Fodor's Travel Talk Forums - Trip Report My First Passage to India

Hey, if you only knew what a challenge it has been to get these installments up here! I've written loads, but have also blown the electricity in 5 hotels and burned up a couple of adapters - just for Fodors!

Here goes...

Today is a largely wasted day. I check out of the Bawa Hotel at 8 am after another miserable excuse for a shower and a breakfast of just pineapple and mango and yogurt and coffee. I’m at the airport at 8:20 and proceed immediately to the wrong security check-in. I’m on Jet Lite, but in my fog I head for the nearest sign saying Jet, which is Jet Airways, and have to double back and send my bag through the first security checkpoint again. Then I check in to find that my 9:35 flight is delayed, no one knows how long. I go through the next and final security checkpoint, this one being divided into two lines, one for men and one for women, only there’s no security guard for the women, so I have to stand there for a good 15 minutes. I try to surrender my bottle of water to the guard who eventually ambles over, but he (why isn’t it a she, after all this?) waves it on through, and I put it in the box along with my laptop. On the other side a stern lady grabs the water bottle, shakes it in my face and says “It is forbidden!.” Well….nevermind…..

I sit in the tiny waiting room until almost 12:30, when the flight to Delhi is finally announced. I have a sweet, cold coffee and read the newspapers, read my book, stretch my legs. No one seems the slightest bit perturbed, though almost all flights are delayed. I think about the Jain temple I visited yesterday, which I left out of my notes: The Jain religion, according to my guide, was founded by Vardhamana Mahavira in about 500 BC, does not involve god worship but rather advocates ahimsa (not harming any living being), and is so complicated that it has few followers. Among other things, they are such strict vegetarians that the most avid followers wear mouth masks so that not even the smallest insect, microbe even, gets into their system. When they eat, the drip a ring of water around the edge of the plate as a barrier to insects, and place a few grains of rice outside the ring to keep any potentially marauding insects busy eating their own meal. Then they have a precise order in which they consume their food, all of which, according to Marik, is very scientifically based to keep the digestive system pure and functioning perfectly. There are also myriad rituals.

The Jain temple we visited was humming with activity. We left our shoes at the entrance, but no one challenged us to leave behind leather goods such as watchstraps and wallets, as I had been told they might. Like all Jain temples, it featured extraordinary marble carvings, and was built on several floors, where numerous simultaneous activities were happening. On the top, brightly dressed young women held hands and waists and danced around the central shrine, chanting and periodically ringing the incredibly loud copper bells that hung from the ceiling. In small alcoves surrounding the central shrine, priests (is that what they are?) lit candles and said blessings. Down below, the men gathered to eat a simple meal, in parallel lines in a great marble hall. Older women were busy forming swastika-shaped symbols out of rice grains, with sugar cubes in the center. The swastika, which obviously predates our notion of it, stands for enlightenment. It was a glorious, uplifting, merry scene all around, and no one took the slightest offense at us meandering through it, or taking pictures. I was even encouraged to ring one of the bells, nearly knocking out my hearing for the rest of the day....and as I relive this delightful scene, my flight is finally called.

We board and take a smooth flight to Delhi. But unlike in Mumbai, where we practically landed in people’s living rooms, in Delhi we seem to land in some faraway suburb. We take the longest on-ground airplane ride I’ve ever been on – almost 25 minutes, sometimes traveling at what seem like highway speeds. Very strange. But once at the airport I’m through the doors and into the hands of my driver within minutes. Then another half-hour to squeeze our way through the mesh of airport traffic that is trying to get through one small exit into the streets of Delhi. Then a 45-minute drive to the hotel on hair-raising roads made worse because in Delhi there are cows. Everywhere. And they must not be harmed. Coddled cows. Even though they like to congregate in the middle of highways and streets and take their own sweet time doing whatever they feel like doing. I ask my driver what would happen if he happened to hit a cow accidentally. “Terrible, terrible tragedy,” he says, “and very big fine.” I understand that cow worship has been around a lot, lot longer than traffic, but as I’m already hours late arriving in Delhi I can’t help thinking it would have saved everyone a lot of trouble if they’d chosen to worship something small, unobtrusive, and alacritous, like say a squirrel or a chipmunk.

I arrive at the Vikram Hotel around 4 pm, where a guide who has planned to spend most of the afternoon with me is eager for me to jump back in the car as soon as I’ve checked in and deposited my suitcase in the room. I do. Raj is a young professorial type with a shriekingly sibilant S, which makes it both difficult and alarming to listen to him, though I get used to it after awhile, and he is very knowledgeable. We only have time for a couple of sites, as most things close at sunset, he says, so off we go, dodging cows along with tuk-tuks and taxis and trucks and dogs and donkeys and beggars and whatever else feels like clogging the streets of Delhi, to the Baha’i House of Worship, shaped like a giant lotus leaf and one of Delhi’s proudest accomplishments, though the number of Bahai’is here is insignificant proportionate to its fame. It looks for all the world like the Sydney Opera House (which I’ve never been to, admittedly), except not, because this isn’t Australia, it’s India, and so it comes, at least outside the gates that enclose it and keep everyone out, a heap of Indian rubbish and grime and noise and pollution and general detritus. But it’s arresting, all right.

Then we race to Qutb Minar, a World Heritage Monument in the Mehrauli Archaeological Park that was the center of the Delhi Sultanate at the end of the 12th century. From then until the middle of the 19th century it was the playground of princes and later British officials, all attracted by the great hunting terrain and bounty of game. It’s still a wealthy area. There’s a lot going on here, but the focal point is the minar (tower), the highest in India, which marked the spot where the first Muslim kingdom in North India was established in 1193. It’s a hodgepodge of original stone and Hindu pieces salvaged from earlier buildings (though the Muslims hacked off any features of men and animals in deference to their doctrine of never displaying images of living beings), and the top portion of the five-part tower was actually added by the British. It looks for all the world as if it’s leaning like the tower at Pisa, but that’s just an optical illusion.

And then there’s the 4th-century iron pillar standing just outside it, that shows not a single bit of rust, a testament to the metallurgy skills of ancient Indians. Apparently they knew if they mixed 3-4 percent of some other substance with the iron, they could avoid rust altogether. Detroit, you listening?

We spend an hour or so at the site, Raj filling my head with details I’ll never remember, but it’s clearly a place of great importance and has a weighty feel to it. Then to a textile coop to see a carpet demonstration. Now, I’ve not been on an organized tour of any kind in my life (though I have hired private guides on occasion in places I’m just not up for navigating myself), and I knew when I booked a private tour of India there would be some kickback activity involved, so the visit to the coop didn’t come completely as a surprise. My suspicions are always instantly raised in these circumstances, though, and before I even get through the door of this place I am preparing myself mentally for dealing with the spiel I just know I am going to get and the tactics I will have to employ. I do love a good haggle, when I’m actually interested in buying something, and to be honest, the thought of buying a rug in India had crossed my mind. I love rugs. I’ve collected them all over the world, though nothing terribly fancy or luxurious, but I do like walking on beautiful bits of wool I’ve carted across big oceans. And my SO, who lived in Asia for almost two decades, has his own collection of rugs that I have come to love as well. And honestly, the thought of buying my daughter a rug to commemorate this trip of ours – something she can have forever – just, well, appeals in a nicely sentimental way. BUT, I’m not going to get involved in one of those oh so predictable scenarios with the tea and the guilt trip and the pulling down smaller and smaller and less and less expensive items from the stacks and then the mournful last-ditch well-if-not-a-rug-how-about-a-pashmina-ma’am deals. Nope, not for me.

But I must say, it was about as low-key a sales show as I’ve experienced in such circumstances. Empire Carpet is way worse. The Kashmiri salesmen were uniformly mild and apparently more interested in spreading the word about the history of handicrafts in their remote part of the world than in making a sale. And what gorgeous men! I’ve never seen such a mesmerizing collection of huge, brown, long-lashed eyes. Maybe that is part of the sales pitch. Maybe they select The Guys With Eyes to venture forth to Delhi to sell their rugs. At any rate, I was pretty much taken aback when a young man with clove-colored eyes sat me down on the usual padded bench, brought me a fragrant cup of tea, and started to explain what life in his village was like, and how the continual friction between Kashmir and Pakistan had eroded the economic base of his village. And then he explained, and showed me on a loom (predictable, yes), how they manufacture the rugs, whether it be with sheep’s wool or yak’s wool, or silk, or a combination, and how the number of knots per square inch, as well as the pattern – is it a repetitive pattern or one that changes as the rug is made? – makes all the difference in the quality and hence the price. I knew this from making rug purchases in Africa and Turkey and Greece on past voyages, but this young man went into such vivid detail you could see the yaks traversing the cold, rough terrain, scratching themselves on tree branches and leaving little tufts of wool that the villagers then collected and used, in addition to the wool they sheared in season.

He brought out rugs, or rather his minions did. He had them hold the rugs up before me, then lay them down and turn them around, to show how they changed color in different light and from different angles. He had me take off my shoes and walk on them. He explained how silk threads bend when you step on them, becoming more supple and polished over time instead of just getting squished and misshapen the way the fibers in a cheap rug do. He interspersed his commentary with tales of his childhood in Kashmir and his village and his family, and explained as he showed me how different families had different patterns associated with them, dating back hundreds of years. He didn’t push, he didn’t pressure, he just told stories, and I was drawn in. I selected a half-dozen rugs, telling him that I wanted to take photos and make a decision later, after my daughter and my SO had had a chance to look at them and come to a decision, because it wasn’t going to be my rug ultimately. He had no problem with that, so I took numerous photos of the chosen rugs. We agreed on an average price for the selected rugs and I gave him my Visa debit card. This was a government-sponsored coop, so there was all kinds of paperwork to fill out, but at the same time a guarantee of free shipping and recourse if the customer has a problem. I took his phone number and email and said I’d be in touch within the next two days. I emailed the pictures of the rugs to my daughter and SO from the store and went to shake hands to take my leave. “Ma’am,” said my clove-eyed friend, “Can I show you some….?” I put my hand up and said “Let’s not spoil a good deal, my friend. You’ve got a good sale here, and I’ve had a long day and I’m tired,” and he smiled and grasped both my hands in his and said “Understood, Ma’am. Have a lovely evening and call me when you’ve made up your mind.”

And so another hour through rush-hour traffic, which is only distinguishable from regular traffic by a few fewer centimeters between vehicles; we drop Raj off at a school where he’s learning Spanish so he can guide the South American tourists who come in winter and therefore have employment all year round as a guide, and around 8 pm I’m back at the hotel. My daughter’s flight has also been delayed and she won’t be here for another hour or two, so I get deeply involved in what will soon become a nightly ritual of fiddling with adapters, sipping Kingfishers, and elevatoring up and down between my room and the reception desk asking for internet usage cards and finding they don’t work and trying to rectify the situation. I also begin to establish my near-perfect record of blowing out the electricity on the hotel floor I’m inhabiting, and have to make a few trips downstairs and up again to get that fixed, too. And just when I’ve got lights in the room, the cell phone charging, the laptop working, and internet service at least momentarily available, in walks M, all giddy and gorgeous and hungry, and it’s time to catch up, which we do, over room service of vegetarian thali, chapatti, and Kingfishers. We’re here. Together. In India! It’s a pinch-me-can-it-really-be-happening moment and we are loving it!

As we are falling asleep, M mumbles to me “By the way, Mom, it’s ok to eat with your left hand when it’s just us, but you DO know you have to use your right hand when you’re in public, right? I mean, you might as well be flipping the bird to everyone in the restaurant if you use your left hand. You got that, right?” And I fall asleep pondering a new travel etiquette question.

Hi, John. Yes, I do photos. Have taken about 800 so far and will eventually post them when I've culled and fixed them up. India is a photographer's dream, I imagine, though I'm not a photographer, just a chronicler who happens to have a camera.

And so...

Up at 5:30 for a 6:30 departure for Jaipur. M is an absolute master at staying in bed until the very last minute before taking off for someplace, so she’s up at 6:10 and somehow showered and packed and looking supremely put together at exactly 6:30. Fortunately, the Vikram shower facilities are an improvement over those of the Bawa, and we actually feel soaped and shampooed and clean. The hotel has packed us box breakfasts and made us carry-out coffee. The coffee’s fine, but the boxed breakfasts are a bit strange: two bananas each, two apples each, and two tomato-cucumber sandwiches on crust-free white bread with mayo each. Do they think we’re British, or is this some remnant of Colonialism? At any rate, except for the bananas, none of this is appealing, so we throw them in the back of the van, where they stay until time immemorial.

I thought driving in the city was frightening enough, but once out on the highway, it’s death-defying, literally. There are an insane number of trucks, big fat trucks painted in wild colors and patterns and festooned with banners and gilt and plastic flower garlands and god and goddess icons, all bearing painted signs on the back bumpers that say “Honk, Please,” or “Use Your Horn,” and “Use Dippers at Night.” Some of them are piled so high with goods and wrapped so tightly in bunting and bungee cords that they look like obese, overdressed, completely unbalanced, bug-eyed babies tooling down the highway at breakneck speed. It’s a wonder it took researchers so many years to make the connection between the Rom and India – all it took was for me to see my first Indian truck. Then there are the buses. Forget that they all have a big CNG stamp on their sides or backs; yes it’s great they’re all turning to compressed natural gas, but carrying twice their human capacity, with people hanging out the windows and doors and precariously perched on their roofs, they look downright hazardous to the human environment, green as they may be. The funniest ones are the ones with a deep cavity at the top filled with turbaned men. When they whiz by, all you can see is a crop of turbans, and it looks just like a basket of gaily colored mushroom caps tootling down the road. It is just chaos, pure chaos, out here: aside from the cars and buses and trucks there are camels lumbering along dragging wedge-shaped carts filled with cement and old tires and branches and whatnot; horse-drawn carts like the ones you see at the hackney races, with skittish horses and drivers flailing at them with crops while weaving in and out of the rest of the mess; motorcycles; motorbikes; bicycles (on the highway, yes); tourist vans like ours; tractors; flatbeds; everything that has two wheels or more is out here jostling to find its place and go as fast as it can, completely ignoring the signs that say Better Late Than Naver. And then there are the dogs that skitter across the road, and the cows in the middle of it, and the goats, and now and then a pig, and the pedestrians who are legion on the sides of the road and who just arbitrarily decide to cross the highway. Absolute insanity. No one pays any attention at all to lanes. Most of the time there are at least three vehicles straddling two lanes, sometimes four. The number of near-misses is staggering. Every single move we make could be classified as a near-miss, or, if you’re Indian, I suppose, as a bit of good luck, a success.

M says “Don’t you think they’d actually end up going faster and being safer if they just stayed in their lanes?” and I ponder this. I think yes, that is the whole point of lanes, isn’t it? Lanes, and rules for passing…But the Indian mind seems always to want to create a parallel system, one that defies the logical, one that suggests an anarchy, a nose-thumbing system, kind of like the Italians, but in a landscape of much weirder, sparser infrastructure. The odd thing is, the system revolves around horns, and this isn’t really (or is it?) a loud society. There is an entire horn language, and it permeates the country. Unless you are in a really remote place at night, and even then sometimes, you are constantly amid a cacophony of horns. Two toots when you’re passing or want the guy on your left (or right…there is no passing lane, per se), a kind of loud hurdy-gurdy noise when you’re ticked off at a move someone has made, and a long, sustained tooooooot when you’re doing something more than usually dangerous and really hope to get everyone’s attention. After awhile it permeates your consciousness to the extent that even if you’re not looking out the window and watching, you can tell what your car and all the other vehicles are doing just by listening to the horn orchestra. It becomes a choreography. You could drive blind here and not much diminish your chances of an accident. People probably do. It’s so weird. If you stayed in your lane and used your horn only when there was imminent danger, things would probably move much more smoothly, the entire country would be a lot quieter, and there would likely be fewer fatalities. But Noooooo! That would not be the Indian way. Better to get out there and jostle each other and make it a loud competition and see what the outcome is, because it’s all out of your hands anyway, right? It’s fate. And at the same time, there is no road rage. None. Everyone is calm and cool and accepting. All the time, it seems. Such a paradox.

And for me the paradox is that I am totally calm in the many different vans and cars I am in throughout this trip. I, who can practically lose my mind driving from Alexandria, VA, into DC in normal traffic. I, who have what my kids affectionately call “Mom’s Imaginary Brake Foot,” I who have had a lifelong fear of high speeds on roads and who sit all tensed up with heart racing and fists clenched and amazingly fearful any time I am in a car on a US highway. Here in India I’m so mellow as we slither among what I still perceive to be soon-to-be deadly wreckage, it’s hilarious. I’m so calm I actually read in the car, sleep in the car, take my eyes off the road (never, ever have I done that), chat nonchalantly with M, just barely glancing up if there is a more horrific brake screech than normal. It’s something about India. It’s something about your fate being completely out of your hands, even if you just passed that lorry that was obviously a fatality of major proportions, rolled over on its side with its front completely caved in and its little shrines to Shiva all shattered. Even if you drive by what appears to be a dead body lying by the side of the road encased in a bright purple and gold body bag of sorts (well, he might have died of natural causes, eh?). Even though there are cars and trucks on four-lane highways Going The Wrong Way, Toward You. Fast. Yes, there are, sometimes. Why? Who knows, but they are, and you just deal with them. You slide by them and keep going. And here I sit in the back seat of this potential deathmobile with my dear daughter beside me, preposterously cool and at ease, and I don’t know why. I didn’t even cotton onto the fact that they drive on the left side of the road until today, to tell you the truth. India, it does something to you. Changes you.

There is no scenery on this trip, at least none you’d ever remember. The landscape is utterly devoid of anything attractive – no dwelling or building or tree or shrub or field or hillock you’d even want to glance at. There’s nothing pretty at all to see. Of course it was worse in Mumbai and Delhi, where apart from a few Colonial-era gems and a Gothic structure or two and the very occasional smart-looking house in the wealthy section most everything was rubble and mud and heaps of garbage and shacks pieced together from whatever detritus was lying around. I’d thought when we escaped the city and got out in to the country I’d see nice things. Not so. The only thing that breaks up the monotony of the flat plains dotted with occasional trees, and the roadside grime, are the motorbikes that pass by with women hanging on for dear life on the back, their brilliantly colored scarves flowing in the exhaust. Women, by the way, are excluded from the law that says that motorcycle riders have to wear helmets, and they don’t. Perhaps the explanation is deeper than the obvious one that society puts aesthetics for women before safety, but it irks me considerably, first that the law doesn’t see fit to protect them and second that they don’t see fit to protect themselves. I know, it’s never that simple, but still….

So we bump and swerve and tear along the riotous highway for a couple of hours, then pull into the parking lot of what is obviously a tourist restaurant. Obviously because it has a parking lot and a big sign and a store inside that’s selling local handicrafts and T-shirts and key chains. M and I aren’t hungry, so we just have a cold coffee, which is absolutely delicious, more like a milkshake, creamy and with hints of cardamom in it. The owner implores us to take a look at the store, and so we do, each of us coming out with a pair of camelskin, brightly embroidered Indian shoes. “Good,” says M, “now you can throw away those heinous boots of yours,” referring I guess to the old but wonderfully supple and comfortable brown leather ankle boots I had brought for hoofing around Switzerland. As it turns out, the boots do get left behind in Jaipur as my suitcase starts to fill up with things I pick up along the way.

On to Jaipur with a brief stop when we come across a huge group of Rhesus monkeys playing by the side of the road (we throw them our extra bananas and apples and they fall onto each other in a colossal simian pile, screeching, with fingers flying, way too human in a vexing way) and then again when our driver wants to point out a sandstone quarry he appears to be very proud of. It’s just like any other quarry, a massive slice out of the side of a hill, with some machinery lying around and a group of men discernible high up carting stones in wheelbarrows. It’s integral to the development of Jaipur, though, so we nod in appreciation. Then we get lost in the sprawling, fetid outskirts of Jaipur for awhile until our driver stops and asks for directions. We make a few U-turns and the driver yaks on the cell phone a few times, and then we are turning into the Jaipur Palace Hotel, which is clearly an oasis from the downtown madness. We check into room 501, which is mystifyingly on the first floor, but it’s just delightful and even has a small balcony, in case you want to look out over the surrounding residential area and be reminded that you’re a spoiled tourist.

The phone rings as soon as we enter the room, and it’s our tour guide, who says he’s downstairs. Fine, but we’d like a bite to eat first, and he says no problem. So we race to the hotel restaurant and scarf down some spicy yellow dahl and rice and a salad of cucumbers and yogurt and go back to the lobby. “Look, Mom,” says M, “it’s Anthony Bourdain!” And oh frabjous day, she’s right! Here he comes, striding with that unmistakable gait across the lobby, peeling off his shades, a half-smile on his face and a hand outstretched to greet us, a veritable Indian Anthony Bourdain. No kidding, the man is a dead ringer for Anthony, except he’s Indian. He’s got it all, the exact same frame, the silvering hair, the earring, the jeans, the loose cotton short-sleeved shirt, the sardonic smile….everything. His name is Davinda, and we get two days with him. And we’re not complaining, no sirreee!

So An…I mean Davinda…piles us into a van and we hurl ourselves into the jostle of Jaipur, “the pink city,” for a look at the old walled town and the palace. As we drive through one of the great gates of the city, Davinda begins to explain the Mughal empire and its various rulers, chief among them Sawai Jai Singh II, who founded a new capital in Jaipur (which means City of Victory) in 1727 and laid it out in a geometric grid. It seems to me the French did the same thing a few centuries earlier when they built the bastides, but I don’t mention this. We drive down the main thoroughfare in the center of the grid, and it’s clean and orderly compared to anything we’ve seen yet. There was a bombing here a few years ago, maybe longer, and Davinda tells us that his father was on the street at the time, which gave the whole family quite a scare, but he just left the café he was sitting at, with his coffee cup and newspaper and went home, returning the coffee cup to the café the next day.

The entire old city is built of red sandstone, and painted a bright salmon color with intricate lacy white designs. I wouldn’t call it pink, especially in a country where real pink is ubiquitous and decidedly a neon color, but that’s what it’s known as. At any rate, it’s gay and pleasing to the eye, finally something enjoyable to look at. Davinda takes us first to the Jantar Mantar, Jai Siingh II’s outdoor observatory of astronomical instruments. And it’s just extraordinary. It is like the exhibit of Leonardo DaVinci’s models in the Clos Lucé in Amboise, only on a massive scale, and more mathematically based, and ultra-modern looking. The man built every conceivable astronomical instrument, and they are huge: sundials, structures that locate the North Star, structures that tell what time it is in each hemisphere, and an entire field of astrological structures designed to look like each sign. Davinda says the hardest thing he had to do to learn to be a guide in Jaipur was understand the math behind Jai Singh’s structures well enough to explain it to others. He does a good job while we’re on the spot, but I certainly couldn’t reiterate it.

Next we head across the street to the City Palace, which has housed the rulers of Jaipur since the first half of the 18th century and still houses the family today. As we enter we go by a private gate that’s open, and Davinda points out a huge white SUV parked there and says it’s the current royal family’s car. M says “It really ought to be pink, don’t you think?” and Davinda rolls his eyes and laughs à la Bourdain. Inside, the palace is a wonderful combination of airy open spaces meant for public audiences and festive events ringed with closed-in private quarters on higher levels. As everywhere in India, there is always a balcony with small windows with either grillwork or tiny wooden doors that open, where the women – concubines or queens (and there were sometimes many queens, with a hierarchy among them) - could watch the goings-on below but not be seen. As you mount the steps to the area where the king held public audiences there are two enormous solid silver urns (they are in fact the world’s largest silver objects) that are simply arresting. Apparently, when Madho Singh was invited to spend three weeks in London in 1901, he faced a quandary: as ruler, he was constrained from being away from Indian soil for such an extended period of time, but it was an honor and very important to his career to make the journey, so he came up with a plan that pleased everyone. He had the urns constructed and then filled with water from the Ganges, which he pledged to bathe in every day during his journey. And so he did. He also fell in love with good Scotch while he was there, and filled the urns up with that for the return voyage. A proclivity for imbibing apparently lingers today, as the current head of the royal family is known as Bubbles: when his daughter wed a few years back, it seems his European guests brought and opened so much champagne that the entire courtyard where the wedding reception was held was awash with the bubbly.

The museum inside the palace has an eclectic and good collection of armaments (many of them purely decorative in an over-the-top bejeweled Indian style), costumes, carpets and other textiles, miniature paintings, manuscripts, and musical instruments, a testament to the arts and crafts that still thrive in the city today. At the exit are a row of shops selling typical Jaipur crafts, and an astrologer. We almost succumb to the idea of having our horoscope read, but decide against it. M says “I think it’s silly when I’m home; it isn’t any less silly here.” Valid point, I guess.

Then Davinda, almost sheepishly, tells us he’d like to take us to a textile coop, where we can see workers printing fabrics with carved blocks as well as carpet makers. We’re very leery, but agree because I’d like to see the block prints made. So we are driven to a modern building with marble steps and enormous windows filled with local handicrafts. First we see a rather half-hearted demonstration of block printing, which is interesting mainly because the workers have to use successive blocks, placed exactly on top of the original one, which forms the outline, in order to achieve the final patterns. They may use half a dozen blocks, over and over on the same spot, up and down a tablecloth- or sheet-sized piece of muslin. Then it gets dipped in some solution that sets the colors and then in warm water and dried. And then you have, among other things, your basic Indian-print bedspread that you huddled in in the mud at Woodstock. And many finer things, to be sure.

And then comes a young man with a pitted face and curly black hair and black eyes and pale skin and a decidedly cocky, abrasive air. He leads us over to a man working on a loom and launches into a rapid-fire explanation of the difficulties of making a fine carpet, and it’s just so rote, so hurried, so off-putting. I ask him about knots per inch and he waves his arm with a major dismissive air and says “Madame, anyone can talk about knots per inch, but that’s not the point. You need to listen to what I am telling you, not talk about knots per inch.” M rolls her eyes and pokes me – “Let’s go…” But the young man is forcibly pushing us to one pathetic exhibit after another, talking a blue streak the whole time. There’s the guy washing the rug in a shallow cement tub, there’s the guy cutting the rug to make it even all over the surface, there’s the girl doing the final touches, pulling out every single stray strand….and our salesman reeling off his script as he pushes us from one to the next. Then into the showroom, where despite the fact we say we have already bought a rug, which brings a sneer to his face, and refuse tea or soft drink, he starts to bring rugs out helter-skelter and throw them on the floor. I refuse to sit down, and so does M. We just stand there, repeating sorry, we bought a rug yesterday and we have no intention of buying another. The young man becomes almost combative, intimating that we probably got royally ripped off because we don’t understand the complexity of making a good rug, and throwing smaller and smaller rugs down, his voice becoming louder and shriller all the time. When he’s finally thrown down the absolutely smallest rug he has, and just a wool one at that – no silk or yak wool or anything unusual or expensive – I ask him the price. And he gets out a calculator and punches buttons and shows me an astronomical price and then immediately says “But for you, Madame, 20 percent off.” Which is still so ridiculous I just laugh. Which of course sets him off. His face contorts and he’s breathing hard, but M and I just walk by him and leave him sputtering. He runs after us, but we’re out the door flinging cheery “Bye bye” s at him all the way to the car. Davinda is right behind us, chuckling, and we all roar off in our getaway car having a good guffaw. I think of the clove-eyed young man who sold me a rug yesterday and think I got very lucky.

So M asks Davinda if he’ll take us to the bazaar, where normal people buy things, and she wants a real Indian coffee, too. And Davinda beams and seems relieved we want to get out on the “real” streets, though I suspect he forfeited a commission by traveling with us obstreperous, uncooperative tourists who don’t want to be bullied. And he takes us right to the heart of the everyday bazaar and gets out and shakes hands with the owner of a café and orders coffees for us all. He points out a textile store and a jewelry store, side by side, which will satisfy any shopping urges both M and I have at the moment. And it does. We negotiate over pillow cases and silk shirts and scarves and pantaloons and tablecloths and bedspreads and ask for a volume discount and ask for a best and final price and pout and say, well, maybe we don’t need this item after all, and play as many haggling games as we know, and end up with a bag of treasures for which we’ve paid what to us is an excellent price. Then we sit outside on plastic chairs and drink sweet cardamom-flavored milky coffee with Davinda, and M goes into the jewelry store and negotiates all by herself for two pairs of lovely silver earrings and comes out beaming. This is SO much more what we enjoy than being herded to a predetermined shop and treated to a guilt trip. Davinda takes pictures of us sitting at this skuzzy little café surrounded by local Indian men (M is a stare magnet – we can’t go anywhere without attracting a crowd), we are being peppered with questions about where we come from and why we’re here, we’re on the street with the regular folk, we’re in our travel element.

Davinda takes us back to the hotel and says he’ll pick us up at 7 am tomorrow, for we have an elephant ride ahead of us and must get there early, ahead of the crowds. M and I repair to our room and briefly discuss going out to find a restaurant before looking at each other and simultaneously saying “room service.” I don’t know if we’ll ever get out of this pattern, but we don’t know our way around Jaipur, we’re in a weird neighborhood that doesn’t have many restaurants and, perhaps more important, doesn’t have many street lights outside the hotel itself, and frankly, we just want to put on our pajamas and chatter and eat and go to bed.

So we have a nice girly evening. M goes through my suitcase and picks out all the clothes she wants to take back to the ship with her, which is most of the clothing I’ve brought, but that’s ok, because I’m going to need room for the things I’ll buy, and have bought, in India, and M is already phenomenally tired of the clothing she brought onboard the ship two months ago. M orders dinner: sweet corn soup, mutton korma with basmati rice, mixed raita, and garlic naan. Fosters for her and an Indian cabernet for me, which is surprisingly palatable. I show her my feeble attempts to eat exclusively with my right hand and she says “No, Mom, you can get it ready with your left, but only the right can stick it in your mouth. It’s really hardest when you have to roll one thing up inside another…Watch…” And she deftly tears a piece of naan and scoops some korma into it, all with her right hand, and pops it in her mouth. I try and make a predictable mess out of it. M says she practiced on the ship for a week before landing in India. I say I’m not convinced it’s a big deal. M says if it were a French custom, I’d be on it in a second; I should have the same respect when in India. Hmmmmm….she knows me well…

M washes her incredibly long, thick hair and tells me someone told her today she had “Indian blonde hair,” which he explained by saying most Western women had short hair, but M’s was long and thick, just a different color. We experiment and put some jasmine oil in it, to see if we can get that Indian sheen, but it’s hard to tell when it’s wet, and she just smells up the room with jasmine fragrance. We talk about Wall Street and the elections, and she tells me all about her Semester at Sea courses, the good ones and the silly ones, and how three years at Berkeley have left her feeling as though she could handle just about anything, particularly writing. It’s so heartwarmingly fulfilling to be here with her, in this crazy place so far away, and the best thing about it is that it just feels perfectly normal, even though it’s so very far outside either of our normal spheres. I am so grateful I have had the chance to bring my children up as citizens of the world, so pleased to see them poring over maps, speaking in foreign tongues, navigating foreign lands without fear or prejudice, dealing with unknown and sometimes difficult situations with aplomb and resourcefulness and even humor. And lord, it’s just so much FUN to be around her grown-up self!

I need to check work email before bed, so I plug in my universal adapter and immediately blow the lights out on our entire floor, which is actually, as far as I can tell, the equivalent of five floors, since all the rooms beginning with 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5 seem to be located on this level. By the time I get to the front desk there are multiple hotel guests there wondering why they have no electricity. Beats me!! I stand in line and wait my turn to report the same, and by the time I get to the desk, ready to confess, a woman behind the counter announces that the problem has been fixed. So I meekly ask if they have an adapter, and they give me one that actually works without leaving guests or me in the dark. Work…it seems so incredibly distant, both in space and in mind, but I have to deal with it daily for at least a couple of hours, which takes enormous mental effort, but is the price I pay for being able to travel as I do, so I suck it up and burrow into it. M dries her hair and reads, and I catch up on work, and then we retire at 11, ready for elephants and Agra.

M has always, always, had the last word before sleep when we have shared hotel rooms in our travels, and we have shared many. I don’t know what it is that compels her, but I can think of a hundred or more nights in foreign places where we have bedded down together and M just piped up at the last moment before we sank into dreamland and had something to say. I guess she likes to have the last word. Tonight, as we burrow into our duvets, I hear from across the room “He’s better looking than Anthony, you know…..”