Category: India 2013

Sunday, January 13th. Deli to Udiapur.

As usual, I wake before John, shower, dress quietly and leave the room to drink coffee downstairs and write. I slip into the dining room and request only coffee.  My plans to write for an hour, sip coffee leisurely and return later for breakfast with John do not unfold when my computer will not start up. I return to the room, anxious and disappointed, but gratefully, my computer comes to life when I plug it in.  Seconds later, Skype flashes on my screen and Tabra is calling! She noticed me online and I quickly push “accept call” and there she is! I arranged this trip to India via a friend of Tabra’s, and we talk excitedly for 15 minutes.

John and I head downstairs for the familiar and all inclusive buffet breakfast. He eats heartily but I am not very hungry; my cold is coming back and I feel slightly under the weather.  We have several hours before we will be picked up and taken to the airport and the hotel pool beckons John.  We sit outside in the courtyard and pass a leisurely hour. John draws and I write and sniffle but when the day begins to warm, John goes swimming. There are only a few guests seated at tables in the garden, and one young and pretty “au pair,” poolside, tending a 2 year old boy.  The water level is even with the edge of the pool and John does multiple flips into the pool splashing and sloshing water over the edge.  A Chinese couple takes photos of John, encouraging him to perform. He obliges and after many more flips he gracefully breast strokes several lengths of the pool. Two tables with business men feign disinterest, but I sense they wished they could be this free spirited and handsome American man-boy.

John poolside at the Royal Plaza Hotel

Poolside flips at the Royal Plaza Hotel

The hotel is prepaid by voucher but I must check out and pay my internet bill. At 11:45 promptly, Nanveet and our driver Maneesh are there to transfer us to the airport.  It is Sunday and the traffic is relatively tame and the drive to the airport uneventful.  I tip our driver for his prompt and incident free driving and Nanveet, for his three days of service. Nanveet takes his leave at the entrance to the airport terminal because security mandates that no one can enter the terminal without a ticket and a passport.  We show our documents and enter the airport to check in for our flight to Udipur. We are much too early but John is happy and energized and we wander the duty free shops for over an hour before settling down to eat a fast food lunch. John opts for McDonnalds and I pick the chicken out of a soggy sandwich and drink delicious mint lemonade. My cold is escalating but the mint lemonade makes me feel better. John and I write and draw until it is time to head to our gate.  Boarding is quick but our plane delayed on the runway for over 30 minutes.

Deli Airport – Bronze Yoga Sculpture

It is 4:15 p.m. when we land roughly in Udaipur, collect our luggage and are met and transported to our Trident Hotel, a 45 minutes drive from the airport. There are hundreds of trucks on the road as this is the main highway between Deli and Mombai. Most of the trucks are decorated with tinsel and garlands and there is the usual jostling for lanes between motorcyclists, trucks and cars. Most motorcycles carry two to 4 passengers and the saree wearing women, ride side saddle behind and without helmets. Often, one or two children are sandwiched in the middle.

Decorated and overloaded busses

Family on a motorcycle

Trident Garden Hotel – Udiapur

View from an abandoned terrace

View from an abandoned terrace

We walk back to the hotel and John takes an evening swim before dinner.  I am resigned to be “trapped” in the hotel for the evening and we wish to enjoy and luxuriate in our confinement.  We peruse the drink menu in the hotel lounge and order two mojitos, the most reasonably priced drinks on the menu. Alcohol is very expensive in and heavily taxed in India but these beautiful drinks arrive in large Hurricane glasses with fresh mint and lime wedges accompanied by a dish of nuts and potato chips. The mint lemonade earlier today was a good tonic for my cold and this Mojito seems to cure it entirely. Our appetite abated, we head to the dining room, order lightly and eat an unmemorable chicken curry and cauliflower dinner.

Saturday, January 12th – Historical Deli

I wake hours before John and go downstairs to drink coffee and write this blog. I am graciously assured that it is “not a problem” if I drink my coffee now and return later with my son for breakfast. I sit and type and my waiter sees that my coffee cup is never empty.

I return to the room, collect John and at 8:30 we head downstairs for the buffet breakfast. The buffet is international and extensive, offering American cooked to order eggs and omelets, bacon and sausages, Korean noodles and spicy pots of vegetables, Indian curries, sushi rolls, fresh fruits, yogurts, cereals and an array of pastries and breads. In spite of the many options, I have seen this same spread at every 5 star restaurants between Egypt, Africa, China and now India. I choose fresh papaya, bacon and a potato lentil curry.

At 9:30 A.M. we are met by Navneet, who introduces us to our guide and driver for the day and quickly takes his leave.  We drive in the direction of the Red Fort and Old Deli. Our guide has a heavy accent and is difficult to understand and does not know our itinerary?  My printed itinerary is back at the hotel since I naturally assumed that our guide was briefed on today’s plan.  He suggests various possibilities but I am frustrated since John and I do not know enough about Deli to make informed decisions.

Jama Masjid Mosque

We begin with a visit to the Jama Masjid, India’s largest mosque, which accommodates up to 25,000 worshipers. The Mosque, built in 1656 and is constructed on a hill that rises above the old city. We climb a steep stone stairway up to the main gate, remove our shoes and deposit them with an ancient man, colorfully dressed and seated cross legged who will keep watch over our shoes for 10 rupees.

The Shoe Guardian at Jama Masjid Mosque Naturally we wish to take photos within the immense courtyard and inside the mosque so we part with another 300 rupees each for our camera fees. The mosque is built of red sandstone, the courtyard framed on four sides by a promenade of columns and scalloped archways. The sandstone is intricately carved with Islamic symbols and white marble onion towers top and crown the edifices.  John is fascinated by the architecture, the history and the experience. He asks our guide many questions, draws diagrams in his notebook and makes notes. John is disappointed that our guide’s answers seem taped and do not really address the questions that he has asked.

Courtyard – Jama Masjid Mosque

Archway – Jama Masjid Mosque

John taking Notes

Arcade – Jama Masjid Mosque

Reflecting pool – Jama Masjid Mosque

Our guide discourages us from wanting to visit the Red Fort and takes us instead to a 1000 year old Jain Temple down a side street. The façade doesn’t look like a temple but we climb up a few steps and enter through an open wooden door. Our guide hands us a printed sheet and we read the temple rules; no menstruating women may enter and no animal products are allowed inside. We take off our shoes, John removes his belt and I pass my leather purse to the attendant, seated cross legged on a raised platform with a ledger and pen poised. I take a calming breath and assure myself that my possessions and wealth will remain safe during this visit to the temple.

Painted Doorway beside Jain Temple

Entrance to Jain Temple – Old City

Barefoot, I climb ancient marble stairs feeling the stone chill beneath my feet.  The temple is small but lovely and we peer into recessed mosaic shrines with smooth white marble figurines, honoring temple deity’s, each anointed with red smudges of color.  After respectfully circulating the upstairs shrines, a temple attendant anoints our foreheads with a smudge of red, at the same time requesting a donation.  I awkwardly pass him a 100 rupee note and we descend the cold marble stairs.  My “purse guardian” is sitting vigil but when I go to claim my purse, he is firmly insistent that I make a donation to the temple. Apparently, the donation I made on the floor above was to the priest residing within the temple only.

John’s rickshaw ride – Old Deli

Old City street scene

We walk twisted alleys back to our two waiting tut-tuts and climb aboard. I ride solo in the first and John climbs into the tut-tut behind, alongside of our guide. We careen and jostle along crowded lanes clogged with humanity, cows, over-laden wagons and motorcycles.

Fruit Vender – Old City

A political parade is marching along Chandni Chowk Street and the already crazy traffic is completely blocked. Music blares, people wave signs and a few floats move slowly on the opposite side of a barricade. Our tut-tuts cannot budge and after 20 minutes we get out and walk a kilometer to our waiting taxi.

Traffic Jam in the Old City

Women pushing though crowds in the Old City

Yesterdays Taxi Driver Friend

We make a brief stop at the memorial to Mahatma Gandhi and listen to our guides spin on Gandhi’s life and his significance to India.

Memorial to Mahatma Gandhi

Our guide suggests that we visit the Akshardham Temple, a temple with 20,000 carved deities. His English is hard to understand and it sounds impressive so we agree.  What we didn’t grasp was that this is a new Hindu temple, completed in 2005. Because of terrorist bombings elsewhere in India, the temple is high security and we must leave purses, cameras, sim-cards and phones in the car with our driver. The grounds are not crowded today, but the temple is apparently packed on weekends and we cut through the line barricades that snake empty waiting for the weekend crowds. We pass through metal detector arch ways and at this point, men and women are separated and I am wanded and patted gently down behind a curtained area for women. The temple is immense, impressive and bewildering.  Because of the unfathomable scale of this temple, I question if the sculptural facades might not be cast in plaster rather than carved out of salmon colored sandstone? Our guide insists that they are carved and I eventually concede but there are “clones” of the thousands of bas relief scultured elephants and deities frolicking along the façade of the temple. The interior of the temple is carved of white marble in giddying detail.  All of the elements are in place for the making of a world wonder but I feel as if I am in Disneyland and am glad when we finally funnel through the immense gift shop, walk back along bridges crossing over pools with spewing fountains and traverse manicured garden pathways and back to our waiting car.

Purple and pink balloons at the Red Onion Restaurant in Deli

We are starving and drive 40 minute though non-descript parts of Deli before stopping at the Red Onion Restaurant for a 3:00 P.M. lunch.  The ceiling of this somewhat dingy, upstairs restaurant is decorated with pink and purple balloons and John and I are bewildered at the choice of this restaurant, lacking any Indian ambiance. In spite of the lack of promise, John and I remain in good humor and watch out the window as a workman on a 30 foot wooden ladder, held unsteadily by three men, repairs a tangle of overhead electrical wires. We pray for him, but also laugh and compare road and electrical repair work back in the U.S.A. and question the wasted man power of our system where two or three men are needed to simply hold caution signs. The chicken curry and broccoli dishes are surprisingly delicious and we forgive the bland atmosphere and the purple and pink balloons.

John and Marty – Qutb Minar

Qutb Minar

Detail of Qutb Minar

Refueled and revived we drive to Qutb Minar and the surrounding ruins of this 12th century victory tower. It is 4:00 P.M. and the late afternoon sun shines golden on this stunning architectural sight. The intricately carved, red sand stone minaret is 237 feet high and John is mesmerized and awed. His enthusiasm is catching and we simply want to be set free to explore but our guide drones on about the history in his difficult to understand English.

Column detail – Qutb Minar

Bell column detail – Qutb Minar

Minaret and Ruins – Qutb Minar

Our impatience is obvious and our guide is insensitive to John’s energy and questions and continues to spout out well rehearsed data that we have little interest in.  Eventually freed to explore, I follow John through arcades of intricately carved columns and through crumbling archways. I catch the fever of my 20 year old son’s enthusiasm and curiosity and I am joyful and present as we share these magical moments, exploring these ancient architectural wonders.

Visitors to Qutb Minar

John exploring the ruins – Qutb Minar

Qutb Minar

The light is fading when we arrive at an overlook to the Bahai Lotus Temple, built in the shape of a blossoming Lotus Flower. It is nearly 6:00 P.M. and the temple is closed but our guide tells us this is the new “Taj Majal.”  Even in the fading light, the temple is lovely and John makes a 5’ jump up onto a cement pillar, part of the fencing structure, wrapped in barbed wire. Our guide is taken by surprise which I am sure was partially John’s intention and John takes unobstructed photos of the Lotus Temple in the distance.

Bahai Lotus Temple – New Deli India

On our way back to the Royal Plaza Hotel, we make a stop at a the “market” which turns out to be a strip of “Government” owned tourist shops, each many levels high with dozens of lurking sales attendants.  We exit 5 minutes later to look for our taxi and guide who have vanished under the assumption that we will certainly be inside and retained by pressuring sales attendants for a considerable time.  We wander down the street and are invited into other multi level tourist shops with the enticing promise; “Just look, not have to buy.”  I suspect that our guide is disappointed that we did not succumb to temptations within the shops since I have little doubt that the guides get commission from anything we might buy. We are dropped off at hotel and I tip both our driver and guide generously; but in retrospect, I rate the driver an A+ and the guide a C-.

After a few minutes in our room to refresh, John and I head out to find dinner but the directions we have been given by both our guide and the concierge are wrong. We walk briskly even though we have been told that this is a safe area to walk at night and there are many elegant hotels and guards promenading the tree lined sidewalk. A business man, obviously well to do and walking in the same direction as us, strikes up a conversation and informs us that the crafts market we are looking for has closed down due to construction. Construction barricades are directly ahead and he suggests that we go instead, to the Verda restaurant, off of Cognaught Circle. A lone tut- tut is parked at the curb on this darkened street and  our new friend instructs the driver to take us to a night market, wait for us and then drive us to Verda restaurant. This will cost just 30 rupees, less than $1.

The market turns out to be another government shop but this time, the charming young man with a uni-brow, a fetching smile and good command of English, snares me. I see one tunic that I like and within seconds, he has unfolded and strewn dozens of others across the glass countertop. I know that he is asking too much for these monochromatic and minimally embroidered, “silk”, tunics and I try to bargain.  He frowns at my low ball suggestion and the two caterpillars that form his eye-brows wiggle and he looks so crestfallen that I agree to the price of $14 each, hand over my credit card and we make our escape.

Verda Restaurant – Cognaught Circle

Our tut tut driver is waiting loyally in front of the shop and drives us, seemingly in circles, to the Verda restaurant. The Cognaught Circle district is a series of concentric circular boulevards, cross-sectioned by other avenues and navigating the one way streets to the restaurant has its challenges. I am relieved we are not walking.  A podium stands outside the entrance and we ask the attending woman if we may see a menu. It is expensive but the interior of the restaurant glitters invitingly and I do not have a backup plan.  John and I are underdressed but we allow ourselves to be escorted to a table along the mirrored wall and I scoot into a quilted leather bench seat. John sits at the chair opposite me and we take in the ambiance of soft lighting reflecting off the mosaic ceiling. Venetian style glass chandeliers, lanterns and candles cast a warm light and lend a Bohemian charm to the bodacious décor.  We are not all that familiar with Indian cuisine so John orders the tasting menu for about $25 and I order a single entrée of chicken curry for under $10. The service is impeccable and small plates begin to arrive at our table and we taste and share the various dishes. All is delicious but the cashew cauliflower is especially memorable and in we would have been filled and satisfied sharing only the tasting menu. In retrospect, I wish that I had taken notes on the various courses that we enjoyed so that John and I would have been better prepared for future meals in India. I enjoy drinking a glass of wine with my meals, but wine is not an affordable option in India so John and I share an Indian Kingfisher beer and relax into the magic of the evening.

John spots the young Indian man holding the Mr. Marty and John Bobroski sign. (No “e” at the end of our name.)  Navneet is wearing a suit, speaks perfect English and leads us towards the street with a jumble of taxis and cars waiting.  He does not offer to help us with our luggage but approvingly comments that  we are traveling lightly. He talks disapprovingly about the two women traveling from L.A. with 6 suitcases that he escorted earlier. Maneesh, our driver pulls up shortly and loads our bags into the back of a mini-van. The 30 minute drive into Deli is jammed packed with traffic with no regard for lanes or traffic rules. Horns honk, motorcycles slide through impossibly narrow spaces between cars and trucks and we pray that the golden temple deity secured to our cars dashboard provides protection.

The air is brown with pollution and our guide points out hospitals and military housing along the route, none of it very interesting to us. As we get closer into Deli, we note that the greenery along side of the road is well manicured and watered but a brown layer of pollution coats all the shrubbery and trees.  We pull into the gated confines of the Royal Plaza hotel and the hotel security guards open the hood and the back hatch of our mini-van checking for explosives? We offload awkwardly, assisted by elegantly outfitted doormen and are motioned to put our luggage through an ex-ray machine. John, in his baggy jeans and hooded sweatshirt,is wanded at the entrance of the hotel but the door attendants put their hands together, fingers pointed upward, and bow slightly in a gesture of respect and motion for me to pass through.

Lobby of the Royal Plaza Hotel

The Royal Plaza Hotel

The hotel lobby is oddly magnificent with gleaming marble floors, gilded alabaster columns and a pseudo baroque ceiling with frescos of clouds and cherubs smiling down.  A beautiful, young and elegantly dressed woman glides over to greet us and to escort me to one of the many check in counters where I hand over our passports and offer up a credit card imprint should we incur any extra expenses during our stay.  Another hotel employee appears silently beside me with a tray of rose petals and anoints both John’s and my forehead with a smudge of red. After all has been duly recorded, Navneet escorts us to an alcove in the lobby where we sink into brocade couches and receive our travel documents; itineraries, train and plane tickets etc. We are on our own for this afternoon but tomorrow, we will be picked up by our driver Maneesh and an English speaking guide for an all day tour of Deli.

John and I shuffle behind as we are escorted to the elevators and up to our room on the 17th floor. She opens the door to a tiny room revealing two single beds, a desk and two chairs. A gilded mirror is along one wall, making the room look slightly larger, and the one window looks down to the street below. She asks me if the room is alright? I nod and comment that it is very small and she reminds me that this is the class of room that I have booked, smiles, and with hands together and fingers pointed upward, bows respectfully and exits. It is 12:00 P.M.

Trike traffic in the old city

Trikes and tut-tuts waiting for fares

John and I quickly shower off two days of travel dirt and plot our afternoon’s adventure.  John wants to go on a walking tour of Old Deli that is recommended in the Lonely Planet guide book. The concierge tells us it is dangerous to go alone as does the taxi driver we hire to drive us to Chandni Chowk. 350 Rupees later we are deposited near the Red Fort. Our driver wants to wait for us and warns us of the dangers of Old Deli but we dismiss him and step out into the chaos of the streets.  Dozens of tuk-tuks and trikes are jumbled together along-side the road all with drivers anxious for business. John and I are fare game and we are swarmed by drivers wanting to negotiate a fare. The green “trikes” seat two passengers above and behind the driver who peddles his passengers. The tut-tuts are three wheeled motorized vehicles, also seating two passengers but inside a canvas semi-enclosed interior. All is overwhelming and we are practically lifted up and onto a tricycle after agreeing on the price of 100 Rupees for a one hour ride. Several other drivers are arguing with our victorious “peddler” as he takes off with his bounty. Horns honk, pedestrians swarm, trikes and tut-tuts weave in and out of traffic and we hold on for dear life, laughing in the unfamiliar chaos. Apparently our young peddler has jumped on top of the feeding chain and our ride is abruptly cut short when two angry trike drivers stop him and we are quickly offloaded onto another trike to continue our journey down Chandni Chowk Street.

Traffic jam in the old city- Deli

Traffic in the old city- Deli

Old city- Deli

All is visually intoxicating and the cacophony of horns and humanity exciting and unfamiliar.  In all my travels, I have never experienced anything like this and John is more excited and happier than on his first trip to Disneyland. (I don’t really remember taking John to Disney Land, but I’m sure we did at some point; but we will always remember this day!)  This is “Mr. Toads Wild Ride”, Deli style. We weave in and out of traffic; cars, trucks, taxis and pedestrians all competing for the right of way. I brace my left foot on a strut behind our peddler and hold on to the spindly steel frame of the vehicle with the other hand and take jiggly photos at the same time. Because of the congestion, the rutted road and all the vehicular and human obstacles, we are not going all that fast but it is a rough ride over the rutted road and there are seemingly no traffic rules.

Sari shop in the old city

Ribbon and brocade shop in the old city

 The shops we are passing are draped with saris and packed with trinkets and we want to stop, look and walk some. I ask our driver to stop but he ignores me. and I ask again for him to stop and wait. Apparently he cannot, the pace of the traffic an incomprehensible torrential flow. He waves his arms indicating onward and to the left and tells us that he will take us around and behind this district, to a government craft store where we can look and shop. Visions of Egypt and China flash in my mind and I tell him firmly that I don’t want to go there. He continues to peddle, my emotions rise, and I call loudly to him, telling him that I will not go into a government store. In retrospect, I am probably rude and he stops abruptly and tells us to get out, that our ride is finished. We disembark, I pay him the 100 rupees, and our day unfolded magically on our own.

Stupefied in the Old City

We are a in a bit of culture shock but John and I stick together and within a few minutes we feel more acclimated.  We stride in pseudo-confidence along the narrow and obstacle ridden sidewalk teaming with humanity. My left hand grasps the strap of my back pack purse and my right hand holds my camera securely and John’s back pack is padlocked. To our right, between the sidewalk and the road is a 10-15 foot border; a jumble of long handled wooden push carts piled high with loads of strange good, construction debris and trash.  Lethargic men of all ages and ethnicities, lounge atop carts or squat in groups in the dust; talking, smoking, eating or chewing beetle nut.

Workmen Waiting

Electrical Wiring

A narrow lane veers off to our left and we follow it.  The street is 10-12 feet across and there is no motorized traffic but trikes weave around pedestrians and muscled men push the long wooden carts with towering loads of goods. The shadowed street meanders between ancient and crumbling, three story buildings blocking out most of the sunlight. Tiny shops are on street level, some just a few feet across. A darkened cement cave reveals a middle aged man sitting amid wood shaving and operating a wood lathe with his feet. Wood shaving fly and wooden bracelets are displayed in chains outside the doorway.

Wood turning shop

Cart traffic in the old city

There are tiny shadowed food stalls cooking unidentifiable fried foods and curries in huge black sizzling vats over wood stoked fires. We have not eaten for hours and with the time change, I am getting a coffee headache and my blood sugar is low. I watch a line of men drinking a hot milky liquid from one of the shops. We bravely step forward, order two cups, and a man, several steps down ladles boiling milk, half full into a paper cup and then pours a brown mixture of strong tea from a battered aluimnun tea pot.  Other men are drinking this strong tea out of earthenware cups and I am relieved that ours have been served in these seemingly hygienic  paper cups.  I pay the man 20 rupees, the equivalent of 40 cents for both of our drinks, and we take leave. John takes a big slurp and burns his mouth with the boiling sweet liquid.  I sip more carefully, enjoying the sweetness of the milky tea and hoping that the caffeine will take effect soon.  We pass a series of “bakeries” where  the cement floor is raised several feet above street level and young men squat over a recessed fire pit, pressing patties of nahn dough against the inside wall of a pit and removing the baked ones with tongs.  We decide this seems like a safe food option and for 5 cents walk off with a steaming nahn wrapped in a piece of news paper.  John and I tear pieces off as we jostle our way along the lane.

Chai Shop

Baking Naan

We spend many hours exploring these twisting alley ways chocked full of colorful sari’s jewelry, pashima scarves, religious plaques and statues of Hindu Gods and Goddesses as well as every day house hold goods. We find ourselves in a wholesale market for Indian bangles and ignore many an invitation to come in and “just take a look, not necessary to buy.”  When pressured we run, but both John and I want to look at these colorful bangles and venture to step up and into one narrow show where we are not pressured or invited to come in. We spend 30 minutes looking bangles and exit $20 poorer but with two boxes filled with an assortment of several dozen.

John examining the goods

Colorful bracelets

Bracelet Bling!

It is late afternoon when with our fuel level on empty, we know it is time to navigate back to our hotel. We paid 350 rupees for our taxi ride into Deli’s old town and expect the return trip to be the same. Several of the drivers demand 500 and we walk on until one driver chases after us and agrees to our 350 rupee price. His mini-van is parked off to the side of the road but is completely blocked by stationary busses and other seemingly immovable obstacles. Just as we climb onboard we hear drums and horns and realize that this central intersection, in front of the Red Fort, is the staging site for a political campaign rally. Music blares, floats roll past and people with rally signs parade across the intersection. 20 minutes later our driver manages to break clear of the congestion and we navigate slowly out of the old town and towards Cognaught Circle.

Traffic Jam in the Old City

The Red Fort in Deli

Cognaught Circle is in the new town and according to the map, not very far from our hotel, but the district consists of three major, concentric circular roads, with streets radiating through theses circles like the spokes of a wheel. In the center is a raised park with rabbit hole entrances leading to a subway system tunneling below. Above, street vendors sell piles of jeans and cheap clothing and we push through the chaos to the center of the park where I find a realatively clean wall to sit upon and can open my Lonely Planet guide book to get situated. John is sitting beside me and out of my peripheral vision, I am aware that a man is talking to him. Intentionally, I have put my “blinders” on, refusing to pay any attention to this persistent man while I focus on the guide book in hopes of finding a convenient recommendation for dinner in the area. When I look up several minutes later I am startled to see the man cleaning the wax out of John’s ears. He holds a flexible, 5 inch metal prod and triumphantly shows John a glob of wax that he has excavated. I question my son’s intelligence and street smarts allowing this man to insert a sharp and non-sterile instrument into his ears. The procedure finished, John pulls out $5 U.S. to pay the man for his services. Apparently, the ear cleaner has told John that he may pay whatever he wishes, but the man is not pleased with what John offers and opens a tattered “medical book” with charts and diagrams to show John the validity of his services. We make a hasty departure and later learn that the ear cleaning service costs usually $3-$4.

We set out in search of one recommended restaurant, but the circular streets confound us and we eventually settle for an upstairs Thai and Chinese restaurant with mediocre food and minimal atmosphere.  We hire a tut-tut to take us back to our hotel, sign onto the internet to send e-mail home and fall into bed exhausted at 8:30 P.M.

Wednesday, January 9th – San Francisco to London

I am sleeping lightly, waiting for the jolt of the alarm and sensing that I am catching a cold. For weeks everyone around me has been sick and I stubbornly refused to catch their bugs. There was simply too much work to keep up with during the Christmas season to even consider the luxury of a cold. Since the holidays, life has continued to be stressful as I checked things off the to-do list so that my 20 year old son John and I can make this trip to India and the UAE with a relatively clear conscious.

Art, John and I drive two cars up to San Francisco and leave John’s older Lexus at his house near S.F.S.U.  We will return from our trip just one day before his semester begins so he needs to be settled in before our adventure begins. The three of us climb into our new Prius V and Art drives us to S.F.O. dropping us at the curb of British Airways. After the perfunctory curbside hugs and kisses, Art reminds John to “take care of your mom,” and John and I enter the revolving glass doors to the international terminal.  Our flight is not for 3 hours and this part of the terminal is exceedingly quiet.  John steers us to the nearly vacant, British Airways counter and I hand over our passports. The attendant who checks us in prints and tears off two luggage tracking tags and attaches one to John’s duffle bag and then another to John’s duffle bag.  I wait for her to print out another tracking tag and when she does not, I point out that she has put both of the luggage tags on John duffle bag and none on my suitcase and she mutters apologetically explaining that she was distracted, talking. There is also some confusion concerning the terminal we arrive at in Heathrow London, versus the terminal we depart from. In London, our bags must make a transfer between terminal 4 to terminal 5 and I am less than optimistic that they will arrive in Deli with us.

London to Deli,

We have a 6 hour layover in London and we exit through customs to investigate tube and express train options into Covent Gardens. Our time is just a little too short, our energy level low and the weather is nippy so John and I decide to wait it out at the airport. We reenter the terminal and it takes us an hour to navigate our way to our departure gate at terminal 4, via glass habitrails, escalators and airport trains.  We pass through security again and find ourselves once again in a maze of duty free shops and a melange of multinational transit passengers.  It is late morning our time, but the overpriced airport restaurants are no longer selling breakfast and we decide that coffee is not a wise option with another overnight flight ahead, so we decide to adjust to London time and settle for an early dinner. John orders a club sandwich and I order fish and chips. John has a beer and I have a glass of wine. We continue wandering the terminal for another hour before John collapses prone on a stretch of benches at the far end of the terminal, backpack under his head for a pillow. I have trained him well. Our gate will still not be announced for two hours so it is up to me to sit vigilance, without dozing, lest we miss our flight.  I find an internet area and shove 1 pound into the machine and manage to successfully log into Hotmail for 10 minutes and send mail home.

The flight between London and Deli seems longer than our flight between S.F.O. and London.  Neither of us own a watch and with our smart phones on airplane mode, we float in limbo.  Once in our seats, we each take half an Ambian and are asleep before the plane takes off.  I vaguely remember the stewardess tapping my shoulder and asking if we want dinner but I grunt, decline and sleep. John is contorted into his seat, his lanky body a pretzel of discomfort.  He is wearing his baseball cap with his hood pulled up over it and his face barely showing.  He reminds me of a duck billed platypus.  Some hours later, I wake, slip on my headphones and turn on my personal entertainment screen. I choose a Bollywood Movie to ease myself into consciousness and into the spirit of India.

Friday – January 11th.  We Arrive in Deli

Indian customs is easy but the immigration attendant raises an eyebrow that our visas are good for 10 years.  He comments that that must be a mistake and I smile and assure him that it is not; that we expect to have a wonderful time and be back again soon.  The young couple, at the adjoining counter, are not having such an easy time of it; something is amiss with their paperwork.  We are excited and rested and practically skip to the baggage claim where we wait anxiously, watching the revolving loop of suitcases hoping to soon be reunited with our luggage. Our bags are slow in coming and I try to reassure myself that since we checked in early at S.F.O. our bags would have been some of the first on and therefore the last off.  Mine suitcase is eventually regurgitated from the shoot with John’s duffle following moments later.  No one checks our tags when we exit the terminal but when we are finally at the hotel and unpack, I find a inspection tag inside my bag.