Northern India is:

...a pee and poo stew.

...where the sidewalk ends.

...a sore that does not heal.

...a horny sixteen year-old boy with a head injury.

...imaginably worse than Detroit (I've never been there but I bet it stinks the same).

...more trashed than East Oakland after the Raiders lose a play-off.

...sometimes as sweet as a honey lemon lassi.

...as cute as a newborn lamb.

...more magical than a child's first visit to Toys R Us.

...ALWAYS confusing.

...never boring.

I spent 21 hours on a rickety, filthy train. I had my own seat though. Actually, I had about 50 of my own seats! Funny how that is after they tell everyone the train is all sold out and you're on a waiting list.

I got very little sleep on the train. The seats reclined four inches. The arm rests didn't fold back. They kept blinding fluorescent lights on until midnight. People kept on pounding on the metal train door from the outside and skinny dudes selling Indian tea would come down the aisle yelling "CHAI! CHAI!" every fifteen minutes. It was a fricking nightmare. Then, they turned the blaring fluorescent lights on again at 5:30 AM. I felt like a prisoner of war.

There are rarely signs anywhere in India that say "YOU ARE HERE". In fact, there are rarely road signs that simply name a road.

While traveling by rail, one must anticipate his/her stop by asking the conductor questions like "At what time will we arrive in Delhi?" and "Which way to the Main Street Bazaar?"

Never ask a yes or no question; it's too easy for an Indian person to wiggle their head a little or give an reassuring, yet false, "yes" answer.

But, you mustn't stop there! Any information gained through the public, be it a rickshaw driver, a salesperson, or the average Mandeep Gupta on the street, has to be corroborated with at least three or four other separate entities.

There ARE some really good people here. An educated looking old man helped me disembark from the train at the correct time. When I stepped out into the streets, it looked nothing like the description I had read in the Lonely Planet guidebook.

I soon realized the old man had told me to get off at the wrong station and I wasn't even sure if I was in the right city. After inquiring twenty other people on the street, I found out I was indeed in Delhi, but very far away from the New Delhi station and the hotel I wished to stay at.

I ended up befriending a twenty-three year old Indian man who was very helpful, but also very disconcerting. He encouraged me to sexually harass a woman bystander. He pointed right at her, "Isn't she nice? You like? Yeah?". I didn't participate.

Moments later, he asked me what caste I was from.

What caste was I from?

Tired, confused and completely taken off guard, I told him I was Catholic, which now I am very embarrassed to recall, but he accepted the answer nonetheless.

After the awkward exchange, he directed me to a bus stop and instructed the fare collector to prompt me where to get off and not to over charge me for the ride.

Now, I'm at a noisy, yet amazingly clean hotel in the heart of dreary Delhi. My flight leaves at 2:30 AM.

Two-thirty in the morning!

What's with these people?




[ A sad story: an hour ago I wrote few wonderful, tear jerking paragraphs telling of my reconciliation with this country. It was beautiful. It talked about how India was just too complex, too big to encapsulate in a couple of closing paragraphs. It thanked you, my good friends, for keeping up with me and my trials on a daily basis.

It also spoke of rabbis, an Indo-Israeli kibitz moonlighting as a hotel, nubile demi-gods with wavy brown hair, ladkas, and yarmulkes and a new muslim Lebanese friend named Hussein who is the manager of the Starbuck's in Beiruit.

It spoke of world peace, intimate conversations of love, family, and the sharing of a McDonald's large fry.

The blog ended with Namaste for Crissakes!

THEN THE POWER CUT OUT!!!


...that's India.


Namaste.]