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.

Elephanta Island

One of the few tourist excursions we had planned for our India trip was a visit to Elephanta Island, a historical site on an island in the Mumbai harbor. The caves were used as temples and have carvings depicting Hindu gods; the island itself is named for a gigantic basalt elephant statue (which is now in a museum). Although we were still officially working, and hoping to get some interesting video and photos to use in the project, it was also a chance to have some fun.

We were about to buy tickets from one of the ferry companies with a booth near the Gateway, and found out that the caves are closed on Mondays. Rob had been there before, and assured us there would still be plenty to see, so we paid the fare. Indian tourist attractions have a pricing structure based on nationality, with foreigners paying about five times more than locals for admission to historical sites. It was still quite inexpensive for all of us. I kind of like that locals have to pay less, because it makes these sites more accessible to the general population.

Since the island is about six miles out into the harbor, we had an hour-long boat ride. Photography is not allowed on the boats (by order of the Indian navy), so we didn't take pictures or video on the ride because we are serious rule-followers. Of course, that didn't stop Indians from using their cell phones--especially when a group of seagulls flew alongside the boat, eating the chips some kids threw to them.

Tourist Ferry Boats

Even though I knew to expect to see pollution and garbage in the water, it shocked me when boat passengers threw their empty water and soda bottles, chip bags, and snack wrappers overboard.  It was like a reflex, completely automatic. There was an empty, unused trash can on the boat.

We disembarked onto a small concrete ledge, walked up some steps and were on the pier leading to the island itself. This was the closest we were going to get to the great outdoors on the entire trip, since we were planning to spend the rest of our time in Hyderabad (the 4th most populous city in India). Rob and Biplab stopped to buy cold drinks from a booth on the pier, and then we started the long walk to the stairs leading to the archeological park.

Rob: "You don't have any Mountain Dew? Okay, Coke."

We could have taken the train instead of walking, but we weren't really tired at this point and we wanted to be able to take pictures.  The train reminded us of Deer Acres back home.

 We were greeted by very friendly stray dogs, which tested my willpower regarding my self-imposed "Don't Pet Anything" rule. I think animals seek me out because they can tell that I would take them home with me if I could, and at the very least I will pet them and share my food. The only exception to my benevolence? Snakes. Good thing I didn't see any on the island.

The island has year-round residents, many of whom make their living in part by getting visitors to buy merchandise from their stands. The vendors here sold snacks, hats, clothing, jewelry, statues, toys and a lot of other souvenir items. Everything was reasonably priced, though the quality of items varied widely from one booth to the next. I was completely enchanted, though. I absolutely love buying things from street vendors. I've always been attracted to yard sales, flea markets, thrift stores, etc. because you never really know what's going to be there, and if you don't like the prices you can move on to the next booth.

After this first vendor-gauntlet, we came to a paved area that was a little more open than the previous paths, and I nearly had a heart attack of joy because I saw cows, goats, dogs, and monkeys on the loose and mingling with the crowd. Giving me access to animals is like giving Red Bull to a kid with ADHD--terrifying, slightly dangerous, but hilarious. I wanted to play fetch with the dogs.

I wanted to stare into the rectangular pupils of the goats.

I wanted to pet the cows.













I wanted to high-five the monkeys. All of this, ALL AT ONCE. I know, I am a child. But I've never seen monkeys in the wild, and this was the closest we would get to having an Indiana Jones moment in India.

The sign the monkey is sitting on explains that the island finally got electricity in May of 1989, which helped us maintain a little perspective regarding the infrastructure of India, especially in relation to its population. I was consistently, acutely aware of the differences between India and the U.S., and I have to say that I have great respect for so many aspects of everyday life in India.

I had been warned by various sources that the main crime I had to be concerned about in India was pickpocketing in crowded tourist areas. These monkeys were actually the closest experience we had with petty theft. They were everywhere along the path, jumping from one ledge or building to the next like little acrobats.

I was mostly afraid they would leap onto my back after a trip across one of the tarp ropes. I also didn't know if they would have any interest in the camera.

We watched monkeys snatch drink bottles from people. Some were unsuspecting, but others were willing participants in the monkey-thefts. Biplab's lemonade was only half-empty when it was snatched from him.

And this little guy was guarding his roasted field corn, because there were bigger, badder monkeys nearby. He's sitting on some chairs with long bamboo poles attached to them, which are used to carry tourists up to the caves (for a fee).

This was the monkey-in-chief, apparently. I was slightly afraid of him, because he looked downright menacing when he was picking his teeth and glaring at me. He also swung into the trees above my head and landed on the ledge right next to my elbow in a matter of seconds.

Since it was heading into the late afternoon, many of the booths along the stairway were already closed for the day. And had we known this would be one of our only opportunities to buy inexpensive souvenirs in Mumbai, we probably would have looked more carefully and thoughtfully at what was available. It's hard to think of these things when you're suppressing jetlag. And when you have a long, steep climb to make.

Although some of the stalls sold cheap plastic junk, there were some with handmade items, like this jewelry stand.

Even though the caves and most of the vendors were closed, I still enjoyed trekking up to the top of the hill. Every experience in India was like a gift, and I felt like there was no room for griping or feeling ungrateful, no matter the circumstances. The idea of being there at all was incredible, and I kept reminding myself that since this wasn't a vacation, I had to be content with the moments I had that were vacationish.

Those stairs to the top of the hill seemed to go on forever. They also became progressively steep, which proved challenging for our exhausted  (and out of shape) bodies. Finally, we made it all the way up to look at a closed gate. Rob thought we would at least be able to go into the area near the caves, but everything at the top was closed.

We were thirsty, and a bit sweaty. I paused near the gate to look at the crows convened in the trees above me, and was promptly shat on. Rob followed some men down a trail, only to find that it ended abruptly at a trash-filled ravine, and people were pissing over the edge of it. I could have been annoyed with all of this, but then I turned around and peered through a gap in the foliage to see how far we had come:

Going back down the hill was certainly easier, especially since we decided to buy cold bottles of Sprite and stop in at one of the more established shops to look at carved statues. Although I love haggling and bargaining, I was a little out of practice, so Biplab helped me negotiate with the shopkeeper. I ended up getting an ebony wood elephant for several hundred rupees less than the asking price. Knowing that it had a long journey, the shopkeeper wrapped it in several layers of newspaper and some bubble wrap.

We didn't buy anything else at the shop, although we were sorely tempted by this:

I was under the impression that heat, sunlight, and humidity were bad for film, but what do I know? I didn't check the expiration dates.

When we got to the bottom of the hill, Biplab insisted we take the train to shorten the walk. He was met with no resistance from us, since our calves were beginning to ache from our extended Stairmaster session. We crammed ourselves into the remaining seats at the back of the train. It was an extremely uncomfortable ride, but definitely worth the 5 rupees.

On the ferry ride back to the mainland, we half-slept and enjoyed the slight breeze. We watched the sun start to sink. A submarine surfaced and made its way to port. And then, as we were about to get off the boat, Biplab reached for his phone and couldn't find it. We looked around, and realized we were sitting right above a grate that vented the engine compartment. The phone had slipped out of his hands and fallen below decks, into a puddle. Sigh.

At least the elephant is happy living in my china cabinet.

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.

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.

Breakfast of Indians

We got up around 6:30 on what was, somehow, January 16th. It felt like we had lost about a week in transit, so it was disorienting to know that it was, in fact, Monday and that we would complete a significant portion of our production that day.

One of the benefits of being so sleep deprived and traveling through so many time zones is that when you do finally sleep, it is immensely restorative. Giving in to the exhaustion and jetlag was not an option, anyway, since we had so much to do.

We had a "seaview" room on the 4th floor with our own screened-in balcony overlooking the Gateway of India and the Arabian Sea, and this fact made it extremely pleasant to wake up in the morning. This was our first view of Mumbai in the daylight:

Smoggy but stunning!

Getting ready involved slathering ourselves with both sunscreen and mosquito repellent, dressing in long sleeves and pants, and putting on shoes with good traction, since we would spend a portion of the day on a boat and a few hours on an island. I pulled a George Costanza and wore my Timberlands (and yes, they did make me look taller).

At 7:00, we went downstairs to meet Rob and our Indian celebrity host for the video, Biplab Ganguli. We needed to go over portions of the script and plan out how, where, and when we would be shooting that day, and make sure that we were ready (more on that in subsequent posts). We met at Shamiana, the "coffee shop" (casual-dining restaurant) right off the lobby, for a buffet-style breakfast. This was our first encounter with Indian food, and we were nervous because we didn't know what to expect from an Indian breakfast. Everything was labeled, but that didn't really help because we still didn't know what was in it, whether it was savory or sweet, or even how it should be eaten (Was it finger-food? Should we use silverware?).

Here's someone else's slightly blurry picture of the restaurant. Shamiana is a kind of tent used for weddings, parties, and feasts, so the fabric draped around the light fixture is meant to evoke that.

I've always considered myself a relatively adventurous eater, and when I'm in a foreign country, I figure I should take my chances and eat the local food. I have had a few bad experiences from not knowing the language, most notably in Naples, when I ordered a thin-crust pizza only knowing three out of four toppings. Ten years later, I still know that "alici" are anchovies. In India, my biggest fears were spiciness and improperly washed produce. The former was something I could deal with; the latter would hamper our production schedule, and we couldn't have that.

Aaron is definitely not an adventurous eater. He isn't picky, exactly, he just has a strong sense of what he likes (and dislikes) and tends not to deviate from that. I make fun of him because every time we eat at Big Boy, he orders fish and chips. He looks at the menu, but he always orders the same thing. He also needs to know what ingredients are in his food, in case there's one or more ingredients he strongly dislikes--a sentiment I share, to a certain extent (we'll talk about cilantro, anise, and cloves in a future post). Like me, though, his biggest concern was illness, since we had read on numerous websites that even in upscale restaurants, there was still the possibility of contracting an illness from the water used in food preparation.

There were some typical American breakfast foods on the buffet: French toast, home fries, eggs, chicken sausage, bacon, oatmeal, cold cereal, and fresh fruit. Rob and Aaron seemed to stick to the familiar.  I took a little bit of everything and ate with gusto, because once I started eating I realized just how hungry I was.

Everything I ate was delicious (and this was by no means the tastiest meal we had). I had banana sheera, which was sweet and kind of like oatmeal, but smoother and thicker. I ate something crusted with some kind of legume. The chicken sausage had really interesting spices in it--a faint burn at first, and then a second wave of flavor. We drank fresh-squeezed juice. I joined the clean plate club. I just wish I had brought a pen with me to write down the names of the things I ate, because I'd love to get an Indian cookbook and make some of the dishes here.

A lot of our dining experiences in India involved filling our plates with unfamiliar foods, taking a test bite, letting all of the flavors and textures register for a minute, and (usually) digging in eagerly. Everything was an experiment.

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.

Still Not Right

Dear India: 

Please, make it stop. You have ruined my immune system. I'm drinking juice and water by the gallon. My brain feels like it's being squeezed in a vice. My sinuses are on fire. I can think of far better ways to spend my upcoming birthday than being strung out on antibiotics that make me woozy. Also, I don't like being this physically aware of the workings of my internal organs. Kidneys should not pulse. I should not feel my heartbeat in my teeth. You get it, right?


Love, 
Katie

I've pretty much been sick with one thing or another since returning from India. So far, I've had two colds, the full gamut of gastrointestinal issues, and now another infection requiring a doctor's visit and antibiotics.

I don't have health insurance (yet) because it makes more financial sense to pay out of pocket for the one time per year I usually go to a doctor of any kind. I haven't been to a dentist in two years. But if things don't work out well with my current illness, we may have to add me to Aaron's insurance plan to cover the expensive tests that will be needed.

Meanwhile, I have work I need to catch up on, and antibiotics to take. But I will continue posting about India in the next few days, and maybe even tonight (if I can stop feeling headachey and nauseated, and if staring at a computer screen for five or six hours for work doesn't make it worse).