuts covered with a chocolate sauce.  I was determine to get one if only for the novelty factor.  Sadly, she did not advise where the dessert could be obtained and every Indian person I asked later throughout the day insisted quite fervently that Kolaveri-di was most definitely not something to eat, but only a popular song. I guess I was the only one who saw that news report. Maybe I’ll have to settle for a copy of the song (which is quite catchy).

During a commercial break, I learned that a non-profit group in India is sponsoring a “Save Our Tigers Campaign.” I thought of my boyfriend’s 10 year old daughter, Lauren, who big-heartedly asked Santa for a donation in her name to “Save the Tigers” for Christmas this year.  I know she would be thrilled at India’s conservation efforts.  Roger, please be sure to tell her for me.

the boys from breakfast

When the news came back on, I learned that Ghandi’s family is still involved in Indian politics (Sonia Ghandi – perhaps a grand-daughter? – held a press conference in which she claimed that “the government had betrayed the people” but I never caught exactly how), that the plans of Rushdie, a controversial Indian author living abroad, to return to India and participate in the upcoming annual literature festival were being hotly debated (though everyone interviewed universally opined that he should be permitted) and lastly, that Oprah Winfrey was also in Mumbai.  Somehow, I suspect we’re staying at very different hotels.  Such was my news for the day.

After I finished eating breakfast, a young boy approached me and asked if he could have his photo taken with me. I was tickled at his request, thinking how ironic it was that I wanted to come to India to take photos of their culture and found myself a subject of equal curiosity. I happily obliged and then three others approached with the same request. We took turns taking photos all around.  It felt like an auspicious first morning in India.

It’s no surprise that I was experiencing a bit of trepidation as I flew around the world toward my destination in Mumbai.  I had booked a hotel for the night of my arrival … my preferred method for a first arrival, particularly since my flight arrived just before midnight India time. I chose the hotel, ironically named the Milan International Hotel, because of their advertised shuttle service from the airport.  Once I had booked (through reputable Priceline), however, I realized I had been the victim of a slight “bait and switch.”  The confirmation email I received advised that unless a shuttle had been specifically included in my voucher (it was not in mine) I would need to contact the hotel directly to make arrangements.  There was an online form provided to do so and I used it to advise them of my late arrival, request for a non-smoking room and a shuttle pickup.

In all the flurry of activity the week prior to my departure, it slipped my notice that I had received no confirmation email from the hotel regarding my requests.  The lack of communication occurred to me as I was in flight somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean.  During my 4 hour layover in Amsterdam, I used Skype to attempt to contact the hotel and confirm my booking and additional requests.  My trepidation grew as I was advised that the phone number I was calling was no longer in service.

So I’m crossing my fingers that I have a hotel to stay at when I arrive … at this point, a shuttle will merely be a bonus.  Then again, a post-midnight search for a hotel could definitely provide some instant adventure, though I think most everyone would agree such an event would more fairly simply fall under the “hassle” category.  Cross your fingers.  I certainly am.

In the winters of 2008 and 2009, I had the great pleasure of adventuring for many months at a time throughout Southeast Asia. Last winter, on the heels     of one of the most exhausting art show seasons in memory, I opted to be a home-girl and enjoy the cozy comfort of my house and kitties in Chattanooga, Tennessee.  As long as I can remember, I have experienced my inner tug-of-war between my undying wanderlust and a desire to spend time in my own home and in my own community. Last year, the homebody side won out, but as a result, the travel bug nipped incessantly at my heels for the duration of 2011.  In an attempt to keep balance and harmony along the fault line of my psychic split, I’m appeasing that thirst for adventure and am headed off to exotic India for 6 weeks of what I hope will be much off-the-beaten-path adventure.  My flight leaves on January 15.  My first stop is Mumbai and my last will be Delhi.  The rest I will figure out when I get there. Care to (virtually) join me?