delhi day 2

I woke up nice and late, and Sheila picked me up for coffee then a trip to Humayun's Tomb. Although foreigners are charged a rather extortionate 500 rupees (about 12 bucks) to the Indian 10, it was worth it: it's a very impressive structure, reminescent of (though preceding) the Taj Mahal. Built of red sandstone, it's absolutely huge, gigantic steps leading up to the inner sanctum within. Just like at the Taj, tiny and intricate little aqua-colored canals lead right up to the steps, and I loved watching leaves and other debris wind their way through the currents. Sheila says that they hold night concerts here of Indian classical music, which sound sublime - I'll definitely catch one next time I'm in Delhi.

Sheila had some work to attend to, so she told the driver to drop me off at her favorite seafood restaurant in the military district of Delhi. (I think.) The restaurant was a nicely appointed and fiercely air conditioned enclave among many other eating establishments: the menu focused on Mangalore style seafood, which is very famous within India. (Lots of places focusing on Mangalore food in Bangalore as well.) I was profoundly happy to see bhindi masala (okra cooked with tomatoes and spices) on the menu, so I ordered that and their special fish - prepared in tamarind paste and red chili.

As I was waiting for my food, a corpulent woman and her brother entered, and she immediately began ordering around the staff in the most amusing way possible - "The music is vile! Change it!" "No, we do not need RICE, how DARE YOU EVEN PROPOSE IT", "I find these onions too large!" et all. One thing I've noticed is that Indians are a lot less bashful about ordering around service staff then Americans are - I've often found myself blushing with embarrassment about how rude Indians seem to be to otherwise innocent 19 year old waiters making no money whatsoever. I suppose this why they call them cultural differences.

My cell phone actually got reception at the restaurant, so I got a hold of Adam and we made plans to find somewhere to get a stiff drink in Delhi. This is apparently more difficult then one might anticipate.

The driver took me next to Old Delhi - dropping me off at the mosque in front of the Red Fort. This was admittedly one of the more jarring experiences of my time in India, as I disembarked from a nice air conditioned Ford into total and complete chaos during the hottest part of the day - maimed child beggers trailing me up the steps of the mosque as grinning teenagers attempted to sell me such essential items as fake beards and water-proof watches. I took a polite look at the mosque and the fort - a good view from the top of the steps - and decided that descending into the warren-like bazaar that oozed all around me unaccompanied was probably not the best idea on the planet, delicious looking mutton-kebabs and pilaf on offer nonwithstanding. (Fruit salad vendors here always burn incense. What fruit salad and incense have to do with one another, I cannot tell you). I did, however, need an ATM and a Diet Coke, and with those noble ideals in mind, I went off down the street to my right.

This street was slightly less insane, although a few guys insisted on following me and asking in plainitive voices if I Needed Any Help. (no, no, I did not.) Also rickshaw drivers here like to solicit you by saying, "Hey, baabbyyyy, need a ride?" which makes me infinitely less likely to want to take their vehicle. I guess they do not know this.

Anyway. The street seemed to specialize primarily in microwave ovens - I know where to direct you if you are in dire need of a microwave oven whilst in New Delhi - and it was a long dry trek to a Diet Coke salesman. He turned out to be lovely, and called me "his daughter" while giving me a discounted price on my fake sugar infused refreshment. I stepped out of the shop and continued down the street, finding to my dismay that all the ATM's were on the *other* side of the street. Now, crossing the street in the USA or most other first world countries isn't really a huge deal - you find a crossing, you press the button, you wait. In places like India and China, however, there is no such thing as a crossing and really no such thing as pedestrian right of way: crossing the street means entering into an all too-real game of Frogger played with one's own body. However, I do have a strategy: find the toughest, nastiest looking dried up old lady waiting to cross and cross with her. Tough looking old ladies in these sort of countries generally have the good sense to make it through traffic unscathed. This is exactly what I did and no one managed to run me down. (Remember that.)

I found an ATM, collected my money in the 120 degree heat of the little money-collecting cubicle, and dipped into about five different book stores to make walking down the street a little more bearable. I came out again at the Red Fort and gawked at it for a while - it is absolutely immense and really does seem to go on forever. However, I didn't have the energy or the will to actually go inside the damn thing and pursue all billion rooms it is saId to contain, so I went back to find my driver. This took a bit, as finding anyone on the steps of the mosque requires will and fortitude (and the ability to ignore beggars asking for chapatis for their cancerous mother's brother.) I finally found him, and we walked seemingly a mile and a half back to the car, which was parked down a side street in the Wool District next to a goat. Parking well in India really should be considered an art in and of itself.

I returned to the International Center and flopped down in a state of profound exhaustion.

Sheila picked me up around six and took me to the Khan Market, which was right around the corner from the International Center and apparantly the nicest retail space in Delhi. I believe it: it was brimming with gleaming Escada outlets, populated by sunburned and desperate looking expats. The grocery stores carried every single kind of Western brand of potato chip and toothpaste imaginable, and I saw one American woman with a desperate look in her eye carrying a massive, brimming over armful of Salt and Vinegar Lays to the counter. (I was boring and just bought some attractively priced Indian cereal.) Sheila showed me some lovely but unfortunately expensive stuff at the Enokhi outlet, and I also found a very nice Kashmiri handicrafts store - Christmas ornaments of camels and man eating tigers anyone? (I really shoulda bought that.)

Sheila and I proceeded to the Golf Club to meet Rajev, who was having a swim at the rather salubrious pool (loomed over by a Mughal era tomb.) We alerted him to our presence then retreated to the lovely, wood paneled pub to have a tumbler of Teacher's whiskey and comport ourselves fully for dinner. The golf course itself was lovely on the warm evening, and I enjoyed watching a couple of stray dogs happily chase each other up and down the beautifully manicured greens. (you can never eliminate the dogs fully in India. they are omnipresent and eternal.)

Dinner was delicious, lemony tandoori pomfret, a vegetable tandoori platter with aloo tikka (roasted spiced potato), veg seekh kebab (minced mixed vegetables roasted), stuffed tandoori peppers, and baby corn, along with tandoori roti and the usual delicious daal makhani (black lentils with cream.) I was slightly but happily boozed, and Sheila and I had an enjoyably rowdy conversation about Men.

Sheila dropped me off at the International Center, and I figured I might as well just go to bed, since Adam seemed to be getting off work pretty late. To my suprise, he called around ten o' clock and asked me what I was doing - well, not much of anything. I proposed we go to Connaught Place and see if there was anything in a stiff drink there, and he agreed to meet me at the Center.

Adam showed up around 11 and I walked out to meet him...he was standing at the gate and looking confused. Unfortunately, the Center's gate was closed and I had no idea how to get around it. Which meant I had to jump over the India International Center's gate at 11 at night to the deeply disapproving stare of the night security guard.

We caught a taxi to Connaught Place for a not-too-bad 150 rupees and proceeded to look for somewhere, anywhere, that would give us a drink. Connaught Place is a very large circle full of expensive retail and banking offices, and we circulated the area a few times before running into a bar called Olive, which featured nice Detroit-esque surrroundings and very overpriced drinks. Still, we were desperate, and Adam bit the bullet and ordered a vodka, which meant that I of course had to order a cheap gin. I ordered it neat and the waiter gave Adam a look of worry and solidarity, which I found very amusing.

The bill was highway robbery but we paid it anyway.

We walked around a few more times, debated getting ice cream, decided against it as being almost too pathetic, and met a guy in a car with his friends who asked us, "Hey, where's Connaught Place?" Obviously this was just a pretext to talk to us, but we gestured about 2.5 feet away at that BIG ROUND HUGE THING.

I asked the mysterious guy in the car where a good bar was, and he shrugged and said, "Hey, jump in...we'll find something." As my mother always told me not to get into cars with strange men and this seemed like a textbook case, I walked away, though Adam industriously tried to grill him for a bit on something, anything in the area. No dice.

We finally found a flashy Chinese restaurant shutting down for the night populated by four or five lit Indian guys and some nervous looking servers. They begrudgingly served me a gin, though they would have vastly preferred it if I had had tequila shots, and Adam had his perennial vodka and diet Coke. I really, really want to be there the day he orders something else. Hopefully something completely unexpected like absinthe or a long island iced tea or a singapore sling or something-anything other then vodka and diet coke. Or maybe even one of those pink frothy things Chris is partial too. Though I can't really see that happening.

It was getting rather late and I had begun nodding off over the table and alternating words with other words, so we decided to head on home. Finding a taxi proved more difficult then expected but we finally managed one - Adam seems to like negotiating with taxi drivers as much as he likes negotiating with rickshaw drivers. I'm not half bad at arguing with the criminals but I derive little pleasure from it - it's kind of like squashing cockroaches - unpleasant but necessary. Adam on the other hand, far as I can tell, seems to derive real pleasure from telling taxi and rickshaw drivers that they are cheating awful criminal scum, who had better knock down the price quick or we are calling the authorities. (I have seen him use the whip out your camera to photograph their license trick on multiple occasions.) This is definitely a useful trait to have in a traveling companion. Sort of like consigning someone else to squash your cockroaches for you. (Or rickshaw drivers.)

I got home late - the security guard remained disapproving - and got a good three hours or so of sleep before I needed to awaken to catch the morning train to Mussorie.

(I'm going to look back and laugh at the inherent, youthful ridiculousness of the whole situation, laugh someday about how when I was 19 and stupid I was up way too late walking around Connaught Place in New Delhi (of all places!) over and over looking for a drink with a good friend, and how we couldn't find anything, but at least we were cussed enough to put in the effort to try, to circumnavigate the damn thing over and over in a desperate attempt to find a good time......I guess this is why I travel anyway, for these ridiculous memories)