Chicago or Bust

Technically, my flight doesn't leave until 12:15am tomorrow, but I'm considering today my last in India (for nearly three weeks). While I've been out of the country since my arrival in early January, tonight's trip marks the first time I board a plane for home. When I arrive in Chicago tomorrow morning, it will be exactly nine months to the day from when I left. Of course, I was in the U.S. one day after that, thanks to some passenger's pesky little urinary blockage over Hudson Bay causing a diversion to Boston. Regardless, I'm calling it nine months.

The next three weeks will be a whirlwind tour; starting with a round of golf five hours after arrival with my father-in-law (not a bad way to stave off jet lag) and ending with lunch with my parents before heading back to the airport on October 26. Sandwiched between those events include a birthday dinner with the mother-in-law, a long weekend in Moline with my family, a few days of work back in Chicago (each night scheduled full with dinners; the wife, she's kind of a planner), a Saturday of college football and cards in the city, a fire pit evening in Lake Zurich with the Williams clan, and another half day of work before heading to South Carolina for a week split between Lindsay's parents and my retarded college friends. Bottom line, I can't complain. I'm hitting all the good stuff.

Even though (outside the five days of work) it's more of a vacation-type trip than actually "living" and I like to think I'm going to be too busy to experience any kind of reverse culture shock, I'm sure it will be there to some extent. There will be things about India I miss and things about America I don't understand.

That's a small risk to take; I'm ready for some time at home.

FRRO, Part 2

If you've ever wanted to experience pure, unbridled Indian bureaucracy, the FRRO (Foreigner Regional Registration Office) is probably about as close as most foreigners will ever come. It's a little like going to get your driver's license renewed, except it's paper-based, there's no official queue, no air-conditioning, and lots of people sitting around and/or literally sleeping on the job.

For a detailed and balanced account of everything required for an FRRO registration, check out this link from a Wall Street Journal affiliate. For slightly more disgruntled (yet equally accurate) accounts, you can find in nearly any expat's blog in India.

Based on our type of visa (Employment), we were first required to visit the FRRO within 14 days of entering the country. Since we only have a one-year visa that expires in December, it was time to start the renewal process. Fortunately, we have the help of immigration attorneys as part of our expat package so we literally just have to appear there in person, sign a couple things, and our handlers do the rest.

While it's nice to have the handlers, it certainly cuts down on the number of interesting things you can witness. In fact, I think the most startling thing I learned yesterday at the office was that both of our handlers were Mormons. Of all the religious diversity in this country, I have to admit these were the first Mormoms I had met. Upon doing a little research on the information superhighway, I learned that, as of mid-2009, there were 7,500 Mormons in India. While that's 7,500 more than I expected, it still seemed noteworthy.

My other impression of the experience was my general comfort level being at the office. In all honesty, the building in January seemed cold and intimidating, if not a little scary. After nearly nine months, it just seemed like another place to go and another errand to run (thanks to the handlers). Sure we were stared at while we walked the halls, but that tends to happen here from time to time.

While there are any number of (fairly obvious) ways the Indian government could make this an easier and more inviting process that gave a better initial impression of the country, they don't, which is entirely their choice and right. And until they do, all of us foreigners will just have to deal with it.

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.

The Move, Part 1

The past week has primarily been one of anticipation and preparation for the move from the comfort and familiarity of the hotel into the relative unknown of the apartment.

On Wednesday, we decided it was time to start the transition from long-term business travelers to expatriates and finally ventured to our first Gurgaon Connection (a social group we joined comprised of expats) event, the weekly tea.  Even though it was located at the hotel we were staying, we had somehow found excuses to not join the first two Wednesdays we were here.  It was a primarily female (besides me, there was only one other dude, an attorney from Washington, D.C.), yet diverse group of people of varied ages and countries of origin.

Move day itself was sadly uneventful.  We both kept waiting for something crazy or unexpected to happen, and nothing really did.  All the finishing touches had been applied and the RO UV water filtration system had actually been installed.  “RO” stands for reverse osmosis and “UV” is like the rays from the sun.  Apparently, it’s the thing that keeps parasites, bacteria, and other unmentionables out of our consumable water and keeps us (hopefully) out of the hospital. 

Our apartment is considered “serviced”.  For those unaware of what that means (as I was until about 23 hours ago), it means that it’s furnished, holds an inventory of daily use items like small kitchen appliances and dishes, gets cleaned six days a week by a nice young gent named Sanjay, includes daily towel service, a daily newspaper (I requested my favorite, the “Hindustan Times”), and four or five different levels of phone numbers to utilize in the event we have issues.  In addition, it sounded like Sanjay will do some level of laundry and also deliver items needing pressing to some person in the basement that will apparently iron for Rs. 2 an item.  A little less than a nickel.

Based on a number of factors on a varying scale of importance, including both the size of the water heaters in the bathrooms and the amount of closet space in the master, we split up on our belongings to give one another space.  The net result is that it feels a little like we’re roommates at this point in time, but I’m sure we’ll grow accustomed to the setup.  Surprisingly, I “won” the right to the master closet and bathroom, though it must be recognized that this was “given” to me and not a simple assumption on my part.  Apparently the guest bathroom has better light.  One other quick tidbit about the bathrooms and the availability of hot water is that we have to switch the geezer 30 – 45 minutes before we want hot water.  Lindsay is looking forward to this as an official excuse to hit the snooze button.

The rest of Saturday was spent touring our nearest shopping haunts (all places that will surely be referred to throughout the next two years), including Galleria Market and Super Mart-I.  In addition, there is a small grocery store located within our apartment complex that has a surprising selection of produce and basic staple items.  Galleria was our first stop, where we visited at my newest favorite store, ElectriCity.  It’s like a cross between Best Buy and Home Depot with about 0.05% the square footage (that might be generous).  There we purchased an India coffee maker, which has already performed admirably.  From Galleria, we made the short drive to Super Mart-I where Lindsay attempted to get back in the bargaining mode.  Not successful.  Let’s just say she’s going to need a little work before she hits the pashmina stalls.  On the other hand, I successfully purchased a copy of George Clooney’s “Up in the Air” for Rs. 100 (approximately $2.17).  I’m pretty sure it’s not a bootleg because there’s a manufacturer’s suggested price of Rs. 199.  What kind of self respecting bootlegger would print a price on the package?  Totally legit.  Funny side story, the kid working the stall was having trouble understanding my English, so the kind customer next to me (who was purchasing porn that the kid pulled out from behind the table) helped broker the deal.

From the video stall we made our way to Needs grocery store, which comes highly recommended by all expats.  Within about four minutes, you just come to accept the fact that all packaging is dirty and that as long as it appears sealed, it’s worth rolling the dice and making the purchase.   Fifty bucks in groceries, ten bucks in produce, and two bottles of wine later, we made our way back home.

Part two of the move takes place tomorrow (Monday) when our air shipment arrives.  Slowly but surely we’re acclimating to the new lifestyle.  The most striking difference between “hotel life” and “serviced-apartment life” in the winter is undoubtedly the temperature.  Simply put; it’s cold.  As I close this entry, Lindsay is sitting next to me, reading a travel magazine, fully clothed, yet still wearing her robe – perhaps this IS just like home.

Everyone Needs a Handler

One of the benefits of entering India on an employment visa is the experience of visiting the Foreigners Regional Registration Office (FRRO) within fourteen days of arrival in the country.  Registration is also required if you stay for more than 180 continuous days on any other sort of visa and since we didn’t meet that criteria during our prior assignment, this was our first experience with true Indian bureaucracy.

Leading up to our appointment I was in fairly regular contact with the law firm assigned to assist the process.  Initially, I was providing documentation and asking questions of a resource that I thought was in Bangalore so it wasn’t a complete surprised when he hadn’t me over to a “Mr. Kumar” who was described as his “man in New Delhi.”  Within India, the salutation “Mr.” or “Ms.” is very much a sign of respect, especially for authority figures within a business relationship.  As an example, during cultural training in the states, our facilitator had mentioned how, in a traditional Indian office, it would be appropriate for Lindsay and I to refer to each other at the office as “Mr. Luth” and “Mrs. Luth”; thankfully based on prior experience, we knew our office is westernized enough that we knew that such formality wasn’t necessary.  Or maybe I’m just disrespectful in the office.  At any rate, this “Mr. Kumar” seemed  fit for the title.

Blankly stated, without the help of Mr. Kumar and his associate, I’d still be trying to find the FRRO office much less actually registered.  Prior to our visit to the office, we were requested to provide seven passport photos, our assignment memo from Hewitt indicating that we were employed, a letter on hotel letterhead stating that we resided in the hotel, copies of our passports, visas, and entry stamps, and a copy of our unsigned lease indicating that we were going to be around for a while.  From this documentation, Mr. Kumar and his associate had put together an application packet intended to quickly move us through the process.  A colleague that had been through the process had described it as “I’m pretty sure our contact just had a fistful of rupees and was paying people off to get through the registration process.”  Naturally, I was intrigued.

I found it somewhat odd that Mr. Kumar wouldn’t give us the address of the office (even though the concept of an address is somewhat different here; they tend to go by sector numbers and landmarks, at least in Gurgaon), I was told instead to call him as we left the hotel and that he would provide directions to the driver.  The driver still struggled to find the location, which turned out to be the local general purpose government building, including both the police headquarters and courthouse.   Somehow Mr. Kumar was able to identify us as the car dropped us off at the entrance and he quickly whisked us into the building and we started climbing stairs.  At that point I may or may not have smelled hashish.

We passed the office, went through a door marked “authorized persons only” and Mr. Kumar pulled out our application packet, reviewed it with us, glue-sticked our passport photos to each page, and instructed us to sign.

As a side note, I was extremely proud of my passport photo which was taken after we arrived here at the local Kodak shop (I was shocked this type of establishment still existed); it’s taken in very odd lighting that doesn’t seem to exist in the states, makes me look kind of green, and very much like how I’d expect a diamond thief to look.  In other words, the world’s perfect passport photo.  Lindsay’s original photos were considered “super cute”.  Unfortunately for her, I later read that the pictures were to be “despectacled” with both ears showing.   Of course, her “super cute” photo prominently displayed her glasses and no ears.  The replacement photo didn’t quite reach the same “super cute” status, and she’d be the first to admit she looked somewhat elfish.  Thankfully for her, it’s unlikely anyone will ever see the pictures.  That is, unless we get into some minor disagreement over the next two years and I decide to post on Facebook.

After our application packet was completely assembled, we entered the actual FRRO office (or would it be FRR office?  FRRO office just sounds better) which was much smaller than I anticipated (maybe 12 to 15 foot square) and divided by plexiglass into three smaller rooms.  The largest of the three subrooms was where you entered and quickly passed through.  This seemed to be the room where they were processing existing applications or requests.  The second room was some sort of waiting area with a desk (which is where Mr. Kumar instructed us to sit) and the third room was where the actual registration officers sat, wielding their considerable power.  It’s the third room where Mr. Kumar spent most of his time.  As we waited patiently, he quickly cut in front of everyone and started our process.  There appeared to be other “handlers” like Mr. Kumar helping other foreign nationals but I was impressed that there was a British national with paperwork from a prominent American accounting company that seemed to be there on her own.  While she went through the process slightly slower than others, she still successfully navigated the bureaucracy, which was certainly a afeat in and of itself.

We had to wait a few minutes for our application to make its way around the room.  When it got to the final stage, Mr. Kumar motioned Lindsay and I into the third room.  There seemed to be a slight issue with Lindsay’s entry stamp, in that it was very faint and not on the page next to her visa.  While it ultimately didn’t matter, it was fairly obvious Mr. Registration Officer was just making an issue because he’s Mr. Registration Officer and he can do pretty much whatever he wants.  After some back and forth between Mr. Kumar and Mr. Registration Officer, we were asked to sign a paper ledger.

I have no idea where this paper ledger goes or how they’d actually find our names in the ledger if they ever needed.  I say this because the entire room looked like it was about 3 weeks from appearing on “Hoarders” – bundles of paper held together like bundles of newspaper lined the entire room from floor to ceiling (though there may have been some shelving on one wall).  Needless to say, the electronic age doesn’t seem to have fully met the FRRO office.

We didn’t actually receive our paperwork, which we’re required to carry (at least copies of) while we’re traveling within or to get out of (or back into) India.  Mr. Kumar told us that it takes a couple days and that he’d go back in two days, get our paperwork, and have his associate drop off at the hotel.  Naturally, two days later I emailed for a status update, because to be honest I was still a little nervous since we hadn’t moved into our residence and just tend to worry about this kind of thing (i.e.,  I’d rather be 100% official as it’s never been a personal goal to recount my story on National Geographic’s “Locked Up Abroad”).

When Mr. Kumar’s associated responded that the paperwork was not finalized and that they would go back again the following week on Tuesday (which I doubt considering it’s a national holiday) but that it would help if we had finalized lease papers.  This started to worry me because it’s in my nature and the fact that our hotel paperwork said we were only registered until January 25^th.  At that point, I should have remembered the stacks of paperwork and the nature of the process, but I was still a little skeptical until I received a response from Mr. Kumar himself stating:

John,   

You both are registered.  You are official now.  Once you have the lease agreement ready please let us know we will take it to the FRO and collect your registration papers and hand them over to you.  Until then relax.  Nothing to worry.

It’s amazing the level of trust and faith we put in people here each day, whether it be wondering if our drivers are actually going to take us where we’ve asked them or blind faith in handlers like Mr. Kumar that are actually going to take care of the little details.  It’s an odd sensation to feel so powerless yet a necessary one to become comfortable in this type of setting.  Every decision we make has consequences, which is more obvious here than elsewhere; however, as long as one looks at dealing with the outcomes as minor problems to solve, it makes what makes life here interesting.  That, and having the pleasure to meet characters like Mr. Kumar.

Suite, Suite Persistence

Ah, such a delicious little pun for what you’re about to read.

Business hotels in India are extremely comfortable, modern facilities where one can easily lose sight of what it means to actually be part of society.  That being said, after seven nights in a standard room filled to the brim with six large duffel bags worth of clothing, four carry-on bags worth of stuff, and two increasingly cranky Americans, something had to give.  In this case, that something was the temperature of the room.  Having made multiple calls to the front desk and having multiple visits from maintenance, it was time for resolution.   Maintenance routine seemed to be, (1) come to the room with a ladder, (2) remove a piece of the ceiling, (3) claim to make some change to the filtration system, (4) tell Americans to wait 30 to 60 minutes when all their troubles would disappear in the cool breeze of an air conditioned room.

On what we believe was the fifth call, the Duty Manager decided he would personally come to the room with maintenance to ensure his customers were happy.  After following the same four step maintenance routine, we finally said, “You’ve been here before, we’ve heard the same story, it’s not going to be fixed in 30 minutes and I think we both know that.”  Finally, the duty manager admitted that he would have to “turn the cold air on for the entire floor.”  Our response, “sweet, let’s do that.”  For some reason, this response was unexpected and he then said, “OK, I will turn on the cold air for the entire floor and everyone’s room will cool down to 21 degrees.”

As you might imagine, this response perplexed Lindsay and I both and we both went on the offensive with two very different arguments.   Lindsay chose the “emotional customer-focused” argument claiming that wouldn’t he just be upsetting all the other customers for the benefit of us.  I chose the logic-based argument of “then why do you even have thermostats in rooms if guests can’t select their own temperature”.  We were making sweet music, and it wasn’t even planned.  Though even we couldn’t have guessed what would happen next.  He responded, “Perhaps we can change your room, we could see if a suite would be more to your liking.”  Bingo.  It wasn’t even our goal as we had no intention of packing up six duffels worth of clothing and going through the effort of changing rooms.

Then we saw the suite.

I’ve never seen two people pack that much luggage so quickly.  Within 30 minutes we were unpacking in a spacious two-room suite where we can actually sit on something besides the bed without also sitting on what could also be referred to as out "dresser".

The temperature?  Absolutely frigid.  Lindsay slept in multiple layers the first night and is now officially banned from calling the front desk.

Flight 292....I Mean, Flight 9222

Travel from Chicago in January tends to be very weather dependent, so it came as no surprise when four days prior to departure we learned of a large winter system approaching that was set to dump six to twelve inches on our date of departure.  On the plus side, we were on a large international flight, so I was confident we’d get out of Chicago at some point that night.  When the first delay was announced, I was pleasantly surprised.  Selfishly, I now knew I had at least a chance of catching part of the BCS National Championship.

Unfortunately, there were no additional announced delays, so as Mack Brown bravely lead his team onto the field, I was making my way to the gate.  After a short ground delay and the typical deicing routine, we were finally on our way, allegedly to begin the adventure of a lifetime.

About an hour into the flight, the dreaded “is there a medical doctor on board?” announcement came over the PA system.  I didn’t think too much of it, and went about my way enjoying “I Love You, Man” (a good movie the first time and much better the second).  Then, somewhere slightly south of Hudson Bay, the captain came back on the system and announced the situation had not improved and that we were headed to the nearest large airport, Boston’s Logan International.

Upon landing, the paramedics greeted the plane and headed to the back to help the ailing man.  A few minutes later the ailing man and his wife shuffled down the aisle.  To be honest, I was expecting the worst, something like a heart attack or a stroke or at least to see someone on a stretcher.  The true culprit?  Urinary blockage.   Apparently the doctor felt it important enough to turn around a plane when an aging passenger can’t urinate for 15 hours; and to be honest, who am I to question that?

We sat on the ground for about an hour while American figured out how to handle the situation.  The captain kept us informed of what the possible options were, including (1) returning to Chicago and trying again the next day (bad option since the weather in Chicago still sucked), (2) canceling the flight and letting everyone fend for themselves from Boston (bad option for obviously reasons), or (3) continuing the flight after giving the crew time to rest (good option).   When the final decision was made, we learned option three was selected but that we wouldn’t leave until 6:30pm that night (it was around 5:00am ET at this point), effectively pushing back our arrival in Delhi by one full day.

At this point, I went to stand in line to rebook and Lindsay went to the bathroom, which turned out to be her best call of the day.  She ended up walking past the Admiral’s Club which had no line and found a faster way to get our new plans finalized.  A nice gentleman, Hector, saved our day.  Not only did he get us set up with a room at the Hyatt, he held the duty free purchases we had made onboard (through all of this, a primary problem to solve was determining how we’d get our duty free purchases (i.e., 2 liters of liquid) back onto the plane).

After a six hour nap and a quick meal, we were back at the airport waiting for the flight.  All things considered, it was a fairly comfortable way to spend what could have been a very inconvenient situation, though I’m certain if I had been going for a specific meeting or vacation, I would have had a very different attitude.

American handled the situation quite well.  If nothing else, it would make a great case interview question, “Three hours into the flight, a plane from Chicago to Delhi gets diverted to Boston.  How much money does this cost the airline?”  I shudder to think the expense and don’t have the mental capacity to work through the problem right now, but suffice to say there really are no winners in diverted flight situations (perhaps other than hotel chains).

The actual flight to Delhi was uneventful.  Lindsay befriended the stewardess, Marty, which helped for two reasons; (1) she held back a nice bottle of wine for us and (2) Lindsay was able to get the scoop on the passenger in front of us, who turned out to be a bit of a handful, was flying on some sort of pass (or as Marty called him, “non-rev”), and had requested that Marty remove all the white nuts from the mixed nut bowl.  She declined.

Upon arrival, customs was no issue; for some reason I was concerned the amount of electronics we had on our person (2 work computers, 2 personal computers, 2 cameras, 2 Kindles, and lots of power cords) but decided a “don’t ask, don’t tell” strategy would work best.  As we walked into the arrivals hall we easily found the hotel placard with our name.  They seemed surprised at the amount of luggage we had as they hadn’t brought a large vehicle like we had requested.  They then claimed they didn’t expect us to be coming as the flights from Chicago had been canceled the past two days.  I decided against reminding them that they held a placard with our name.  After all our delays, an extra fifteen minutes wasn’t going to hurt anything.  If nothing else, it provided me the opportunity to see some dude (that worked at the airport) wearing potentially the greatest sweater vest in human history; that is, a white vest with Jim Morrison’s face covering the entire front.  I briefly considered offering to purchase it.  If you’ve seen better, I’d love to hear about it.

We arrived and checked into the hotel, where we’ll be living for a few days as our apartment gets finalized.  Today’s schedule includes a whole lot of nothing; a stop at the gym promises to be the most productive part of the day; that is, unless you count “testing” the Slingbox.  As I type, I’m in the club lounge, alternating between listening to Lindsay read the Sunday matrimonials from the Hindustan Times and listening to two hotel employees perform a delightful sing-along to an elevator music version of Celine Dion’s blockbuster hit, “My Heart Will Go On”.

On deck for the coming week; getting settled at the office, registering at the Foreign Regional Registration Office (FRRO), hopefully getting into our apartment, potentially joining the country club, and the arrival of the first familiar faces from work next weekend on a short business trip.  Not surprisingly, a lot of "hopefully" and "potentially" mixed in there.

Welcome to India.

The "Looksie"

It's official: I have something in common with Plaxico Burress.  Thankfully, my ability to travel and general sense of personal liberty won't be quite as limited; however, we both should return to mainstream American society at some point in 2011.

It's probably a little anti-climactic to some of our closest friends and I'm sure many are sick of hearing about it, but Lindsay and I are moving to India in January.  In preparation for the big move, Lindsay and I spent the ten days prior to Thanksgiving on our official "looksie" trip to Gurgaon, primarily to find a place to live but also to spend time in the office getting to know our new co-workers.

Lindsay had been back twice this year; however, this was my first trip to India since our six-month assignment from October 2004 - April 2005.  While some things have absolutely changed (Gurgaon has quite figuratively exploded), some things remain much the same ("Friends" is still a staple on Star World TV's "happy hour" in the evening).  The biggest difference between this assignment and the last (other than the duration) is the fact that we'll be living as "true" expats this time around; that is, in the comfort of a fully-serviced apartment close to the office rather than in the comfort of the Taj Palace Hotel in Delhi.

As with any trip to India you learn to expect the unexpected and learn to be more patient; however,in the end, the place finds a way to endear itself to you.   That being said, here are the quick hit highlights and observations from our trip....

Ahhhhh, Safety
"Security" is a way of life in India.  I'd estimate that on the average day, a person probably goes through some semblance (or appearance) of a security checkpoint five of six times.

Our hotel, the Crowne Plaza, employed two layer security to gain access to the lobby; however, the layers seem to vary based on the audience.  When driving onto the hotel grounds, we were surprised at the level of care that was taken to ensure the car wasn't wired.  In fact, the car was checked in no fewer than four places: under the car, under the hood, in the trunk, and in the glove box.  All of this in intended to make one feel safe; however, I'm not convinced the guards are trained on what exactly to keep an eye on; however, the rifle carried by one is imposing enough.  In addition, we learned later in the week, with thanks to a former co-worker, Jaideep Agrawal, that when he drove in alone to pick us up that the check was nowhere near as thorough and he was allowed to pass through without the guards looking in the car.

Once you graduate the first check, you then must pass a bag screen and walk through a metal detector to gain entry to the actual hotel.  However, you're not forced to empty your pockets so every person sets off the alarm.  From that point, women are allowed to enter freely and men must survive a check from one of those security wands.  Again, cell phones and whatever else are still in pockets, so the wand alarm would go off each time I walked in the hotel; however, I was never asked to empty my pockets and was allowed free entry to the hotel.

On the bright side, at least they make you walk through the metal detector.  I can remember five years ago walking into the Maurya Sheraton in Delhi, seeing metal detectors, and testing the guards by walking around the detector with absolutely no consequence.  This doesn't seem like that big of a deal....except that Hugo Chavez was staying in the hotel at the time.

Other than hotel safety, you'll be relieved to know the future apartment has a similar setup, so don't worry about us.  As a quick tip when you come visit, just look Western and act like you know what you're doing and you should be fine.

Bar Tricks
While physical safety is of primary concern, it was reassuring to see that workplace safety ranks high as well.  We ventured to Ambience Mall for one of Gurgaon's two microbrews for lunch one day (the beer was better than expected, even better (surprisingly) than Kingfisher, the king of good times).  There was a promotional banner hanging high above the bar that needed to come down.  I wasn't sure how they had originally hung the thing; however, we quickly learned how it was coming down when four men emerged with a 12 - 15 foot step ladder though there was nothing to lean the thing against.  Three of the guys stood in the middle of the bar holding the thing vertical and, sure enough, the fourth slowly started climbing the rungs....while the other three supported the base.

He ascended to the top rung (something I wouldn't even do with a stable base) and began yanking on the banner.  When yanking failed to extract the banner, he was forced to descend and took some sort of tool back up with him to help.  Eventually he was successful and the banner came down.  The most surprising part of this sequence was that Lindsay and I seemed to be the only two people transfixed and the only two people that found this somewhat less than safe.

The Crowne Plaza
The Crowne Plaza Gurgaon is a very nice hotel; however, it's very much a business hotel.  In fact, it's quite possible that the only room in the hotel with more than one resident was our's.  Every morning we'd go to the buffet breakfast at G Cafe, which was included with the room, and they'd ask me for my room number.  After I'd reply "4021", they'd ask Lindsay the same question.  She'd reply, "the same", and the hostess (the same each day) always seemed a little skeptical.  At any rate, it took a while for the staff to buy our story and a good six or seven days for them to stop offering us separate checks.

Apparently, poker and gambling has experienced the same growth explosion in India as in the United States.  While waiting for a friend for lunch one day in the lobby, Lindsay and I quite innocently pulled out a deck of cards to pass the time playing gin rummy.  We played one hand and then noticed a member of the staff looking nervously at us.  Lindsay then saw a hostess give that member a nod or a look and he immediately approached us and said, "sir, no cards in open spaces, it's gambling".  Reluctantly, even though there was no money or chips to be seen, we decided it best to sit quietly.  Quite the different cultural experience from a place like Ireland where gambling in the open isn't just accepted, it's basically encouraged.

Ohio State / Michigan
I posted this on Facebook, but approximately two hours before kickoff, we were headed to Delhi for dinner at Olive, one of our favorite restaurants.  At the tollbooth to Delhi on Mehrauli Road, I was suprised to see a guy wearing an Ohio State sweatshirt.  I can say with 99% certainty that he had no idea he was wearing the sweatshirt for a team about to engage in its fiercest and most traditional rivalry.  I can say with 100% certainty that he had no idea that a certain coach from West Virginia has basically killed one side of that rivalry and turned the ferocity of that rivalry down a notch or two.

Northern Spice
My new team at work went out for a team lunch at a traditional northern Indian kebab restuarant.  As usual, the food was phenomenal and plentiful; however, we nearly didn't eat as our table of nine didn't seem to be the waiter's priority.  After ordering (a complex order consisting of "8 non-veg and 1 veg lunch served family style at the table) we thought we were in the clear.  As the minutes passed we began to grow a little impatient.  The waiter came back fifteen or so minutes later and, with a move straight out of "Groundhog's Day", asked if he could take our order.  Awesome.  Everyone at the table immediately asked the waiter to send over his manager.  Not surprisingly, his manager wasn't set to arrive for another two or three hours.

If you've been to India, you've undoubtedly taken part in the ritual of filling out a survey card for service at a hotel or restaurant.  This may have been the first time I haven't seen it offered though that didn't keep one of the more assertive of the bunch to ask for a survey card.  Somewhat surprisingly, they weren't out of cards and she was actually given one.  In our first bit of teambuilding, we jointly redefined the scale and filled out the card.  As we got up from the table, one team member gave the card to the waiter and we could see him reading it as we left the restuarant.  Suffice to say, that card didn't find its way into the waiter's employment record.

The Bucket List
If this trip did nothing else, it made this whole "we're moving to India" thing very, very real.  While we're both extremely excited for the adventure we have in front of us, but the fact that we're moving half way around the world in under 40 days is just a bit more apparent today than it was only a couple of weeks ago.  There are still of lot of logistics to care for; doctor's appointments, tax briefings, and determining which personal items stay and which go to name a few.  In addition, it's tough to find the right balance between spending time with family and friends and striking the right balance between talking about the experience and going about our day to day lives.  That being said, if you come across me between now and January 7th, you absolutely have the right to say, "stop talking about India, you idiot, I know you're going, I know you're excited about it, but let's get to the important stuff --- how do you like the Hawks' chances in the _____ Bowl?" (Note, while I absolutely want the Hawks in the Fiesta, there's something cathartic about the possibility of watching them take down yet another SEC team for 3 hours on New Year's Day....even though Boise State would be a tougher test than the #3 team in the SEC).