Woke up and intended to visit Lodhi Gardens, but unfortunately was still fending off the effects of tummy lurgy. So I mostly hung out and availed myself of the centre's free wireless internet. India unfortunately does not quite comprehend the whole free wifi-thing yet, and most locations attempt to charge you ridiculous prices for something that most red blooded Americans regard as something that SHOULD be free. So, free, free is good.

I packed up my ever-persistent Load Of Crap and checked out of the hotel, then met Sheila for lunch at the club's curiously cheap and delicious restaurant. We had a bit of whiskey and Diet Coke at the nice and empty bar, then adjourned to the actual dining room - mixed vegetable curry, roti, chicken reshmi kebab, and an interesting sort of tandoori veg item made out of corn and methi (fenugreek.) I managed to eat a decent amount, but had to leave in a bit of a hurry since I was rushing to make my flight.

Curiously, although my timing was tight on the flight due to lunch, I actually was not flipping out, whereas a few months ago back at Simon's Rock, I would probably have been working myself into some sort of almighty freakout over the mere possibility of not having adequate time to make my flight. Has India mellowed me? (Hopefully...that's partially why I came here after all, to escape the academic Crazy...)

Sheila's driver dropped me off in good time at the domestic terminal after a little defensive driving, and I grabbed my stuff and assumed the linebacker position to avoid the various touts who seemed to think I needed a taxi RIGHT NOW. I was now really pressed for time, and I sprinted inside the airport, after flashing my boarding pass and trying not to look like a criminal to the inevitable mustachioed security guard. Check-in proved fraught with danger when I realized I had to get my bags scanned and tagged first BEFORE they'd throw them in the hold. I navigated around a variety of speed bumps (old men staring off into space, horny young guys, et all), got the bags in, then ran to security.

Unfortunately IndiGo had neglected to stamp my bag tag for my backpack, which meant I got up to the gate and was informed I needed a stamp. I sprinted back to the security clearance area and begged for a stamp - the woman manning the post apparantly took this to mean I wanted my Swiss Army knife back, and I COULD NOT HAVE IT NO WAY. Since I do not own a Swiss Army Knife and in fact just wanted a damn stamp, this involved a bunch of shouting across security guard posts until someone finally figured it out.

I got my stamp.

I hopped onto the bus that took us to the plane and got on - horror - middle seat! I was however exhausted and still a little sick, so I managed to get some sleep anyway, contorting myself into various unnatural positions. I have an excellent ability for a traveler: the ability to sleep anywhere at any time. I have fallen asleep on parking islands, in trees, in car trunks and on a couch in the Louvre. Perhaps someday I will fall asleep on top of an Indian bus and complete the circuit.

I arrived at the Mumbai airport - glistening and disarmingly new - and collected my bags. Time for the usual running the gauntlet any arrival in India entails. I found a taxi driver who agreed to use the meter and headed downtown to Colaba.

Unfortunately the hotel I wanted to stay at was booked up, so running through my options, I decided to try the Sea Breeze Hotel which Lonely Planet said only had occasional bouts of bedbugs. This was up about 12 flights of narrow, twisty stairs, and as everyone knows Elevators Are A Luxury Item. I looked up them and tried to figure out how to get my two large bags up them at the same time. Thankfully a nice gentleman off the street offered to help me. We made it up to the desk, huffing and puffing, and I was shown a small cubicle of a room. It did however have a fan. I looked over the guestbook and the clientele was entirely composed of Irish hippies with a couple of Swedes thrown in for good measure. Do Europeans have a perverse affection for staying in crap accommodations in the name of economy?

I decided to call Aneesa and figure out where she was. This involved trying everyone's cell phone in the hotel (the number doesn't like to work), but I finally got through. She and her cousin were at the other place that was full, so they decided to meet me there.

I hung out on the veranda and tried not to be disturbed by the various men in increasingly exotic modes of dress (and increasing levels of sketchiness) who thumped by me on their way to god knows what.

Aneesa's cousin showed up and I initally ignored him, since, to be honest, ignoring strange men is generally good news. He finally said my name and I abashedly figured it out. "You've got to stay somewhere else!" he said - "They had a prostitution scare here a few years ago...stay with us...somewhere..anywhere else!" Obviously I wasn't going to protest, so we got in the cab and decided to have dinner and figure out if I could stay anywhere that didn't indirectly involve prostitution. This is a good accomodation goal.

We went to a lovely streetside kebab place and enjoyed mutton boti - a kind of melt in your mouth mutton kebab marinated in spices - and various varieties of grilled chicken, along with some mutton seekh kebab (ground meat) and endless chapatis. Aneesa made some calls and we figured out the Sea Palace hotel - a much more salubrious place right around the corner from the Sea Breeze - had vacancies. Done. I rang them up and booked it.

We went back to the Sea Breeze, extracted my bags from the confused looking desk-guy, and popped around the corner to the Sea Palace. They showed me a nice clean double, and I moved in. The Sea Palace features a nice leafy veranada and bar, so we adjourned there for some Old Monk (to calm my nerves) and a chat. Aneesa's grandparents are rather traditional and expected her home by 11:30 or such (for fear of murder kidnapping abduction), so I headed up for a deeply appreciated sleep.