traveling with scissors: Thirty Six Hours In Delhi

is more then enough. On Sunday morning I woke up and forgot what country I was in. I hate it when that happens. Stretching my weary body and filling my lungs with my first breath of the day, I was promptly reminded. Nothing like the smell of mildew in the morning. Let me paint you a small picture of what the first step outside of my guesthouse was like:

feel- pouring rain, humidity that hits you like a brick wall, mud squishing under my feet, a film of sweat and pollution on my skin, mosquito bites all over my legs from the guesthouse the night before, tightness in my upper left chest

see- trash, tuk tuks, motorbikes, rickshaws, mangy dogs, cows, the steam of streetfood vendors, electrical wires tangled in a massive knot, western hippies, sikhs, monks, women in bright saris, lots of stares, children playing barefoot, shops selling wall hangings, pashminas, artwork, anything you can imagine, people begging for anything and everything

sound- horns of every kind,"where are you from?", "where are you going?", Bollywood music blaring from shops and cars

smell- incense, shit, vomit, streetfood, mold, strange, indescribable and hopefully forgettable

taste- this is where it gets good: chai, the breads, cholle, basmati rice, thali, dosas, samosas, lassis- this surpassed my imagination

It was almost midnight when I arrived the night before. I was anxious to rest my jetlagged bones. The first place made me throw up in my mouth a little bit. I walked up the stairs(a few stacked bricks) into a dark and narrow building. My though process was as so: what the hell is that splattered on the wall?,what is that smell? why is that skinny brown man naked laying in the hallway floor laughing?, a lot of buckets to catch the water from the dripping ceiling huh?, yeah, I'll think about it, thanks. I ran out the front door and back out on the street and did that a few more times before I finding a decent place. This blog would be ten pages long if I included all of the details of the next few hours of my night. The place I chose looked great from afar, shiny tile floors and neatly made bed but when I started getting comfortable I noticed a few odd features. The place was loaded with mosquitos, the sheets had peculiar stains on them, the bottled water was just an old bottle with tap water, the ceiling fan shook like a furious tempest when I turned it on and nothing but ice cold water in the shower. Something told me to take the blanket from the airplane and thank god I did because I wrapped myself inside it and slept in it like it was a cocoon. This is what you get when you are desperate in the middle of the night.
The next day, I met a tuk tuk driver, Amit, who drove me around all day for next to nothing to all of the temples,religious sights and markets. He even took me to the slums where everyone gathered around to see the real live white girl up close. A man even handed over his infant daughter for me to hold and wanted a picture. An adolescent boy also wanted a picture and begged me to have it developed so he could show his mom. He said she would never believe it. Amit had his heart broken by a Bengali girl and got really choked up when he talked about her. I told him, "Hey buddy, your preaching to the choir, I have scars all over this thing", pointing to my chest. He told me he was living his dream by being seen with a white girl. Making dreams come true is what I do but this was all too much for me so I went back to the guesthouse.
This all sounds chaotic and a bit mad and it was, but I wasn't afraid at all. If I wasn't afraid here, then I could make it through India for sure. I have heard stories that scared me to the core about getting parasite or deathly ill or dead dogs and babies floating in the Ganges. Perhaps my being raised Catholic prepared me for the worst?(Epiphany#163 The world is not scary, for I hath no fear.)