So I tried breakfast. I brought the GRE book, just in case. However, the TV—with its oddly familiar “WAR ON TERROR” headlines—stole my attention. And the food—shit, the food demanded full focus. How—in the name of God—do people eat such spicy pastes so early in the morning?! So the book sat, closed, beside my mysterious plate of food.
I returned to the room, book in arm. But the newspaper had arrived, and I have an obsession: When I travel, I NEED to know the local politics. I flipped through The Hindu’s many sections and settled for a deep read of the Opinion pages. Fascinating stuff. The GRE book, begging to be opened, seemed far less interesting.
I finally turned to it, and noticed the sun peaking through the thick shades. Hmmm… Maybe I’ll just wander for a while in the hotel, and take a quick peak out the windows before settling down to study. And so I saw India for the first time.
I pealed myself away from the hotel’s hallways and thick windows, and forced myself to sit in front of the book. But my fingers refused to open it.
No one comes to India to study for the GREs. They come to shop.
So shopping I went.
That was an adventure. I checked with the front desk for tips, and through their thick Indian accents, I picked up a few good points. Shop at the big clothing market, follow it by a trip to a few temples, and swing by one of the local museums. Then I’d sit down and study. Honest.
I wandered out the sliding front doors and the bellman called me an auto-rickshaw—a strange, three-wheeled, shockingly open yellow scooter-like thing. I crawled into the backseat for a death-defying ride.
It was almost as I imagined it. I gripped the bar tightly to ensure I didn’t fall out. I held my breath as my driver tried to kill us in traffic congestion. I breathed in the sickly sweet smell of India; I absorbed the images of crumbled buildings and barefoot people. But it didn’t shock me as I thought it would.
At the market, the driver took me to a shop, where I was ushered in, shown a million dresses and shirts and pants and shawls, and hollered at and touched and bombarded by smells and sights. I couldn’t take it anymore. “These! These are fine!” I grabbed four outfits.
I just didn’t want to offend. I didn’t want to look like a stupid westerner in a gray Gap tee and linen pants. I wanted to wear what was right. These weren’t exactly what I had wanted, and he had to sew the sleeves on, but they’d do. And everyone says how cheap clothes are in India.
“That’ll be 90€.”
Ok. Not so cheap.
I lowered him to 55. It was still more money than they were worth and more money than I wanted to spend, but I felt suddenly trapped. The driver was knocking on the glass window. There were two other men still trying to sell me more things. There were people touching me, and shouting, and my head hurt from travel, and my lungs hurt from new air, and my stomach hurt from hunger, and I panicked. I paid the man his money and ran away. I left with clothes I didn’t want and probably wouldn’t fit, and that awful feeling of spending way too much money because you didn’t know any better.
“Ok, more shopping, no problem,” my driver said.
“No.” I already felt like a fool. “Back to the hotel.”
I crawled into the back of his auto-rickshaw and suddenly refused to admit defeat. “You know what, how about that museum you pointed out on the way here? Let’s go there.” I’m not ending my first adventure on a low note.
Then he asked me for 5€ for parking. I read that these drivers “are notorious for overcharging, rigged meters, and general harassment of foreign passengers.” Fines and gas were tricks I had been warned about. So I declined.
A woman from the street grabbed my arm and begged for money. She had an almost naked little girl in her arms, but she wore a beautiful light blue sari. I shook my head. I wasn’t sure if I even had enough rupees for the ride. More people gathered on the other side of the open cart. This wasn’t exactly how I thought my day would unfold.
Then I discovered the museum closed at 4, and I was already too late. To the hotel I went.
As predicted, the auto-rickshaw driver overcharged me. I opened my mouth to argue, but he started screaming—and I figured it wasn’t worth the 3€ he demanded.
I entered the lobby dirty, sweaty, and emanating defeat. The doorman smiled but quietly avoided my invitation to converse. The receptionist giggled but wouldn’t engage. So I made my way to my room, where my GRE book was waiting.
Eh. At least I have math problems to keep me company.
No comments:
Post a Comment