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.

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.

Exact Change

A couple weeks ago when I went through the toll booth on NH8, which is the primary road between Delhi and Gurgaon, I noticed a sign that read, "Please pay exact amount. Cars Rs. 21." I'm probably not the first person to think it's odd that you would set your toll price at an uneven number like that and have the gall to expect people to have exact change.

It would seem more appropriate to set the toll one rupee less and make it a nice even twenty rupee fee. If revenue is an issue, why not raise even more and make it Rs. 25? Alas, the toll commission (or maybe it's the National Highways Authority of India) decided on Rs. 21 and decided to invest in a sign expecting exact change. With this decision, you'd hope they also made a decision to stock their toll booths with one or two rupee coins. I grew up in western Illinois where there were two strange $0.95 tolls to get to the Chicago area on Interstate 88. I'm pretty sure those toll booths were well stocked with nickels.

Actually better organized than many toll booths in Chicago

On the way back from Delhi on Saturday afternoon, we were stuck in a rather long line at the toll. I was thinking to myself, "it's probably that 21 rupee deal that's forcing everyone to wait for change." Selfishly, we wanted to get through as quickly as possible as we had a staycation weekend planned at The Leela, which is located just on the Gurgaon side of the toll booth. And yes, I realize The Leela is fifteen minutes from my apartment, but we had a free room; you'd take advantage of this too. After waiting patiently in line for a few minutes, we approached the toll booth; finally, we were set to pay the toll and get on with our day. The bus in front of us went through the toll, advanced far enough for my trusty driver Kailash to pay the toll, and stopped. And it didn't advance.

We were trapped. Our weekend getaway blocked literally and figuratively by this large bus. A couple minutes later, the bus driver jumped out of the bus and walked back to the toll attendant. I immediately thought there was some sort of issue where the attendant had given incorrect change on the Rs. 64 toll (buses cost more than cars; exactly Rs. 41 more; again, pricing at its finest). A fairly heated discussion began. Sensing this wasn't going to get better without a little friendly intervention from an over-privileged Westerner, I rolled down the window and very politely asked what was going on. Hearing English, the toll attendant shrugged his shoulders and gave me one of those, "I don't really care that this is inconveniencing you; just deal with it" looks.

Kailash, always the protective one rolled his window down and asked a couple questions in what sounded like a fairly confrontational tone (though to be honest when you hear Hindi spoken it sounds confrontational more often than most languages, it certainly doesn't flow from the tongue like French). From what he was able to ascertain, it wasn't an issue of correct change, it was an issue of the bus driver's refusal to pay a little something on top (i.e., a bribe) to the toll attendant, which apparently is a fairly common occurrence for larger vehicles where, presumably, its not the driver's money being paid. But here's the thing, the bribe was a flat Rs. 10, thus making the total cost to pass for the bus to be Obviously, in the U.S. assessing an additional toll at a tollbooth would be pretty much the easiest way to get one's self fired and/or put in jail. Here, I've come to accept that these things happen, and there's not much I'm going to be able to do in the next eight months to change it.

What I can't understand is: why not make the bribe an additional rupee? It's win/win, Mr. Toll Booth Guy gets a 10% bump and traffic rolls through a little less less encumbered. Of course, this doesn't solve the issue of a bus driver refusing to pay the bribe, so it wouldn't have even mattered. Thankfully, with Kailash remaining somewhat involved and two increasingly agitated expats who may or may not have raised their voice a time or two, the bus pulled forward enough to let us pass. This entire episode likely took between seven to ten minutes, so it's not like we were stranded passengers on a tarmac for hours; however, do you have any idea how long seven minutes feels like when you you're waiting to pass through a toll you've already paid?

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.

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.

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.

Airtel Delhi Half Marathon

When I told my trusty driver Kailesh about my plans to run the Airtel Delhi Half Marathon, his reaction was innocent and upbeat, "I hope you win." My response was a little more honest, "I just hope I finish."

While home in the US during the month of October, I did an adequate job of keeping up on short runs; however, I also did an adequate job reacquainting myself with my favorite microbrews and restaurants. The net result? A few added pounds and not a lot of confidence building distance running. Bottom line, I had no real business even signing up for the Airtel Delhi Half Marathon. Having taken to running in the past couple years and making it through my first two half marathons in 2009, I had some idea the level of distance training deemed appropriate. Let's just say I hadn't done that appropriate amount of training.

The 7:30am start (I had no idea something involving 30,000+ people could begin at that time here; the only time I've been up at that "early" hour here is if we happen to be traveling) required a 5:30am wake-up. After picking up our friend Kristin, whom I had convinced that this race would be a good idea and fun experience even if we weren't properly training, we were on our way into Delhi for the early start.

Kristin and I before the start of the race; the visor is back!

We had no idea where runner drop-off was but saw a bunch of people that looked like runners walking into Nehru Park. We quickly told Ashok (our other trusty driver) to stop and let us out of the car. After a short walk through the park, we found the runner's entrance and parted ways with the wife. There appeared to be a queued corral of runners to the left waiting anxiously to get into the starting area. To the right of them, there was an open section. Kristin and I opted for the open section and quickly cut in front of those waiting. Once past the corral, we had to pass through security, because, you know, runners are a threat, and found our way to the first waiting area.

While waiting in the first section, we ran into a small group from Gurgaon Connection that we had met at a Bollywood-themed party on Friday night. It was nice to see that we weren't the only one's to eschew training so close to the race. Passing through that first holding area, we made it to a second. Waiting there a couple minutes, they literally opened up these large plywood gates and the runners burst through like cattle. I thought that might be the official start to the race, but we ended up walking through a small cordoned area, turning right onto the street before seeing the official starting line. Seven or so minutes after the official start, my timing chip crossed the starting line.

This was my first race with this many people; my previous half marathons had been the ultra-tiny 300 person Alpine Races Half Marathon in Lake Zurich (which is a lot less hilly than the name might suggest) and the 2500 person "The Other Half" in Moab, Utah. I fully expected to fight through the crowds for the first couple miles, but the elongated multi-layered corral system actually spread people out fairly well. Still, as we ran some of the straight roads, there was an absolute sea of people on the road in front of me.

Kristin and I just after the start, surprisingly uncrowded

The course was basically an out-and-back that stretched from Nehru Park in Chanakyapuri (the section of Delhi with the embassies), along past Safdarjung's Tomb and Khan Market, up to India Gate and finally turning around in a round about near the Le Meridien Hotel. As always in this type of race, the most humbling experience is when you're not quite at the 1/3 mark and see the leaders passing you from the opposite direction, sprinting past the 2/3 mark.

Thankfully, right around the halfway mark of the race just before passing India Gate for the second time, I found myself running next to Sameer, one of the fellow expats I had met on Friday at the party. We unofficially used each other to pace most of the rest of the race. I also appreciated how he took it upon himself to clap at people in the crowd, thus eliciting cheers and claps on our behalf.

Like most experiences in Delhi, the diversity of what we ran past was impressive. From shanties with the poor watching quizzically as we passed to the leafy provincial estates of New Delhi to the impressive structures of Safdarjung's Tomb, India Gate, and Rashtrapati Bhavan, there was a little something for everyone on this course. Thankfully, it was basically hill-free, the only true elevation change being a flyover in each direction to keep us honest.

I found myself struggling less than expected and found it helpful that rather than mile markers there were kilometer markers. Twenty-one markers instead of thirteen means, quite obviously, that they come just that little bit more frequently that keeps you going to the next one. By the nineteenth kilometer, I felt myself starting to fatigue, though it was close enough to the end to just power through.

As I approached the finish line, I saw an attractive woman fumbling with a camera. As I got closer and closer, I realized I recognized this person. I had no idea how she had staked this position, but surely enough, the Wife had found the perfect spot to snap me triumphantly crossing the finish line. Unfortunately, as I got closer, I recognized a growing look of panic as she wasn't quite ready for the shot. I was a little earlier than I had told her (I honestly had no idea what my time would be based on my lack of training), though in my defense, I was one of very few 6'2" white dudes running the race; I kind of stuck out. Unfortunately, she missed the shot.

The story she told of getting to that location was as impressive as the story I just told about finishing the race. Apparently, in the course of the three hours since she dropped Kristin and I at the runners' entrance, she had made her way into the "elite athlete's" tent to use the rest room and run her own little race to sneak into the media area. A classic case of skipping the whole "asking permission" part and waiting to beg forgiveness if it came to that. Well, either that or playing the "ignorant foreigner" card.

Feeling surprisingly good after the race

Even with no triumphant shot of me crossing the finish line, the race was a fun and memorable experience. As is the case for nearly anyone that runs a half marathon, simply finishing is in and of itself, the accomplishment. The medals garlanded on each finisher* pretty much said it all: "I am a finisher."

*So not all finisher's actually received their medal, which wasn't an entire surprise to me. Upon checking the race website today this message greeted the homepage: "It is unfortunate that a section of the Half Marathon finishers in the Airtel Delhi Half Marathon did not receive their finisher's medal due to unforeseen circumstances." Based on what I could tell, those "unforeseen circumstances" included a bunch of people at the finish line that hadn't run the race trying to get a medal. Pretty pathetic, if you ask me.

The Freezing Point

At work yesterday, someone told me the upcoming weather in Delhi included low temperatures that dipped below freezing. Skeptical, I decided to check the ten day forecast. Thankfully, he was wrong (at least according to the 10-day forecast). The lowest listed temperature was 55 degrees Fahrenheit, well above the magical mark.

The balmy temperatures not withstanding (it's still typically around 80 here during the days), his comment sparked a little curiousity. Has it ever snowed in Delhi or Gurgaon? What would happen if it did? Based on short research, the closest thing I could find was a morning frost in 2006, which was the first in 70 years.

As a result of this event, weight issues on the power lines caused power cuts across the city and schools were shut down for three days. Slightly more dramatic than the first unexpected frost in Illinois, where the largest victim might be the uncovered flowers in my Mom's garden. Without central heat, it makes a little more sense why such drastic measures are necessary. Based on my short winter in the apartment last year (after living in a hotel with central heat for much of January), I had to admit that 50 degrees in Delhi feels a lot different than 50 degrees in Chicago. While this winter I still probably won't break out the "woolens" quite as regularly as the locals, there will be far fewer sarcastic comments about the thick sweaters and stocking caps in 50 degree weather.

As far as snow goes in Delhi, I'm still not sure it's ever happened. If it does, the two things I'd want to witness would be (1) the locals initial reaction, many of which have probably never seen the white stuff and (2) the traffic.

To stereotype, drivers in the northern U.S. (take me, for instance) and especially those living in mountainous regions consider themselves expert drivers in the snow; whereas, they consider drivers in the warmer southern states to be far inferior when driving in snow and ice based on their exposure to the elements (I'm sure southerners question northerners decision to live in a climate where it's even an issue). Regardless, I can't imagine people that have never seen snow would fare much better than those stereotyped southerners.

Of course, I'm sure the Indian reaction would be much the same: why develop an unneeded skill?

The Commute

For residents of the national capital region (NCR) that work outside the home, it's safe to assume I have one of the shorter and luckier commutes. My apartment complex is adjacent to my office complex. The net result? Even though I live at the far end of the apartment complex: a seven minute walk from desk to door; that is, if I have to wait for the elevator at the office.

Yesterday, on the other hand, my luck ran out. My company has three offices in the NCR; the one described above, the one where the Wife works which is about a fifteen minute drive and still in Gurgaon (southwest of Delhi), and the one located in Noida, which is the "other" suburb of Delhi on the east side of the capital. Yesterday, I finally went to Noida.

Making matters worse, the hours I needed to be in the office (basically 10 - 6) necessitated hitting the worst of the Delhi rush hour on both ends. Having spent six months commuting from the Taj Palace Hotel in Delhi to Gurgaon during my first assignment in 2004, I'm quite familiar with the flow of Indian traffic jams; the close quarters created when a road designed for two lanes of traffic is stuffed full of vehicles inches apart with motorcycles and scooters filling in the gaps. That, I'm used to and while, frustrating, completely met my expectations. What I couldn't figure out was the traffic in Noida. Here is a city so new that its name is an acronym (New Okhla Industrial Development Authority), yet the traffic pattern lead to 45 minutes in traffic inching forward to get off the highway and into town. The roads seemed wide enough to handle the volume, yet at random intervals along the road, the all too common police barriers were set up, basically chicaning the eager commuters and delaying their progress to the glass and steel towers of Noida. No construction, no evident reason, just people getting delayed for the sake of getting delayed. Based on the amount of open space waiting for development, the problem is going to get a lot worse before it gets any better.

A fairly typical scene in Delhi traffic

Days like yesterday make me realize how lucky I am to spend ten minutes a day commuting rather than the four hours I spent patiently riding through the streets of Delhi and sitting in the traffic mess that is Noida. And yes, I recognize a seven minute walk in both directions would technically be 14 minutes of commuting, but you don't expect me to actually walk both directions, do you?

The Manor Revisited

Over the weekend we celebrated our friend Kristin's birthday by staying in Delhi. It might seem odd to get a hotel room within an hour of your apartment, but it was a luxury that seemed to make sense so Lindsay and Kristin could make a day of shopping and a night of going out without driving back and forth between Gurgaon and Delhi. Think of it like a suburban couple staying in the city for a night. As usual, Americans spend money in weird ways.

Kristin, as usual, initially selected a Taj property (she's kind of a sucker for Taj properties) but did some additional research and found a place called The Manor in Friends Colony West, which is one of the few small boutique hotels in Delhi. As soon as she mentioned this place, the wife and I said, "Sign us up." The Manor was significant because the lawn of the hotel was the sole place of refuge that the wife was able to find when we were in India for six months starting in late 2004. It was first first "hidden gem". And, if you've ever spoken to Lindsay, you know she loves her hidden gems.

While we never stayed there during that assignment (after all, why would you stay in a hotel in a city where you were living in a different hotel at that time), it was pretty much the only stop on our brunch tour back in those days with the rest of the crew from work here on short term assignments. With one of the few open lawns we were able to find, we found a green oasis in the big city at a time when we didn't feel like a place like that could exist. I remember it being an expensive brunch at the time (approximately Rs. 600 though it may have been a little more) but had a free flow of watermelon martinis so the price seemed worth it. They also had pressed coffee which was a rarity at the time. The Rs. 600 price tag looks like an absolute steal when compared to the prices charged around Delhi and Gurgaon for brunches today (Rs. 2000+).

A scene from Lindsay's 2005 Birthday Brunch at 77 at The Manor

In 2005 the hotel was owned and operated by Aman Resorts as a sort of stopover hotel to serve their other properties in India and Bhutan. Today, Aman has opened a new 7-star (whatever that means) property in Delhi so this little boutique hotel's utility had been consumed. While owners had changed, with the exception of the name of the restaurant (from 77 to Indian Accent) the hotel hadn't in six years, which was both a good and bad thing. Good because some things don't change. Bad because things should change a little. It was exceedingly modern in 2004 and was would still be considered contemporary, but definitely not as "different" as it once seemed.

The lawn was where we had spent most of our time and was a perfect example of how the snapshot in your memory molds your perceptions. I remember the lawn being a quiet, idyllic place shut off from the rest of Delhi with little noise and happy times. Obviously, it's still located in the same upscale leafy neighborhood, but it no longer seemed shut off from the hustle and bustle of the city. Adjacent to the lawn a large block-styled three-story home was under construction. A train with screeching breaks traveled on the rails behind the hotel (in hindsight, I know remember the trains). And the cars honking and dogs barking that is associated with Delhi seemed to encroach on the paradise we once knew.

A visit back to The Manor was inevitable at some point during these two years, but the visit back was a testament to the fact that places alone don't make memories. Memories are snapshots of the places, people, conversations, and other contextual events in your life at the time. While it was fun to go back, something was missing and the place seemed empty. I think that "something" was Mohammed, Colin, Allison, Szesny, and the rest of the 2005 gang.

Shooting at Jama Masjid

When you live in a foreign land and stick out based on your physical appearance, you tend to generally raise your overall awareness of your environment and situations in which you might find yourself. I'm no different. Recognizing that everyone's personal definition of comfort and security is different, I can say with great confidence that I've never been scared for my personal security in India. Uncomfortable? Sure, but that's part of the experience.

While sitting in the protected expat bubble that is Sunday brunch, I looked down at my Blackberry and noticed an "alert" email, which is something I receive a couple times a week. Typically, these emails are about some sort of fuel strike, demonstration, or general security alert. Sunday's was different: two Taiwanese tourists were shot as they were getting onto a tourist bus outside Jama Masjid mosque.

If you've been to Delhi as a tourist, you've likely been to Jama Masjid. It's one of the primary sights in Old Delhi located near Red Fort. I was last there at the beginning of August.

The stairs leading up to Gate 2 of Jama Masjid

A group, the India Mujahideen has claimed responsibility; however, the culprits were able
to get away by motorcycle. Which, if you've been to that area, is not a huge surprise. In August, we explored the maze of side streets (on the opposite side of the mosque where the attack took place) near the mosque. Even with all the kind people we came across in the alleys (including an older man that pointed out my friend, who was ironically here studying terrorism, having dropped money and a young boy that escorted us to the main street while refusing a tip), it would be an easy place to disappear (intentionally or not).

Inside Jama Masjid

The scary part of this situation, which is the very reason terrorism is so "effective", is the random nature of the attack. Something tells me that no matter how aware I remain of my surroundings, I likely wouldn't have thought that passing motorcycle to be a threat as I boarded a bus.

That being said, I worry about people jumping to conclusions on what this means and I don't want to minimize what happened on Sunday morning. Obviously, I'll remain vigilant and maintain a heightened sense of awareness, but this shouldn't be an indictment on the generalized safety level in India specifically. It's unfortunate, but these types of things can and do happen throughout the world. It's unfortunate, but it's a risk we all live with most days.

Commonwealth Practice

Next month marks Delhi's "arrival" on the international sports scene when the Commonwealth Games begin. While these games aren't the Olympics, they're similar in nature and require the same types of logistics, planning, and construction, albeit on a smaller scale. If you remember news stories about Athens preparedness for the 2000 Summer Olympics, it's been much the same here. Unfortunately, with Athens many of those stories were a year or so before the games. We're 24 days from the start of the games and there is still a lot of work to do. Venues are still not finished, subways and mass transit systems are behind schedule, "beautification projects" aren't finished, some new venues are already deemed unfit to fill to capacity for risk to the structure, and there's a new story in the paper each day about some sort of corruption. In other words, it's kind of a mess.

While I have no plans to go to any events (I'll actually only be in-country the first four days), I am curious to see how they make Delhi look during the games as a showpiece to the rest of the world (or at least as a showpiece to the rest of the former British empire). I've got a feeling that it will look the way the government wants the world to think India should look, much like the way Augusta National flies in flowers to make The Masters look the way people expect it to look. My guess is that the "beautification projects" (my word, not an official term) will be finished in time when the cameras are rolling.

My experience with the Commonwealth Games will likely be with how it effects the commute. Thankfully, I live close to the office. Like a seven minute walk. As a result, it won't impact my day personally, but I worry that others that travel one to two hours per day under normal circumstances will have a very rough couple weeks during the games. Yesterday there was a "traffic police practice day," basically a dry run for the police to get their patterns down. The impact, even on the streets of Gurgaon, was obvious. Roads were plugged, and travel times skyrocketed. It doesn't exactly inspire a lot of confidence that getting around from October 3 - 14 will be much fun.

The Relapse of an Indian Tailor Addict

After years of hearing about the glories of his wares, listening to stories of his famous clientele, and reaping the benefits of others' visits, I finally stepped foot in Grover Cloth and Tailoring House in Khan Market on Saturday afternoon.

For those unfamiliar with my previous stint in India from October 2004 to April 2005, I had made a near weekly trip to a tailor, Kumar Brothers, located in South Extension in Delhi. So infamous were these trips that my fellow expat work colleagues at the time joked that Lindsay and I had singlehandedly paid for the installation of air conditioning in their small shop. I'm honestly not sure if they were joking and couldn't argue the validity of their claim. The final tally of garments from Kumar was staggering: 30+ shirts, 10 dress pants, 5 suits, and 2 sport coats.

Saturday's visit to Grover was my first step inside a tailor in nearly six years. I quickly felt like a recovering alcoholic abruptly thrust off the wagon. As a recovering tailor addict, you can't imagine the urge to simply pull bolts of fabric from the shelves and bark orders about wanting a dress shirt with French cuffs in this fabric and a shirt with the collar and cuffs set on a diagonal in another fabric. Thankfully, we had a visiting friend, Paul, along whose sole purpose was to restock his wardrobe so I didn't feel quite the need to purchase (as much).

While Paul certainly gained preferred customer status, I stayed conservative selecting just a few shirts and couple pairs of pants. You know you're an addict when you consider yourself conservative by selecting six shirts and two pairs of pants while constantly scanning the bolts lining the wall for a fabric you may have missed.

Paul displays the unbridled joy of his maiden tailor visit

When filling out the order form and still scanning for more shirts, I wasn't ready for the sticker shock of Grover's prices. My price baseline was formulated from the 2005 experience as well Naresh, the tailor we've found that makes house calls (I never said I had quit the whole tailor thing cold-turkey; just said I hadn't stepped foot inside a tailor). Apparently, when you can boast of having Bill Clinton and Tony Blair as clients (quick aside, they don't actually boast of this, it was a rumor we had heard that I verified in a Delhi commerce promotional book published in preparation for the Commonwealth Games that features Grover), you can extract a pricing premium. That, and their fabric is basically the same stuff that the Italian designers use.

However, the price of a linen shirt I had selected (Rs. 4200!) was borderline insulting considering my man Naresh stitches together a linen shirt for around Rs. 700. Granted, the fabrics were nicer, but six times nicer? I took a pass on that shirt but not before semi-playfully trying to bargain down the prices on the other items. After seeing the price of the pants (apparently, I had selected his nicest fabric), I decided to take a pass (temporarily, at least) there as well. Apparently, Lindsay thought my bargaining was bordering on insulting and she pulled me away from the counter so as to not upset them too much as Paul still hadn't begun the process and had far more at stake.

Even with the pricing surprise, I had forgotten the joy of visiting the tailor. Thankfully, the shop is a good 35 - 40 minute drive from the apartment so it's not an every weekend kind of place (though we did find time to go back before brunch today for a quick fitting). Unfortunately, clothes here take a beating in the laundry so I may need to wait until we near the conclusion of our assignment before getting too much more made; however, the expectations surrounding Grover were exceeded and the myths confirmed. The man cuts a good shirt.

Our First House Guest

Twelve hours after our arrival from Turkey we welcomed our first house guest, a good friend from childhood, Luke Gerdes. Luke is two-thirds through a two-month trip to complete research for his doctoral dissertation, passing through Delhi for six nights. I'm not sure whether he actually got what he needed while here academically, but I can say we enjoyed our time together. In all honestly, it almost seemed like he was more in need of seeing and talking with familiar faces than we were, which can probably be expected as he had been traveling the previous six weeks, spending no more than four of five nights in any given country.

Luke's and my family are close friends (in fact, his parents are considering an India/Nepal loop with my parents early next year), and Luke and I had grown up together but the frequency of our meetings had basically dwindled to a beer or two the day of Christmas Eve as my Dad and I make the rounds to family friends (actually one of my favorite traditions, though the Gerdes house is the only stop that guarantees a frosty beverage).

The other thing to know about the Gerdes family is that while growing up, and still to this day, my family refers to Luke's mom, Sue, as the "Domestic Goddess." In fact, Martha Stewart may very well be the "Sue Gerdes of Connecticut." Thankfully, he learned something from his mother and volunteered to fix what was easily the best freshly prepared Mexican meal made from scratch in India last week, which would have been the case even if likely not the only entry in that category. What made this feat all the more impressive was that he successfully navigated four grocery stores alone in Gurgaon finding fresh avocados for guacamole. Needless to say, he set a high bar for future guests to follow.

Since he had done quite a bit of travel in the developing world and had spent a few days in Mumbai, he was more immune to the shock value that greets many visitors to Delhi. As a result, we were able to do fun things like eat at Karim's and get lost in alleys in Chadni Chowk. Getting lost in alleys might seem dangerous, and we were careful to keep Lindsay between us at all times, but in hindsight, it was a fairly safe place to be. In one instance, some local men stopped us because some rupees had fallen out of Luke's pocket and they wanted to make sure we found. Not five minutes later, a young boy who had self-appointed himself our guide to a main street tried to refuse a tip from Luke. Luke tried to hand the kid Rs. 50, which I can only guess is a LOT of money for this kid, and it took Luke's continual insistence for the kid to actually accept the money. Sometimes, India can pleasantly surprise you.

Later on Saturday night, we had planned to relax at our favorite rooftop establishment in a mall, Vapour, but received a phone call from a friend's landlord who we've met socially. He invited us to a housewarming party some of his friends were having, which isn't the type of invitation you'd want to turn down if you were interested in experiencing new things. The party didn't disappoint. The topic of conversation quickly turned to politics and had quite the diverse cast of characters, including an imbibing Muslim, a Hindu businessman that held American citizenship and sold quite a few pairs of jeans to a certain retailer based in Arkansas, a clean-shaven Sikh, our friend the landlord, and the host, a gentleman that appeared in an Apple computer print ad in the mid-80's. Needless to say, the addition of a couple of Americans that were a few cocktails in, and it was a spirited conversation. They remembered our names by saying, "Luke and John? Like the Bible?" Well, sort of, I guess. Luke ultimately earned extra points and the respect of the other guests since he was apparently the first person to verbally disagree with the blue jean baron in some time. I literally sat there and laughed for two hours. Not surprisingly, as we were getting ready to leave around 12:30am, dinner was served. An hour and many worthwhile and tasty calories later, we finally said our good byes.

I'd have to say it was a successful first house guest. Surprisingly, by the sixth night we weren't ready to kick him out and I don't think he was entirely sick of us either. It was a great chance to share a little of our adopted home, share new Indian experiences, and get to know one of my oldest friends better (if that makes sense). And if he thinks his invitation to us to spend some time at his family's fishing cabin in Canada upon our return was simply a courtesy invite; well, then he doesn't know the wife and I quite well enough.

Finding Karim's

A good friend from childhood, Luke, has been visiting the past few days as he passes through Delhi on a research trip. Knowing that Luke, a former college football player, is not averse to the consumption of meat, it seemed like the perfect time to find Karim's, Delhi's oldest and probably most famous restaurant.

After a short visit to Jama Masjid, which seemed to make sense because the location of Karim's is described in most dining guides as "near Jama Masjid", we walked out Gate 1 simply because Lindsay said, "it just feels like it's going to be in that direction." We still had no idea exactly where it was but took advantage of a bicycle rickshaw driver offering his services for a tour of Old Delhi and asked directions. Once he confirmed Lindsay's original thoughts, we disappeared into a side street. Not fifty yards in, I looked up, saw a sign that said, "Karim's, Inside Street" with an arrow pointing to the left. Apparently, the search was a lot easier than anticipated.

If you find this view of Jama Masjid's Gate 1, you've basically found Karim's

After being seated at a table that we were asked to share with a group of French tourists, we were all a little cranky and a lot crowded. Thankfully, another table in the section shortly opened up, our French table guests moved (they seemed just as happy to have their own table as we were), and order was restored in the world.

I had heard that lamb or mutton was the way to go at Karim's but still couldn't help myself from ordering butter chicken, which I've determined is the litmus test of any Indian restaurant. The food, as expected, was excellent, and we ordered way too much for the three of us. The taste of the butter chicken was excellent though they lose a couple points because the chicken was still on the bone. Probably the way it's intended to be prepared, but considering the "national dish" of India (or so I'm calling it) was invented in the past 50 or 60 years, I feel there's no reason it should have bones. Other than the butter chicken, Lindsay enjoyed the naan, which was thicker and chewier than any other I've had but had the basic consistency (and taste, to be honest) of an unsalted soft pretzel. The mutton dishes, both the burra and the curry, were tasty though by the end of the meal there was a good quarter inch of oil on the top of the curry, again another Karim's staple.

The spread at Karim's

It's definitely not the most healthy of foods but for those looking to hit an authentic Indian restaurant in an authentic atmosphere, I think it might be tough to top. Based on the location, it's the kind of place that can easily both scare and capture the imagination of a new visitor to India, but then again, that's kind of the point.

Delhi's Sparkling New Terminal 3

I have a little more to share about Turkey but wanted to give initial thoughts around the new terminal in Delhi and it's quite possible other notable things might happen in India between now and the time I get around to finishing Turkey posts. As a result, I'm reserving the right to go back and talk more about the trip. Since I'm in charge here, that's allowed.

At 3:30am Tuesday morning, our Turkish Airlines flight pulled into Delhi's sparkling new Indira Ghandi International Airport Terminal 3, known also by the title of Schwarzeneggar's blockbuster film, "T3." I had read a couple headlines while away about it being a disorganized mess but found, for arrivals at least, it to be quite the opposite. Other than Lindsay not liking the carpet choice along the walk from the gate to immigration, the first impression of India is much more positive than with old Terminal 2.

When approaching the immigration counter, two things struck me. First, there are huge hand sculptures affixed to the wall in various yoga and/or spiritual poses. A nice touch. Second, the hierarchy (as I'm defining based on the proximity to the bottom of the escalator where passengers emerge) for passport holders to get to the appropriate immigration desk: (1) Diplomats, (2) First/Business Class, (3) Foreign Passport Holders, (4) Special Needs, (5) Indian Nationals. Maybe it's just me, but the fact that "special needs" being fourth wasn't the biggest surprise. It was the fact that Indian citizens being forced to go the furthest. The signs were electronic and easily interchangeable, but it still kind of seemed like they were saying, "Welcome home! Now, keep walking." It's quite possible it's a courtesy they extend to foreigners and I'm probably way overthinking this; however, wouldn't that be a nice little touch to extend those returning home? At the immigration desk next to us, there was a Greek family that we overheard was headed to a hospital (have no idea the reason) but there was some general confusion about their entry. They also had a plastic grocery bag stuffed full of fresh tomatoes. The tomatoes looked delicious, as far as tomatoes go, but something tells me they probably weren't still with the Greek family when they ultimately cleared customs.

At baggage claim, the bags starting coming out quickly but it still took over a half hour for our's to appear. Bags kept slowly appearing, just not our's. That's pretty much always the way it goes for us. Poor us, but not the end of the world. The only other minor slip-up at the baggage claim is that backpacks and other odd-shaped items come out in a plastic tub so that straps and pieces don't get caught. This is good. Unfortunately, once on the conveyor, the tubs would get caught on the lip where bags came out. Just a small quirk that they may or may not work through, but in the meantime it gives the attendant at the baggage claim something to do.

After claiming bags, we quickly cleared customs and our trusty driver Kailish was dutifully waiting for us, even though it was now after 4am. The walk to the car was longer than the old airport, but we also had to walk all the way to where the car was parked rather than just out to the curb. On the walk, the skyway between the elevators and the parking structure wasn't air conditioned but rather had been outfitted with industrial looking fans. For an airport claiming to be "world class" this seemed an odd place to stop short; however, it's possible that it's not 100% complete and it will be changed in the future. Regardless, not a big deal.

As a whole, other than the distances between places within the airport (which it's logical to expect that a new airport would be larger, so it's hard to find fault there), it was a pleasant experience and definitely a step up from the previous terminal. It looks like it should be more than sufficient for October's Commonwealth Games. Now, whether the rest of the Delhi area will be ready is an entirely different topic all together....

"Rockstar"

I finally played tourist for a little while in Delhi on Saturday and went to Hauz Khas Village, which is a fairly newly developed shopping area set around 13th century ruins. When trying to enter the gate, we were told by a fairly casual looking gentleman that the ruins were closed. Perplexed, I looked at him and asked, "Huh?" He repeated "Closed". Thinking he was just some random guy trying to collect some sort of self-imposed entrance tax, I asked why. He replied, "Filming a movie. Should open at six."

Shortly after six, we walked back to the entrance and could see all kinds of kids playing soccer in the grass. The same casual looking gentleman was still manning his post and seemed to be limiting entrance (even though there were already dozens of people in side). He begrudgingly let us enter and we started to walk around to the primary ruin. A swiftly moving man approached from the opposite direction with a couple of lackeys trailing him. He stopped to sign a couple autographs so I decided to start taking shots to figure out who he was after the fact (I'm not much of an authority on Bollywood actors).

Based on my limited internet research, I deduced the actor to be Ranbir Kapoor (note, he's the one in black, not the one with the satchel). I have no idea who he is but this site refers to "the chocolate actor Ranbir Kapoor surely is hot property these days" (note, I have no idea what "chocolate actor" means), so it's possible he's kind of a big deal?

After being passed by Mr. Kapoor, we literally walked into the set getting torn down. Personally, it seemed like you wouldn't want random tourists walking around, but who am I to argue. To be honest, the only way I even found out the movie was called "Rockstar" was that I happened to see one of those signs that details the scene number with the movie title. And yes, this revelation greatly aided my internet research to identify the mystery actor.

I've still yet to see a Bollywood movie in a theatre (or on video for that matter; the closest I've come is the end credits to Slumdog Millionaire), but based on this close encounter, I might need to make "Rockstar" my first.

Kunzum Travel Cafe

While exploring a new area of Delhi, Hauz Khas Village, yesterday with "the other expat at work" (Kristin), we happened upon the Kunzum Travel Cafe, which is a fairly unique establishment created by Ajay Jain, who is a prominent Indian travel writer.

(OK, in the spirit of full disclosure, I'm not sure how prominent, but I had randomly stumbled upon his blog a week or so ago, Kristin learned of the cafe from Time Out Delhi, and he's published a couple books. Counts as prominent in my book.)

The concept is part coffee shop, part photography gallery, and part hangout for travelers and friends. They have good coffee and a very pressure-free environment. Their policy is simple, if you like the coffee, pay what you want. And stay as long as you wish.

If you're exploring the 13th century ruins of the Hauz Ghas complex or shopping in the area (lots of antique furniture stores that I'm sure will attract the wife), and need a place to cool down or just to relax, it's well worth a stop.

Address: T-49, GF, Hauz Khas Village, New Delhi 110016, India.
Tel: +91.9650 702 777, +91.11.26513949
Timings: Tuesday – Sunday, 11 am – 7.30 pm