There is so much to report on that I don’t know where to start, so I will start with a hodgepodge of incidents that were all in different ways marvelous:

-Riding an elephant with Emily in Chitwan National park, in Nepal. It was raining, and we climbed atop the elephant’s back before it walked into a river, and then, at its mahout’s urgings, it sucked water into its trunk, flipped its trunk over its head, and blasted us. He did this about twenty times. It was probably the most unusual, and initially euphoric experience of my life, but I’ll admit now privately to you dear readers, that after blast 15 I was waiting for something to enliven the experience, as it was really just getting a bunch of river water shot at high velocity directly into my mouth and eyes. We were sufficiently enlivened when the elephant sort of knelt down and tipped us off into the river. But at least we weren’t the guy next to us, a lone Brit experiencing the same pachydermania, whose elephant literally bucked and shook him until he fell into the water from a height of roughly twelve feet.

-Seeing the Golden Temple in Amritsar, the holiest place in the Sikh faith, by midday sun and middnight moon. The Golden Temple is absolutely breathtaking, a building literally made (or at least substantially decorated) with gold, in the middle of a man-made lake inside a large courtyard. Sikhs are known for their tolerance and openness, so Emily and I were repeatedly granted access into not only the courtyard but also the temple itself, where I’ll admit, I felt a little bit like an impostor. (To give you some context this would basically be like sitting inside the kaaba in Saudi Arabia, which almost noone is allowed to do.) It was a glorious, once-in-a-lifetime sort of experience, as the holy men inside chanted and pilgrims prayed silently, and Emily and I got to bow our heads and soak in the moment for a good long while.

-Houseboating in Kerala. This was a very special experience which I can tell you about in person.

-Riding an elephant through Jaipur. Known as the “pink city,” Jaipur has wonderful architecture from the mughal period and was the first trip Emily and I took out of Delhi, so we were basically excited and in awe the whole time. Imagine our delight when, traveling through the city streets on a bicycle rickshaw, we encountered an elephant with its mahout, who upon seeing our delight (more accurately, idiotic facial expressions of ecstasy), yelled at the elephant to kneel down and let us board. The bike rickshaw driver understood. We then proceeded to ride  through the streets of the old town to our hotel, while the citizens of Jaipur stared up at us in delight and waved. We had some tootsie rolls in our pockets for the urchin children and we threw them down at the children who followed, feeling a bit like colonial assholes but still enjoying the moment. After we disembarked and took photos of our new transport in the courtyard of our very nice hotel, the Samode Haveli, the elephant let loose a firehose of urine that splattered on the driveway, creating a small river which flowed into the street.

-Riding atop a bus from Chitwan National Park to Kathmandu. “Never thought I’d be on a bus” was our anthem for this. Although we knew it was probably the stupidest, most dangerous thing we’d ever done (sorry grandma!), we couldn’t resist escaping the heat and seeing the glorious Nepalese countryside from above, so along with some German and British tourists we climbed atop the roof and sat on the luggage rack, occasionally ducking to avoid powerlines. The German tourists with us were young women, and we earned more than a few joyful hoots from boys and men riding past us, also riding atop buses.

-Seeing the only twin baby elephants in existence.

Let me go ahead and repeat that one for you: seeing the only twin baby elephants in existence. If I had to choose, this alone would have been worth the entire three months spent thousands of miles from home, were it not for the fact that these adorable little boy elephants did not want to play with us because they didn’t like the rain. Our guide called, clucked, and whistled for almost twenty minutes but they remained: resolute, stubborn (Democrats were nicknamed donkeys for their stubborness but I learned that the Republicans’ symbol is more appropriate here), and dry. But they did play with each other, and they had the most adorable habit of behaving just like little boys. One elephant would pick up a bit of straw to eat, and the other would take it from his brother’s trunk with his own. He wanted the hay just because his brother had it.

There is much left to recount and I will do so another evening. Do not fret; I have returned.

India is a developing country, as anyone knows, but it is also home to Messers 7 and 8 on the list of the world’s richest people. The disparity of wealth here is evident not so much in the facades of nice buildings, though those are apparent in Delhi, but rather in the prices of things, whether on menus or price tags. One set of prices are spoken, argued over, and agreed upon on the street, or in a dingy shop, the product of unwritten codes and word of mouth. The other set of prices is very much written, on a menu or a price tag perhaps, and it reflects how vast is the ability of India’s tiny moneyed class to purchase things. I am in neither group, though I am much closer to the latter, and in my day to day I often see both sides. The difference is astonishing.

Last Thursday evening, for example, Emily and my housemates and I were feeling cooped up, so we took a bicycle rickshaw to a local bar, about 3 miles away. We walked on the dirt road next to a large main road and eventually found several bicycle rickshaws; as is customary, we haggled over prices. We started at 100 rupees, the driver’s offer, versus 20, ours, and eventually settled on 40. Two of us hopped on the back of one of the rickshaws and chatted while a the rickshaw driver huffed and puffed and sweated as he biked us to our destination. We got out, tipped him (generously, I am told), and entered a bar called “Attitude,” where we immediately ordered drinks costing from 150 – 400 rupees each. At the end of our evening we paid our tab, which with a 15% food VAT and 20% alcohol VAT amounted to roughly 2,000 rupees. We then found another rickshaw driver who had been sleeping in his rickshaw and agreed to pay him 40 rupees for the sweaty ride home. In short, the price of mixing a drink was ten times that of having us hauled home. It felt wrong.

This was a minor example. You can haggle with a local street barber and pay 30 Rs. – the equivalent of $0.60 – for a haircut, or you can go to the Oberoi and pay $75, or 3,750 Rs., for brunch. You can buy a fried meal on the street for 3 Rs., or buy a Mercedes C class, which will run you 3 Million.

And you better bet that guilt will plague you, as you sit in your chauffered Benz (chauffers run about $70 per month), and look out the window to see hundreds of people sweating and hunching under loads to bear, or squinting in the sun from beside their bit of land with things to sell, or even looking you right in the eye from behind an outstretched hand.

Close encounters, though I was the caged one in this exhibit.

His pawprints are now smudged all over the window.  He moved along to the living room balcony, where I got a brief and relatively uneventful video before he jumped away!  (I’ll post it when I figure out how to make WordPress let me do so.)

I think Joe and I are going to blog independently about our experiences in Delhi on Sunday.  Rather than a long post about the events and sights of the afternoon, I am choosing to present my thoughts about just a few seconds.  I am doing this in the format of an edited online chat conversation I had with my sister.  My reason for this is that I do not feel I have the writing skill to convey my emotions and thoughts about this – also because I’m still not even sure what they are.  These words are from the heart, less filtered, more exploratory.  Where it gives context, I’ve italicized my sister’s questions or comments – otherwise I’ve removed them.  Thanks to Caroline for her sensitivity in talking with me about this.

*******************

we had a crazy experience in delhi on Sunday.  everything was great, interesting and intense.

then we saw a woman who had just been hit by a bus.  killed in the street, under the wheels, blood everywhere, the mirrorwork on her sari still glittering and bloodstained, and no one seemed to be terribly troubled about it.  it seemed like a routine inconvenience.

so we’re trying to process that.  and figure out how to write about life and death here, which may be valued differently than in the US

the traffic here is so horrible, we had just been marveling that we couldn’t believe there weren’t more accidents.  we talked about it a little bit afterwards.  i mean, the image is burned into my brain.  her blood was frothy and pink.  her sari was a deep mustard color, glittering, and she was under the wheels of the bus.

Were there police around? not really.  joe said he saw an ambulance.

Did they even try to move people away? no. we just drove around, right next to it, but the street wasn’t closed.  people were still honking and nosing their vehicles to get by.

what was sad was that there was no one around her.  she wasn’t from the street – her sari was beautiful, glittering.  people just kept on with their days…

i mean, poor women have beautiful saris, but this had mirrorwork, which is more expensive, and it was outside the red fort, which is something indian people come to visit, so i wondered if she was a tourist from a more rural area, and was killed in the street… but where was her family?

How long did you see this? We saw it for literally just an instant.

it was also weird – i’d been looking through a camera all day.   and joe verbalized later something that i’d thought but not said.

he asked if it had occurred to me to take a picture of it.  and it had, though my camera wasn’t out and on. things are so weird here that it doesn’t feel real most of the time anyway.  so looking through a camera, experiencing it through a camera, is one way of processing it.  had my camera been out, i may have taken the photo

because you can just be an observer?
just because none of it seems real
Do you feel guilty about that?
a bit. we both did. we realized it is because our whole framework of thinking about things has shifted.  rather, been un-moored.

So, last Saturday we awoke early to meet our hired driver for a day trip to the Taj Mahal in Agra.  We were joined by three Google colleages: Madeline and Samira, who flew up from Hyderabad for the weekend, and Abhishek from the Gurgaon office.  We had hired an independent driver who was going to be cheaper than using one of our Google drivers – but then our experience with “Indian Stretchable Time” started when we learned, in sequence, of the following events:

1. Driver was running late.  2.  Driver would be there in 20 min.  3.  Driver was detained by the police.  4.  Alternate driver needed to be found.  5.  Alternate driver would be there in 20 min.  6.  Alternate driver would be there in 1 hr 30 min.  7.  Alternate driver would be there in 20 min.  8. Alternate driver would be there in 20 min.  9. Repeat steps 7 and 8.

You get the idea.. eventually our driver picked up Abhishek and then made it to Essel Towers.  We loaded the car and got on the road.  The car had two makeshift benches in the wayback, facing each other, where Joe and I sat for the outbound journey.  Other than the front seat, where Abhishek sat so he could communicate with our driver who spoke no English, there were no seatbelts.  Driving in India, as Joe has written about, inspires a great deal of appreciation and admiration for the basic tenents of safety that we assume as part of US life.  The prospect of driving for 4-5 hours with no seatbelts through rural areas of India was… well, one we cared not to spend too much time contemplating the potential consequences.  Even more so when we stopped at some random neighborhood outside of Delhi, and our driver suddenly got out of the car… Abhishek then explained that the driver had told him that he had not slept for over 24 hours, and was very tired, so he was going to get us a different driver.  For this, we were glad.

Remember sitting in the "wayback" in station wagons, facing backwards? This was like that, except the benches faced inwards and there were no seatbelts. But we could still smile at drivers behind us.

I was fully entertained by the 5 hour drive.  As the pictures reveal, there are many random facets of on-road and roadside life in India that are so different from what we are used to as to nearly defy reality.  Among these:  more cows, bikes and horse-drawn carts on the “highway”, too many people stacked in/on top of a given vehicle, incredible amounts of cargo strapped to a 2 wheeled transport, and, of course, incessant use of horns.  I think I’m already inured to horns, which may be a problem when I get back to the US.

When you have a car door and your friend has a motorcycle, how else are you going to transport it?

As the photostream indicates, by the time we actually arrived in Agra we were ravenous.  The Lonely Planet guide came to our rescue – after a lot of asking around via Abhishek asking the driver who would roll down the window and yell a request for directions at random people in the road, we ended up at a delicious, family friendly South Indian restaurant where we gorged ourselves on special thali, dosas, and lassis for a few bucks.  Thus fortified, we were ready for the Taj Mahal.

The Lonely Planet has been great in terms of telling it like it is.  The guidebook, combined with Abhishek’s evident understanding of our weird tourist outlook, gentle guidance, and infinite patience with my endless questions, prepared us as well as one could be prepared for the hordes of touts outside of the Taj Mahal in the area called the Taj Ganj.  As soon as the car pulled up, we were swarmed by young men pushing wares in our faces, pleading with us to remember their faces and names for when we came back to purchase something from them and no one else.  We declined camel-drawn and horse-drawn rides for the walk to the gates of the Taj, despite being repeatedly haranged that it was “very, very far” – LP told us it was only 500 meters.  We were followed – nay, surrounded – the entire time, being offered souvenir wares and transport.  Once inside, we were blessedly free of this seriously aggressive marketing.  (The tactic can’t possibly be to convince a buyer that they actually WANT something.  The only plausible explanation seems to be that at some point, the tactic morphed into “annoy the tourists SO relentlessly that they will eventually buy something from you just to make you go away.”  LP warned us that succumbing to that instinct, however, has exactly the opposite of the intended effect.  We resisted with firm ignoring and the occasional “No thank you” in Hindi.)

We purchased our tickets – Abhishek, being an Indian, paid Rs 20 (about 40 cents).  We as tourists had the privilege of paying Rs 700 (about $14), which included a cold bottle of water and some shoe covers in case one preferred not to remove one’s footwear to walk on the hot red sandstone.  (Joe and I went barefoot and used these to mop our brows.)  There are separate entrances for men and women for security screening, and owing to the massive gender disparity in attendance it took Joe and Ahbishek about 10 minutes longer to get through.  (As a side note, there are what appear to be metal detectors everywhere at tourist/heritage sites in India, but I am becoming more and more convinced that they are just 2 x 4′s nailed together to give the appearance of a metal detector.  I have never heard one go off.)  Our bags were searched and we learned that Samira could not, under any circumstances, bring her iPod in.  Abhishek volunteered to take it back outside and store it in a locker, then had to pass through security again.  While we waited for him, we started noticing the stares…

This is not typical foreign tourist season.  It is incredibly hot and humid, particularly so because the monsoon is poor and there has been very little rain or even cloud cover.  Therefore, there are few foreign tourists roaming around, because you’d have to be mad to do so.  However, the hot weather and impending monsoon does not seem to deter Indian tourists from other parts of the country, including rural areas.  Of the thousands and thousands of people who were visiting the Taj at the same time as us, I observed fewer than 6 other Western-looking (i.e. white) folks.  This means that the staring was intense because a) it is likely that many of these people, if they are from a small village, have never seen a white person before and b) we were the only ones to look at.  Some people asked to take our picture, many would just take it whenever we were posing for one of our own.  A group of guys particularly wanted to take a picture with me – Abhishek told them off.  We would smile at the women and children to engender good will – many would smile or wave back, but one little girl in particular gave us an unblinking third-degree stare for about 10 straight minutes as we waited for Abhishek to return from stashing the iPod.  She was impervious to our smiles, and pretty soon we were creeped out by the penetrating, slightly frowning eyes of a seven year-old.  Never before have I experienced being an object of such intense fascination, the bizarreness of which is compounded by being simultaneously fascinated by all that is going on around me.

So much for brevity… but by now in the story we have arrived at the Taj Mahal.  I think I have been procrastinating in describing this because it is difficult to capture in words, or even in the photos.  There is an ethereal quality when you first see it from the gate that does not fade the closer you get, even when you are inside it, touching it, and sitting in its alcoves.  Uniquely, compared to US historic monuments, the Taj seems to be something to be tactile-y enjoyed – there were no prohibitions about touching anything so long as it was within reach.  The Taj is a masoleum built for Mumtaz Mahal, the favorite wife of the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan, who died giving birth to his 14th child.  There is much written elsewhere (try Wikipedia) about the history of the buildings, so I will not repeat that here.

The white marble shimmers with subtle colors as the light changes, and the shadows cast within and by the buildings only highlight the precision of the architectural design.  The inlaid semiprecious stones almost pulsate with emotion; you can sense the hand carved intimacy and dedication that had to go into the craftsmanship.  It is an amazing thing to imagine the 20,000 skilled workers deployed to construct  a piece of such enormous yet delicate work – who organized them, and how?  How did Shah Jahan choose to instantiate his love in this particular physical form, and what did he feel as he watched it taking shape?

We moved along with the crowd, eventually settling in for a seat and some people-watching in the shady east-facing alcove.  There was a welcome breeze – I can’t overstate how hot it was and how much sweat was just pouring off every part of you.  Upon walking back through the gardens, we took more photos from a marble platform, and finally the light was just perfect for the last snaps of the Taj:

My best photo of the Taj Mahal

As we were leaving, we opted for the horse-drawn carriage ride back to the parking lot.  (Less exotic than the camel-drawn one, but also much faster and less stinky.)  Here our hearts both broke and hardened a teensy bit: two tiny children selling keychain snowglobes latched onto us as a captive audience in the rear-facing seat of the carriage.  “Ma’am, two for one, three for one, six for one, ma’am, just take them please!”  They actually put the little things in Madeline’s lap.  We kept saying no thank you in Hindi over and over; they were clinging to our carriage and we were worried they might fall and be trampled by a following horse.  The driver yelled at them to get off, and they chased us for half a mile in bare feet.  So our hearts were breaking – being begged by children to buy tchotchkes, not knowing who is employing them or how much money they see – but also hardening a bit, as we worried aloud that they might get hurt, but then realized that that concern was not really ours to deal with and nothing we did could mitigate the risks they were taking.  Arriving at the parking lot, we were once again swarmed by young men: “Remember me, ma’am?  Remember my face?  Please will you buy these, very good price.”  Anger was not the appropriate emotion, but one that would not be unreasonable to experience given our Western notions of politeness, personal space, and leaving someone alone when they say no.  We all felt frustrated; even if we had wanted to buy a souvenir it felt wrong to do so on principle because it would only encourage such aggressiveness.

We attempted to go to the bazaar and do a bit of shopping, but were overwhelmed once again.  LP plus my desire for a cold drink came to the rescue, and we decided to visit the Oberoi Amar Villas and refresh ourselves in the bar that had views of the Taj as the sun went down.  The sunset was disappointing because of the thick clouds on the horizon, but the Oberoi was the stuff of dreams.  Rich, opulent dreams.  Once again our world was flipped completely upside down: as we approached the Oberoi gates, the streets were (as everywhere) teeming with people, animals, garbage, stagnant water, commerce and begging.  We passed through the heavily-armed gates with a cursory security check (apparently 4 Westerners are not profiled as a threat) and entered a sanctuary of aesthetic perfection.  I need to get some photos of the Oberoi interior from Madeline and Samira, because I was so overwhelmed that a place so opulent to every one of our senses existed in the middle of utter chaos on the streets I forgot to take any photos.  The cavernous, glittering lobby was ice cold despite being open to the outdoors, and smelled of fresh rosewater.  The staff were dressed in royally-inspired turbans and saris, and spoke perfect British English and bowed slightly to us in traditional greeting.  We sat and sipped cold cocktails (with mineral water ice, of course) that cost no more than what one would pay in San Francisco, gazing at the Taj from a distance as the sun disappeared.  Someone, and I forget who, voiced what all of us were thinking: “I really like it in here; I would like to stay,” in a tone tinged with guilt.  We were so instantly at ease in the midst of so much excess, and there were no barriers, financially or socially, to our enjoying it.  Our driver waited outside, and even if we had invited him in for a drink, Abhishek explained that he would have felt incredibly uncomfortable and out of place. It was very, very nice, but felt completely unreal.

The reflecting pool as we were leaving the Oberoi Amar Villas.

The journey home was long and dark, and we all fell into the head-bobbing sleep that accompanies road trips.  We stopped at a “Tourist Retreat” for a very late, light, and delicious dinner.  (LP’s warnings about food safety in India made us hesitate, but no further than “Well I hope this doesn’t kill me but I am damn hungry,” before sanitizing our hands and digging in.  No gastric distress resulted; it was an excellent meal.)  At night, the roadside dhabas are lit up with colorful strands of lights and garish decorations, making the journey home a hazy blur of neon and Punjabi music.  The main highway from Delhi to Gurgaon was closed for construction, so we meandered through some pitch-black villages, with the driver yelling for directions to whomever was on the street that late and making what seemed like an endless series of left turns.  People had dragged their cots outside and were sleeping by the road, or in traffic medians, as it was apparently too hot within their homes.  We got home at 2:30 am, had the nicest shower of our lives, and collapsed into bed, incredulous that we’d actually seen the Taj Mahal that day.

A picturesque goodbye to San Francisco!

I took a LOT of photos already, which has been really fun and is not something I do normally.  There are several reasons for this shutterbug streak: 1) I got a new camera, a Canon SX110 IS.  It is great for the novice like me who is not ready for an SLR, but I still need Julia to help me improve my photography skills.  2) I have not traveled purely as a tourist in about 6 years(!), when I toured Europe alone before starting grad school in the UK.  Since then all of my international travel has been to the UK and back, with some short Europe trips.  This feels different; it is really fun to be the naive, easily-excitable tourist instead of the weary expat.  3)  This is a trip of a lifetime, and while I hope it is not my only opportunity to come to India, it certainly will be memorable for being the first!

Selected pictures from the journey and of the very, very nice apartment are available here in this Flickr photostream – you don’t need to sign up for anything or log in, you can just view them.  There’s a slideshow option; make sure to click “Show info” if you view them like that so you can see what the captions are.

I find myself marveling at little similarities between some things here and some things in the UK.  I think that had I not had the experience of living in the UK for 3 years, things would seem a lot more different and weird – like, for example, the right-hand drive car.  Here, I’m not acclimating to the right-hand drive car – in fact I’ve driven one myself a few times, with Sarah and John’s help! – I’m just acclimating to the non-use of lanes and constant use of horn (see Driving Miss Daisy, below).  Also, Delhi airport has a Heathrow-like aesthetic.

Major differences:  Joe’s description of the roads below did not mention that in Gurgaon proper, including up to the entrance to our fancy building, the roads are potholed dirt!  There are random power cuts that last about 30 seconds rather frequently, but the building has backup power so it does not last long.  It does, however, knock out the wifi, leading me to save work frequently when working in cloud computing applications.  The tap water is not safe to drink, so we brush our teeth with bottled water and our cook, Abdul, prepares our meals with purified water.  The fridge is stocked with mineral water, sodas, juices, and frosty beer.

Our staff (servants?) are all overwhelmingly nice and accommodating.  We had fresh fruit, yogurt, and toast for breakfast, with delicious sweet masala chai, and I was served a special chicken biryani with raita for lunch.  I cannot yet imagine getting tired of Indian food, I love it SO much.  As I said, the apartment is lovely, and our room is cleaned and our laundry done daily!  This is not real life… and it is disconcerting how easily I am adapting to it.

Out of doors, it is very hot and humid, but not raining yet, which is nice for going to the Taj Mahal this weekend but perhaps not so great for those who do not have AC.  They have seen the beginnings of monsoon rain, but it is forecast to be dry for the next several days, so I may have to wait to experience the intensity that is is the monsoon!

Lady: “Yes miss, you have a complimentary upgrade.”

Me: “EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!” *jumping up and down* (no, really)

Them (inside their heads): Uh oh.  This one is an excitable child.

A 15 hour flight over the North Pole really isn’t so bad when you watch Mad Men and movies, drink champagne, pouilly fume, Chateau Beaumon 2003 Haut Medoc, and a 1994 port, eating a 5 course meal (pics and meal descriptions to follow – can’t upload from camera now as cable is in checked baggage.  And yes, of course I swiped the menu).  I ate, did some work (good for me!), read, let my seat massage me, then laid my bed flat and slept about 7 hours with the help of an Ambien.  Woke up and chose the Indian umpa with uthappan and sambar – mmm – for “breakfast,” landed, refreshed, and it is now nighttime again and I write from a lovely quiet little gastro-pub in Dubai airport.  There is a dust storm here that obscured the view upon landing, but what I saw looked like… sand.  Same dust storm keeps randomly setting off fire alarms here in the airport, which is (I’m told) why no one is concerned.   I just had a deliciously cold Kronenbourg and what I heard as “beet and potato soup” – and thought, hey I’ll get my root vegetables – but was actually a really delicate leek and potato soup, which I suppose makes more sense.

I’m wide awake but fairly confused about what time it is.  I board in about an hour for a 3 hour jaunt to Delhi, and woe is me this time I have to fly coach. On the way back, however, I have a nice long layover, so if you have suggestions (shopping in souks vs. desert tour?), let me know!

No pictures uploaded yet but I know I’m in Dubai because my Google tells me so: screenshot from search for dirham to dollar conversion:

More soon!

While it is madness to see at first, after much obvservation I’ve learned there is a sense to the chaos that seems to work, though accidents must surely be more prevalent here than in the States. One rule, for example, is the big man rule, which is, respect the big man. While two cars may debate whether they will cede ground to one another, a motorbike never second-guesses a lumbering bus. (Deepak, my driver, calls one type of bus the “killer bus.”) Another rule is that horns are the new mirrors. Many cars lack sideview mirrors, and substitue horns to let drivers ahead of them know they are passing alongside. Indeed, many trucks have signs written on the back reading “blow horns.”

In my week here I am happy to report that I have decoded the language of the horn. While to a casual observer it may sound an impenetrable cacophany, there are really several types of horn blast. They are as follows.

1. The “I am passing alongside you” horn.

2. The “I am still passing do not drift into the side of me” horn.

3. The “don’t you even think of merging/crossing the street” horn.

4. The “you bastard, you did merge/cross!” horn.

And so on. Driving is just one small part of life in India that is exotic, maddening, and, in its way, really quite wonderful.

Which is pretty frustrating. I feel like I am not taking advantage of my time here, but of course, it’s only been a few days. Tomorrow I’ll go to Delhi to see some of the sights, the prospect of which leads many of my Indian collagues to cock their heads and ask if I’m going to go with someone Indian. (This is especially true of Old Delhi, which one person told me was the “real” India, which means it’s “real” intense.) I hope to go with someone staying at the guest house, or at least not go alone. I can only imagine what a bewhildered blonde-streaked young man in a pink polo shirt will look like standing in the middle of a crowded Delhi street.

While I haven’t traveled at all yet, I have made my share of observations. For example, while I’m sure the standard of living is fairly low (no stats to back this up), there doesn’t seem to be any unemployment. (Actually there is – 6.8%.) I say this because I have witnessed a dizzying array of odd jobs, from the guys who mop the floors of the Google office literally five times per day, to the “guards” at nearly every doorway of the building who do little but glance at my backpack, to the woman who sits in front of the entrance to my building to key me in and out. It seems every possible job has been split into dozens of infinitesimal jobs in order to give more people jobs. Of course, I have no idea what these one-dozenth jobs pay. I did however learn that some of the hottest nightclubs in Delhi charge 3,000 rupees cover and 1,000 rupees per drink – roughly $60 and $20 respectively.

It makes me feel sort of guilty that these clubs sound cool to me.

Toothpaste for dinner

In the meantime, I’m closing up the house and trying to wrap up work here, saying goodbye to friends who are onto bigger and better things.  I was hoping to have a clean break from my job(s) by having all my writing commitments finished, but a) everything takes longer than I think it will and b) a unique India-based research opportunity came up and preparations for that have siphoned off some of my time.  It has just been submitted for IRB approval, so I can’t say that it is going ahead yet, but check my professional blog (here and here) for some background details.  Soon I shall follow along, toting some research notebooks, a digital recorder that looks regrettably like a taser, the stuff Joe forgot/didn’t know he wanted, and replacement chocolates as I prepare to immerse myself in a completely new and different culture!

And yes, I will enjoy my five-course meal as well as my personal entertainment system.