Hello dear Reader, I am happy to report that I am setting off on another journey. This time, I will be visiting the magical land of India, accompanied by my dear friend Hilary. This is to be our own Julia Roberts-esque pilgrimage to the birthplace of yoga and cheap offshore engineering outsourcing. Leaving my darling husband and children back home, I am thinking of this trip as my own personal Eat, Pray, Shop. I must warn you that being on the 4th week of a 6-week sucrose detox (no rice, no naan, no delicious mango chutney); this adventure poses a particularly difficult challenge for me. I have pre-ordered a diabetic meal on all flights to ensure minimal temptation aboard the 2 long flights to India.
If faced with a warm scone and clotted cream prior to landing, I fear I may buckle. I am undaunted, however, and after settling into my comfy seat on a Lufthansa flight to Munich from where we will connect to our flight to Delhi, I am feeling excited and relaxed.
The purser, one Hehr Renner approached my aisle seat soon after take off and in a soft yet heavily German accented voice discreetly inquired as to whether I was “Mizz Boh-ren-shtein.” I nodded yes. “You heh-free-qvested dee-a-betique meal, jah?” Again I nodded yes. Hehr Renner then gently placed a hand on my cashmere wrap covered arm and looking deep into my eyes said, “Pleez do not hez-et-ate to ree-qvest helf for eny-zing et owl Mizz Boh-ren-shtein, vee are he-ah to helf.” I nodded again and smiled gratefully, realizing with some melancholy that his misunderstanding regarding my actually being a diabetic would likely serve as a full proof deterrent against my indulging in a glass of sucrose filled champagne. I wondered momentarily whether my not carrying an insulin kit might pose a credibility issue but then realized that my frequent trips to the bathroom would prove an excellent smokescreen.
A few moments later a younger male flight attendant wheeled his cart of dinner trays down the aisle and stopped at my side. “Mizz Boh-ren-shtein?” he asked surprised. I nodded. He produced a tray containing a cold, grilled chicken breast a top a small pile of iceberg lettuce and as he placed it down in front of me, smiled and laughing knowingly under his breath added, “no carbs,” before rolling his way down the aisle. A momentary sense of shame washed over me and I said a silent prayer that he would not rat me out to kind Hehr Renner. Needless to say I had no alcohol but a lovely sleeping pill helped ease me into a gentle slumber on the long flight.
After landing in Delhi some 20 hours later, we were greeted by Balla, a 25 year old South Indian fellow with a large scar across his forehead that might have been the result of an unfortunate encounter with a Bengal tiger. Balla wrapped sweet smelling jasmine and rose flower around our necks and ushered us into the waiting van. Our driver Mr. Jith (pronounced jee-th) nodded effusively in welcome.
20 minutes later we arrived at our sumptuous hotel, The Imperial, where a lovely hostess who placed a red bindi on my forehead between my eyes, a typical Indian greeting custom, showed us to our room. After showering and enjoying a cup of tea in the atrium, we headed for lunch at the Spice Road restaurant in the hotel. The hostess politely informed us that the restaurant had a “no shorts” policy and regrettably informed us that we could not gain access. I for one was in a pair of capri length cargo pants, which while not the most fashion forward of trousers, was most certainly not a pair of shorts. I smiled widely at the hostess and leaned in to explain to her that these were not shorts but well below the knee capris (I bent down and drew a line with my hand across my shins for emphasis) and assured her that they were quite acceptable. She gave me a concerned look and asked me to wait a moment while she inquire with her manager. She returned quickly and with a grand hand gesture welcomed us into the cool, ornately appointed and dimly lit restaurant. Lovely. We enjoyed lunch outside by the gazebo and fountains, attended to by a remarkably sprite and assertive waiter who insisted on refilling our plates and glasses himself. It made for an amusing pantomime of sorts with my reaching for the sparkling water or sautéed vegetables, and his sprinting across the courtyard to wrestle bottle or spoon from my tender grasp.
After lunch we met our guide, who introduced himself as “Hirsch.” He was most unlike any Hirsch I had met before; for one he was clearly Indian and for another he sounded Indian. I asked if I had heard him correctly and that indeed his name was Hirsch. He said simply, “You may koll me Hirsch orreh you may koll me Raj, dey are boat good nems.” I agree they both are. I decided to call him Hirsch.
As luck would have it, today is an Indian festival to welcome Summer and everyone we pass raises their hands into prayer position and calls out “Happy Holy,” to which I reply “Happy Holy to you.” It was only much later that Hirsch explained that the festival is actually called “Holi.” On Holi, Indian men, women and children throw brightly colored paint and colored powders on each other, covering their clothes, faces and hair with patches of paint. The effect of it all is that throughout the entire city it looks as though everyone has been involved in a serious game of paintball. Even the cows, which are considered to be sacred and can be found lying just about everywhere you look, are covered in swathes of magenta, fuschia, purple and green paint.
Hirsch took us to visit the Red Fort and we took a bicycle rickshaw tour through Old Delhi where hundreds of rainbow splotched and neon colored men teetered drunkenly in the streets. Happy Holi everyone.
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