The Quasi-Vegans

Bob and I are quasi-vegans.

We are being held against our will.

Before we came to India, I was already a strict vegetarian.  Bob's favorite food was beef.  Then he got almost fatal food poisoning from chicken here, and he decided that he would become a vegetarian until we leave.

When I first became a vegetarian, at the end of college, I was a vegan for exactly three days.  During which I mostly cried because I was so hungry.  So I started eating all my favorite things again: eggs, yogurt, butter, and most importantly, ice cream.  Based on my reasons for becoming a vegetarian (which I won't get into), it makes more sense to be a vegan, but I'm just not one of those kids.  I can't pull it off.

Now we don't have a choice.  The problems with my favorite animal products are listed below.

Milk
It is straight nasty here.  It comes out of a box that sits on a shelf in a store until you buy it.  It tastes, um, sick.  That is the best adjective I can think of.  There is soy milk here, which we have with our cereal, but it is a lot sweeter than the soy milk at home. Cloyingly sweet.  I've been skipping breakfast all together lately.

Cheese 
The slices taste worst than government cheese.  The only other option is paneer, which is like cubed cottage cheese.  There is something about it that just isn't right.  I think I could get used to it if I tried harder (and felt desperate enough).

Eggs 
Taste very good.  Make my stomach hurt very bad.

Ice cream 
They have ice cream at the store.  We got it once.  It does not taste like ice cream.  It tastes like frozen milk.  See note on milk, above.

Yogurt
We do eat yogurt here, but this is no Yoplait.  It's called curd, it tastes like really sour sour cream, and you eat it with spicy food.  It's good, but it's not a breakfast food.

Butter 
We eat butter as well.  It is the only thing keeping me sane.  Mainly, we eat it on toast or chapatis (these little homemade tortillas we make).  We don't have an oven in our apartment though, so we don't make cookies or cake or anything.

Bob is surprisingly holding it together pretty well.  I am on the brink of self-destruction.  Will someone mail me some Orange Leaf?  Or any kind of ice cream?  Please?

Thank you, American Airlines.

I am the most anxious flier ever.  Except Bob Lanham. When we went on our honeymoon to Mexico, his eyes kept filling with tears.  He was all sweaty.  When we hit some pretty rough turbulence, he grabbed me, gave me a "hug" (which was more like a cross between a bear hug and a death grip) and screamed (literally) that everything was going to be okay.

When I flew to Delhi, I got upgraded to Business Class.  It saved me from my flight anxiety.  During my eight hour layover in Chicago, I literally asked five employees of the airline five different times how to get upgraded.  They all said the same thing: "Pay for an upgrade."  Sure jerks.  If I could, I would have already done that.  Then, when we were boarding, I was called to the service counter.  I was sure I was getting kicked off the plane for being annoying, but instead a Jason Bateman look-alike told me that I had been upgraded to Business Class and that I could go ahead and board.  I started jumping up and down.  I did a high kick (for real).  I wanted him to be excited with me.  He just stared at me.  I told him that I wanted to kiss him, and he smirked a little.  He reminded me of my friend Bobby Helton.  Mean as hell with a good heart.  Sassy til the end of time.

Anyway, I think everyone should fly business class always.  It was full of mostly middle aged men who thought I was pretty. The flight attendant was a little old man who loved me from the get-go. He showed me how my chair turned into a recliner, and he gave me some Bose noise-cancelling headphones.  He did that for everyone, really, but I could tell he loved me.

During the flight, I drank a lot of free Bailey's (to go along with my Xanax).  I didn't touch my book, and I only watched one movie.  And then I slept.  And it was glorious.  When I woke up 11 hours later to the pilot's announcement that we would be landing in Delhi in 30 minutes, all of the men smiled at me like I was the most endearing creature ever.  The old man flight attendant patted me on the head and said, with his British accent, "My last sleeper.  You missed breakfast. Would you like some juice?"  I almost asked him for a hug, because I was so happy.

I am sure the return flight in Economy will be traumatizing, but for now, I will just revel in the joy that was my Business Class experience.  Thank you, American Airlines.

The Art of the Bobble

Don't do it up and down.

Do it side to side.

This is the Indian head bobble.  Also known as a "wobble," "head shake," or "head wiggle," in general "it is often performed by the listener in agreement with what is being said by the speaker, such that the speaker perceives there is 'no problem' with the message being conveyed."  (Thank you Wikipedia.)

It can be used to express a variety of sentiments, as another blogger explains: "Though the gesture is most often translated to mean “yes,”...the wobble is layered with nuance.... The motion ranges in meaning from “Right away, sir!” to “I feel your pain, but honestly can’t be bothered to help you.” The shades of meaning generally depend on the number of wobbles. For instance, five or six wobbles in either direction indicates servile humility... while a detached half-wobble to the left, eyes partly closed...suggests near total indifference."

It is harder than it looks.  Before I got here, I thought it was a lot more like doing what a bobble head doll does.  Do that here and people will look at you like you are a psychopath.  They will also look at you like you are crazy if you nod your head up and down to mean "yes."

I mastered it on accident.  I was leaving the gym, and my earbuds were falling out of my ears, but both my hands were full.  In an effort to keep them from falling all the way out, and slowly moved my right ear up, pulling at the cord of my earbuds.  At the same moment, I realized that the security guard at the door was asking me a question.  I have no idea what he asked, but I had inadvertently responded with the head bobble.  And he loved it.

Using this gesture in India will get you very far.  People seem to understand that you aren't as green as you look, and they respect you a little bit more.  Also, it is rare to see Indians smile at people, but they do almost invariably when a foreigner uses the wobble.

It is also addictive.  It is just so much more sophisticated than the eager nod of America.  It's cool, you know?

The Rickshaw Mafia and the Lizard

The easiest way to travel in Delhi is by auto-rickshaw.  Of course, riding in one means you have to haggle with the driver over the price, and then hope that he understands, despite the language barrier, where you want to go.

But all is not as simple as it seems.

The rickshaw mafia is a federation of rickshaw drivers.  Their cooperation is impressive.  This is how it goes down.

They line up outside popular places, like the metro exit or a mall, like so:

When you approach them, the leader, who usually speaks the best English, says, "Where you going?"  You tell him, using a lot of gestures and body language, and he choose the rickshaw he thinks is most likely to get you there.  And then there is the price.

I  got in a big fight with the rickshaw mafia this week.  After a trip to "Food Bazaar," my favorite grocery destination, I approached the rickshaw mafia.  I told them where I lived. The mafia leader took one look at me and said "300 rupees."

Me: "No way!  100." 

Vito Corleone: "No, 250."  I laughed, said ok, and started to walk away.  I have no idea where I was going, but this wasn't an act.  I was pissed.  Vito started smacking the side of a rickshaw and yelled, "Lady! 250!" 

Me (screaming):  "No! I live here! I'm not a tourist.  100!" 

We finally agreed on 150.  The whole time Vito and I were screaming at each other, the mafia drivers, who take naps in the back of their rickshaws in between jobs, were peering out from their little yellow roofs and laughing really hard.  I think they enjoyed the show.



That night, I chased a lizard out of our apartment.

This is the distressed email I sent to Bob:


There is a typo in the message; I meant to say "It wasn't that big."  Honestly, it looked like a toy lizard, but it freaked me out.  Sick.  Also, we live on the seventh floor of our building.  How did it get up here?

Guess I'll never know.  Hope it was a one time thing.

Last story about the events of the week so far, and I'll keep it short:

At a restaurant, a woman tried to cut in front of me.  In India, this is completely acceptable.  If you let someone cut in front of you, you deserve it.  So I booty bumped her out of the way, and ordered my food.  Take that.

I'm registered!

I finally completed the foreign national registration process in India!  I know it might not seem like a big deal to you, but it is.  A lot of people, including Bob, say that registering ranks first among their worst experiences in India.   My registration was remarkably uneventful.

at the fro office

Last Tuesday, we went to the FRO office to begin the process.  When we showed up, the place was eerily calm, and we later found out the Mr. FRO himself (who people describe as a monster, the master of nightmares, or at best, jerk) was out for the day.  Jai, a man from Bob's work who was helping us, told us that meant the employees were doing whatever they wanted, including registering people very quickly.  We pushed to the front of the group, since there aren't any lines here or concept of "turns" and turned in all of my paperwork (about 100 pages of documents including a letter from Bob's work, a copy of our apartment lease, etc).  In thirty minutes my passport was stamped, and they told me to come back in a week to pick up my official "papers" or proof of registration.  When I left, I had a sinking feeling they would lose everything in the mess of their office.  It was the least organized place I had ever seen.

casual day since the master of nightmares is off

very sophisticated filing system

he has my passport in his hand!  it's all over!

Today Bob and I went back, with Jai, and happily retrieved my papers in all of 10 minutes.  My forty minute FRO experience is completely unheard of, and I'm sure that if other foreigners heard about it, they would be paying me to find out how it went so smoothly.  If you live in America and never plan on coming to India, skip to the next paragraph.  For the rest of you:
1.  Go on a day that the evil Mr. FRO is not at work.
2.  Shove your way to the front of the group.  You will have to be kind of rude, but it will be worth it.  Plus, it's not rude in Indian culture.
3. Smile.  A lot.
4.  Ask a helpful Hindi-speaking friend to go with you.  Or even better, say a few things in Hindi yourself, and be sure to use the Indian head bobble when people ask you questions.

When we left, we also went to get something notarized at the courthouse down the road.  To our surprise, it was an outdoor district court that looked a lot this photo I borrowed from another website:

this looks a lot like the outdoor district court we visited today

It was infinitely cool.  Jai was very proud that we only got charged Rs. 150 ($3) until we told him it was free at home.  Also, the notary guy didn't even read the paper or ask for our passports, which is kind of the whole point of a notary.  Oh well.  No complaints here.

All in all, it was a pretty successful day.  Registering was something I was super anxious about, and now it's over!

The Rules of Yoga Class

I went to my first yoga class tonight!  Very exciting.  A real yoga class too, not any of that "Power Yoga" or "Urban Yoga" crap where you really just get tricked into doing some pushups and stuff.

The rules of real yoga are as follows.


First Rule of Yoga Class: There is no yoga class.  I know, you saw that coming.  I walked down to class at 6:15, so I wouldn't be late, and when I got there I was the only one there.  I went early because I'm used to the way things usually are at home.  If you want to do a group class, you better get there about an hour early and be prepared to fight some skinny blonde girl for a good spot.  Apparently, they're running short on overeager workoutaholics here. At about 6:40, I was convinced that there really was no yoga class. When I was about to leave, everyone showed up-- five older women, and Dr. Rajiv Chopakak or something.  And so we got started.

Second Rule of Yoga Class: Take your shoes off.  You even have to do this in the fake yoga classes at home, but somehow I forgot.  I walked right into the little studio with my filthy flip flops on.  Even the security guard took his big old shoes off.  Everyone looked at me like I had some kind of disease.  Dang it! 

Third Rule of Yoga Class: You better know the poses before you get there, because no one is going to teach you.  Dr. Rajiv got things going pretty quickly.  He turned on some blasting music (Indians like their music LOUD.  Really loud.  Take however loud you think I mean, double it, turn it up just a little bit more, and that's just about how loud they like music to be.)  Then he started calling out poses, "Position 1, breathe in, Position 2, breathe out..."  I had no idea what was happening, but I tried to keep up as best I could.  "Hopefully now your breathing will be deep, calm, and relaxing," I barely heard him say over the music.  Yeah right.  How's ragged and labored?  Will that be ok?  Everyone else looked pretty relaxed, but I was a mess.  My mat was all jacked up and pushed around everywhere, sweat was getting in my eyes, and it was obvious I didn't know the poses.  Luckily, yoga is a lot like sex.  Just go along with what the person closest to you is doing, and everything should work out fine.

Fourth Rule of Yoga Class: Please clean your nostrils thoroughly.  Dr. Rajiv said this to everyone about halfway through the class, and walked up to me with a kleenex from his bag.  I was horrified that I had a bat in the cave-- he probably saw it on that last back bend he had us doing.  The kleenex smelled like cumin, and I was still a little embarrassed when I realized that he gave tissues to everyone.  Shew.  "Ladies, clean them thoroughly."  And then I thought, "What the hell are we going to be doing next that my nostrils have to be thoroughly clean?!"  Turns out it was some "dynamic" breathing exercises.  What's that? you wonder.  Well, I can teach you.  Start by making a face like the one you made the last time you walked into a public bathroom.  The one at the mall, perhaps.  In a standing position, bend your knees slightly and put your hands down at your side, palms facing down.  In two swift and fluid motions, bend your knees more, exhaling sharply, and then stand up straight, inhaling deeply.  Yes, that's right.  You should be bouncing around like you are about to break into a African tribal dance.  Do 40 repetitions 5 times.  Without laughing.

Next class is on Thursday night.  Can't wait!

Getting frisky

Today is the first day I've spent in the apartment alone.  Our FRO trip was postponed until later this week... I know, I'm so sad.  So, I've just been laying around and trying to find ways to occupy myself until Bob gets home in 5 hours and 43 minutes.  One of the ways I've been occupying myself is counting down the minutes until Bob gets home.

I was also thinking about some of the small trips we've made out into the city, to malls, the movies, the grocery, and to some larger markets, and I remembered something I've yet to really think about until now.  Every time you enter a building here, whether it be the Metro or a mall, someone feels you up.  For real.  And they aren't shy.

The first time this happened, Bob and I were getting on the Metro, and I followed him dutifully into a long line of men waiting to walk through the metal detector (these are also at the entrances of most buildings, and if you have a bag they search it too and run it through an xray machine).  As we approached the front of the line, which was moving so quickly it hardly seemed like a line, he said, "Oh my gosh babe.  You should go to the women's line.  I didn't even think about it."  You didn't think about it?!  "What a narrow escape from a security guard that surely would have violated me," I thought in the voice of an annoying, highly private, highly individual, very selfish, very American woman that occasionally creeps into my mind. 

Honestly, I maintain that the security guard merely would have informed me that I needed to go to the other line.  Bob maintains that he would have had his way with me :)

Anyway, it got me thinking about how everyone was complaining a while back about those super high power scanning machines that could see your everything in airports, and how if you wouldn't let those machines scan you, you had to get frisked by an airport security guard, which would undoubtedly turn out to be the worst experience in your life.  And I have one thing to say to those complainers. Get over it freaks! Try having an Indian woman feel you up right before you buy some mangoes and other breast-shaped fruit.  It just doesn't feel right.

I'm kidding.  At first, all the frisking and searching and scanning made me wonder what, exactly, all the precautions were protecting us from.  Although I haven't completely rationalized it to myself, I do understand that it's just a way of life here.  No one makes a big deal about it, no one complains, and honestly, it's not that bad.  If all else fails, it'll wake you up on that sleepy morning run to the store.

mangoes. mmmmm.

I've always liked mango, but they are so expensive at home, so I hardly ever get them at the grocery.  India is the land of plenty when it comes to mangoes, though.  They cost about 20 rupees here, or less than $0.50.

Did you know....

• 50% of the world's mangoes are grown in India?
• Mango is the most consumed fruit in the world?
• You can eat the skin of a mango if you want?
• Mango is the national fruit of India and an important symbol in Hinduism?
• Exported mango and fresh mango have distinctly different flavors?
• Mango makes a delicious breakfast?

Me either!  I have one for breakfast every morning, and I will miss them dearly when we go home and can't afford to pay $3 for one. If you can, have one and think of us!

Success!... Kind of.

Today I had a pretty big to do list, and I am happy to say that I did all of it.  This afternoon, before Bob went to work, (he works from 1p-10p to be able to collaborate better with his office in Louisville), we went to Ambience Mall.  It is reportedly the largest mall in Asia, and although I've only been to a few malls in Asia, I do admit that this one is pretty large (Kimberly, don't get too excited.  It's still smaller than MOA).  Before Bob went to work, we had breakfast at Haldiram's and got some passport photos made. Breakfast pictures below :)

After a long day of shopping, I'd found everything I wanted and I was ready to head home and relax.  All that stood between me and a long, warm shower was an autorickshaw.

Here is the only problem with riding in a rickshaw.  Well, the only two problems.  The first is that it gets really hot, which will eventually be bearable.  And the summer is almost over here too, so that will help.  The second, and larger, problem is that the driver usually only has a glimmer of an idea about where you want to go.  I've learned in my short time here to use as few words as possible.  They only get confused.

Me: Hello sir. Sector 42?
Sir: Sector 53?
Me: No.  42.
Sir: Ok.
Me: Kitne? He gives me a blank stare. How much?  (Kitne means how much in Hindi, his first language.)
Sir: How how much?  250 rupees.

After some bargaining, I got him down to 200 rupees, which is about $4.  We drove for about 30 minutes, and finally he pulled over to the side of the road.

Sir: You get out here.
Me: Um, what's that?
Sir: This is Sector 46.  You live here.
Me: I said 42!  *I know yelling doesn't help  people understand a foreign language, but I thought I'd give it a try.
Sir.  You said 46. *The screaming clearly wasn't helpful. 
Me: I said 42. 
Sir: 46.
Me: Sir, I live in Sector 42.
Sir: You said 46.
Me: Alright.  I'll just get another rickshaw.  Thanks.
Sir: No miss.  I take you.

During the first ride, I was vaguely aware that we were going the wrong way, but I thought I was just panicking, or freaking out for no reason, so I didn't say anything.  Joke's on me.  The sectors are about 10km apart, so the little jerk charged me 100 extra rupees.  I know it isn't much, but it wasn't my fault either.

When I got home, I was soaking wet, and when I got to our apartment, I was so glad to be standing at the door, steps away from that shower.  And then my key didn't work.  This is the first time I tried it, and it didn't work.  I tried for about 10 minutes, standing in that infernal hallway, which isn't air conditioned.  Which is fine when you are about to step inside your air conditioned apartment, and not ok when you are locked out.  To make a long story short, I called the main office, and three men came.  They didn't not speak English, and couldn't get the door open.  Right before I called Bob to come home and let me in, one of the men finally made it work.  It was gratifying that they couldn't open the door either, but that gratification cost me an hour in the 100 degree hallway.

Anyway, it was my first day alone in India.  At least I have something to remember it by.

Tomorrow: The FRO (Foreign Registration Office) which many immigrants in India (including Bob) report as their worst experience ever.  Can't wait!

Goodnight!

k, with love

An Exciting First Week

It's Sunday, and I am trying to avoid thinking about the fact that Bob will be going to work tomorrow, and for the first time, I will be alone in India.  Right now, Bob is making a delicious Indian dinner of chole with poori.  Chole is his favorite food here, and he has pretty much got me thinking the same, especially since he can cook it himself.  Note: Bob is a much better cook in India than he was at home, and he insists on cooking everything.  Maybe that will change when he returns to work tomorrow, but so far I have enjoyed breakfasts of "almost organic" eggs, which come in packs of ten, not twelve, along with "lite" milk, which comes in a box off of a shelf instead of a carton from the refrigerator.  I also love the Indian potatoes he makes, which are a lot like aloo tikki, which he usually makes along with one of the 24 boxes of Kraft Mac and Cheese that I brought from home.  We'll be out of those soon :)

Anyway, I had a great week, despite the extreme heat and the insidious effects of jet lag.  Here are some of the more interesting things we did/experienced:

1.  First monsoon-like rain.  I think it was on Thursday night, although I keep losing track of what day it is.  On Wednesday night/Thursday morning, I slept for about 14 hours, which means it was almost impossible to fall asleep on Thursday night.  Instead, I laid awake watching the first season of Parenthood (which is great, by the way).  For hours, from our balcony windows, I could see lightning north of the city, toward the mountains.  I've never seen lightning like this before.  It was like there were a million paparazzi in the sky, all taking pictures of the city. Finally, near dawn, the storm moved in over the city (anyone who knows me well knows how afraid of storms I am, and how desperately I wanted to wake Bob up).  There was thunder and lightning for about another hour, and then suddenly, it started to rain.  It was like nothing else I've ever seen.  It was kind of like one huge car wash-- the intense wind blew the rain in every direction.  It encircled trees, cars, and everything else I could see from our apartment, and before I knew it the wind started to blow huge buckets of it up onto the balcony and violently into the window from which I was watching.  The magnificence of the whole scene erased every trace of fear I had been feeling, and I screamed for Bob to wake up.  "It's monsooning!"  I yelled gleefully (and for which he still mocks me), but he let me drag him out of bed at 5 am, and we watched our first monsoon rain together.

2. First Hindi movie.  On Friday morning, we went to join some of Bob's Indian friends for breakfast at a mall.  We went to Bob's favorite restaurant, Haldirams, and ate some of the most bizarre things I've ever had for breakfast.  Every bit of it was hot and spicy, but I have to admit, I liked it.  Kind of.  It will take some getting used to.  A picture from breakfast is below. The girl sitting next to me is Prenna, and I think we are going to be best friends. She's so nice, and she always translates things into English.  Also, the guy sitting across from me is Gaurav, and he is Bob's best friend.  He is hilarious, in a pretty American way, which is rare.

Anyway, afterwards they begged us to go to the movies with them to see Ready, the new Salman Khan (read Indian Brad Pitt) movie.  We had no idea what we were getting ourselves into.  It was two and a half hours long (with an intermission, of course), there were about 6 Bollywood musical scenes, and did I mention there weren't any subtitles?  Despite all that, Bob and I both had a lot of fun, and I was glad we went. Below is our favorite scene; be careful, the song might be stuck in your head for days, and you might catch yourself doing some of the dances.

3. First ride on the Metro.  One night last week, Bob and I decided to go to a Khan Market, a popular market in Delhi.  We could have taken a taxi, which would have been faster, but the Metro is much cheaper (about 40 rupees, or less than a dollar).  The first time we rode in a general car, and I got so anxious and claustrophobic that we had to get off after about 4 stops.  There were people literally all over us, and more people got on at every stop.  There are only about 20 seats in each car, and the car we were in was filled with about 100 people, all grasping for the handles hanging overhead.  We got on the next train, which came pretty quickly, and it was less full since it was so close to the one before.  Bob also showed me the "women only car," which was less crowded, calmer, and cooler.  After a few more trips, I feel much more acclimated to the whole thing, and I can see why the Metro is the preferred mode of transportation.  Although it is the slowest (it took about an hour and a half to travel about 10km or about 6 miles), riding in a taxi or autorickshaw would have been expensive, and harrowing in and of itself-- a description of the traffic in Delhi will undoubtedly require a separate post!

4. First date night.  On Friday night, our apartment complex finished work on its pool and had a big opening party and cookout.  The pool was a little gross, mostly because of the monsoon storm that came the night before, but we got in anyway.  Why not?  The cookout food was delicious-- they served chaats (snacks) like chole, some sort of aloo (potato) stuffed with dal (lentils) cooked over hot coals, and butter naan, which might be my favorite thing in the world.  We only stayed in the pool for about 20 minutes, since kids were staring at us like they'd never seen Americans before (Bob's white face must be giving us away), and the pool water was starting to gross me out.  After a pretty thorough shower, we went out to meet Bob's Canadian friends from work for drinks.  We went to a great rooftop bar called Jolly Rogers, which was fun but a little over priced, even by American standards.  I got to meet Sharon, Bob's friend's fiancee, and she is, in a word, awesome.  She's been here for about a month and she's great at traveling and exploring.  She keeps telling Bob and I all the stuff she's discovered, all the fun trips to take, in and out of the city, and she's also just really funny and interesting.  The Canadian guys were fun too-- they kept quizzing everyone on world history and geography, which sounds annoying but is kind of fun after you've had a couple of drinks.

Overall, I had a great first week.  Depending on how I sleep tonight, I think I'm starting to beat the jet lag, and although I'm anxious about my first week alone, I'm looking forward to my first few excursions alone.  Especially since another monsoon storm is moving in, which means it will be about 10-20 degrees F cooler tomorrow.  By the way, I'm not sure they're really called monsoon storms, but Bob and all his friends, both Canadian and Indian, think it's hilarious when I say that.  And you know me-- I'll do anything over and over as long as it's funny.

On tap for tomorrow:
Bob- work.  He doesn't want to talk about it, since he's been off for a week.  Poor kid.
Me-A trip to the mall tomorrow for some ready to wear Indian clothes, a new yoga mat (I have class on Tuesday night!), some slippers (I totally understand why it's gross to wear your shoes inside now), and about 20 passport photos (foreigners have to have them all the time here), and groceries.  Wish me luck!

Family and friends, we miss you!

k and b, from delhi, with love

First Impressions

I made it to Delhi.  I know it sounds ridiculous, but there was a part of me, a very large part, that believed that maybe I wouldn't.  But I did.  In a business class seat, which stands as proof, to me, that God is real.

Notes on my first impressions:
1. Jet lag is real.  This ain't a game.  Yesterday Bob woke me up at 6 pm (8:30 am Eastern time) and I burst into tears. Then I refused to eat, because I was so tired I thought I was going to throw up.

2. India is hot.  This ain't a game.  Yesterday it was 106 degrees, and in the early afternoon Bob took me out to show me the places he shops.  When we got back I was more sweaty than Sylvester Stallone in Rocky III.  Bob also mentioned, casually, that yesterday was the hottest day of the year, and that most Indians don't go outside before evening unless they have to.  I was not nice to him when he said that.

3. Indian people are nice, kind of.  Everyone smiles at you.  I read in a travel guide not to smile at people, especially men, and I was very determined to heed this advice before I arrived.  And then I got here and people flashed me their perfectly white teeth left and right.  So I smiled back, feeling guilty the whole time.  That travel book seemed so serious.  There were other times people weren't so nice though.  When I arrived at the airport, I spent an hour pushing my six bags around on a cart and searching for Bob.  When I tried to navigate around a group of men standing at a coffee kiosk, my cart tipped over and all the bags fell on the ground.  Instead of rushing over to help me, the men just watched me struggle to rearrange my luggage on the cart.   I wanted to give them an extended lecture on the virtues of hospitality, but I was too sleepy.  See note #1.

4. There are three housekeepers that come to our apartment everyday and clean EVERYTHING. I hate the idea of it, but I love the result.  I mean, who wouldn't like for someone to make their bed every day and wash the dishes?

5. The clothes people wear here make Western clothes look stupid. I'm gonna need a sari asap.  There is one exception to the magnificence of their attire.  Every woman had on a dupatta, those multipurpose scarves you've probably seen before.  When we got home, I asked Bob, "Why were all those women wearing scarves?  It's too f-ing for all that."  Actually, I said something more profane than that, but I'll spare you.

6. India is beautiful.  It is a place of extremes, which I read in several places but didn't really understand until I arrived.  On the way from the airport to our apartment, a beggar came to our car at a stoplight.  She tapped on the window determinedly but gently, and raised her other hand to her mouth like a child asking for food.  She was old, visibly poor, and beautiful.  Behind her, the sun glinted off the silver hood of a BMW.  Our driver sternly told us to ignore her.  On our drive, cows rested in the shade, men walked alongside carts drawn by horses, and the loud and obnoxious bursts of motor bike engines startled me over and over again.  I noticed high rise apartment buildings and skyscrapers emerging from the dust of buildings crumbling from age and lack of care.  Our apartment is nicer than our house in Kentucky, but there are homeless children living yards from the gate surrounding our compound.  Of all things, I think this will take the most getting used to.

Fifteen million people live in Delhi, and now Bob Lanham and I do too.  I am so very, very excited to be here.