One Day in Mumbai

When you only have half a day in Mumbai, what do you do with it? Aaron and I weren't sure how to answer that question, as it seemed like no matter what we chose, we would be missing out on so much. You can live in a huge city for months, or years, and not experience everything you would like to, so how can you really get anything out of half a day? We were determined to try.

Although we had enjoyed the hotel's breakfast buffet the previous morning, our second breakfast in India consisted of Aldi toaster pastries, canned chicken, and raisins. It was cheap, fast, easy, and there was less of a chance we would be paying for it later in the form of traveler's diarrhea, which would have been even more unpleasant to deal with while walking around the city.

We repeated the previous day's going-out routine: slathering on sunscreen and mosquito repellent, wearing long sleeves and pants, brushing our teeth with bottled water. Since the hotel provided free bottled water, we each loaded Aaron's backpack with a few big bottles, as well as some snacks. We packed everything else, checked our luggage at the bell desk, and checked out of our room so that we could walk around the city without having to worry about coming back before the checkout time. Our plan was to meet Rob in the lobby around 2:00 so we could take a taxi to the airport together, with plenty of time to eat at the airport before catching our flight to Hyderabad.

With one tripod, both camera bodies and all of our lenses, we headed out of the hotel alone for the first time. It was a little overwhelming to have the freedom to wander where we wished, but it was also overwhelming because we felt very exposed. I had learned the previous day that no matter where I was, people would stare at me. I'm not comfortable being an object of curiosity, so I tended to make eye contact and smile a lot. It disarmed people, and made me feel less nervous about being in India (it turned into a game later in Hyderabad).

I knew I was staring at people, though. Everything was absolutely fascinating to me, from the way people dressed to the way they spoke down to the way they walked and interacted with each other. People were reserved, modest, yet very affectionate. It felt like everyone regarded the people near them as family in the larger sense. The people were absolutely beautiful to me, and not just in terms of physical appearance: they radiated this sense of good, even though we were obviously strangers.

We walked around the barricade and plaza surrounding the Gateway, where there were quite a few items for sale.

This was a common sight: men selling chai from a thermos, poured into tiny paper cups.

Several people sold fresh fruit and vegetables. To the right of the chai man, there was a guy selling plastic packs of strawberries that smelled amazing. This kid sold peeled cucumbers, using the leaves and a bowl of water to keep them cool.

The balloon vendors were relatively aggressive, and they were everywhere. The smell of the latex was a little overwhelming at times. And what would you do with these? The only think I can think of of is hit people with them.

This guy roasted peanuts, dispensing them in rolled paper cones. Some vendors had trays balanced on their heads.




















There was a line of waiting taxis, with drivers ready to take tourists on city tours. We kept using the excuse that we were leaving in a few hours and didn't have time, which was unfortunately true. It was important to us that we saw some of the city, but we couldn't risk getting into a cab with someone who may not understand that we needed to get back to the hotel at a certain time so we could meet Rob and catch our flight to Hyderabad. I've only taken taxis in big cities a few times, and it was usually to get to/from an airport, and those rides showed me that not only is it hard to see a city from a taxi window, it's also nearly impossible to have an accurate sense of how long it will take.

So we just started walking down a street until we found a huge intersection. Aaron set up his tripod to take video, and I took photos of anything passing by. It might be weird, but watching traffic was one of the most enjoyable parts of being in India, because everything about it was different from home.

For at least an hour, we set up shop at this intersection. There were quite a few corners, and a median with a statue from which we had a good view of multiple angles of the roundabout. Oh, how I wanted to go to that art museum! The nerd in me groaned at the idea of being so close to it but not being able to go.

 

And look at that architecture!

I was fascinated by the flow of traffic: how every vehicle and pedestrian occupied his or her own space, and all of it flowed in one controlled motion, seemingly choreographed. It was like nothing I had ever seen before. The traffic in Rome is the closest analogue, but the Italians whizzing by on motorini were somehow more insistent. Staccato. Frenzied. A bit reckless. Indians exhibited what I think of as "traffic trust," knowing everyone would get where they were trying to go eventually, and that cooperation would help them along.

When the lights changed, it was exhilarating to watch everyone move, and navigate the laneless intersections without colliding. The key is the way Indian drivers use their horns more than their mirrors and turn signals combined. And yes, those cars are coming right at me. I was on the very edge of the sidewalk, crouched low and shaking a little in anticipation.

I loved how open and friendly people were--especially the young. Our equipment was a way into a conversation, and we tried to be as polite as possible because we felt like these people were giving us the gift of a tiny slice of their lives, captured digitally.

These kids were great. The one in the middle was obviously the leader in the situation, and he asked to have us take their pictures with our cameras and with their cell phones. But even truck, bus, and cab drivers waved or even stopped for us.

And these boys were heartbreakingly adorable. They kept stopping in the street because they wanted us to take their pictures so badly.

And as they walked away, you can see how much they cared for each other, helping each other cross at least four lanes of traffic, not at a crosswalk, to get to the center of the roundabout and on with their day. (I really, really love that lens for portraits. So nice.)

I loved taking pictures of everyone who would let us, but at times, it felt exploitative. Sure, I wanted to document our trip, and be able to show my family and friends what we had done and seen while in India, but I didn't want to feel like I was taking advantage of the people whose photos I was taking. By composing the shots, choosing what to show and what to ignore, I was passing a sort of judgment on them--however much I didn't want to do that, it was unavoidable.

Then two men stopped my heart dead in my chest. They were lugging a cart with huge water barrels. They were drenched with sweat. They were doing more work than seemed humanly possible. And the second man was not only drenched in sweat--he was missing an arm.

I felt so incredibly conflicted. Do I take the photo? How could I not take the photo? Would they feel like I was robbing them of their dignity? Did I need to explain to them that by taking the photos, I was trying to capture life in Mumbai just as it was that January day?

The man at the front of the cart answered my questions for me when he stopped, smiled, and then posed for me. He wanted his picture taken. I still felt incredibly conflicted, but also so grateful to him.

I thanked them several times, and they went on their way.

We were continually amazed at how people were able to move large quantities of goods on vehicles seemingly too small for the tasks at hand, or with far fewer people than simple physics should necessitate. By the time we saw two men carrying a full-grown goat between them on a motorcycle in Hyderabad, we were almost used to it.

Every man I saw reminded me of my dad's work ethic, and his penchant for "build your own" trailers. He'd do fine in India.

After seeing this, how can I honestly say I have ever worked a day in my life? I know it's all relative, but I felt sick inside at just how hard people worked, and here I was, taking pictures on a street corner. I was being paid to take those pictures. I was "working."

We eventually moved from the roundabout down a side street.Though we could have easily asked for directions, we didn't want to get too far from the hotel because we didn't know where we would be "safe." We weren't too concerned for our safety, to be honest--it was more an issue of being able to keep track of each other and our equipment, since we still had a lot of shooting to do in Hyderabad and we absolutely could not afford to lose a camera, a bag, a tripod, or anything else.

The side street we chose was home to the Leopold Cafe, which was popular with tourists but also among the sites attacked by terrorists in 2008. This street also had some rather aggressive vendors, one of whom followed me for a block and a half in the hopes that I would buy a book of his postcards because I showed the slightest amount of interest. I did end up bargaining for a refrigerator magnet depicting the Taj and Gateway of India. Although the picture on the magnet is incorrect, I think it adds to the charm. What do you expect for 50 rupees?

I have a sensitive nose as it is, and India allowed me to play Toucan Sam's "Follow Your Nose" game like a professional. Delicious food smells came out of nowhere, carried from open doorways and windows or from atop the heads of street vendors.

Samosa Man! I wanted to follow him down the block. Imagine a cartoon-like white tendril of delicious aroma beckoning to me with come-hither fingers, and me following him down the street, balanced and moving forward on my rapidly-tapping toes, eyes closed in sheer ecstasy at each whiff. Yes. That's what it was like. It smelled so good.




We kept walking, stopping to take photos and look at wares arranged on tables. Eventually, we turned left again, back towards the Taj. I didn't really want to go back, so I dawdled, taking Aaron down side streets and stopping as often as possible, despite my growling stomach and aching feet. There was so much more to see.

And that's when I met Ganesh. While Aaron was taking photos, I ended up in the center of the street with two teenage boys. We started a conversation about why we were in India, and why we were taking pictures. Then Ganesh showed me just how ugly tourists are: he offered to show me the slums, just like in Slumdog Millionaire, which is apparently what all the white tourists want to see when they visit Mumbai. It made me so angry and uncomfortable that that's what tourists expect, and ask for--to take a taxi to the slums and then go back to their expensive hotels where they can wash away all traces of the lives they have just exploited.

 I didn't say this to Ganesh. I thanked him but politely declined, explaining that we would be leaving Mumbai later that day and were happy to walk around a little on our own, to see what we could. We were less than a block from the Taj, so he may have figured we were staying there (and thus had money).

Then he asked me to buy him some rice from a nearby stand. I am not a hard-hearted person, and I honestly wanted to buy him that rice. I could afford it. I could have bought rice for everyone standing on that street for the cost of a dinner for two at Denny's back home. I struggled to say no to him, explaining that if I bought it for him and his friend, I would want to buy it for everyone, and I couldn't do that because my husband would be angry with me. I felt like an absolute moron, and I struggled not to cry in front of him, because I felt that guilty. How do you say now to a soft-spoken, polite boy who speaks impeccable English and is blind in one eye? How do you say no to a boy who, truthfully or not, calls himself Ganesh, and whose namesake is the Remover of Obstacles?

When it was clear that I wasn't going to buy them food, Ganesh and his friend walked away. I felt terrible, until I saw Ganesh pull a wad of bills out of his back pocket and buy himself some rice. Not that it means he couldn't have used some help.

On that side street, we photographed a man I later dubbed the only sour man in all of Mumbai:

 I didn't try to smile at him.













The rest of that street, however, was so pleasant. It felt like a microcosm for what India was for us.

The shabby but pleasant.

The constant motion and endless urban growth. The city was so completely alive.

 

And the juxtapositions of delicate, beautiful, expensive things with the old, gritty, rough realities of Mumbai.

There was a dead rat on the sidewalk directly below the dress on the right. It was like what a pretentious art student would assemble to make a statement, except it was just there.

Outside the hotel, I managed to buy a book of postcards from a vendor. I was glad I did, because I didn't have much of a chance to buy them in Hyderabad. (Now, I promise, I did write all 12 postcards--I just have no idea if they were actually sent, because I was unable to buy stamps in Hyderabad and had to leave them with the man who took us to the airport to fly back home.)

I wish I had another word to describe how I felt about going back to the Taj, but conflicted is the one that remains lodged in my brain. I welcomed the air conditioned lobby, the comfortable couches, the privacy of our 4th floor room. I was happy to be able to wash my face and breathe clean air (when I blew my nose, my snot was black.) I also felt extremely ashamed at my behavior: for having taken photographs, for having bargained for already inexpensive souvenirs, for having denied beggars, for having said no to Ganesh.

While we waited for Rob in the lobby, I couldn't sit still. I walked around the hotel a bit, looking around at the pool, the shops, the restaurants. I stood in front of the window of a jewelry shop, looking at earrings and necklaces I certainly couldn't afford. The price tags were tactfully turned facedown. There was a store that sold nothing but pashmina scarves; another with silk ties. I lingered too long in front of yet another jewelry store, causing the proprietor to get up from his stool and abandon his newspaper to approach the door. I was in the hotel, I was white, so that meant I had money to spend on luxury goods. Obviously. The assumptions hurt, and were ill-fitting. Seeing my tired face reflected back at me, studded with the glitter of gemstones in the shape of peacocks and elephants, I couldn't tell if I belonged inside the hotel or outside of it.

Home Sweet Hotel

After our trip to Elephanta Island, we had a small chunk of free time to do with what we wished. As excited as we were to see Mumbai, we were even more excited to get better acquainted with our expensive hotel room. While Biplab headed out to a phone store to get help with repairing the damage from the puddle encounter and Rob walked around Mumbai to get souvenirs, we dragged ourselves into the elevator and instantly slumped against the walls.

While we were gone, the bed had been made and dressed up with throw pillows:

Somehow, this is one of the only pictures we managed to take of our hotel room. I guess we were too busy thinking about video production to bother documenting what the room was like. I promptly messed up the bed by collapsing, fully clothed, into the center of it. Aaron downloaded pictures and footage from the cameras onto his laptop and made the first of his video-diary entries (which he did not manage to keep up with over the course of the trip because by the end of each day we were just too tired). We were supposed to have about 45 minutes, so it wasn't long enough to take a real nap and feel rested.

For as upscale as the hotel is, our room was relatively plain. It was nice. It was clean. But, for the most part, the room wasn't overly spectacular, for which I was grateful. I always feel uncomfortable in fancy places, like I'm underdressed, outclassed, and clearly an outsider who will be commanded to leave once someone in power notices I'm there. Thankfully, our room didn't make me feel this way because we were staying in the Tower wing rather than the Palace wing. Our main indulgence was that we had a sea-view room rather than a city-view room.

No joke, this hotel is a fancy-pants place for rich tourists, politicians, celebrities, royalty, and anyone else who expects luxury. The Obamas stayed here. Oprah stayed here. John Lennon stayed here. And I understand why they stayed at the Taj, how if you're going to stay in Mumbai, this hotel is unquestionably the place to stay.

But the whole time we were there, I felt very conflicted about staying in such a lavish hotel. I didn't fully belong there, but I also didn't really want to belong there. I won't deny that I've been fortunate in my life, and have benefited from a position of privilege (especially concerning race, educational opportunities, and employment). I'd like to think, however, that even with my inborn and acquired privilege, I have managed not to take it completely for granted or devolve into an entitled, ungrateful wench (well, I hope so, anyway). I'm not great at being grateful, but I try.

That first day, I was grateful for the quiet of our room. Clean sheets. Bottled water. Privacy, if I thought I wanted or needed it. Distance--not only from the restless clamor of the city, but also from my life back home, from everything familiar, from the petty things I think about on a day to day basis. I was also grateful that I was having this experience at all, and that I was lucky enough to be sharing it with Aaron.

Physiological needs did make themselves more apparent in India, though, and we both realized that it had been almost 12 hours since our last real meal (we had eaten trail mix bars sometime between the Gateway and the rooftop shoots). We were supposed to have dinner with Rob and Biplab when they returned from their shopping. We went back to the lobby to wait for them. And we waited. One hour passed, then two. Ordinarily, this is the kind of situation we would have been peeved about back home. Feeling very hungry and sleep deprived, and then having to wait longer than expected for other people to show up so we could finally eat? Somehow, the situation didn't really even matter to us. We felt the hunger, we felt tired, but we also were content to have a comfortable place to sit.

Rob came through the revolving doors, without Biplab, explaining that the damaged phone was proving more difficult to fix than anticipated. In fact, the phone was currently in pieces at a nearby shop, being meticulously dried and inspected, so Biplab had said for us to go ahead without him. We asked the front desk for a recommendation regarding the restaurants in the hotel, specifying that we were looking for options other than Indian food (Rob's stipulation) and that it couldn't be too expensive or formal (a concern for all of us). We were told to go to the Sea Lounge, one of the casual-dining restaurants that serves high tea and some American/European food.

I wanted to experience everything I could while in India. But after the long day we had, I didn't feel too guilty ordering a safe, boring chicken BLT burger and fries. Aaron and Rob both ordered fish and chips. We sat in a quiet, air conditioned restaurant staffed by impeccably uniformed wait staff. We were three Americans waiting for a friend to join us. We could have been anywhere in the world, really.

Biplab couldn't stay for dinner because he planned to stay at his sister's home that night, and it was a two-hour ride from our hotel, even though it was somewhere in Mumbai. I had the terrible realization that this would quite possibly be the last time I would see Biplab in person. We had only known him for a day, but it had been so much less stressful and also enlightening because he was so knowledgeable, articulate, and open to answering all of my questions about India.

By the time our food arrived, Biplab had left and I was practically slapping myself to stay awake so as to avoid one of those embarassing "I literally fell asleep face-down in my plate of food" moments we've all had as small children (and most of our parents have the pictures to prove it). Rob told us he planned to go back to Elephanta Island so he could visit the caves; we decided that we'd spend the day walking around Mumbai, since this would be our only chance to see any of the city before flying to Hyderabad in the evening.

I was also ready to get closer to India itself: to see the traffic, talk to strangers, see what we could. I needed to get out of the hotel and walk down the street because I needed some grit--I didn't want to remember Mumbai just as it was inside the Taj because that isn't the Mumbai most Indians see or experience. I needed to feel more than just safe and comfortable. I knew India would teach me about wealth, privilege, class, race, culture, and power. It was up to me not to flinch.

Production: Day 1

Our first full day in India was also our only full day in Mumbai. It was also our only chance to complete all of the shooting with our celebrity host, Biplab. I'm not being cheeky when I call him a celebrity--he's famous in India. And if you can achieve fame in a country with over a billion people, you must be a stand-out guy (which he is).

Once we finished breakfast, we went back to our room to gather our production equipment. Remember, we were going for minimalist-professional here:

• Two cameras
• Three lenses
• Filters
• A tripod
• iPad
• Microphone
• Audio recorder
• XLR cable
• Headphones 
• Shot list

My job would be to operate the iPad slate/clapper and prompter apps, record audio, take stills, and do anything else Aaron asked me to do; Aaron was in charge of composing shots, shooting the video, monitoring the audio and video results, directing, and otherwise making sure things went as planned.

We met Rob and Biplab in the lobby, then headed out past the security checkpoint to our first daylight encounter with Mumbai. Leaving the hotel is much easier than getting in, but during the day it is more apparent just how seriously they take security at the Taj, because there were at least 12 security guards, bellmen, and other hotel employees stationed outside the building to watch foot and vehicle traffic. Unlike the security personnel we'd encountered at the various airports along the way, these men made eye contact and greeted us, which puts people at ease rather than making them feel like criminals. It also reminded me that while we were safe in the hotel, anything could happen on the streets. It's not that we expected anything bad to happen, we just had to keep in  mind that we needed to look out for ourselves.

The street outside the hotel isn't a busy one, but there was still quite a bit of noise: car horns, horse-drawn carriages (very touristy and all parked near the Taj), vendors selling various types of food and souvenirs, the rasp of brooms from the sanitation workers in the square, pigeons, boats in the harbor. We had expected that it would be hot (the forecast was for 80-90 degrees every day), but since it wasn't humid and there was a slight breeze, the weather was quite comfortable.

Because of changes to security after the terrorist attacks in Mumbai, the entire square around the Gateway of India is fenced in with metal barricades. The single entrance, which is on the opposite side of the square from the Taj, is guarded by military/police personnel, and there are separate lines for men and women. We walked along the sidewalk outside the square through an assortment of beggars, vendors, tourists, and taxi drivers ready to snare people for tours of the slums.

We walked into the middle of the square, with the Gateway directly behind Biplab, and began setting up. A non-uniformed man immediately approached us, telling us that the tripod wasn't allowed. We explained that we absolutely needed it, so Biplab began negotiating on our behalf in Hindi. The conversation was just long enough for us to finish setting up the equipment, but we felt rushed and not fully prepared. It was a little frustrating, but in the moment we knew we would have to work quickly to get all of the shots we needed. Biplab turned to us, informing us we had 10-15 minutes before we'd have to pack it up. The man hovered nearby.

We made the most of our limited time, attempting to get as many good takes as possible before were were forced to shut it down. Biplab's professionalism went a long way in making the shoot go well, because he was as concerned with the quality as we were.

The "Candid Professional" Look

After finishing that part of the shoot, we wandered the plaza to take pictures and look around.

 If you're a Westerner and like yoga and/or Hinduism, it is in part due to this man, Swami Vivekananda.

Statue of Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj, founder of the Maratha empire and an important figure in the promotion of Hinduism.

Our equipment often earned us some curious glances; at times, people would stand behind me or Aaron to look at the LCD screen on the camera to see what we were shooting--especially when it was video. Sometimes, we'd look up and they'd instantly look away. We'd often invite people to come closer, to get a better look. People were genuinely curious but also very friendly.

Not a Green Screen!

There was a large group of pigeons in the corner of the plaza, and we took turns getting near them. Despite my utter loathing for pigeons (I had some bad pigeon experiences in Rome and Venice), I posed for a few shots. I also tried to chase them. I tried to catch them. I failed.

After we finished this part of the shoot, we went back to our rooms so Biplab could change his clothes and we could save our footage. I had been carrying around the lock from one of our suitcases in my pocket, and had somehow managed to change the combination. I didn't know that when I put it back on Aaron's suitcase, but he soon found out when he tried to get out the laptop.

 "1...2...3...4...5? That's the stupidest combination I've ever heard in my life! That's the kind of thing an idiot would have on his luggage!

Don't worry, it only took him about 20 minutes to get into it. Sorry, Aaron!

Another part of the shoot involved renting a tourist ferry so we could film the host segments with the Taj and Gateway of India in the background. Rob and Biplab handled booking the boat, working with a friendly guy in a peach silk shirt. We worked it out so we would have about an hour on the water, and we were able to tell the pilot exactly where to "park" for the ideal shots.

The boat shoot proved challenging, in that we had to compensate for both noise and motion. Every once in awhile, a helicopter would fly overhead; we also had the sounds of boat motors. In two instances, we had to wait for a motley crew team in a barely-seaworthy boat to row by, complete with shouted commands and chanting. The ferry boats to Elephanta Island and other large boats produced wakes that made it difficult to stand. Since the Maharashtra State Police Headquarters are located to the right of the Gateway, we had to be careful not to shoot in that direction both in the plaza and on the boat.

The final part of our shoot took place on the roof of the Taj (well, on top of the lobby, actually). Rob and Biplab wrangled us special permission with the PR department of the hotel, and they let us set up in an outdoor banquet area with a great view of the Gateway.

All in all, it was a good first day of shooting. We were given permission to do things that we probably shouldn't have been allowed to do. I suspect Biplab's negotiation skills were a contributing factor in all that.

The day wasn't over, though--we still had some shooting to do on Elephanta Island. That part didn't work out quite so well, but it was one of the only touristy things we were able to do while in Mumbai, so it will get its own post.

The Second Longest Day of Our Lives

The title is a bit of a lie, since these events technically occurred over the course of two days (or three, depending on how you interpret time relative to time zones and traveling). But it wasn't the longest day of our lives--that would come at the end of our trip.

I gave up on making this a short post about three paragraphs in, so forgive me. I'm trying to overwhelm you.

The day of our trip to India began at 6 am (Central time) on January 14, and was unlike any other for a lot of reasons--not least of which being that we woke up in the living room. We had spent the previous day packing our suitcases but also moving all of our bedroom furniture into the living room so that our landlord's handyman could rip out the carpet and put in laminate while we were gone. A good idea in theory, but so inconvenient on top of trying to take care of everything for our trip.

We double-checked our luggage and hand baggage against our mental and actual lists, and weighed it to be sure we wouldn't go over the limits. We packed the worst of our underthings (t-shirts, socks, underpants, etc.) so that we could throw it away before our return trip (and make room for souvenirs and gifts!). All told, both of our checked bags were just under the weight limit, and we each carried a change of clothes, basic toiletries, most of our equipment, and other essentials in our hand baggage--and fervently hoped our suitcases would make it to Mumbai when we did.

Thanks to Aaron's mild paranoia, we got to the airport at least four hours before our flight was scheduled to depart, which meant we had a lot of time to kill. Going through security took a total of eight minutes, and then we were free to wander the terminal. We hadn't eaten breakfast, and it was nearly lunchtime, so we bought large, overpriced but delicious sandwiches and made cards for Airport Bingo. The concept of the game is simple, in that it takes people watching to the competitive level: you make a long list of visible characteristics you think you may see wandering around the terminal, and randomly select enough to fill the squares of your bingo card. Then you wait, watch, and mark your card, which requires confirmation from your competitor that you saw an adequate representation of the trait. Some of our favorites were Cop Mustache, Double Baby Stroller, and Snook-a-like (we didn't end up seeing the last one, though).

As if we didn't have enough entertainment to pass the time, one of the other passengers on our flight was a middle-aged businessman who had been at some kind of conference in St. Louis with a bunch of amateur musicians. He greeted half the people walking by our gate, saying all kinds of wildly enthusiastic things ("Have fun!" and "You were amazing yesterday!" and "Hope your wife doesn't find out!") and playing his guitar. It was at once obnoxious and hilarious.

The flight to Detroit was quick and uneventful. As soon as we got off the plane, we made our way to our next departure gate, where a crowd was already waiting. We met up with Rob here. Looking around the gate area, I noticed that there would be a few babies on our flight, which made me nervous. I've been on a flight with screaming babies before, and it wasn't something I was hoping to repeat.

But that's exactly what happened: a family of four, with a 2-year-old and a 5-year-old, settled into the row of seats in front of ours on the plane. I hoped that the youngest child would sleep at least part of the flight so that we could also rest. If it got really bad, I thought my earplugs would be enough to block the noise.

Unfortunately, the baby hated flying and erupted in wailing, shrieking fits that lasted upwards of 45 minutes and were spaced throughout the duration of the flight. I felt (a little) sorry for her parents, who kept shoving her back and forth across the aisle to each other, but they seemed more bored than concerned. We ended up dozing between the blood-curdling wails, watching movies on the in-flight screens (although they didn't work consistently) and playing games on the iPad, getting only a few hours of sleep total.

When we landed in Amsterdam (around 8:30 am local time), we had about 2 1/2 hours before our next flight left. Rob had warned us to get to the gate early, however, because there would be another security screening. We took turns visiting the restrooms (one of my top ten most enjoyable experiences brushing my teeth and washing my face) and then wandered a little. It was disorienting to have people moving so fast around us when we were so exhausted. There's a deli/cheese shop there, so we drooled over huge hunks of Dutch cheese (and they had samples!).

But soon enough we were back in line, waiting to be gently interrogated by Dutch security. Not only did we have a bit of trouble understanding the questions through thickly accented English, the guards also failed to give clear instructions. It's unnerving to be expected to behave a certain way, and not look suspicious, when a stranger in uniform is staring at you expectantly, or not paying any attention to you and speaking rapid-fire Dutch to a coworker. Maybe it was just exhaustion, but I couldn't really appreciate the screeners' sense of humor when he smashed my bag against the conveyor belt with a meaty palm and said "Hold it right there!" when I tried to take it. I immediately took my hands off my bag and apologized profusely, and he said something to the effect of just kidding. Yeah, thanks for making me feel like a criminal. A man in front of us had been interrogated about his cuckoo clock, and he told us the guard kept saying "You have a glock? A GLOCK?" Not funny.

Since the flight to Mumbai was going to be over nine hours long, we were hoping to make up for some lost sleep. But guess who was in the row directly behind us? The father gave me a wimpy smile and said "Hello, again!" and I immediately offered him some gum for his child. It turned out that the little one was less of a problem than her older brother, who kicked my seat (approximately) every six seconds. I'd get comfortable, adjusting the flat pillow and thin blanket the airline provides, when I'd feel a jab in my kidneys, a poke to my spine, or a thump under my butt. He was quiet, but he was an omnipresent irritation nonetheless. The baby limited her screaming to take-off, landing, and a few select moments of especially bad turbulence.

Because it was a daytime flight, it was too bright to look out the window--and it was cloudy most of the way, anyway. Things cleared up a little over Turkey, and we watched the sun set over Iran and Pakistan:

As we started our descent, we were absolutely floored by the expanse of lights below us. This wasn't just a big city--this was a huge, gigantic, monstrous city with 20.5 million people. Neither of us has been to NYC (8.1 million in the city, 18.9 in the metropolitan area); I visited LA when I was a kid (a measly 3.8 million in the city, 12.8 million in the metropolitan area); I lived in Rome for 4 1/2 months (2.7 million) and visited London (between 7.8 and 8.2 million). Meanwhile, our current city of residence has 17,460 people. Our hometown has 1,314 people (most of whom know my parents) and two traffic lights. This was beyond anything we had ever experienced.

When we disembarked around 10:30 pm local time (January 15) and made our way down the escalators so we could go through Immigration, my senses seized on the smell of the building: it was almost exactly like Faner Hall in the summertime. A combination of damp concrete, mold, dust, old books, and some faint food smells. The Mumbai airport was slightly more pleasant to look at, though.

We were herded into a winding line that fanned out to about 50 booths, each with a number on the floor in front of it. A guard told us what number to stand on and when to do it. Guards took each person's passport, looked at the VISA, and took a picture of the passenger, all without saying a word. It was hard to know if it was okay to leave, especially since there was no eye contact. I asked the guard when I could leave, and he didn't answer me; he moved his head a tiny bit, though, which I interpreted as permission.

We had already learned that lines, order, and following instructions were not of the highest priority to Indians while still on the plane, especially at that moment when you think it's okay to unbuckle your seatbelt, but the flight attendants tell you differently. Indian passengers, however, not only unbuckled their seatbelts but also stood up, reaching for overhead bins, before flight attendants tried to bark them back into their seats (and to little effect). Claiming our baggage marked our real entrance into India, though, as we intimately experienced some of the cultural differences between Americans and Indians.

I tend to think of Americans in a crowd as loud, obnoxious, self-entitled jerks with no regard to their surroundings. They push, shove, elbow, and stomp on anything in their way. They talk on cell phones at top volume. They feel they should never have to wait for anything, and that waiting even one second longer than the guy/gal next to them is a personal affront worthy of a tantrum. Obviously, I'm conflating the worst possible traits into a horrible stereotype of how a typical American acts, but you can also probably think of multiple instances of such behaviors en masse. We usually adhere to lines, though.

Indians, while not overtly rude, pushy, or obnoxious, exert an undeniable force. They go for it--whatever it is--but do so in such a way that they weave amongst large crowds the way water flows around pillars. There was a wall of people standing four-deep around every inch of the baggage carousel, but it wasn't about throwing elbows. People just got into position, got their bags, and got out.

I let Aaron take the lead on this, since our bags were a bit too heavy for me to easily lift off the belt, and I waited about 15 feet back, just outside of the crowd. I smiled a lot. I moved out of the way for people with baggage carts, some stacked with six or eight huge suitcases. I moved for wheelchairs. I moved for the elderly. At one point, the loudspeaker announced that our bags would be unloaded onto a different belt, so Aaron waited at one while I watched the other. And we waited.

We don't know at what point Rob collected his baggage, but enough time had passed for him to believe that we had already left the airport, so he rented a cab and went to the hotel without us. Meanwhile, we were still waiting, and the number of people (and the quantity of luggage) decreased. Our flight was taken off the display screen. A new arrival was added, and its bags were unloaded. And then a second flight was listed on the board. And still we waited. My bag came, but not Aaron's. We weren't the only ones still waiting, and suddenly there was a commotion near an office along the back wall where bags were apparently inspected before being loaded onto the conveyor. After several other people from our flight collected their bags, Aaron's bag finally showed up--literally the last bag from our flight.

We had no idea what time it was, and we didn't see Rob anywhere, so we proceeded through another security checkpoint and started walking down a hallway that would take us outside. There was a currency exchange, a set of double doors with another security checkpoint, two prepaid taxi booking counters, and one final doorway before the outside world. Aaron took a little over half of our cash and exchanged it for rupees, coming back with a wad of different sized bills. We had 5,700 rupees but Aaron hadn't paid attention to the exchange rate and I was in no state to perform mental math.

We debated getting a prepaid taxi, but then we thought maybe Rob would be waiting outside for us (or that maybe a ride had been arranged for us). The last doorway, leading to a covered courtyard, was guarded by men in military uniforms, armed with large rifles. It was the point of no return. I was trying desperately to hold it together, but my exhaustion and fear were catching up with me, as well as some animal-emotion at the idea of being alone in a gigantic city with no way to contact the only person we knew. It felt like anger, panic, frustration, but it was also colored by something else I had only felt one other time in my life, when I wrecked my parents' car. It felt like the full weight of that SUV hitting me, but played inside my body as an endless tape loop.

Stepping out into the courtyard, I felt Mumbai hit me for real: a solid wall of sounds and smells. My senses tried sorting and classifying them, but it was like my brain and body weren't fast enough. In the center of the noise was a babble of hundreds of voices, coming from the people assembled around the fence enclosing the courtyard. We scanned the crowd for Rob, or for our names on one of the hundreds of signs held by the assembled drivers, but there was nothing for us. There was also a steady cacophony of car horns. It wasn't just an intermittent beep here and there; it was a non-stop succession of jabs and shrieks. At the same time I heard all of the cars, I also smelled their exhaust--as if I couldn't smell it until I acknowledged the sound. There were overtones of smoke and garbage, raw sewage, strong cologne. By then, I also realized I was the only person standing still: everything else around me was moving, and had a sense of purpose.

We decided that we might as well take our chances and book a prepaid taxi to the hotel, since it seemed that we had been left behind. I stood by our bags while Aaron waited in line. I only realized I was crying when I started sniffling. I tried to do it silently, so as not to draw more attention to myself, but the more I tried to control it, the harder it became. I was not up to this. I could not handle this. I was going to break into pieces and get swept into the street, where I would be promptly ground into the pavement. And it wouldn't matter, because I didn't even exist anymore.

Aaron came back with a receipt with a number on it, and we made our way out of the courtyard to the waiting taxis, where four men ran up to us and took our luggage out of our hands. We didn't need help, but we were too tired and numb and overwhelmed to think about refusing, so we followed them. We assumed one of them was the driver. We passed several regular cars, a few older black-and-yellow cars, and stopped at what can only be described as the tiniest van in the world. It had driver and passenger doors, as well as sliding doors on each side, but it was shrunken down. It was also heavily dented, very dirty, and of questionable road-worthiness.

The men loaded our bags into the back of the van (it didn't all fit, so one of the bags had to ride in the front passenger seat) and the men asked Aaron for tips. Not thinking, he pulled out the entire wad of cash, and they proceeded to try to strip the largest bills from his hands. "Give me this one, this is the right one!" a man said, pointing at a thousand rupee note (which is about $20). I tried to tell Aaron "small bills," but part of it came out in a sob, so I gave up on talking. I don't know what he ended up giving them, but I'm sure it was too much for the 20 feet they rolled our bags, which we had been doing with two fingers.

Our driver got in the car (on the right side, not the left) and started the motor, which sounded more like a blender or weed-whacker than a vehicle. I kept expecting it to either stall or shoot out a smoothie. He drove about 500 feet, pulled over next to an overpass, turned off the car, got out and walked away. Aaron and I looked at each other, and I saw a tiny measure of the panic I felt reflected in his face. I immediately imagined how we were going to be yanked out of the van. Kidnapped. Robbed. Some kind of horrible dismemberment and/or death. And then the driver got back in, started the cab, and asked us where we wanted to go.

It was also at this point that we learned that our driver spoke and understood very little English, which was not comforting. Aaron told him the name of the hotel, and we had to hope that he knew where to go. I'm not proud of it, but I was completely useless by this point, lost in my own panic and unable to control my sobbing. Aaron kept asking me to keep it together, just in case my fear put us in some kind of danger.

Soon we were riding through the darkened streets of Mumbai at a speed incompatible with feeling safe in a vehicle that offered little to hold on to, save for a grubby rail near the ceiling. There wasn't much traffic, but it didn't seem to matter to our driver, who ignored lane distinctions where they did exist. He did not obey traffic signals to stop or slow. He did not use his blinkers to turn or change lanes. He swerved and honked and swerved, weaving between motorcycles, cars, and trucks with no concern for their size, speed, or proximity. No wonder all of the cabs were dented.

When I wasn't staring at my knees, trying not to vomit from the physics of the ride, I looked out the window. It was gritty and dilapidated in a way I had never experienced before, but also impressive in an odd way, like it was built on a dare. Lean-to shacks and two-story buildings were nestled between (or sometimes under) high rise buildings, all in various stages of decay, repair, or disrepair. Some windows were screened in, some had metal bars, but others were open to the night, which was about 70 degrees. Laundry hung from balconies and between buildings, and I thought about the smoke and smog, how those clothes would be dirty again before they air dried.

Nothing about the streets or buildings looked intentional. It was more like a once-orderly city was lifted to a great height and then dropped in one motion, left to settle however it happened to fall, suffering significant damage in the process. It took me a minute to realize that the sheeted bundles on the sidewalks were people--the homeless, sleeping beneath overpasses, in doorways, in any open space. A few people were walking, mostly in the street, since there didn't seem to be many actual sidewalks. Some squatted near the median, relieving themselves, oblivious to oncoming traffic. Even though the windows were closed, I could smell piss, smoke, exhaust, and rotting food.

And then I saw something I had been initially been looking forward to: cows. There were cows in the street! But then my brain registered the entire scene. A pack of stray dogs was rooting through piles of garbage one or two feet high, wandering around a group of overflowing trash bins, accompanied by six cows. I was hysterical, both laughing and crying, convinced that we had died and gone to hell, because this could not possibly be happening. Just as we couldn't possibly be strapped into a rickety taxi, shooting through a city on the other side of the world. I kept thinking we weren't taking main roads, that we were cutting though the heart of the city, but it occurred to me that a city this large was all one vigorously beating heart.

We passed a bank with a digital clock and found out that it was almost 2:30 in the morning. We had been in the cab at least 45 minutes, and we had no idea if we were close to the hotel. I kept looking out the window, expecting the scenery to change in some way, but the basic elements remained the same. Broken buildings. Open fires. Stray dogs. And the homeless, everywhere I looked. It was absolutely heartbreaking to know that for every one I saw, there were thousands more. I felt like I needed to be ashamed of my own life, and all its excesses.

But suddenly the driver was talking to us, pointing through the streaked windshield at the Gateway of India, the harbor, and the hotel. He pulled up to a gate with a series of pillars blocking the driveway. Uniformed men walked around the car with mirrors on long poles. There were security cameras everywhere. Before we could even reach for the handles, the doors were opened for us and our luggage was unloaded by white-gloved hands. The guards made eye contact and welcomed us, waving us towards the baggage scanner and metal detector, offering to take our bags (which we held onto, since we didn't want to try figuring out how to tip them).

The moment we walked through the revolving door into the hotel lobby served as the largest imaginable contrast to what we had just experienced in the cab. The lobby was immaculate, hushed, air conditioned. There were marble floors. In the center of the lobby, there was a six-foot tall arrangement of fresh orchids, which was the only smell. It was the embodiment of opulence, and we had little basis of comparison. We found that the difference between the outside world and the interior of the Taj is a workable metaphor for India as a whole.

 Fresh Orchids, Lush Upholstery, and a Gorgeous Area Rug

The front desk employees were almost painfully polite, but also very quiet. We're Super 8 kind of people. We use coupons. We do not stay in fancy-schmanzy hotels. But we were treated like we were the most important human beings in existence, which was extremely uncomfortable. There was a letter from the general manager, welcoming us to the hotel. There was also a note to call Rob in 1602.

By the time we had finished checking in and taken the elevator to our room, it was 3 am. I had stopped crying when we got out of the cab, but only because I was completely used up by that point. Within ten minutes of getting into the room, Rob called us to let us know that we'd be meeting him and our celebrity host for breakfast in one of the restaurants downstairs, after which we would begin our first full day of shooting. We earned every minute of the 3 1/2 hours of sleep we got that night.