day eight

I slept in scandalously late. I am one of those obnoxious human beings who likes to wake up early. When the sun hits my window, I'm up and out of bed and ready to DO STUFF OH BOY. This is repulsive and I apologize. After a nutrient filled breakfast of strawberry cornflakes and half a pineapple (they are not very large pineapples), I decided to go for a walk.

Another thing about me: I like to walk. I don't place much importance on going anywhere in particular (this is beside the point). I prefer to aim myself in one direction and keep on going until a. I get tired, b. I find myself menaced by drug lords and rottweilers in skid row or c. i am attacked by a cow (likely here.) With that spirit in mind, I walked out the door down Thippasandra Road and up 100ft road for quite a ways indeed.

It was a hot dry day - the weather here reminds me of the weather in Sacramento in summer, hot, dusty, dry and moistureless, but with a leafy green spray of foliage that somehow makes everything okay. I walked past fancy multi colored houses that almost reminded me of Cuba, and various supermarkets packed with ladies bartering viciously over okra. I stepped into Crosswords, a Barnes and Noble-esque oasis of calm and air conditioning from the street. They also had a fabulous bathroom. One learns the location of every good bathroom with toilet paper and minimal insect life fast when traveling in Asia.

I kept on moving (all i know to do most of the time), hopping over gaping holes in the pavement and evading eager rickshaw drivers, chaat vendors, luxury cars and various begging children. I found my way to a luxe part of 100 Ft Road, full of shiny Dockers emporiums (they love Dockers here) and custom pillow emporiums or something. I suppose you can measure the economic level of a country if there are custom pillow emporiums. India has many.

I was hungry and decided to splash out on the rather fancy North Gate punjabi restaurant at the top of one of the shopping malls. The space was lovely, accented in white and cream and profusely air conditioned, and I enjoyed chomping on air-crisp papadums and electric cilantro chutney as I waited for my food. I am Southern and I love okra, sliminess and curious shape be damned; it is repulsive but it travels in my blood. As a result, I adore bhindi (okra) masala, and the version here was masterful: sauteed with spices and a bit of tomato and onion, the okra retained its vibrant green color and satisfying snap without too much grease: delicious. At 175 rupees, the dish seemed expensive to my currency converted eyes - but that is another common travel trap, as that came to about four or five bucks in US dollars.

It is embarassing to see well-off foreigners getting into down and dirty arguments with a shopkeeper over one rupeee off some knick-knack to me. Yes, they are out to screw you, yes, it probably is not Morally Okay, but let us get some perspective: they are screwing you out of a couple of rupees, which amounts to the pennies most Americans commonly throw away because they are sick of looking at them. Surely you can accept getting upsold a little bit on a Taj Mahal model. Perhaps some of the profit will go to the sad eyed poverty stricken childen of the shopkeeper, just like the ones that make you feel guilty on TV. Or maybe it will go to beer. I'm not saying you can predict these things.

Anyway, I was very tired indeed by this point and limped back home. Chris and I popped out again to change some money and buy yet another pineapple. I wonder if one can OD on pineapples.

I napped a bit and then we decided to go out again to the Beach, which was rumored to have (gasp) dancing. In recent months, Bangalore has instituted a moral prohibiton on dancing, perhaps attempting to avoid the definitely-not-moral practice of freak dancin' from invading their territory. (It's too late for China. The Chinese have taken to the bump and grind like they have been doing it forever. Perhaps they have.)

Now, I am one of the worst dancers on the entire planet. I still remember the look of confusion and agony on the face of the charming Cuban I met at a Beijing dance club when he realized that I really could not be taught despite his good natured attempts. A friend of mine said once, after witnessing my whiskey fueled attempts at getting down, that I dance like a "crazed cavewoman" and I presume she is correct. However, I'm an eager person and I happen to possess little shame, and I will continue trying to dance in foreign countries. Even if James Brown is sending tears from heaven, becaue I do not bring the funk but I taketh the funk away.

Anyway, Indians love them some theme clubs, which meant that we were sitting on unstable tables made of coconuts on top of a nice bedding of sand, which happily migrated between my toes. (Son of a bitch!) But we had a good time anyway: the owner sent us funky tasting tequila shots, the music wasn't half bad, and to my immense relief, no one else at the club could dance either!

So we got really drunk (you may find pretty much all my travel stories end this way), and we managed to sway out to a rickshaw and find our way home. I was the least drunk of them all and apologized profusely to the rickshaw driver for the interesting commentary he was recieving from the back. He seemed understanding and didn't even rip us off. God speed, man.

We returned to the villa and proceeded to get even drunker. Then we went up to the roof becaus Chris kept on insisting it was Very Important through a whiskey induced haze, but managed not to fall off, which was very surprising. Getting drunk in foreign countries is highly satisfying and I reccomend it to everyone.