Diary from New Delhi
Monday morning, 20 September
I couldn't sleep very well last night. I think it's the musty smell of the air conditioning in my hotel. Much better to be hot and sticky and to have the windows open than to have nasty air conditioning. I think it's jump starting my asthma. Then again, it could just be the brown haze out the window. The sun sets a good hour early here: it sets over the smog. It's beautiful. There is this soft, polluted blanket that just snuggles itself around the city.
I arrived in New Delhi late yesterday afternoon. In short, my first impression has been that I might never go home. Then again, I know I shouldn't trust my judgment after longish flights.
Everyone, and I mean E-V-E-R-Y-O-N-E that has ever been to India has a scary story to tell about their travels here. Along the lines of fish stories. Instead, they're usually sick stories. Food poisoning, malaria, etc. To warm up, people might tell a quicky anecdote about their plane trip arriving into the country. Mine was highly unexciting (except for seeing the Himalayas). Or shocking. The bathrooms were quite ordinary. I sat next to a businessman from Ontario. Really interesting, this fellow works for a company that purifies water by UV light rather than chlorine. Anyway, for really good India In The Air stories, it's best to fly on Air India from Heathrow to JFK. I used to fly that one often. Cheap. And the security is high. Security is high at the New Delhi airport, too. Our luggage was x-rayed and stickered -- No bombs in here -- after we arrived and on our way out of the terminal building. One final check. Just in case any lingering firecrackers didn't go off as they were supposed to do. Anyway, I don't know why I've been so late on the I Don't Have Any Luggage to Check-In bug but that's the key to minimal stress. Walk it on, walk it on, and don't look in any direction but straight.
Lonely Planet and The Rough Guide make a big fuss about arriving in at the airport in New Delhi. It's Scam Central. Like JFK isn't, hello! I'd arranged for someone to pick me up. He never showed but no biggie. A prepaid taxi worked out just finely. Lots of guys kept hassling for me to ride with them. Part of me wonders if it's rude to tell them to piss off after one or two firm no's. The other part wonders why I even worry about this. But it seemed to work well. Very well. Everyone's English is so good (well, so it appears initially) that it's intimidating. But not. Embarrassing.
Ahhhhh! I have to pause for a minute. I just looked out my hotel window. They are green birds flying around. Bright green!! Pigeons gone sassy.
My initial impression of India driving along the backish roads (a short cut, sir. Never ma'am.) from the airport into the city was seeing people use their bodies. Use them. Not lycra them. I suppose the less we use our bods in our Silicon Valley world, the more keen we are to take on endurance sports. Isn't that how it works?
Outside my taxi window, it was wet and green and sexy. Dark marbley eyes, orange and pink saris, and lush vegetation. And horns. Car horns, moped horns (sari blowing in the wind), rickshaw horns and and bike horns. All at once, all vying for a few meters on the road.
It's early yet today. I need to go buy some clothes. Somehow, and I'd prefer not to discuss it, I lost my dress in Thailand or Malaysia. Really, I just want an excuse to wear some bright colors.
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