I'm sitting on the airplane to Delhi, and I'm trying really hard to be excited about it, about seeing the Taj, but I'm just not. I miss the islands - I miss the clean air, the turquoise sea, and sitting in the Cafe at night chatting with Vikas and Daniel (dive instructor and really cool traveler, respectively). The only thing I don't miss is beign ravaged by mosquitos, but who is to say that this won't happen in Delhi too? After all, I'm still in the plane. I haven't booked a room yet, but I'm just going to take a taxi to these places listed in Lonely Planet in a pretty centralized area, and then just taking a day trip to the Taj. Guess I'll just see how it goes and make decisions later.
Later that night....
Holy shit!!! I'm staying in a total shithole! Excuse my language, but in this instance it is totally appropriate! I'm laughing just thinking about it because it's obviously totally my doing, and you never know what to expect in India. But word to the wise: when "crusty" is used as a descriptive word in Lonely Planet, it is not a vague term to describe a rustic location, it is actually a very accurate description of a terribly unkempt room! The paint is actually falling from the walls because it is so water logged that it can't stick to the cement anymore. So here I am, in a city I didn't really want to come to, living in what I would imagine to be similar to a jail cell that has fallen into disrepair. And this, my friends, is what happens when you decide to fly by the seat of your pants in Delhi. I'm trying not to think about beautiful Havelock Island, because it will make my hovel so much more unbearable, but just to laugh about it and think of it as a great adventure. Probably the best part about this whole ordeal tonight, is that when I gave the address to my taxi driver, he didn't know where it was. That should have been my first clue. But often in Bangalore the auto drivers wouldn't know where my house was and I'd have to direct them there, so I didn't think anything of it. And maps are pretty much useless as most people never use them and so they don't help you communicate where it is you want to go. Anyways, my driver called the hostel twice or maybe even three times for directions (thank god I had written the number down) and after much turning around and going in circles, I took out my Lonely Planet, looked at the map of the neighborhood, and directed my taxi driver to my hostel. He drives around the city for a living, and I, who have never been to the city, and am not a native of the country, am telling him how to get to a hostel on some obscure street of the Connaught Place district!! Ridiculous!!! I walk into my first choice of hostels and of course there is no vacancy. So I trek to the next one and walk up the skinny steps with all my bags hanging on me like a pack horse. I arrive in the empty lobby and look out on the terrace. There are about 5 or 6 men sitting there in their skivies watching Indian soap operas, and they all turn to stare at me. No one makes any motion to greet me or to come take care of me or even acknowledge that this is a hotel and that I am a prospective source of income. I look around me to be sure that I haven't walked into someone's living room, because this is what it feels like. Then, since no one has greeted me, I say, "hello?" and after a pause, one of the men gets up and comes over to me to begin the proceedings for booking my overpriced hovel-room. At the point in the proceedings where I write in the log book where I am from, the man is convinced that Connecticut is a city, and tries to tell me to write the state, not the city. He thinks I don't understand, and I keep telling him that yes, Connecticut is a state, and yes I live there so I do know that this is true. I eventually resort to pulling out my Connecticut driver's license and show him that Granby is the city and Connecticut is the state. Finally he believes me and says, "Oh, I don't know where that is. Is it in the south?" I tell him it is nearby New York, and then am led to my room by a man in his underwear. Seriously, he was one of the gentlemen sitting on the terrace in the rain watching soap operas, and he is wearing a pair of boxers and nothing else. What the hell??? Where am I? I am in the same country, and yet I am worlds apart from where I just left. My jail cell is hot as hell, and it has one tiny little fan and one tiny little window. At least there are screens. But the door is practically falling off the frame so an army of mosquitos could easily fit through, thus negating the purpose of screening the windows. I decided that if I was going to spend a night in this hell hole I was going to do so after a nice cold beer, so I head to a pub nearby and enter an entirely different universe. The bar is highly air conditioned, darkly lit, and covered with posters of famous American musicians: Jimi Hendrix, Eric Clapton, Kurt Cobain, and on the radio Nickleback is blaring circa 1995, and a whole group of young Indians are singing along. To top off the bizarre atmospheric charm, the waiters are wearing khaki newsboys hats and blue collared shirts, as if this is the epitome of American style or something. I am certain that I am one of the very few women in here, and for sure I am the only woman who goes out alone. I may be the only white woman to ever set foot in here, at least one would think so by the way everyone is staring at me, but that can’t possibly be true because this place is another gem in the Lonely Planet guide book on New Delhi so I’m sure others have ventured here before me. Well my food is here, so I’m about to eat and possibly have another beer, then head back to my hovel. Perhaps it will be more forgiving in the light of day?
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