First Drive in India

It wasn't a long drive nor was it a terribly stressful one; however, I can now lay claim to having driven an automobile in India. Today, I drove home from Galleria Market. The only time my trusty Kailash ever really brings up the idea of me driving is when it's a holiday or a festival. While I'm slightly insulted, it's probably the smart move on his part since the traffic is typically light.

Dussehra, which is today's festival, is no exception. Even with the added degree of difficulty of the stoplights not working, traffic was nearly nonexistent and the drive uneventful. I honked a couple times, passed a couple auto riskshaws, turned a couple times without hitting anything, and successfully navigated my first Indian roundabout.

The most stressful part of the drive was when my pocket started to vibrate and I realized the wife was calling. I threw the phone to Kailash so he could answer (because, you know, safety first). To help alleviate the confusion caused by an Indian voice answering my phone, he said to her, "sir can't talk right now, he's busy driving home." What was she calling about? She wanted to make sure I picked up some Diet Coke at the store. If that isn't a little slice of normal middle American life, I don't know what is.

Bollywood Bash

Last night the local expat group, Gurgaon Connection, sponsored one of its frequent parties, known around these parts as a "bash." Typically, these bashes have some sort of theme (like "red" on Valentine's Day or a beach party); however, last night was the much anticipated second annual Bollywood Bash. Hosted at the Kingdom of Dreams (which is a new multi-purpose facility that is part Bollywood-infused-Broadway musical and part really nice food court) it's the one party of the year when the expats of Gurgaon don their newly purchased Indian apparel, apparel which they all convince themselves they're going to wear again at home but likely never do.

Boring (but exceeding tan for some reason) John at last year's bash

At last year's bash, I was one of very few boring people that decided against wearing Indian clothing. I couldn't have that happen again. I had planned to buy some sort of basic sherwani and wear with the turban I had purchased in Jodhpur on my birthday. However, while sari shopping for Lindsay, I stepped into a store and not ten minutes later had purchased the full bridegroom's sherwani, complete with scarf, turban, and some sort of pin with a feather in it.

Reactions were positive to my new look. Comments ranged from "you look great" to "sir, you look like you are looking for a new wife" (that last one came courtesy of my trusty driver Kailash).

Lindsay's goal this year was to make a purchase that was "wearable" for a nice wedding or function once we return home (i.e., she was one of those expats I mentioned in my opening paragraph). Only time will tell whether or not that's the case, but regardless, she looked fit for Bollywood last night. On the other hand, I'm fairly certain the only other time I will be donning my Indian wedding duds will be, at most, annually and on the last day of October.

Spider Bite?

A strange bump appeared on my calf a couple days ago. I thought maybe it was a mosquito bite. Wednesday it started to swell to the point where I searched for similar images on the internet to see if it might be something more severe. Yesterday, midway through my first meeting of the day, the pain and discomfort simply became too much. My streak of 19 months and 15 days needed to come to an end. I would finally see a doctor in India.

Having never been to the doctor I suggested to Lindsay that she come along and show me the way. Maybe I'm a wuss, maybe I just didn't have the adventurous spirit to try and figure out my way through a foreign hospital. I'm pretty sure it's mostly the wuss thing.

I've got to admit, the entire process was efficient. We walked into the front door of the hospital, explained my condition to the front desk guy (not that he was a trained medical professional), he made a phone call and got us an appointment with a general practitioner, and sent us to another desk to fill out a quick form. Once I filled out the form, we were asked to pre-pay, Rs. 100 for walking in the door and Rs. 800 for a consultation. $20 total. And that's "total"; not the co-pay, not the deductible. It was the total price for services. We were given directions to his office, waited a couple minutes, and then saw the doctor. He made a quick diagnosis, asked a few questions, answered a few questions (this is also why I brought Lindsay, she's pretty good at asking questions), and prescribed the necessary medications. After a quick stop at the pharmacy, we were out the door. I think we were back at the office in under an hour. My only complaint was that the 3 prescriptions, jar of anti-septic, and some sort of ointment were more expensive that expected. I've heard laughably low prices for drugs in this country. All of that cost just over Rs. 1000 (about $22); probably twice what I was expecting. But then again, that was the total price, not some sort of insurance subsidized amount.

After all of this, I'm sure you're wondering what the heck was wrong with me. Based on my scientific research using Google Image, my self-diagnosis was that I had a spider bite. I had even told people at the office this, including colleagues on my team, leading to a round of Spiderman jokes (from multiple sources). Mind you, I don't remember being bitten by a spider but I figured it just happened while I was sleeping. Not exactly a comforting thought, but what do I know?

The actual diagnosis? A hair follicle infection. If I felt like a wuss for dragging my wife with me, this diagnosis pretty much sealed that designation. 

A Long Rakhi Saturday in Delhi

Saturday was Rakhi, a festival meant for siblings. Since my sisters both live far, far away and didn't react terribly positive to last year's open letter explaining the festival, I didn't celebrate. Since we're good people (or like to think that), we told Kailash (our Saturday driver) that he could come at 11:30am so that he could celebrate with friends (his sister still lives in their home village near Khajuraho). Even with that late start, it seemed like a very long day.

Tying a Rakhi bracelet at Khan Market

Due to the festival, the streets were fairly empty when the day started. Much of the traffic was husbands transporting their wives to meet their brothers. You know it's a holiday when the women are dressed up. Saturday, the saris were out in full effect. Rug shopping was just the beginning. After our failed second stop, we headed for Khan Market. Somehow, regardless where we're going or what we plan to do, Lindsay finds a way to get us back to Khan Market. On the bright side, I had some items ready at the tailor so I'm now three shirts richer.

After a late afternoon snack, we went to Lagpat Nagar so Lindsay could get her hair cut and colored. Rather than talking about the color, let's just move on. While she was busy there, I headed to buy some travel magazines and decided to make a stop at India Gate since the sun was close to setting. In preparation for Independence Day, they were busy dressing up and keeping the crowds away from the monument. Much of the gate was surrounded by temporary green walls which kind of sucked; on the bright side, I now have pictures of India Gate with no people, which isn't something I thought I'd ever be able to take.

I always feel safer when the bomb disposal squad is present

A people-less India Gate

After a lengthy stop back at the salon, it was time for dinner. We decided to make our first return to one of our favorite restaurants from our 2004-2005 assignment, threesixty at the Oberoi. Not a bad little way to cap off a long day. Then on the drive home, we approached a large object in the road from behind.

Lindsay really wanted to stop, I was happy having seen it from the road. We passed it, and I made mention that she could probably could have gotten a ride. Immediately, she ordered Kailash to turn around. I put up a little bit of an argument (it had been a long day), but Kailash isn't stupid. He knows nearly as well as I do that a happy Lindsay (or a "happy ma'am," in his case) is an important aspect of life. Plus, no matter how long I live here and how many I see (and I really don't see that many), witnessing an elephant walking down the street in a city of fifteen million people is something of an event in my mind.

We stopped for pictures but an unsuspecting Lindsay had her glorious ride usurped as she posed for a snap. Still, not a bad way to end a day in Delhi.

Lindsay's loses her ride

The Rug Story I'll Tell My Grandchildren

Not unlike many other visitors to India, we're in the market for a rug. Unlike many other visitors to India, we know we're in the market. We've gone back and forth many times on whether or not we wanted to try and buy one. Ultimately, "if we're ever going to want one, now is the time to do it" seems to be winning out over "we don't think traditional looking rugs are really our style right now."

Saturday we set out to visit two places. The first, a shop recommended by a colleague located near Qutab Minar called Maharaja Arts, figures to be where we'll ultimately purchase the rug. We found one that we both agreed upon. In order to not make a rash and knee jerk reaction, there was also a second place we wanted to visit. At the American Christmas Mela in early December, Lindsay met a carpet dealer named Farooq. She had kept his card and wanted to check out what he had. Typically, he sells in some high end mall on MG Road in Delhi. A few weeks back she called to try and arrange a meeting and he was visiting family in Kashmir. He directed us to the mall, which was called the Gallery or something. There was a Versace Home store; not exactly our demographic. Instead, he told us to wait until he returned and he would take us to his warehouse.

After leaving the first store, we called for directions and headed to a neighborhood called Jangpura in Delhi, a place we had never heard but turned out to be close to Hamayun's Tomb. He wouldn't give us the exact address, told Kailash approximately where he could be found, and said he would meet us on the street to lead us to the warehouse. This didn't seem nearly as odd to us as the way I'm sure it reads.

Heading down the corridor

He lead us down an alley, turned into a narrow corridor, lead us up a set of stairs, and into a barren room filled with rugs and shawls. We took a seat, were offered a Coke (which I felt a little strange accepting since he was Muslim and this is Ramadan, but I figured it was better to accept what was offered), and they quickly began rolling out rugs.

Unfortunately, we didn't find anything that caught our eye. Or as Lindsay might tell you, "there was too much blue in all of the carpets and we don't have any blue in our house." Alas, our little known dream of purchasing a carpet from a warehouse in the back alley of a strange neighborhood in Delhi was dead. At least we have the experience. I'm sure when we're staring at whatever rug we ultimately purchase, the lasting memory will be that of Farooq's warehouse; honestly, it may even become the story I tell when I grow old.

Return to Dilli Haat

One of Lindsay's favorite market haunts during our first assignment has been relegated to the place we take our visitors. Since my sister and brother-in-law are in town, it made sense as an introduction to Indian bargaining at Dilli Haat. It's definitely not the cheapest market but the twenty rupee entry fee (which I could swear used to be ten) keeps the beggars from approaching shoppers so that the only harassment received is the playful touts that double as pashmina stall keepers.

This isn't a post about what Dilli Haat is; for that, I'd suggest you check out this well-written and informative post on one of my favorite Delhi blogs, Delhibound. This post is three short stories from yesterday's return (since we tend to only go back these days when we have visitors in town).

An Honest Man
Most of Dilli Haat's charm eminates from the ability to interact and bargain with the stall keepers. My sister and Lindsay had found some sort of elephant purse that they just "had" to have. The price started at something like Rs. 450 per purse. Lindsay, who's a huge fan of going for the volume discount (though I'm still suspect that it's actually that effective), offered Rs. 600 for two. The stall keeper's response, "What? At that price I have to give my wife 500 and I only get 100." He came around. Primarily because 600 still allowed for considerable margin; however, you have to appreciate his effort.

Sunil is Back
In 2004-2005, we went to Dilli Haat most weekends we were in Dehli. We were young, impressionable, and it seemed like the "real" India, which it may have been when you live at the Taj Palace. Since we were there so often, we came to know some of the regular vendors. Our favorite, Sunil, ran an art stall primarily with Rajisthani-inspired pieces. I have no idea the quality of his goods, but he was fun to talk to so we tended to purchase from him when looking for basic gifts for people from home. Yesterday, Lindsay was lead from one stall (where she had purchased a fair amount of hand-painted paper mache stuff) to the art stall, who was a good friend of the paper mache guy. The paper mache guy tried to introduce Lindsay; however, the art guy immediately interrupted and said, "She is a very old customers." It was Sunil. Lindsay, seemed surprised that he remembered her and even posted that on Facebook. Our friend Mohammed, who was part of our 2004-2005 crew immediately responded, "Of course he remembered you, you put his kids through engineering school."

Lindsay and Sunil; just like old times.

Regardless, it's always good to see a familiar face.

My Sister Can't Bargain
Perhaps I take the whole bargaining thing for granted. Lindsay bought prescription sunglasses last week and without a thought, I immediately started to haggle. Why? Because anything is possible. I tend to forget that's not the way it necessarily works in my homeland. My sister, who is in India for the first time, served a great reminder of this. I also learned that she's a horrendous bargainer. First she pulled the "counteroffer with a higher bid than the opening price" routine that I've only seen used once before. By my wife. Which also doubles as the first story I still anyone about bargaining as the obvious number one "what not to do."

This look doesn't inspire bargaining confidence

Seeing this, I kept her away from the stall keepers most of the rest of the day. That is, until it was time for her to buy a piece of art right before leaving. I figured it was just a part of being in India that anyone needs to experience. The stall keeper was doing everything he could to confuse her (i.e., prices with and without frames, prices for different sizes, etc.) even though she was pretty locked in a specific item. Even so, as soon as she made it clear what she was wanted, she asked "How much?" (usually a pretty good first step). He provided his response. She froze. Like a deer in headlights. She turned back to the rest of us, still frozen otherwise. A couple seconds passed. I felt like a manager on the mound, making a call to the bullpen and said, "Lindsay, why don't you go take care of this." Of course, little did I know that "Lindsay taking care of it" included her buying a piece for us, you know, because strategy involves the volume discount.

My First Cricket Match

A few days before returning to India I received a note from friends indicating that they were planning to attend the Delhi Daredevils' season finale and wanted to know if we wanted in. The Daredevils are Delhi's representation in cricket's Indian Premiere League (IPL). Even though we returned from the US just a day before, "attend a cricket match" was on the India "to do" list. It seemed an opportune time to take them up on the offer and finally get to a match. Plus, I wasn't sure there'd be many more opportunities.

IPL is a more "commerical" variety of cricket and lasts for 20 overs (which typically takes about three hours to complete). This format is much more viewer-friendly than the longer 50 over format of One Day Internationals (ODI) favored by the latest world cup won by India and much, much more viewer-friendly than the five day test matches favored by the staunchest cricket traditionalists. Having only basic understanding of the rules and having watched only a few ODI's, I can say that the 20/20 version seems fast, hurried, and a little too full of offense. I can understand where people that grew up watching the game might not like the format. ESPN published this article titled "Why You Should Care About Cricket" and I recently heard the author, Wright Thompson, on one of Bill Simmons' podcasts basically pose the question, "how would you feel if the NFL suddenly decided to shorten their games to fifteen minutes?" You get the point.

Having not checked the standings, I didn't realize tonight's game between Delhi and the Pune Warriors of India was actually a battle to see who wouldn't finish in last place in the league. Unlike soccer's English Premier League (EPL) where the lowest finishers are sent to a lower league, there is no risk of relegation in the IPL, which would have made the stakes higher than just playing for the pride of not finishing last.

Not cheap, even by American ticket standards, I was surprised that our Rs. 1750 (around $40) entrance only granted access to a general admission section in the northwest stands of the Feroz Shah Kotla cricket grounds. We arrived just as the match started and couldn't find seats (at least with a view) on the ground level. We were told there were seats in the upper deck, so we climbed to the top of the stadium and found a fairly empty section. The only down side was that we couldn't see the entire boundary (this is a little like when you're at a baseball game and can't see the entire outfield from your seat). The only other ticket options were Rs. 17,500 or Rs. 25,000. Do the math based on the conversion rate implied by my Rs. 1750 ticket and you can understand why we went with the general admission option.

The stadium was dressed up for the IPL though still wasn't in the best condition. I remarked to the wife upon leaving, "the stadium was kind of a piece of shit." She was more diplomatic, saying it was probably as nice as most minor league baseball stadiums (though in the 10+ years I've known her I've never known her to attend minor league baseball so I wasn't exactly sure what prompted the comparison). Regardless, it had a field, it had seats, so there's really not too much to complain about seeing as how it was my first live sporting event in India (at least the first one that required a ticket).

The stadium aesthetics notwithstanding, the atmosphere within was extremely festive and, not surprisingly, the crowd was pro-Delhi. Even with the pro-Delhi sentiment, I get the general sense with the IPL that people follow the players more than the teams. After all, it's a made-for-TV two-month season and only in its fourth year of existence. It's a great way for cricket's stars to get a little more visibility and also earn a little extra money (the best cricketers make a lot of money; however, cricket isn't nearly as monetized as other sports so outside the Sachin Tendulkar's and MS Dhoni's of the world, you don't see nearly as many astronomical salaries as you might in the EPL or many of America's major sports leagues). Much like other sporting events, there were cheerleaders that would dance on platforms between overs and when boundaries were scored. There was also advertising on the field. The coolest part of the on-field advertising is that it's stretched in real-life so that it appears correctly based on the angle of the camera on television. In other words, the Citibank logo was much taller and skinnier in person than it appears to the average television viewer. I wish I had gotten a decent picture, but being a little too much of a rule follower, I took the "no cameras allowed" notice a little too seriously. Very few others did.

About midway through the Daredevils innings (i.e., their set of 20 overs), it started to sprinkle. This wasn't that surprising since it was pouring down rain as we left Gurgaon to head to the match. What was surprising was that I, even though I knew it was pouring earlier, though enough to bring a rain coat yet still decide to leave it in the car. With sprinkles, not such a big deal. With the showers that followed, not so bright. Thankfully, there was enough cover for those that wanted it. However, since much of the stadium was general admission, as soon as the rain would slow, the masses would race down for the best seats. As soon as the rain came back, they'd vacate as quickly as they had left.

After 45 minutes of waiting out the rain entertained by those fans dancing in the rain with the Indian shoulder bob (it's one of sports greatest celebratory dances, famous round the world, or at least famous in countries where cricket is played), we decided to call it quits. The rain was slowing but the flashes of lightning made sitting in a grandstand, even though it was primarily concrete, not the best of ideas. At least we had seen a little bit of action but, as our friend Jay pointed out, even if it stopped raining we were probably another hour away from seeing any additional action. As a result, we made our way for the exit turnstiles. Since we were leaving before the game was official, we were forced to show our tickets, which seemed a slow process to exit the stadium and a process you'd hope they would abandon in the event of an emergency.

On the bright side, we made the right decision. Shortly after leaving, the match was called on account of the weather and we were able to quickly move away from the stadium. On the down side, since there was no result, I now live in a region forced to lay claim to the IPL's cellar dwelling franchise.

The Staycation

When you can't get away for a short vacation, why not bring the short vacation to you? This was the theory behind our activity on Saturday. After a quick trip to the gym and a brief visit to the jeweler at Connaught Place (Mom, it's a good news/bad news kind of thing, your ring was ready but the earrings may or may not have been sold), we headed back to Gurgaon for a night "away".

Lindsay had wanted to get out of town for a couple nights to relax prior to our annual home leave in May, but for a number of reasons, we just couldn't find a weekend that worked. We could, however, find one night that worked. Thankfully, we have an addiction to Sunday brunch. This addiction lead us to join a "club" at one of the local hotels for discounts which in turn earned us a complimentary night's stay. Thus, the "staycation" was born. Even though it's primarily "just" a business hotel, there are certainly far worse places to spend a night than The Leela in Gurgaon.

What does one do on a staycation? Pretty much act like you're on vacation. A couple mindless hours by the pool where I switched my reading from "Escape From the Land of Snows" (an excellent read about the Dalai Lama's escape to India) to Tina Fey's "Bossypants" because, you know, it's vacation. The pool was followed by a pre-dinner drink and the best Italian food I've had in India. Sunday morning consisted of room service, a massage, and a late check-out. Not a bad way to spend twenty four hours.

The Leela is the first prominent landmark you see when passing through the tollbooth from Delhi. It's not located in what you would think is a very "vacation-y" location. I mean, it's adjacent to Gurgaon's largest mall. Strangely they did an amazing job of designing the hotel around the location.

The Italian restaurant Zanotta is a prime example. It's perched on the six floor overlooking none other than the same allegedly corrupt toll booth I complained about on the way to the hotel. But here's the thing, overlooking a toll booth that is 30 lanes wide at night is actually quite interesting. On the left side, a series of red brake lights; on the right side, a series of headlights emerging from the toll booth. On both side, cars and motorcycles swerving to select the best lane. Mesmerizing and oddly relaxing.

With a trip home in nine short days and what will be a long and hectic day trip to Amritsar this coming Saturday, the staycation achieved its primary objective. And while I'm sure our drivers found it a little odd and ridiculous (probably even more ridiculous than those reading this post), the staycation proved you don't need a flight and multiple days to get away.

Surviving Palika Bazaar

There are very few reasons at this stage in my life I have the need to go to Palika Bazaar, which is a market located beneath Connaught Place in the center of Delhi. However, when I decided I'd try to buy cricket jerseys for my buddies as a novelty gift for an upcoming trip to BBQ Fest in Memphis while home in May, fake cricket jerseys seemed the way to go. The loose translation of "fake" in Hindi is Palika (note, that is not even close to an accurate translation); however, the irony isn't lost that the place where you go in Delhi to buy fake anything is literally located underground.

Palika is dark, smoky, crowded, and could probably be described as seedy. I've often said that Palika Bazaar is a CNN Breaking News headline waiting to happen, which is to say it's only a matter of time before you see a yellow banner on CNN with the headline, "Fire in Delhi's underground Palika Bazaar, 419 killed, thousands injured". Of course, I first said this over six years ago and it still hasn't happened, so as usual, I've proven to be an idiot.Regardless, I don't make a practice of going there too often. It's the risk averse side of me.

After a surprisingly thorough security check where they very deliberately checked the back of my waistband for a firearm (again, not a great sign if they're checking security that closely), I descended the ramp and was immediately assualted by merchants trying to sell me jeans, belts, t-shirts, jerseys, DVD's, whatever. If you want it and it's been copied, Palika Bazaar has it.

Thankfully, the first row of shops I wandered upon was primarily textile based. I was looking for cricket jerseys but had three criteria: (1) they had to be DLF Indian Premier League jerseys, (2) I didn't want more than one jersey from any team, and (3) they needed to be large enough to fit 9 different average to above average sized Americans. With India's world cup victory and the IPL season kicking off the day before, the first criteria wasn't tough to meet. Finding nine different teams proved to be a little more of a challenge. Chennai Super King and Mumbai Indian jerseys were everywhere; beyond that it got more difficult. When you combine the second and third criteria, the task became near impossible. Shirts that fit six foot tall people that weigh around 200 pounds don't seem to be the target item at Palika.

I found one place that claimed to have nine shirts in the appropriate size, but they wouldn't actually produce the goods wouldn't come down enough in price to make it worthwhile. Had I had the patience to actually purchase from six or seven different vendors, there's a chance I could have pieced together what I wanted; however, after breathing the recirculated, underground air long enough, it was time to hit the surface. Palika is a lot like scuba diving, there's a finite time you can spend in the water. Unfortunately, my expedition was a failure. I'll need to find some other cheap Indian novelty to entertain an easily entertained group of American idiots in May. And yes, I'm one of those idiots.

PAN Card Privileges

If you pay taxes in India, you have a personal account number card, which is better and more commonly known as a PAN card. It's basically a social security number to make sure you pay those taxes. With the PAN card come certain privileges, like discounts into certain monuments and sites where they have tiered pricing for foreigners and locals.

Even with my Dad's name on the card, he still paid the foreigner price

After lunch on Saturday when Lindsay had planned to guide my mother through the alleys and boutiques of Khan Market, I was finally able to take a pass and was able to visit one of Delhi's nearby sites, Safdarjung's Tomb, with my Dad. The entrance fee to this monument is Rs. 100 (approximately $2.25) for foreigner's and Rs. 5 for ($0.11) for nationals and residents. I approached the booking office and asked for two tickets. I was told, "200 rupees". I paused, whipped out my PAN card, and the price quickly reduced to Rs. 105. Of course, when I handed the guy Rs. 110 he didn't have change but I still felt the sweet smell of a small victory. He said I could have my change when I exited the tomb, but he and I both knew he wasn't expecting me to come back to the window for my 5 rupees.

After we entered the grounds, I needed to use the restroom. I found the sign to the toilet and noticed it would cost Rs. 2. The price seemed reasonable so I made a quick visit, exited, and was soon approached by the attendant. I handed him a twenty note and he made change with a 10. Not exactly the price I had expected. As a proud card carrying member of the residents of India, I had no intention of paying 10 rupees to use the restroom. He was still holding my 20 in his hand, so I snatched it back and handed over his 10. He responded, "Two rupees." I simply said, "Then give me change". Begrudgingly, he stuffed his hand in his pocket, fished around, and magically found an additional eight rupees in coins. I happily accepted another small victory.

Safdarjung Tomb, one of Delhi's youngest Mughal tombs

While walking around the tomb, which is a nice little site in Delhi and worth a quick visit if you have some extra time during the day, a friendly security guard approached and started telling us the history of the monument. Shockingly, he was a real security guard and wasn't looking for a tip. He was, however, looking for our ticket stubs. We weren't handed stubs. Having no other proof that we belonged where we were, I pulled out my PAN card and said, "I don't have a ticket stub, but I do have one of these." He flashed me a quick smile, nodded, and let me pass.

Yep, the PAN card has some privileges.

The Glory of Sharma Farm

Thankfully (at least from Lindsay's perspective), we have a shipping container allowance as part of our assignment package. As a result, gone are the days of shopping limited to smaller and more reasonable items like pashminas, wood elephants, and tailored clothing. Enter the days where we can focus our purchasing pursuits on larger items. Larger items, as in, furniture.

At one of the first functions where we met other expats, Lindsay learned of a glorious place where others had been able to find and have restored unique pieces of furniture. Those other expats regaled her with stories of large restored Buddha heads and one-of-a-kind end tables. The name of that place is Sharma Farms.

Unassuming signage can barely contain the glory within.

For some inexplicable reason, it took Lindsay over a year to make the trip to Chhatarpur in south Delhi to the hallowed grounds of Sharma Farm. That didn't stop her from reminding me nearly every weekend that she couldn't wait to go. I wasn't stopping her from going. In fact, with the constant reminders I was almost trying to convince her to go so I wouldn't have to worry about it. My biggest concern that she had built the place up as some sort of bizzaro world furniture utopia. Thankfully, after her first visit while her Mom was here, she walked away impressed. Surprisingly, she walked away with only two smaller orders, a small red end table and a large framed mirror.

Last weekend, I tagged along as she wanted to go back. From what I can tell, the concept of Sharma Farms fairly simple. Walk the aisles, hope to find something that you could picture being restored, and have them restore it to your liking. The first and third pieces of that concept seem easy enough to execute. It's the second part that, upon seeing the glory of Sharma Farms, can be a little intimidating. While walking the aisles I was feeling neither inspired nor imaginative so that second piece was extremely difficult. To add to the intimidation factor, the place is large. I'm not a great estimator of acreage, but suffice to say there are sections after sections stacked high with discarded furniture. I'd be surprised if they knew their inventory.

Piles...

....and piles....

....and even a piano.

It's an odd retail establishment. There aren't price tags and there are very few salespeople walking around. They basically give their customers free reign of the premises and then you go back to the office when you find something you like. Scattered throughout the grounds are carpenters working to restore selected items. It's a little like walking around a working wood shop piled high with pieces and pieces of furniture.

When asked to describe our home in the U.S., I often tell people that it looks like Pottery Barn has gone to war with Asia. Something tells me that by the end of this assignment, thanks to places like Sharma Farms, Asia will finally claim victory in that war. Though in the spirit of full disclosure, close replications of all the items we've selected can likely be found at your local Pottery Barn.

Restoration in action

Unfortunately, no place in our house for a 30 foot canoe

Easily the largest selection of restored wooden horses I've ever seen

Missing Ralph Lauren

When most people think of polo, they likely don't think of India. I know I didn't. However, upon closer inspection (confirmed by a short trip to Wikipedia), the modern variant of the game was actually born in this fine country. In fact, the extent of my polo knowledge prior to Saturday was that (1) there's a fairly high barrier of entry into the game (i.e., it takes a LOT of money), (2) Julia Roberts attended a polo match without knowing the proper etiquette in Pretty Woman, (3) you have to play with your right hand, which as a left-hander always seemed a little discriminatory, and (4) Ralph Lauren has exploited the purported lifestyle associated with the sport to countless riches.

Needless to say, when my boss suggested an informal leadership team activity to Saturday's polo match in Delhi, I was looking forward to a new experience where I might be able to extend this admittedly limited knowledge.

Army Polo and Riding Club, New Delhi

The locale for Saturday's match changed from the expected Jaipur Polo Grounds (which even with a name like that is located in Delhi) to grounds near the Delhi Cantonment at a place called Nicholson Ranges. Apparently, there was a big match at the Jaipur Grounds on Sunday and they were trying to save wear and tear on the field.

The rules of polo are fairly simple. There are four chukkers (basically a period, it's the Hindi word for "round") of seven minutes. The clock stops for penalties and horse changes. Teams are handicapped based on past performance (I asked my boss if there was any wagering involved based on the handicap system; he looked at me a little quizzically and then suggested we start a new business) and the team with the most goals wins.

The referee looks for a second opinion. I'm sure the suspense is killing you. (It counted.)

It's a rough game and each player has upwards of six polo ponies that they swap out at least every chukker. The horses, which I'm sure are well cared for, get absolutely exhausted while playing, and it's not uncommon to see sweat pouring from their necks. My boss, who knows a thing or two about the game, claimed that the outcome is based approximately 60% on the player and 40% on the horse, so the horse has a significant impact on the outcome of the match. The last thing about the actual ponies is that they were far smaller and shorter than I expected. Upon further reflection, it makes sense based on the agility required from the animals to quickly change direction. I was surprised, however, when looking back at my pictures at the relative size of the players to the horses. Granted, the players aren't jockey-sized, but the horses aren't exactly thoroughbred-sized either.

Probably a little tough to hit the ball from that position.

The field is huge, upwards of 300 yards in length, so if the action isn't near you, it can be difficult to keep your attention; however, when the players come near, it's an impressive set of sights and sounds, including the colors of the jerseys and the stampeding hooves chasing after the ball. It's a rough game. It's also a wonder more players and ponies are seriously injured during the game. I'm shocked more players don't come into contact with the wildly swinging mallets. Of course, those mallets may just seem to be wildly swinging to a new viewer.

Speaking of wildly swinging mallets, check out the guy in the middle.

Outside of watching the match, it provides a great photography opportunity. Even if most of the 200+ shots I took basically look the same, it's an incredibly cool sport to capture on film (or, more accurately, a digital memory card) and helps provide a little additional entertainment to someone that only loosely understands what is taking place.

Transporting polo ponies. Pretty much like any other transport service in India.

The match was one of my favorite new and (what really makes it cool) unexpected experiences in India. As usual, it's a country that never ceases to surprise.

The Laundry Casualty

Since I'm a reasonably fit person, I typically choose to walk the seven minutes it takes to get from my office to the apartment. So when the wife called this evening and asked if I needed a ride home, I told her without a thought that she could go ahead and release the driver.

After my last meeting, I texted Lindsay to let her know I was on my way home. Two minutes later I was set to walk out the door but was greeted by an unseasonable monsoon-ish downpour. This is my third February in the Delhi area. It's the first time I've seen it rain at this time of year. As you might imagine, I wasn't expecting to wait out a heavy downpour before beginning my walk home, but wait it out I was forced to do. I thought I might have left a rain coat in my office so went back upstairs to check. I hadn't. However, when I got back downstairs the rain had decreased in intensity from torrential downpour (which I'm sure flooded streets in Gurgaon) to mild rain shower. Not knowing when it would stop for good, I decided to start my seven minute walk.

The walk itself was incident free. After arriving at home, I was welcomed by Lindsay. She asked, not knowing that the rain had slowed, "How did you get home?" I explained and she responded meekly, "Well, we've had a casualty from the storm. A laundry casualty."

Like most people in India, we don't have a clothes dryer so we hang dry. When you first move here you think it's the biggest inconvenience but the reality is that you just get used to it and plan your laundry needs accordingly. In other words, there's a two day minimum cycle to get items washed, dried, and folded. That cycle can easily extend in the cold winter months. Seeing as how my interaction with the laundry is limited to putting it in a laundry basket when dirty and putting away when folded, it's tough to complain about the extended lead time.

Last night Lindsay had decided to hang the laundry (I'm still not sure why she was doing it but maybe since her Mom is here she wanted to show that we still can occasionally do domestic things; in the spirit of full disclosure, I actually cooked breakfast on Saturday). We hang the laundry on the guest room patio where her Mom is staying. Her Mom, still adjusting somewhat to the time, went to bed early, was awakened by the storm, and heard something on the patio. She and Lindsay checked what was going on and Lindsay noticed an item was missing. My favorite pair of jeans. Thus the laundry casualty.

We live on the first floor (the Indian/British first floor, which is the second floor in America; by the way, I've converted to the Indian way, it makes much more sense, just trust me) so it wasn't a long fall. Lindsay decided she'd go outside in the storm to try and find them. She was soaked immediately and had no luck.

So when I was greeted at the door with the news that my jeans had flown overboard, I grimly changed clothes, grabbed a flashlight (thanks to my friend O'Neill for the going-away gift), and started my search. The guards looked at me a little strange and I all I could do was hope my downstairs neighbors didn't see me snooping around their property in search of a soaked pair of jeans that I had purchased at a Turkish outlet store. After a few minutes without luck, thinking that the jeans had been blown off the deck and hadn't fallen directly down, I flashed the light on my neighbors patio directly below mine. There, sitting in a jumbled blue mess, were my beloved jeans. I quickly turned my light out, trespassed, and grabbed my pants.

I'm not sure there's really a lesson to what's probably the longest story you've ever read about missing laundry; however, if you're ever driving around see people's laundry hanging from their patios, rest assured that the answer to the thought rolling around your head ("I wonder if it ever blows off the drying rack?") is "yep, sure does".

A Lesson Learned

When last night blended into this morning, I learned a valuable lesson about picking people up from the airport: always check the most recent email with flight arrival information.

On Tuesday night, as a blizzard blanketed Chicago, we received an email (as expected) that Lindsay's Mom's flight was canceled and that she was being rebooked for a later day. She included a new itinerary that included a stop in London before boarding an Air India flight set to land at 3:20am Saturday. Very few flights from Europe arrive in India at a convenient time so the hour wasn't unexpected and we planned to sleep a few hours before heading to the airport at 3:00am to welcome her.

On Friday morning, we received an email from Lindsay's Dad saying that Mary Jean was at the gate in Chicago. I skimmed that piece, figured all was well, and didn't think twice. The part I missed was the flight details indicating that she was now on a British Airways flight arriving in Delhi at 4:55am. In my defense, I later learned that Lindsay hadn't even opened the email, but to be honest I'm not sure which is worse.

And so we left our apartment for the airport at 3:00am, arrived at 3:27am, which was only notable because that was the exact time listed for arrival on the Air India website for the original question. Lindsay, nervous with excitement, hurriedly walked to get to the terminal so we wouldn't be late (even though I, remaining calm as usual, knew there was very little chance a flight arriving at 3:27am would process passengers through customs and baggage claim before 4:00am - I reminded her of this later, as you might have guessed). At the arrivals hall, you actually have to buy a ticket for Rs. 80 to get inside. We paid and then quickly walked the wrong direction (we're typically on the "getting picked up" side of this situation) before being redirected, the stress level rising the entire time.

Anxiously chipper at 3:35am

Finally we arrived where every person arriving on an international flight in Delhi clears customs. I checked the flight board, the flight had arrived, and I thought it would just be a short wait. But then we waited. And waited. And waited. I started stalking checked baggage tags and realized that flights that had landed 40 minutes after the Air India flight we were waiting for were spitting passengers out of customs. Finally, we decided to call her cell phone, figuring if anything were wrong she'd probably have it turned on. It wasn't. The next step was to call Lindsay's Dad to see if he had heard anything. He hadn't. Thankfully, Lindsay mentioned we were considering calling the airline to see if we could find out if she had checked into the flight (though I'm not even sure they would give out that information). He seemed surprised that we would call Air India when she was flying British Airways. Finally, a light bulb illuminated above our heads.

At this point, it was 5:15am, twenty minutes after it was supposed to arrive. I went to the arrivals board, and found the flight. Of course, it was the one flight with a blank spot indicating whether it had landed and if not what the expected time was. Seconds later, a word appeared: "Landed". Finally our wait was over. Or so we thought. Technically, it was over an hour later when her Mom finally emerged through customs with a carry-for herself and two suitcases containing 100 pounds of goods for us to restock our imported American wares.

Deliriously excited at 6:15am

Lesson learned; next time I'll read the entire message regarding flight information. While Terminal 3 is a much more welcoming place than the old terminal, landing in India after twenty or so hours or travel can be a little discombobulating. On the bright side, at least we were two hours early and not two hours late. Of course, I never thought I'd have a three hour wait at an airport for a flight that was on time and basically give myself jet lag in the process.

Finally able to pause for a photo on the world's longest walk to a parking structure

Visitor Season Opens

Visitor season officially kicked off an hour ago when Lindsay's Mom departed Chicago on her flight bound for Delhi. With the snowstorm that dumped nearly two feet on Chicago earlier in the week, she ended up getting delayed by a day and a quarter. The extra quarter day is because she wasn't given the direct on American in the rebooking process and now has to go through London and ends up arriving at 3:30am rather than 9:00pm. I won't even complain about the arrival time because I'm guessing it's a lot worse for her than for us.

While late, the important part is that she's on her way. We've instructed her to sleep as much as humanly possible, especially on her second leg, and that we'd just make a very early day of Saturday. I hope that strategy works, but we'll wait and see. The body does strange things when you move 11.5 time zones. The extra half hour is so that even time zones can be confusing here.

The good news is that she visited us in India for Christmas 2004 so there aren't a lot of must-see items on her list. She's seen the primary sights of Delhi and northern India (including the Taj). The objective of her trip is to spend time with us and see how we live.

Easy enough.

Khan Market? Why not. Brunch? Absolutely. Hauz Khas? Wouldn't miss it. Gurgaon Connection Bash? Yes, please. Brunch again? You betcha.

The one bit of travel we have planned is back to Neemrana for one night at the fort palace. It gives a great introduction to Rajasthani forts and culture, is close to Delhi, and is a peaceful place to spend a day. Plus, there's a zipline, so if the serenity gets to me too much, I can always hurl myself across a wire for an hour or two.

Selfishly, one of the things I'm looking forward to the most about her trip is that Lindsay is taking her to Sharma Farms on Monday. For those of you who don't know what Sharma Farms is (which I'm going to presume is most of you), it's been described as a big furniture graveyard where expats and others go to pick out old junk furniture and have it refurbished to look like it's simply old furniture. I say "it's been described" because Lindsay has never been. Yet at least once per weekend she makes reference about how excited she is to go there. We've been here for approximately 56 weekends. Suffice to say that I've heard about the glory of Sharma Farms well more than 56 times (mind you, this "glory" is entirely based on second-hand accounts; I worry it will be the biggest let down since new Coke). If Sharma Farms even comes close to meetings expectations, I'm pretty sure the wife will be making her second guest blogger appearance.

Regardless, it's one more day of work, hopefully a little sleep, and then a quick trip to the airport to welcome our first family visitor to share this (relatively speaking) crazy life of our's.

Shameless Plug

On Saturday, we made a trip to Connaught Place. The primary reason for that trip was a shopping date to start looking for the wife's birthday present. However, before the shopping commenced we made a quick stop for lunch at Knight, a world cuisine lounge by Castle 9 located next to the PVR Cinemas in B Block. In the spirit of full disclosure, it's a restaurant owned by a colleague's husband. You'll probably think I'm biased, but the food is excellent. I had been there before for a work function but decided to take advantage of its proximity to the weekend shopping and take Lindsay. The menu is varied with Indian, Chinese, Mediterranean, and Continental selections. However, we both felt more in a traditional lunch mood and got burgers. Lindsay's made of chicken, mine of lamb. Delicious.

Outside Knight and Castle 9 at Connaught Place

In my opinion what makes the place special though isn't the food, it's the view. It's located on the first level (the level above the ground floor) in a building that doesn't look like the traditional Connaught Place small-windowed building. The restaurant has huge windows that look down onto the street. As a result, if you're fortunate enough to get a window seat, you're primed for perfect people watching from the comfort of a great restaurant.

Unfortunately, there's temporary road construction going on in front of the building, so there were fewer than normal people upon which to gawk. We were, however, treated to two men building an inexplicable eight foot square structure that was two bricks high. I have no idea what it's going to be, but it's nowhere near square to the sidewalk and, based on the string they were measuring with, wasn't perfectly square. The look of bewilderment on the mason's face upon this realization was well worth any shortage of foot traffic for the meal.

I'm not sure what the deal is, and this probably needs its own post at some point in the future, but when you google the name of a restaurant in Delhi, you typically get pages and pages of reviews but rarely get an actual homepage to learn basic things about the establishment like its location. When you google Castle 9, the first link is:

http://www.castle9.com/

Refreshingly simple.

Mehndi and Cocktails

Indian weddings are known for their their sheer size. When the American co-workers of the groom's brother are invited, you start to get a sense of how quickly the invite list can get out of control, at least from the perspective of someone that invited around 180 people to his own wedding.

While we're likely not able to make the actual wedding (the groom on a white horse, the drums, the procession), we were able to attend the night-before-the-wedding Mehndi and Cocktail Party hosted by our co-worker. The invite stated a 7:30pm start time. Lindsay asked what time was appropriate to show up and was told 8:00pm. Having heard the wedding was "right next to Gurgaon", we decided we'd leave the comfortable confines of our apartment at 8:00pm just to make sure we weren't too early. Ten minutes prior to departure I googled the location. Surprisingly, the address pointed to a locale in Delhi northwest of the airport in a neighborhood called Kirti Nagar (Marble Market). While technically still "right next to Gurgaon" as any address in Delhi could accurately be described based on the two cities being adjacent, this place was at least an hour away.

As usual, our trusty driver Kailash knew the neighborhood and forty-five minutes later we entered Kirti Nagar (so he drives a little quick; he knows where he's going which counts for a LOT). After stopping once for directions, we arrived at the venue an hour and a half after the printed start time but still on the earlier side of the guests.

This was a wedding function like no other we had been to India. This was a smaller pre-wedding night cocktail party for the groom's side. The bride, Lindsay was disappointed to learn soon after arrival, would not be part of the festivities thus enhancing her point of view that the Indian wedding is all about the groom. I don't think she's wrong.

There was one mehndi artist decorating the arms and hands of the female party guests. As the lone white woman, Lindsay was quickly ushered over by our host. Her only prior mehndi or henna experience came in 2005 after an exhausting day of stall shopping at Dilli Haat when she finally succombed to the relentless henna hawkers located near the entrance. This time seemed just a tad more intimate and authentic. She only had her left hand done; however, even that effectively turns a person into a temporary amputee as they are unable to use the impacted appendage until the ink dries.

Lindsay's mehndi makes the party video footage

As a result, I became the drink fetcher and had to find someplace for her purse (thankfully, we're fairly certain one of our other co-workers had been assigned to keep us comfortable for the evening and his wife took care of the purse on my behalf).

With any Indian party, there is music. There is also dancing. I've found the key to the dancing part to look like you're enjoying yourself watching the dancing without looking like you're enjoying it so much that you actually want to join the dancing. This strategy typically works for the first twenty to thirty minutes. At that point, others (who, mind you, aren't even dancing themselves) start to lightly pester you about getting out on the dance floor. At that point, Lindsay has typically joined the dancing so I'm able to make up some quick quip about how she's representing my interests on the dance floor. This works for approximately three to five minutes. At that point, I get pulled to the dance floor (usually by a person of authority like the host, my boss, whatever) and become the source of entertainment for a song or two. Actually, I don't think people really care what I dance like (and it's not good), but it's probably more disrespectful to not dance at all than to dance like a complete fool.

While we still need to make our way back to a traditional wedding ceremony (we've been to two previously but none in the past year), the mehndi party was a fun, new, and memorable experience; even if I was forced to show my dance moves. In my defense, I was told last night that I nearly have the Punjabi finger point move mastered.

Roadside Flowers

For months I've ridden past the small stalls and shops that line most of the streets in Gurgaon from the relative comfort of the backseat of my Honda City. In our part of town, barbers, fruit stalls, key makers, and florists seem to make up the bulk of commerce. Intrigued by the idea of a roadside haircut yet fearful of the impact of getting knicked by a stray blade, having found other means to acquire fresh fruit, and having a full supply of the necessary keys, my most logical entrance into the roadside economy was the florist.

Traditional view of roadside florist from the backseat of speeding car

On the way home from, interestingly enough, a haircut over the weekend, I asked my trusty driver Kailash, "Kailash, where would we go to buy flowers for ma'am?" He thought for a second, went straight past the apartment, took a U-turn at the golf course, and stopped the car at the closest possible shop. Unfortunately, the flowers were there but the florist was nowhere to be seen. Strike one. Kailash thought again and headed toward Super Mart-I to the stall set up on the main road just outside the shopping center. He parked on the road and we both approached to check out what was being offered (I wanted to participate to some extent but figured the pricing structure might be a little different if Kailash negotiated; though I'm sure his ability was somewhat limited when flanked by a tall, goofy white dude).

Kailash quickly learned the stems I liked were offered at INR 12 per (around $0.25). Seemed fair enough so we told the guy to start a bundle. A few minutes later he had prepared a bouquet, complete with ribbon tied around the stems. The full price? INR 150.

$3 bouquet next to our Christmas decoration

The lesson learned? For a little over three bucks, I can get a legitimately nice bouquet of flowers to take home for the wife. I have no idea why it's taken me this long to realize this fact.

America's Finest Casual Dining: Chili's

What better way to bookend Thanksgiving weekend than with a traditional Thanksgiving feast on the front end and a trip to India's latest foray into casual American dining on the back end? Early last week we learned that Chili's had finally followed the lead of other casual dining establishments and opened it's first outlet in India last Wednesday. The restaurant, which we had thought opened months ago (apparently the sign on the mall indicated that it was "coming soon"), is located at Ambience Mall in Vasant Kunj in Delhi (not the Ambience Mall in Gurgaon).

Compared to other chains I've been to in India, most notably TGI Friday's (yep, they're here too, it's nice to see American companies trying to spread the obesity epidemic), the food was not only much better but a much closer representation to the actual American version. Had the power not gone out on multiple occasions (again, not out of the ordinary here), we could have just as easily been sitting in a Chili's in Schaumburg as we were in Delhi. Of course, I have an extreme dislike for all things Schaumburg, so that scenario would have likely never happened.

As we exited the restaurant, we were stopped by the franchisee for a quick conversation and asked for feedback. Upon sharing, we learned his goal was to make Chili's the destination stop in India for beef burgers. Kind of an odd goal, given the obvious market constraints, but then again, not something I had heard from any other establishment, so it's quite possible he's meeting an otherwise unmet need.

While the food (and the burger I had, for that matter) that we consumed was actually very good, the restaurant was having a few start-up issues, which you might expect from a five day old establishment. The staff seemed trained, but trained in a way that made you think they were following a script from which they weren't allowed to deviate. Having learned that many of the food items were packaged and shipped directly from the U.S., we were surprised to find that the queso dip had no cheese, which the last I had checked was a fairly important ingredient in the dish (it was all beans). When asked about the mix-up, we were told, "of course, this is queso, it was shipped directly from the U.S." There were some other order screw-ups: bone-in wings instead of boneless and getting chili cheese fries instead of plain cheese fries (as you can tell, between Lindsay, our friend Kristin, and I, we were healthily sampling the menu); however, these ordering issues could easily be fixed by having the wait staff not kneel below table height when trying to awkwardly take an order (which, based on the number of orders I saw taken was more a trained method rather than personal preference).

To the restaurant's credit, after disputing the queso charge on the bill (I wasn't about to pay queso prices for the salsa they replaced the bean dip with) they actually removed all of the screwed up items from the bill, which was unexpected but appreciated (it certainly impacted the tone of this post). The service certainly needs work (I didn't even get into the confusion between the numerous people working tables and the shared looks we had with other tables) and I can't see myself making a special trip into Delhi just to go to Chili's, but I'd go back after a couple months if I happened to be in the area and wanted a little comfort food.

With Thanksgiving, a trip to Chili's, an expat party on Friday night, and a drink at the Hard Rock Cafe on Saturday, it's safe to say I had more than my share of Western culture over the weekend. Sounds about time to get experiencing something a little more Indian, though this weekend includes a trip to a German Christmas Mela, so at least I'll be experiencing a displaced European culture rather than a displaced American one.

Airtel Delhi Half Marathon, The Next Day

Maybe the previous post about my triumphant finish in Sunday's half marathon was premature. Sure, even with a less than stellar training plan, I was able to finish. The lesson I learned was that one can be in decent physical condition and still finish running the requisite 13.1 miles. However, the other lesson I learned was that without the body being used to running longer distances, the reaction of that body to running 13.1 miles might not be what one would hope.

Nothing against the elderly, but today I feel like a ninety year old man.

My hips are sore, my legs feel like Jell-O, and I had to steady myself more than once when walking to the restroom from my desk. It's a little humbling to go from the extreme of vigorous human being, conqueror of a long distance run, to pathetic specimen, barely able to move about a room.

I had made a lot of progress before my October trip home and was in a good, healthy habit of going to the gym on a very regular basis. I knew I had regressed and hoped this half marathon was the turning point to revert to that pre-October lifestyle. At this point, I just want legs that will steadily transport me from Point A to Point B.

Note to self, the next time you sign up for a half marathon, make sure you throw in a couple training runs that get you relatively close to race distance. Experts like Hal Higdon publish training plans for a reason: They know what they're talking about. If you choose not to follow one of those plans, you still might finish the race. Your body will not thank you. It will punish you.

OK, enough complaining about how bad I feel. I got what I deserved. On to the next adventure.