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.

On Turning Thirty

According to my birth certificate, I turned thirty yesterday.

I was lucky enough to spend the entire day with Aaron. We ate good meals. We visited with friends. I smiled a lot. All in all, a good day.

I did not sprout new gray hairs. I did not instantly gain crow's feet. I did not burst into flames. But I feel sad, yet resigned, in saying goodbye to being a twenty-something.

At the same time, however, I feel like I did some good things with the past decade of my life.

I started it with my first international travel experience, studying abroad in Rome (when you grow up in Michigan, Canada doesn't count as international), and ended the decade with an even bigger adventure that still seems inconceivable. I thought I would travel a lot more, but I'm still incredibly fortunate that I was able to visit places I had been imagining for years.

During my twenties, spent a lot of time in classrooms, on both sides of the desk. Who knows how many hours I spent reading, writing, arguing, teaching, and learning? The most important thing I've learned is that there is always so much more to learn, which is a very exciting prospect. There's no excuse to be bored. I may not have been a Jeopardy contestant, but I'm pretty good at crossword puzzles and trivia questions because I've loaded my brain with endless facts.

The best part of my twenties was figuring out how to let someone else be part of my life. I also had to learn to accept that it means he's in all of it. Aaron's been a good sport, to say the least. He was nice enough to marry me, and I was just smart enough to let him. 

I was very kind to my liver. Apparently, that's rare.

I don't know what being a thirty-something is going to look like, but I have a sneaking suspicion I will have to be much more responsible. I'm hoping that if I dress more like an adult, it will never involve pantsuits. There will probably be children, and I'm okay with that. There will probably be a dog, too, if Aaron gets his way. I know we'll move at least one more time (because we're not staying in southern Illinois forever). Hopefully, there will be real jobs (with real pay) in our futures, too.

But I know this: even though I keep getting older, that doesn't really mean I'm going to grow up. If I did, I might lose the best parts of being me.

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.

Be Prepared (or, When Boy Scouts Go to India) Part 3

I promise, this is the last post about preparations!

By now, you're probably thinking that it's no wonder Aaron has been very stressed out for the past eight months (and also why we've declined invitations for dinner and hanging out on more than one occasion). It has been the major focus of Aaron's attention for a very long time, in addition to working full-time, running his business, managing our finances, and being married to me (which is no small undertaking). Even with the seemingly detailed, exhaustive blog posts, I don't think I've adequately described the work Aaron has put into this project and how it has (at times) disrupted our lives. I feel like half a person compared to him, in terms of the mental and physical energy he puts into his work.

What I also want to make very, very clear is that we are in no way ungrateful for the chance to even attempt an international production. It's hard to write about the experience without sometimes complaining, but that also means I have the misfortune of sounding like an over-privileged, whiny snot--the ugly American who feels entitled to far more than she deserves, which is really not the case. I also don't want to come off as culturally insensitive about our experience in India; at the same time, I want to convey all of the bewildering, frightening, and fascinating parts of it from what is, by default, the perspective of a complete outsider. What I describe might make you uncomfortable; we certainly were at times. But I firmly believe that learning and growth don't come from places of comfort, and sometimes you get rubbed raw in the pursuit of knowledge.

Training

Having never taken video production, photography, or art classes, I desperately needed Aaron's help to become a competent production assistant. As I've mentioned, I've taken some film classes and I had a basic understanding of shot composition. I've been around Aaron for enough years to have seen how production works. But I'd never really picked up a good camera and tested my abilities, and I was afraid of failure (and of incurring Aaron's wrath). He had the unfortunate task of educating me from doltish ineptitude to passable competency, fighting against my stubbornness and klutz-tastic ability to trip over my own feet, drop things, and otherwise mess things up (like the time I dented his laptop while on our first big roadtrip together--Houston, we have a problem, indeed).

Each armed with a Canon DSLR, we did some outdoor photography training at Giant City State Park. I felt like a blundering moron with very little idea how to use the most basic functions on the camera, but Aaron's a good teacher, and he was able to explain concepts so that they lodged in my atrophied little brain. We also went to Nashville in December (mostly to watch the Red Wings crush the Predators) and did some more shooting downtown. I took a few decent pictures, and a lot of stupid ones. It probably didn't help that I kept saying "Stand back! I'm making ART!" in a dramatic hipster voice. But Aaron could see that I was learning, so he put up with it.

ART!

Double ART!

What was probably most helpful were the six hours of training videos we watched together. I'm usually a book-learner first and then a hands-on-learner, but these videos were excellent for explaining and demonstrating concepts without being condescending or dry. If you want to learn more about photography but can't afford to take classes (and don't have access to someone like Aaron), I highly recommend Lynda.com's training videos.

Other portions of my training included learning how to set up and take down the lights (which we did not take to India); setting up tripods, securing the cameras to them, and using the tilt arm smoothly; figuring out how to use the iPad for script editing, releases, as a teleprompter, as a clapper, and for talent releases; using the audio recorder and microphones; and all aspects of setting up, hauling, storing, and handling all of the production equipment so that I did not damage it in any way. I was expressly forbidden from panicking once we were in India.

Luggage

Accepting that were would be going on a Tourist VISA felt like a demotion, but it also meant that we had to transport our equipment in baggage that made us look less like professionals and more like vacationing Americans. The Pelican cases for the laptop, cameras, and accessories were out; we did keep the microphones, one of the hard drives, and the memory cards in their own small Pelican cases, though. Nope, nothing here but a technology nerd and his disheveled wife, both of whom also happen to be amateur photographers.

Part of my "dowry" (read: crap I brought with me when we moved in together and have kept through our marriage) was a 4-piece set of plum-colored no-frills luggage I initially bought for study abroad. I paid $58 for the whole set back in 2002, and it was worth every penny, in the sense that it has not completely disintegrated in the intervening decade of use and abuse. Well, some of the seams are ripped. The biggest case sports wide bands of permanently ground-in duct tape adhesive. The inner plastic support walls have shattered. The luggage smells funny. Miraculously, all of the zippers still work. But this is not luggage I would trust again on an international flight--especially one that would require the bags remain intact through multiple airport transfers.

After scouting the aisles at a few stores and reading positive online reviews, we decided to buy two of the Heys 4-Motion 29" cases at Target to serve as our checked baggage. I won't go into a big sales pitch, but these bags were really great for our purposes, and having four wheels made it a lot easier to lug them around various airports, through Customs, and into hotel rooms. They GLIDE. No joke. We bought TSA-approved locks with an indicator that showed whether they had been opened by baggage screeners, too, for that inevitable moment when they wonder if that's a tripod wrapped in a sweatshirt or if we're just happy to see them.

For our hand baggage, I already had a decent Jansport backpack with sufficient pockets for the things I would want on a daily basis and on the planes. Aaron needed a way to protect the iPad and laptop, and we ended up finding a clearance-priced rolling suitcase with a slim detachable backpack for him at Target (and please, read the About Us section on the company's website--it's so earnest).

Aaron bought himself a new camera bag, since he had included his old one when he sold his previous DSLR. For "my" camera, we exercised our cheapskate muscles and managed to find a Gillette shaving bag with an inside zippered pocket and two outer zippered pockets at the Carbondale Goodwill--for $3 (it was also full of Mary Kay shaving products!). It didn't have a shoulder strap on it, though, so I bought some D-rings and upholstery thread so I could attach a spare strap. It was just big enough for the camera body, one lens, the filters, and few accessories in the side pockets. I ended up keeping my passport in the inner zippered pocket most days.

Air and Ground Transportation

Booking our plane tickets was tricky because it would mean there was no backing out--and things weren't exactly rock solid in the month and a half before we left. We had to renew our passports, and we couldn't apply for a VISA without them. The VISA application process was not going smoothly due to misinformation. And everywhere we looked, we were advised not to book our plane tickets until we had secured proper documentation.

But we didn't have a choice, and the longer we waited, the more the fares would rise. We wanted to make sure we were on the same flight as Rob getting into Mumbai because we had never been there before, so that meant routing through Detroit and Amsterdam.

We thought we had it (maybe) figured out ourselves, but went to a travel agent just in case. Visiting this kind of business establishment is like time-traveling back to the early 1990s (and where we live, some people never left the early 1990s, in terms of favored hair, make-up, and clothing styles). But do you know what kind of fees travel agents charge? It's obscene. I get that they're trying to stay afloat in a time when computers can do everything for you, but we couldn't justify giving her lots and lots of our money to do what we already figured out how to do, so we went home and booked the tickets ourselves (and enrolled in Delta's SkyMiles program).

When you're faced with the prospect of returning from 22 hours of flights and the accompanying layovers, and you'll be two hours from home when you step off the last plane, the idea of driving yourself home from the airport is an instant emetic. There was just NO way. And though we could have chartered a BART van to drop us off and pick us up, there were some uncertainties and associated expenses we didn't want to mess with. So we chartered a Brenna, using my car. She was kind enough to ride to St. Louis with us, drive our car home to Carbondale and store it at her apartment, and then pick us up at the end of our trip, which was pretty much the best idea ever. And we're going to pay her in food and gifts tonight. It's a win-win all around.

Hotels

We had been assured that arrangements had been made for our lodging in Hyderabad, but we also needed to book a room for the first two nights of the trip, which we were spending in Mumbai. So we stayed here:

"Opulence, I has it."

Actually, we stayed in the tower part of it, which isn't in the picture. Does it look familiar? Here's another angle that might jog your memory a bit:

The hotel was among the sites attacked by terrorists in 2008. Security has been tightened considerably, but staying there seemed like it would be just another way that we were drawing attention to ourselves. We knew we would stand out: our equipment was sure to draw stares and possibly suspicion. We are undeniably, blindingly white, and thus either American, European, or Australian by default. I was a little nervous about what would be assumed about us as it was, and the hotel choice didn't make me feel any more relaxed.

But this hotel was also right next to the Gateway of India and the harbor, both of which we wanted to include in the host segments of the video. It was convenient, and since we didn't have much time in Mumbai, we knew staying this close to our shooting locations would ease our stress and make it easier to transport the equipment (and go back to the room if we forgot anything or needed to stow the equipment quickly).

We weren't scared, necessarily. Just cautious.

Be Prepared (or, When Boy Scouts Go to India) Part 2

Thankfully, and for the sake of Aaron's sanity, there were some aspects of planning and preproduction that we did together, like a dysfunctional team. Like dyslexic synchronized swimmers who are highly allergic to chlorine (no offense to the dyslexic, synchronized swimming, and those with allergies). I was just happy that sometimes Aaron was able to fall asleep at night without an incessant commentary about all things associated with INDIA (which became a capitalized, four-letter word in blazing, buzzing neon quite quickly). It's not that we were ungrateful for the opportunity--it's that we didn't always know what we had signed up for, and sometimes the surprises were a little unpleasant, and usually expensive.

Script

We had our first face-to-face preproduction meeting at CMU in August 2011, where I finally met Rob Hassen, CMU's coordinator of graduate recruiting. Aaron had worked with him in 2008 on a recruiting video for CMU that apparently got really good results for the university, which is how Aaron got the India opportunity. We also met Kundana, an Indian student (and now an alumna!) of CMU's MSA program. Through a few days of meetings, we discussed the purpose of the video and came up with a rough outline of the content. Rob was our subject-matter expert, and Kundana was our uncompensated actress.

Through e-mails, online collaboration tools (thank you, Adobe), phone calls, messages, and more e-mails, Rob got us a working script that we then edited, line by line, in another face-to-face meeting in December. Aaron developed a shooting script with all of the visuals so that we would know what needed to be shot, when, where, and how. I helped when I could, making some use of all those years as an English major as well as the few film classes I've taken (thanks to Tracy Cox, Patty Williamson, and Anthony Williams--all wonderful professors).

When we were finished, we had a 28-page shot-for-shot and line-by-line plan, which was somehow a source of both relief and terror. "Oh, this is what we're doing. That's nice." But also: "Oh, wow, THIS is what we're doing? Can we do this?" I was the doubter, of course, because I worry like it's a sport.

Medical

Having traveled very little outside the U.S., Aaron and I had only heard tales of horror, supplied by helpful friends, regarding what would happen to our bodies once we landed in India. We knew the cliche warnings: Don't drink the water. Get vaccinated. Bring an arsenal of remedies for all things gastrointestinal. And, the worst one: You're going to get sick, no matter what. Except when you're traveling to the other side of the world for work, getting sick isn't an option.

We scoured the U.S. State Department and CDC websites for tips and some of idea of what to expect, and got the somewhat puzzling advice to see a "travel doctor," which both travel agencies and medical professionals in southern Illinois think is a made-up term, right up there with Obamacare and Lady Gaga. We called various doctor's offices and health departments, only to be referred, again and again, to SIUC's student health center for a travel consultation.

Had we been current SIUC students, this would have been more affordable. As it was, the lady cut us a break since she was meeting with us together, charging Aaron for a full session and me for a half-session. Rejoice, my frugal heart. We sat in a little room, filled out our complete medical histories, shared our Bay County Health Department vaccination record books, and let the scare-fest begin.

Most of the information she gave us was a repeat of what we had seen on various government websites, but this medical practitioner described diseases in bone-chilling, graphic detail and with accompanying printouts. Dengue fever? Yeah, there's no vaccination for that one. And it sucks. There were tales of biting and burrowing insects; warnings about bites from rabid bats, dogs, and monkeys (which we knew we might encounter, given our plans); admonitions about vaccinations for typhoid, polio, measles, hepatitis, tuberculosis, and tetanus; dire warnings against tap water, even if used for rinsing fruits/vegetables or brushing your teeth; and a reminder about avian flu--we scoffed at her advice to stay away from places where live poultry was being caged, processed or otherwise handled, but this was a rule we ended up breaking on our last day (foreshadowing! Exciting, I know!). I felt all of the symptoms as she described them, like my own roller coaster of sick.

And then I acknowledged that, contrary to my nature, I would have to make a promise that I would not, under any circumstances, touch any animals while in India. I would not seek out stray dogs or cats. I would not pet the cows. I would not startle the bats or get too close to the monkeys (it turns out that was more up to them than up to me, because those suckers were FAST). I would not, as I normally tend to do, treat any animal in sight as my own personal petting zoo. It was a matter of life or death! I told Aaron that he had to make me promise, and to remind me during our trip if it looked like I was about to reach out and get friendly with living things.

We also got two prescriptions each: one for antimalarial pills and one to treat traveler's diarrhea, which was described as "you'll definitely know it if you have it." The choices for antimalarials are almost comical. The one that is quite effective and low on side effects also happens to cost around $6/pill (and we would need a total of 40 between the two of us). The other option, which had a long list of unpleasant side effects including severe nausea, yeast infections, and photosensitivity, only cost about $.30/pill but had to be taken for much longer. We opted for the generic form of the expensive one, which the Marion Walgreens had to special order but which would have cost almost double at CVS.

After our travel consultation, where we found out the atrocious prices SIUC charges non-students for vaccinations, we called the Jackson County Health Department for their price list. It was cheaper. And then, like the consummate bargain-hunter I've been all my life, I suggested we call yet another health department, which was even cheaper. We made an appointment to get all of our vaccinations and boosters on the same day, which I only recommend for the truly masochistic, since the aftermath of getting 4-5 shots at once is feeling feverish, achy and generally crappy for a few days. But it brought us one step closer to being ready for the promised microbial onslaught.

Yup, that's some Pinconning cheese. Oh, and some typhoid. No big deal.

 

Together, we assembled a massive toiletry/first-aid/death prevention kit for the greatest possible chance that we would remain physically functional for the duration of our stay in India. We based our gathering on the summation of recommendations from anecdotal and professional sources alike. Here's some of what we packed, between our hand baggage, in our quart-size clear zippered bags for gels/liquids, and in our checked luggage:

• Hand sanitizer gel
• 100% DEET mosquito repellent
• Sunscreen in both SPF 50 and SPF 30
• SPF 15 lip balm
• Baby powder (since the expected average daily temperature was between 75 and 90 degrees F, and Jude was kind enough to warn me about what that's like.)
• Gatorade packets for mixing with bottled water for the inevitable dehydration
• Delicious snacks that also traveled well: canned chicken and tuna, raisins, toaster pastries, granola and trailmix bars, since we had no idea how our bodies would respond to Indian food
• Bottled water (Yes. We brought bottled water, JUST IN CASE)
• Bandages
• A manicure set that included tweezers, scissors, etc.
• Eyedrops
• Over-the-counter drugs: aspirin, acetaminophen, ibuprofen, naproxen sodium, sleep aids
• Facial tissues in travel packs
• Earplugs
• Chewing gum
• Hiking boots, long socks, and long-sleeved shirts

We ended up using/needing* most of these things. But that still didn't prevent a late-night trip to a pharmacy for me (More ominous foreshadowing! Dun dun dun...!).


*I have to qualify that term after experiencing India, for reasons which will become apparent in subsequent posts.

Be Prepared (or, When Boy Scouts Go to India) Part 1

Aaron is (and I say this without an ounce of sarcasm) a multi-talented guy with an encyclopedic knowledge of a few specific topics. He knows more than I ever will about the technical aspects of film production, video editing, photography, and all the associated equipment, accessories, and software. I've watched him shoot video. I've watched him edit. I've watched him direct. The boy knows his stuff. So it's good that he was hired to make the India video, because that also means he did the bulk of the planning (and that I was merely his lowly production assistant, utterly terrified of making mistakes lest it reflect poorly on him).

He's also a lifelong Boy Scout with a penchant for order, a finesse for organization, and an intense (almost supernatural) knack for spatial relations. If he can't afford it, he finds a way to get it cheaper, or crafts a substitute, MacGyver-style. The hamster wheel of his brain runs at a decidedly different speed from my own, all of which helped him PREPARE like a boss.

Equipment

For the past few months, Aaron has been holed up in his office researching everything we might possibly need for making the video in India and considering all kinds of obstacles, problems and full-on disasters. How do you account for the difference in the electricity? Would we need shooting permits? What if we bought all this equipment and schlepped it to India, only to have our baggage lost/stolen/damaged or seized by Customs? Would bribes be necessary? Would we be able to rent and/or buy anything we weren't able to bring?

Aaron looked at a lot of websites, some with grim accounts of what happened to the ill-prepared. He researched the CARNET, which is basically third-party yet "official" documentation for importing certain kinds of equipment into a foreign country which would hopefully prevent a Customs seizure. He e-mailed people who had done video productions in India (although it was hard to find anything but huge film crews with multi-million-dollar budgets). He called people and corporations (also Republican for "people") asking for advice and help. He got very, very frustrated. We had some lively discussions (and a few screaming arguments) about the whole thing.

He bought two DSLRs, an LED light panel, two tripods, an iPad, a laptop, hard drives, a battery charger, a power adapter, an audio recorder, microphones, a remote timer, a slider...and that's just what I can remember. He also bought cables, cords and various accessories. And hard Pelican cases for everything.

Documentation

A big issue was getting the right kind of VISA that would allow us to enter the country with our equipment but without drawing undue attention to ourselves. Aaron spent a lot of time on the phone with two different VISA companies (and India outsources its VISA process to a third-party company!) as well as the Consulate. We had letters of invitation from the Andhra Pradesh Productivity Council.

Were we going on Business? Well, kind of. There would be meetings. We were going as Aaron's video production company. Would an Employment VISA be more appropriate? We would be paid for our work, but not by an Indian company. With our equipment, would we qualify as Journalists? No one could give us a straight answer, and sometimes we got conflicting answers between an organization's website and the customer service representatives we called for clarification. We spent a lot of time on hold. We spent a lot of money on applications, shipping, photocopies, and money orders.

We each ended up with a Tourist VISA, which meant we couldn't safely take more equipment than the average American tourist would. We were probably being paranoid, but thousands of dollars of equipment being seized by Customs is nothing to joke about--especially when that would mean scrambling to rent/buy what we needed in a foreign country where we had few contacts, and with our already-strained finances.

We also had to renew our passports, during which I learned the hard way that CVS takes horrible passport photos. Too bad I was already at the post office, ready to mail my application, when I noticed and I didn't want to go complain because I needed to get my application sent before the Thanksgiving holiday. Walgreens takes much nicer photos for the same price, so we did our VISA photos there.

Road to Recovery

For those of you who don't know (even though it's the only thing Aaron has thought about since May 2011--no exaggeration here), Aaron was hired to make an educational/promotional video by Central Michigan University's graduate school. The video, intended for students in India, details the process of researching, selecting and applying to a graduate school in the United States, as well as the documentation, planning and other issues involved. Since it's for Indian students, part of the video needed to be filmed there.

So began months of planning, researching, meeting, e-mailing, calling, purchasing, preparing, and training (he trained me! I'm trainable, like a puppy!) for an international video project. And now that the India portion is complete, Aaron can take tiny, tiny breaths of relief before diving into the rest of it.

We came home from India just over a week ago (January 23rd). We got home on a Monday night, after taking four planes and spending about 22 hours in the air. We crossed 11 time zones. We ate all manner of semi-identifiable airline food. We did not sleep. Whoever said the world is small has not flown from Hyderabad to Mumbai to Amsterdam to Detroit to St. Louis. The world is very, very large.

Although we're both still recovering, Aaron is decidedly the winner on that front, having only in the last two days developed some kind of head cold that keeps him sneezing, coughing, and congested. I'm having some...problems...with readjustment, especially in regards to the most basic of physiological needs--eating and sleeping. Thankfully, neither of us has malaria, dysentery, dengue fever or any of the other serious diseases we were warned about. Just a bone-deep fatigue from being on the other side of the world just long enough to taste it but not quite long enough to really enjoy it the way seasoned travelers would (due in large part to the fact that this was work, not a vacation or honeymoon).

Here are the answers to the most frequently asked questions about our trip:

Yes, the trip was enjoyable.
Yes, we would like to return to India someday.
Yes, we accomplished everything we needed to for the video project.
No, we did not visit the Taj Mahal. It would have been very far out of the way.
No, we did not drink tea, though it was offered to us daily. We're not really tea drinkers.
Yes, we did enjoy the food.
No, we did not visit the slums in Mumbai.
Yes, the culture was quite different from home, but maybe not in the ways you're thinking.
Yes, we took a lot of pictures. Over 2,000 between the two of us.
Yes, we're glad to be home (and you can thank Brenna Lemieux for picking us up at the airport).