Ozone Fitness Center for the Audibly Unimpaired

Nearly three months after the renovations to the gym were scheduled to be complete (yes, there was a sign posted saying that the mess and noise were regretted but should only last another week; however, that sign was posted in mid-May), they finished up this morning with the installation of the weight equipment. Being the early bird that I've become, when I arrived at 10:15am the installation was not complete. No worries as I hadn't planned on the "Strength" room being open. I was there today to focus on "Cardio" (to alleviate confusion, the two rooms are actually labeled as such). I decided to check the new "Strength" equipment just to make sure it had been worth the wait.

It was. But what struck me upon entering the room wasn't the sparkling new equipment. It was the utter tranquility that the room. After months of frustration with the generally accepted sound level of the Indian gym, the trainers were busy testing the new equipment to the unexpected soothing sounds of traditional Indian music at a respectable, if not even quiet, level. Here was a room where I could workout and actually listen to an iPod without sneering at the nearest employee or shrugging inconsolably when the bass started thumping.

Of course, when I went to "Cardio" it was business as usual, so I'm guess that soothing traditional Indian music at a respectable level which would enable a customer to listen to their own music of choice on a personal device is a pleasure reserved only for product testing.

Monkey Watch 2010

Upon the return from vacation, I found this letter posted near the elevator in our complex:

While I'm sure the monkeys are likely a nuisance, it's a little presumptuous that the Estate Manager categorically states that they're a nuisance to all residents. I must admit I'm anticipating my first encounter with a monkey in the complex. I can only hope I have the camera when the time comes. I also hope that, when that time comes, the monkey hasn't found a way into our unit. That would not be good.

It's a little scary to think that "no permanent solution can be found" but guess it's a good thing that they're making efforts to find a Langoorwala (a google search turned up all of 38 results). From what I'm able to gather, it's either some sort of monkey wrangler or monkey trainer. Based on the tone of the note, I'm going to assume they're looking for more of a wrangler than a trainer.

The Servant's Quarters

The room where we currently hang dry our clothes may soon be used for its intended purpose, living quarters for the help. And yes, I know "the help" sounds derogatory and demeaning, but if you can think of a more politically correct way to describe it, I'm open to suggestions.

Our cook, Yashoda, learned yesterday that one of her other part-time employers (also the one with whom she resides) was moving permanently back to Finland. Today. Mercifully, he is allowing her until the end of the month to find a new place of residence. Our servant's quarters are a potential new residence.

The quarters (as I'll refer to it going forward) for our apartment has its own separate entrance, consists of a room that is probably 8 foot by 12 foot, has a small bathroom with a primitive toilet (the same style we used while trekking in Nepal), a ceiling fan, and an entrance onto a small covered balcony. From the balcony, there is also an entrance into our kitchen. Based on this setup, we can actually lock our kitchen door such that she would only have access to her quarters, the small balcony, and the kitchen.

This entire situation opens up a number of questions into the culture and economics of domestic help, some of which have easier answers than others:

• Do we directly charge her rent?
• Do we reduce her salary to account for providing a living space?
• Do we add to her tasks (i.e., all grocery shopping, ironing, etc.) to "pay" for rent?
• Is it just assumed that it will be free?
• If we extend the number of days or meals she cooks (currently, she cooks a double batch of three meals per week), do we adjust the relative amount paid per meal? (i.e., if she's currently paid "X" and we double the amount of time she works, does that mean she now gets paid "2X" or is there some scale we take advantage of?)
• Where does she bathe? (Might seem odd and not really our concern, but there's no traditional washing facility in the quarters.)
• Is she relegated to the quarters at all times when she's not working?
• Do we lock our internal kitchen door each night?
• Is it assumed that the guys who clean the apartment and use the quarters as the storage area for their cleaning supplies continue to do so?
• What additional "rules" do we set around access or activities?

I'm sure no one truly cares about the trials, tribulations, and living conditions of our domestic help (maybe "domestic support" sounds less demeaning?), but other than it being somewhat strange that there's likely going to be someone that's basically a stranger living in my house (though with its own entrance), I'm fascinated to find out exactly how this whole process will work.

Maps are (Unfortunately) Optional

As a child I was pretty much a dork; a dork that enjoyed maps. My family took a number of cross country trips in the U.S. which provided ample time for me to peruse the latest Rand McNally Road Atlas that the State Farm agent provided each year. When that got boring, I'd switch over to the Information Please Almanac. Let's just say by the time I reached junior high I thought I knew more than just about anyone about American geography. Sadly, in the seventh grade I would finish second in the school's qualifying round for the National Geographic Geography Bee. In the spirit of full disclosure, I came back triumphantly and claimed the title in the eighth grade, earning a trip to the Illinois finals, only to be crushed in the opening round.

So maybe my knowledge of meaningless geographical facts wasn't as impressive as I initially thought; however, you can imagine that I'm the type of person that likes to know where on the map he's located and where on the map he's headed. Unfortunately, in India maps are nearly non-existent (though there is a Delhi map book sponsored by the fine folks at Eicher which can be fun to peruse when the excitement on the outside the car dies down). In fact, many locations don't have addresses in the traditional sense. If you were out in Chicago, you might ask a cabbie to take you to 1060 W. Addison Street, and he would know exactly where to take you. You know, because it's a specific location. In India, it doesn't necessarily work that way. Most addresses are landmark-based. You might ask the driver to take you to the "Infinity Building, DLF Phase I, Ground Floor, Near Microsoft." Literally, addresses often have the word "near" proceeding a location just to get you close.

Unfortunately, this system seems to work, and I fear that I'm acclimating to the method. Roads aren't on any sort of grid, and many don't even have obvious names, so traditional addresses wouldn't even make sense (in a future post, I'll decipher the notation for places that have specific addresses in Gurgaon; I'm still catching on but it's slowly beginning to make sense). I have no idea what road our health club is on even though I go there multiple times per week. However, if a temporary driver happens to show up on a given morning, I can easily point him toward a landmark close to the health club. And the thing is, it always works, which is especially helpful because there's still something of a language barrier with drivers (in other words, my computer-based Hindi lessons haven't progressed as quickly as I'd hoped). I'm sorry to report that this landmark-based method for navigation seems to be here to stay, and there's not much I can (or actually really want to) do about it.

I promise though, that when this experience is over I'll go back to being one of those people that says, "go half a mile, turn right on Rand; go another three-quarters of a mile, and turn left on IL-22, go another four tenths of a mile and it will be on your left" rather than someone that says, "look for the big water tower; when you get close, you'll see a guy holding a signboard for a mattress sale, take a left there and then drive slow to make sure you don't miss the brick building; if you see Target, you've gone too far."

The Other UPS

For those familiar with India, supposed creature comforts like the continuous and consistent supply of electricity aren't as guaranteed as in places like the U.S. or western Europe. In India, the acronym "UPS" has meanings well beyond the timely delivery of parcels. The more prevalent meaning relates to "Uninterrupted Power Supply". I don't want to get into the technical details because, frankly, I don't know and don't really care; however, multiple times throughout the day the power will go out only to return a few seconds (typically less than a minute) later. We're actually fairly lucky in our apartment complex that the breaks in power are that short as certain parts of town aren't as fortunate and have much longer spans of time without power.

These little power breaks happen everywhere, and they don't seem to rattle anyone. It's such a part of everyday life that people simply go about their business. Last night, I was checking out at the grocery store and they lost power. There was no chaos, no scare of looting; the checkout dude simply kept scanning my items. How did he keep scanning, you ask? That's where the beauty of UPS begins. So it's really not a complex concept, but UPS is basically a mini-generator or battery to keep certain essentials powered. At the grocery store, it's items like the scanner and cash register (I'm not so sure of the refrigerators; I'd have to guess that's a "no"). At the gym, it's things like the treadmill. At the office, it's items like computers and select lights; there are also certain outlets labeled as UPS so you know what you're plugging into (note, we won't be examining why all outlets aren't set up this way).

And of course, there's an at-home version. After three months of dealing with the router recycling with each break in power (note, ordinarily this wouldn't be a huge deal to lose connection on a website, but when you're streaming video via Slingbox and watching a show on DVR, it's a fairly lengthy and annoying process to get back to where you were on the show; I know, such issues I face) I finally paid a visit to my good friends at ElectriCity in the Galleria shopping complex. For INR 2900 (about $65) they were kind enough to sell me my own UPS unit, which is basically a heavy duty power strip that can maintain three fairly power-intensive pieces of equipment. Again, I wasn't really one for details with this purchase (I simply picked out the one my neighbors had), but apparently it's good enough to keep the television, router, and an item to be named later (likely the Wii or PS3 when I get around to setting up either of those items) running for 20 minutes, which is more than enough bridge the gap. My favorite part of the at-home UPS is that it's kind enough to remind you that the rest of your apartment has lost power by, much like a smoke detector low on battery, emitting a very large beep once every ten or so seconds (as if the instantaneous darkness wasn't indicator enough).

The power outages are just things you learn to accept, not question, and simply deal with on a daily basis. After the first few times it happens, particularly in the office, and you see people not react to it, it's amazing how quick it simply becomes a non-issue. Of course, one electrically driven item that isn't typically on back-up is, the elevator. Having a natural aversion to stairs, it's simply a matter of time before this happens. I'll be curious to see how (or if) people react, or if it's just another part of daily life.

I'm Vexed

We had the first minor, or what some might consider major, hiccup at the apartment this morning. We woke up, Lindsay got ready and went to work early (she had an all day conference), left, and I took my usual breakfast seat on the couch while checking Facebook and email. A while later, I walked into the master bedroom and was surprised to see the curtains blowing in the wind. This was especially shocking because I've never opened a window in the apartment. Period. Especially a window that opens to a sill where a noisy air conditioning unit rests. I checked it out to just see if somehow the A/C was blowing air in a strange and new direction. It was not. I moved the curtain back and the window was wide open; as in, a four foot square hole in my bedroom. At this point, I got a little scared, but there's really no way for a person to get into the apartment from that window (that is, unless they had a ladder). At any rate, I had been sitting in the next room, with the door open the entire time and hadn't heard a thing. In addition, my wallet and watch were sitting out and hadn't been touched. I did, however, check the shower just in case there was some sort of silent intruder. Coast was clear.

The only logical explanation is that the cleaning boy forgot to close it when he had finished wiping down the sill yesterday (yes, the cleaning boy wipes down external surfaces each day as well; believe it or not with the amount of dust and dirt blowing around here, it's kind of necessary). I noticed a few more mosquitoes last night than typical but that still doesn't explain why we didn't notice a wide open window the entire night. Even if the wind wasn't blowing, the temperature seemed fairly consistent with other nights (as in, the air conditioner was running full blast) and I don't think the Roman shade provides the same level of insulation as a real, glass window.

I recognize I live in a place where you kind of need to expect the unexpected, but this one is vexing. Much like Commodus in "Gladiator", I'm vexed.

The Basic Deal With Drivers

The General Setup

Most self respecting westerners (or at least any westerner whose company car lease strictly forbids driving) has the support of a driver while in India. The particulars of the setup can vary widely. For our situation, we technically have what is called a “cab” here that means it’s a commercial vehicle, almost like a livery in the U.S. However, the only difference between a “cab” and another car is the color of the license plate. Since Lindsay and I are technically here on two separate assignments, we each get a car as part of our benefits. As a result, we have better access to transportation than many other expats we’ve met here. The reason? Drivers/cars are typically available six days a week for twelve hour shifts. Based on this setup, Lindsay and I have a car start early, a car start late, and give one car off each day of the weekend. The net result is something like 18 hours of coverage of weekdays and 12 hours of coverage on weekends. If we extend beyond that time, there is a nominal charge (i.e., the car just doesn’t disappear if you’re out to dinner and you hit the end of a shift).

The Cars

Lindsay and I each have a Honda City, which is the smallest Honda car sold in India and slightly smaller than the Honda Civic with which you may be familiar. While this might seem too small, especially if you’re familiar with my size (i.e., six-one and 200-ish pounds), when the front seats are set especially far to the front (which is always the case on the passenger size and basically the case on the driver side…the typical Indian driver is considerably smaller than my six-one, 200 pound frame), there’s enough room to comfortably fit. Plus, they’re stylishly black in color, which I had the good fortune to pick during the car selection phase of the assignment.

The Drivers

The subculture of the Indian driver is interesting, to say the least, to those that are unfamiliar with India. The reality is that they’ve chosen a profession where they’re basically at the beck and call of their employer. Our drivers literally report at the given time by giving a “missed call” (i.e., they call and let the phone ring once and hang up; basically their unofficial way to punch into the clock). They then sit around and wait until we’re ready to go wherever we’re going. At our apartment complex, there’s a drivers’ waiting room where the drivers congregate to play cards, read the paper, etc. Personally, nothing would frustrate me more than participating in a card game where yourself or another player could be called away at any given time. I wonder if they have rules for this scenario. When we go where we’re going, they find a place to park or some other unknown place where drivers congregate and wait for us to finish. When we’re ready to be picked up, we simply call and a couple minutes later they reappear. The most frequent phone call I make consists of the following conversation:

Kailish (who you’ll meet in a minute): “Hello, sir”

Me: “Kailish, can you come pick me up?”

Kalisih: “Coming!” (Note, recently this conversation has become more efficient by him simply answering and saying, “Hello, sir, coming.”)

Kailish – The Early Shift Driver

I have no idea how old Kailish is, but there’s a good chance that he wouldn’t be able to legally drive in the U.S. unless he was a farm kid in Iowa. He’s a smart guy; at times, I worry he’s too smart and will find a way to get out of the driving business which would probably be good for him but bad for me. He quickly learned our routine and basically knows where we’re going before we tell him. We’ve had our share of difficult drivers in our time in India, but Kailish is prompt, waits in obvious places when we’re out, and isn’t afraid to quickly get directions if he doesn’t know where we need to go (sorry, that last sentence sounded like feedback for his annual review). All things that would seem positive traits that a driver should posses, but not as common as you would hope. At first glance, Kailish has a fairly cushy gig for a driver. He reports at 8am and typically is released by noon or 1:00pm.

Depending on our schedule, his routine usually entails taking one or both of us to the gym, waiting there, taking Lindsay to work, stopping at home briefly with me so I can take gym bags out of the trunk, and then driving me the 45 seconds it takes to get to my office. On especially busy days, when Lindsay goes to the gym early, he might be forced to shuffle between us. Initially, I thought this to be a good deal for him as he’d have the rest of the day to do as he please. However, after a strangely complex conversation I had with him recently (I was shocked at the well-developed level of his English) he informed me that he routinely works 16 to 18 hour days. So once we release him, he takes on other rides. This makes me feel a little less guilty about keeping him around longer through the day if there’s a chance we might need him. I’ve got to think it’s “better” for him to stay with a ride longer than to have to shuffle between. I’m fairly positive his pay remains the same (i.e., the company gets the benefit of his availability but probably has him on some daily wage regardless).

Ashok – The Late Shift Driver

I actually know very little about Ashok as I typically only see him one day a week on the weekends and occasionally on a Friday night if we go out for dinner after work. I was shocked to learn (through Lindsay who had learned through Kailish) that Ashok has a one-year old son. This seemed particularly surprising because Ashok, much like Kailish, looks no older than 15.

Ravi – The Former Driver

He was quite possibly the worst driver we’ve ever had. While his reference to the “Ravi-car” versus the “Kailish-car” was somewhat endearing and helped us determine which car to expect when, his penchant for pissing people off was not. Here's a quick rundown of our time with Ravi:

• He quickly made enemies with the security guards in our complex by taking short-cuts (i.e., the American way) to make right turns in the neighborhood roundabouts.
• He took "shortcuts" that took longer than the actual route; typically these shortcuts were through private parking areas where, again, the guards would yell not so nice things at him
• He routinely argued with people on the phone when asking directions to the place we were headed (even though the person he was arguing with was at the intended destination).
• He would call Lindsay multiple times each day to confirm or confuse the time that she needed to be picked up from work.
• He routinely would take 10 – 15 minutes to show up when called (or after the time he had quadruple confirmed with Lindsay; apparently when the two parties don't speak the same language fluently these types of mishaps can occur).
• He decided to stop wearing his uniform (ordinarily, I wouldn’t have minded the no-uniform thing, it’s a little unnecessary; however, if you’re supposed to wear it, wear it). Plus, the driver uniform (kind of like a cruise ship officer's) looks a little odd when you're wearing the pants and a black untucked t-shirt.
• He gave off the aura that he may or may not have been stoned from time to time.

Add all those things together and throw in the fact that Lindsay had just finished the book “White Tiger” which is a novel written as a first-person narrative of an Indian driver that kills his employer, and Ravi’s days were obviously numbered.

The Conclusion?
For most foreigners (myself included) having a driver is either a necessity or a necessary evil. It can be endlessly frustrating if you have no idea where you're going and they have no idea where you're going, but as long as you have a phone number, an Eicher Delhi Map Guidebook, or are humble enough to ask directions, you're typically going to get where you need to get. And since the idea of being on time has different cultural meanings here entirely, you're typically not even late.

More Options for Water Consumption

Author’s Note to his Mother:  You might not want to skip this post which outlines the reasons and situations where I’ve moved beyond simple bottled water for various purposes.

A primary concern for travelers to India is where they get their water. In our apartment, we have a reverse osmosis ultra violet (RO-UV) filter system from which we take all the water we consume. However, the first glass of water, even from that top-of-the-line machine, was something of a leap of faith. However, once you don’t get sick, you quickly acclimate and gain a level of confidence and trust.

The discerning and careful traveler will obviously stick to bottled mineral water. In restaurants, waiters automatically try and upsell to Evian or some other import, but the Indian stuff (i.e., Himalayan, Catch, etc.) is just as safe and typically half the price. The longer I’m here, the less vigilant I’ve become. I’m not doing something as stupid from drinking from the tap (or, as was the case with a friend when here 5 years ago, drinking from a random well in the middle of the country), but have started to follow the lead of other westerners I’ve seen. At some restaurants, I’ve decided to start trusting the filtered water. While this is risky, if others are doing, why not? While I’m sure the chemistry in my body hasn’t changed, the fact remains – it’s filtered water. If the water were THAT contaminated, no one would drink it. Bottom line, I’ve decided to start racial profiling; if I see other white people drinking water from a pitcher, I’m going to follow their lead.

I stay away from known tap water with one exception: brushing my teeth. At the end of month two, I decided that it’s no more or less dangerous to shower in the water than it is to brush your teeth with it. How much water do you swallow when you brush your teeth? Probably about as much as you accidentally and unintentionally consume when you’re in the shower. I have no data to back this claim, but I’m considering it a fact nonetheless. That’s why I decided to put it in the “safe” column. If you’ve ever brushed your teeth with bottled water, it’s fine for a few days. Two years? It’s an entirely different situation.

Of course, there’s a good chance you’ll see a post in the near future talking about how I can’t imagine how I could have gotten sick. Consider it one of the pillars of the John Luth Weight Loss Plan. 

Indian Wine Snob

There are typically three price points when ordering wine in a restaurant in India; in ascending order of price; (1) domestic, (2) “cheap” imported, and (3) ultra expensive imported. Since wine storage doesn’t seem to be skill yet mastered (we had dinner with a friend returning to the states last night, ordered a bottle of red, and had to wait for it to come down to room temperature; once it did, it was actually quite pleasant). Based on this storage issue, group (3) has a risk/reward proposition that makes it a no-win situation. This group of wines is typically fun for the sole purpose of seeing exactly how much they’re trying to charge, which routinely tops $100 – $200 for a wine you could probably buy at Binny’s in Chicago for no more than $15. The wine mark-up has totally new meaning in a place with a 100% duty on imported liquor from some countries. That clause “from some countries” seems to be a relatively new concept and has lead to the creation of group (2). For some reason, certain Italian and Chilean wines have come down in price; I would assume there’s been some sort of new trade agreement in palace. I’m not the type to proactively do that kind of research, so let’s just assume that as a fact. Thankfully, you can now get some bottles in restaurants in the $35 range. With this group, you’re overpaying for the quality of the wine, but the only other option is Indian domestic. This group is typically priced around $5 cheaper by the bottle (i.e., not low enough to typically incent a purchase).

Once you've made your selection in a restaurant, it’s always a good idea to have three or four backups ready (which likely comprises the entire wine menu). I’ve yet to order an imported wine where the waiter claimed it was in stock (keep in mind, I’m not ordering from group (3)). Automatically, your selection is out of stock, but there always seems to be French wine available. This French wine typically has the varietal splashed across label. I don’t know much about French wine, but I do know enough to know the varietal is typically assumed based on the region and not nearly as important as on an American label. Basically, these wines aren’t France’s finest. Typically, if there’s nothing else to your liking, you can politely ask them to go back and check to see if there might be one bottle of your original selection. Magically, they’ll either appear a few minutes later with your original selection or some other option that was likely not part of the original menu but priced at the same point. At this point, I feel like a sucker for just not going with the Indian domestic but too proud (or cheap) to switch over; it’s going to be no worse than what they’ve put in front of you. In the end, that extra $5 for the import might be the smarting pricing decision the restauranteur has made.

The New Tailor

If you’ve had a conversation with me at any point over the past six years and the topic of India has come up, there’s a better than average chance I’ve spoken of the ridiculous amounts of custom tailored clothing I’ve had made here. Unfortunately, I have heard rumors that my original tailor, Kumar Brothers, located at South Extension I in Delhi has ceased operations. The secondary tailor, Grover’s, who is rumored to be Bill Clinton’s tailor, has somewhat priced himself out of the market, which you might expect from someone that can claim Bill Clinton as a customer. Regardless, living in Gurgaon rather than Delhi makes either option less convenient. Thankfully, I hadn’t been worried as I didn’t feel the need (or “want”) for additional clothing. Then two things happened: first, we had our first visitor from work that wanted clothing made and second, the temperature increased to the point where I felt a few additional items made from linen might be necessary in the wardrobe.

Thanks to a co-worker, Lindsay had been made aware of a new tailor, Naresh, with a special hook; he makes house calls, thus enabling the lazy expatriates to add “tailor that makes house calls” to the list of privileges that will need to be weaned from when the time comes to leave India. In the meantime, I plan to take full advantage. If this guy is good, I shudder to imagine the damage that may ensue between now and the end of 2011.

My first impression of Naresh wasn’t necessarily a positive one. He was 30 minutes late which seemed a small nuisance since I would have spent that much more time than if I was required to move myself to and from a retail establishment. Initially, I gave him the benefit of the doubt thinking that he may have had issues finding our apartment; however, when he mentioned he had a customer on the seventh floor in our building, this hypothesis was immediately discarded.

On the positive side, he seemed to pick up on my not-so-subtle hint that if he made clothes that we liked, were high quality, and gave us a fair price that we’d enjoy a mutually beneficial relationship for months to come. Of course, he refused to give us a price, simply implying that we’d deal with such inconsequential matters when he returns next Sunday with the finished goods. At least we know some semblance of how the guy operates based on co-workers interactions and know that he’s open to bargaining (typically in the 10 – 30% range from his initial offer). Of course, since all the financial risk rests with him (i.e., we haven’t given him so much as a rupee) and he’s coming with the finished product, I may actually have leverage in this situation. The only potential risk? Keeping the traditional exuberant reaction in check from Lindsay when she sees something she really “needs”.

Can Expats Drive in India?

The short answer? Yes. The long answer? The current company lease on our car strictly forbids me from getting behind the wheel; however, driving in India has always been one of my secret little goals. (No worries, parents and in-laws before you read any further, it’s still an unmet goal). I don’t necessarily need to go overboard and drive myself 100% of the time; however, there are times when I miss the independence that driving affords. Our neighbors Pierre and Loes, who have been here for quite some time, have a driver during the week but drive themselves on the weekend. Yesterday, we went to lunch and hopped in the car with them. Shortly after we got home, I realized that it was the first time I had relied on any sort of transportation (besides walking myself to and from work) in the country of India that wasn’t directly provided by someone from India.

Seeing Pierre drive did make me think, how hard can driving be? I mean, I’ve now lived in Gurgaon for nearly four months so it’s not like I don’t know where to go. I’ve lived in India for nearly ten months of my life, so I’m familiar enough with the natural flow (or chaotic nature, depending on your attitude on a give day) of traffic and the general rules (perhaps "suggestions" is more appropriate?) of the road. Plus, much to the surprise of everyone that I talk to here, I’m one of the 47 Americans that still prefers to drive a standard transmission. Of course, you shift with your left hand here, but I’ve done that in Ireland before. With all that going for me, why wouldn’t I drive here? In addition, I honestly think that driving has become more westernized here. It doesn’t mean that people have gone all crazy and decided to follow all stop lights and drive in actual lanes, but I do have a theory as to the root of the change over the past five years primarily involving the economics of the country. To state the obvious, India is a wealthier country now than it was when I was first in India in late 2004. People are buying nicer cars and seem to be driving them more themselves. As a result, you have more actual owners of nicer vehicles driving on the road rather than more hired drivers of not-so-nice vehicles on the road. Who do you think takes more pride and care with their car on the road; the owner of a shiny new 3-series or some guy making $100 a month) driving a beat up Ford Ikon? (Note, I have no idea what the actual salary of a driver is, but I remember it being in the neighborhood of $60 a month in 2005, so I’m adjusting upward for inflation.)

There are other issues that would arise from driving, such as finding a place to park (one really, really nice thing about having a driver is that you get dropped off and picked up at the door); however, I think I’m getting closer to the point where I think I could get behind the wheel and successfully navigate the streets of Gurgaon - driving anywhere outside around a 5 km radius from the house would still be entirely out of the question...I mean, have you see the way people drive here?

Lindsay Luth Goes Postal

After weeks of pleading, I finally relented and am pleased to welcome my first guest blogger; the lovely, the talented, and the ever so sassy, Lindsay Luth. Please note, what follows is only 14% longer than her average Facebook post....

The hand written scrap of paper indicating I had a package was less than official, but off I went to find the post office.  As I patiently stood in queue, I was able to survey my surroundings and quickly size up that there was no way in hell that my package was here and even more surprising, I don’t know how any mail makes it to a destination.  It was kind of like a time warp, not unlike the FRRO, with stacks of mail just lying around, people in the ‘receiving’ room just drinking tea, and people cutting in line.  I did like how a local India woman who was well dressed basically told the guy to wait his turn and said loud enough for me to hear how no one ever respects the queue.   I took the hint.  When two different people tried to shove in front of me, I repeated her line and gave her a look.. she looked impressed that the Gringo  stood up for herself and gave me an approving smile.

I approached the window and was directed to the ‘receiving’ room where the 6 or so guys drinking tea watched the one guy with an arm cast try to locate my package by half heartedly looking at some random stacks of unclaimed mail.  When he said it was ‘returned’,  I started to turn on the sass and asked ‘really.. you mailed it back to the US?’.   He gave me a look acknowledging that I had called bullshit and didn’t stop me as I tried to help by going through the piles of mail.  I think my fatal error was when I called out the lazy asses who just watched the one armed cast guy and I go through the mail.  They didn’t like that so much so got the ‘post marshal’ to shoo me out and giving me some bogus line that my package was in Delhi.  So, where ever you are my package.. I tried.

While I might have gotten booted out of the receiving mail room, I did come home to find 2 pieces of mail from the US AND apparently someone had contacted the landlord about my foray to the post office and people were trying to locate my package.  Lesson to all… observe, be patient, but don’t be afraid to get a little sassy.

If You Need It, She Can Find It

Surprisingly, in the first eighty or so days that we’ve been here, Lindsay has yet to reengage her Indian shopping addiction. Part of me wants to believe that it’s because we bought enough pashminas, elephants, scarves, and other random crap to fill a house last time we were here. The smarter part of me recognizes that she’s patiently planning for the big ticket items. She’s already learned of and romanticized a wondrous place that basically sounds like a furniture junkyard called Sharma Farm. Apparently, Sharma Farm is “the” place to go to get unique furniture pieces refinished to whatever level of repair suits your fancy. Fortunately, it’s located in five non-air-conditioned warehouses, so barring an unexpected cold front, we might be safe from the Farm until fall hits.

Somehow, Lindsay has transformed her pent up shopping energy into an uncanny knack for finding specific camera batteries in random shops. We’re headed to Nepal on Saturday and will likely not have the ability to charge batteries for 10 days. As a result, we decided that we would need three camera batteries for each camera hoping that a battery would last for three or four days (that’s about as scientific as we got in making that determination). The problem was that we only had one spare for each camera and didn’t have the luxury of any short-term visits by any co-workers to courier extras spares for us. The solution was letting Lindsay loose in the shops of Gurgaon. In only three shops at Galleria, Lindsay was able to find a spare for the Nikon.

For some reason, when we went shopping on Sunday, neither of us thought to go back to the same store and instead headed to Ambience Mall where I I knew there was a Canon display (actually a fairly large piece of real estate that didn’t actually sell anything and was more a marketing tool for Canon). While they don’t sell anything, they did call around for me and found a Canon shop in town that claimed to have the battery. We headed there but, not surprisingly, no one at the store recalled receiving a phone call and, according to them, that battery wasn’t available in India.

Lindsay, never one to be denied, stopped back at her trusted camera battery store at Galleria on the way to work today, and lo and behold, was successful in her quest. While we ended up paying import prices for both batteries, I was shocked that we were able to actually find them in-country.

While one spare for each camera may have very well been enough (I mean, it was four batteries for two cameras), I didn’t want accidentally forgetting to flip a power switch to adversely affecting my first trip to the Himalayas. With our current cache of battery power, I’m confident that we should last through the trip or, at the very least, have enough memories captured by the time we do run out of power that it will be the least of our worries; which frees us up to worry about more meaningful things, like an unlikely chance encounter with Maoist rebels on the trek.

Ozone Fitness Center for the Audibly Impaired

I’m not exactly a fan of loud noise, which can be problematic in a country like India. It becomes particularly problematic when you enter the subculture of the typical Indian health club. For reasons unbeknownst to me, the general consensus seems to be that it would be impossible to get one’s self in shape with anything less than the music pumping and thumping at or above concert level volumes. This is very much the case at our gym, Ozone. Even with an iPod Shuffle, it’s not uncommon for me to ask an employee to turn the music down if the gym isn’t crowded (because who am I to impact the listening enjoyment of too many other people). Of course, the “quiet time” lasts for all of five or six minutes before someone else just turns the music back to its original level.

The gym is divided into two separate rooms, aptly and concisely labeled “Strength” and “Cardio”, that are joined by a corridor. The music was pumping as usual in the “Cardio” room, but there was actually a step aerobics class taking place so there was very little I could do. About halfway through my workout, a gentleman in the front corner of the class decided he needed to make a loud sneezing sound each time he stepped up. It was kind of like each time Serena Williams grunts when hitting a tennis ball, only three times more annoying and seven times more frequent. Suffice to say, my patience was running low by the time I hit the “Strength” room. Again, the music was thumping, louder than I’d ever heard. To make matters worse, there was actually a DJ in the room, at the music console, sifting through CD’s (mind you, it’s only 10am at this point). I lasted about eight minutes in the room before I could take no more. I walked to the front desk and made my displeasure known. As you’d expect here, he (1) seemed genuinely surprised that the music was too loud and (2) made a move to have it fixed right away, because as everyone knows the only way to fix a problem is to overreact.  On the bright side, at least both I and the guy promising to make the change knew it was a temporary promise that was ultimately also an empty one.

After receiving the empty promise, I went to locker room to get cleaned up to go to work. One really nice thing about the locker room is that the central hot water supply is infinitely better than the geyser system we have at the apartment. The other thing I realized this week about the locker room is a service I’ve yet to be offered. If you set your bag out of the locker, the locker room attendant will literally get your things out of your gym bag for you and set on the bench, thus minimizing the time required to get ready in the morning. It’s also a prime example of how little tolerance there is to actually perform manual tasks. In fact, I think the other members look at me strange for taking items out of my own bag; it’s either that or because I’m typically the only Westerner there.

All things considered, the gym is actually very nice, modern, and clean. The equipment is in good shape and outside of the music, I really have no complaints. The only other quirk is that the place closes on Monday, almost like it’s a country club. Obviously, I’m not going to use the place seven days a week, but I’ve never heard of a health club that closes for an entire day. Not surprisingly, each week when they open, it’s crowded on Tuesday and generally sees fewer and fewer people throughout the week; basically, the same effect we have in the U.S. around the first of the year, it’s just a little faster cycle in India.

The Avantha Masters

While at the gym yesterday, I finished a Scottish Premiere League game (Celtic, as you would expect with their awesome green and white horizontal striped jerseys, prevailed; by the way, soccer is an excellent sport to watch while running on a treadmill as it completely takes my mind from the actual running) and found a live golf tournament, which turned out to be this week’s European PGA Tour event, the Avantha Masters.  I watched for a couple minutes and thought to myself, “those buildings under construction in the background look a little familiar.” Two minutes later they flashed the name of the course, DLF Golf and Country Club, which is the course located about a five to ten minute walk up Golf Course Road from the entrance to our apartment complex. Like most golf tournaments, it had begun on Thursday  yet I had no knowledge that it was taking place.

After seeing the tournament on TV, I tried to see if there was any way I would have known this by driving past the club. On the way to a party last night I was able to strain to see a small sign indicating that the tournament was taking place. While I can understand there being minimal broad-based advertising based on the lack of appeal and history in golf here by the general populace, I found it odd that DLF, which is the development company that owns the golf club and has developed much of Gurgaon including the commercial park where my office is located, didn’t place any signage in the office buildings. What makes this odd is that DLF isn’t one to shy away from self-promotion. DLF, from all appearances is kind of like George Foreman who named all his kids George, has named parts of the city after itself; when Lindsay goes to her bagel shop, she tells the driver, “Bagel’s Café, The Shopping Mall on Arjun Marg, in DLF City, Phase 1”.  And let’s just say there’s more than one phase.

Happy Civil Unrest (i.e., Valentine's) Day!

As hard is it might be to believe, what follows is an actual security alert email I received and not something copied from The Onion. I just wish they would have been more specific with which "multinational fast-food outlets" were more prone to protest; that is, is McDonald's considered a symbol of gross Western commercialism while KFC is just considered a symbol of simple Western commercialism? Regardless, it helps justify my refusal to celebrate Valentine's Day...

Worldcue^® Alert
Severity: Warning Alert
Security: Valentine's Day unrest possible in India through Feb. 14. Avoid protests; use caution at restaurants, gift shops and other commercial areas.
This alert affects India.
This alert began 10 Feb 2010 09:30 GMT and is scheduled to expire 14 Feb 2010 23:59 GMT.
Summary
Protests, vandalism, and other forms of unrest are possible across India through the Valentine's Day holiday Feb. 14. Right-wing Hindu groups strongly object to the observance of the unofficial holiday. Unrest is particularly likely in Bangalore, Mumbai, New Delhi and major cities in Madhya Pradesh, Maharashtra, Gujarat, Karanataka and Uttar Pradesh states.

Background & Analysis
Valentine's Day is very popular among many young Indians, but pro-Hindu groups such as the Sri Ram Sene (Lord Ram's Army), Shiv Sena, Hindu Jagran Manch, Bajrang Dal and the Vishwa Hindu Parishad (World Hindu Council - VHP) consider the holiday an affront to Indian culture and an example of gross Western commercialism. These groups regularly threaten to disrupt holiday events. The Sri Ram Sene has banned Valentine's Day celebrations in Karnataka, and its activists could prompt unrest in Bangalore, Mangalore and Mysore. Mumbai is a Shiv Sena stronghold where Valentine's Day unrest is an annual concern. Localized unrest is also typical in Delhi, where mobs have harassed Westerners at Connaught Place.

Protests are common, especially outside major government buildings, hotels, eateries (including multinational fast-food outlets) and shops selling Valentine's Day sundries. Demonstrations can turn violent - protesters have ransacked shops, burned greeting cards and posters and harassed and assaulted people celebrating the unofficial holiday. Confrontations with police could occur.

Advice
Despite increased police surveillance, security disturbances could occur at public parks, university campuses, movie theaters and commercial areas in major cities through Feb. 14. Avoid protests and limit exposure to gift shops whose proprietors typically ignore warnings to shut down. Right-wing Hindu organizations might also threaten to disrupt Valentine's Day celebrations at other venues, such as hotels and restaurants. Use caution in crowded commercial areas and avoid public displays of affection. Potential troublemakers are often easily identifiable; right-wing Hindu activists regularly wear saffron-colored clothing or carry orange flags.

The Weekend Routine

As our first “settled” Saturday at the apartment, we tried to set our “regular, in-town” routine which is looking to take something of the following form:

1. Sleep until 9am or 10am, respectively (in our defense, we both worked late on Friday, Lindsay to get caught up after missing work on Wednesday and me thanks to a repeating bi-weekly Friday night (U.S. time) meeting (I know you’re reading this, meeting scheduler, and yes, I could have been out dancing or, at the least, enjoying a Kingfisher!)
2. Make breakfast, either “nearly organic” eggs or pancakes
3. Hit the gym (this is a key step, not just for the obvious positive health impacts but also the unlimited hot water)
4. Go out to lunch (we tried the Marriott Courtyard this week, a brand new hotel in Gurgaon that had really good thin-crust wood-fired pizza of maximum crispiness but really slow service)
5. Go food shopping, stopping at “The Meat Shop” (really good chicken breasts not pumped full of hormones), “Spencer’s Express” for produce (note, Spencer’s in India isn’t like Spencer’s found across malls in America), and “Needs” to round out the groceries
6. Back to the apartment for a couple hours
7. Out to dinner (apparently, our lives revolve around sustinence)

During “Step 6” this week, we hosted our first apartment visitor – Loes, our Dutch neighbor, whom Lindsay had picked up a book for in the states and that arrived as part of our air freight. She gave us some encouraging news about her successful nanny search, which delighted us beyond belief.  Confused?  Read on.  Her nanny nannies in the morning, has two hours off from 1 – 3 (that’s where we come in), and nannies again in the afternoon for Loes and Pierre. Three days a week in that 1 – 3pm timeslot, we’re hoping she can fill that gaping hole in our life as a cook. We don’t “need” a full-time cook based on our work schedules, but having someone come in three times a week to cook a couple meals each time might be exactly what we “need”. In addition, if this supernanny plan works out, “Step 5” will likely change to “hang out by the pool.”

“Step 7” this week took us to Delhi, the first time I’ve entered the capital since arriving in January. Out of nowhere as soon as we crossed the border, our driver RK who hadn’t spoken proactively in days, started pointing out the sights, including the tennis stadium hosting a Davis Cup match, the Hyatt Regency (not sure why this was a landmark), and the Prime Minister’s house. After arriving at our destination, the Claridges Hotel, later than expected due to the heavy traffic caused by numerous diversions due to Metro construction (and the fact that there are just a lot of vehicles in Delhi), we were warmly greeted by Hunt and Diane Harris, longtime friends of the family, who were two days into an 18-day Indian journey.  It was great to see familiar faces, get caught up on where their travels are taking them (a lot of places in Rajasthan we haven’t been), share tips on which Indian wines are palatable (Sula = Yes, Grover = No), and receive the couriered package of vitamins and Valentine’s cards sent along by my Mom. We ate at a restaurant in the hotel and had a very enjoyable evening, though I can only imagine how exhausted Hunt and Diane were after arriving on Thursday night, having two very full days of touring Delhi, and the prospects of an early morning flight to Varanasi. They were, however, gracious enough to listen to us babble on about our first four weeks.

Our Sunday routine is still taking shape but will likely look somewhat similar to the steps listed above for a typical Saturday.  The schedule today includes a trip back to the gym and likely a trip back to the bagel shop we found last week (OK, so Loes and Pierre told us exactly where it was and met us there last Sunday). Lindsay still doesn’t feel 100% so I suggested that a bagel with cream cheese might not be the best solution. Based on her reaction, you would have thought I kidnapped her puppy (that is, if she had a puppy). Bottom line, sounds like I can remove the word “likely” from the sentence above about the bagel shop.

The Move, Part 2 (The Direction-Givers)

Last Sunday’s highlights were both Lindsay-based. The first, watching her reaction when we went to the local bagel shop, and the second, watching her get uncharacteristically fidgety when filling out the country club application. I’ve never seen someone so nervous around what was basically a receptionist – of course, now that I make fun, we’ll probably not make it through the screening/interview phase in a week or so, becoming the laughingstock of the Gurgaonite expat community in the process. The next big event was the arrival of our air freight, scheduled for 9:30am Monday morning. Based on the horror stories we had heard from others, we were expecting its arrival anytime from noon to 4pm and that it would be an all day affair.

At 9:30 sharp, the doorbell rang, and there were two guys there, one obviously the leader and direction-giver, and the other obviously the laborer. I fully expected the rest of my day to be filled with watching the direction-giver ordering the laborer around (I’m not sure what that makes me). Not two minutes later, three additional guys showed up, all carrying boxes, and what I witnessed next was completely unexpected – that is, a fully efficient moving machine. Even with two direction-givers (i.e., the actual direction-giver and Lindsay), they moved in everything, unpackaged, got it relatively in the right spot, didn't break a thing, and removed all the packaging in no more than 45 minutes. If you’ve been to India, you’ll appreciate just how unfuckingbelievable that is.

Undoubtedly, Lindsay wins the prize for finding the “right” 500 pounds of stuff to include in the air freight – namely, a foam mattress pad, featherbed, pillows, and our sheets from home. It’s nice to have a few more clothes and shoes and don’t get me wrong, picture frames with familiar faces throughout the apartment are a comforting touch (as I type this, I can look over and see a picture of Lindsay with Hammes and Immel and a picture of the Acacia crowd from the 2006 Raleigh Winter Games, appropriately positioned on the bar…Hammes and Immel, you’re actually on the bar as well), but nothing compares to the comfort of somewhat feeling like you’re in your own bed, even if it means we “give up” the luxury of having twice a week linen service because we have our own sheets.  It’s a very small price to pay.

What better way to celebrate a successful move than a jaunt to MG Road (hereby referred to “Mall Road” thanks to our driver’s limited English and our still-nonexistent Hindi) for a nice little lunch at TGI Friday’s! Even though everyone here refers to it as “the place” to get Mexican, Lindsay decided it was time to venture out of her comfort zone and went with what she described as “delightful” barbeque chicken salad (note, if you order any kind of uncooked vegetable in a restaurant not associated with a 5-star hotel, you’re pretty much playing roulette); whereas, I took the advice of the waiter and went with the chicken chimichanga. Healthy? No. Delightful? Not entirely. Palatable?  Sure. I can’t comprehend why decent chicken-based Mexican food has not made its way to India, it’s not like the tastes are THAT different. Lindsay claims it’s because of the lack of tortillas. You have as good of an idea as I do on the basis on that claim.  At any rate, if someone could open a decent Mexican restaurant here, I’m quite certain it would do well. I’m surprised Taco Bell hasn’t made a run in India, it’s not like there’s beef in their tacos anyway.

After lunch, we made a few stops at various shopping establishments for some finishing touches to the apartment (including my third stop in three days at ElectiCity for a bevy of surge protecting power strips and power converters; there’s a distinct lack of outlets here) and made our way back home, where we had a self-cooked meal for the first time in nearly a month. No worries though, we’re in the process of rectifying the “self-cook” concept and hope to have a solution in place within a week or so.

How the f*!% do they make pasta spicy?

Undoubtedly, the quote of the week was, “How the f*!% do they make pasta spicy?” (I know, I’m censoring myself here, but for some reason it’s more enjoyable than the F bomb).   

Little did Lindsay know that the room service pasta on a weeknight was the least of her worries.  For dinner on Saturday we selected a restaurant that we were familiar with that has since opened an additional location in Gurgaon called Turquoise Cottage.  It specializes primarily in Chinese and Thai cuisine and turns itself into quite the night spot around 10pm.  Like most places in Gurgaon, it’s located in a mall.

At any rate, I ordered the Tom Yam soup and allowed the waiter to up-sell me on some sort of Singapore chili crab dish (what can I say, I was tired of chicken) while Lindsay ordered some sort of dish with prawns.  Mid-way through our second mojito, Lindsay asked to try the soup.  As she described it on Facebook, she bit down into something twice and her brain registered a bit late that she had bitten directly into some sort of hot chili.

For those of you familiar with Lindsay, you can probably imagine what happened next.  For those of you not so fortunate, there were tears, orders to multiple wait staff to bring some combination of ice, water, napkins (for some reason, patting napkins on the tongue seemed a logical response), additional ice, some sort of dairy product (we somehow found the one restaurant in India that didn’t have any yoghurt in house), and finally more water.  In addition to the water, there were multiple attempts to relieve the pain in the mint and crushed ice filled mojito.

After what seemed like a long, long time to me (I can only imagine what it seemed like to her), she stabilized.  At that point, the panic restarted as the realization set in that she had had a LOT of ice in a restaurant not associated with a five-star hotel, which isn’t necessarily the most hygienic of decisions.  Thankfully, either the Xifaxin we’ve started taking is doing its job or we just got lucky as there were no further issues.

Through all of this, she still hadn’t received her main dish (apparently, her reaction had scared our waiter, who made himself scarce the rest of the evening, leaving others to tend to us) and the kitchen was busy remaking her dish.  A dish, which turned out to be perhaps the most bland, flavorless Chinese food I’ve tasted since I was in Ireland.