I Hate Emporiums

One thing I really hate about India is the emporiums. If you're on some sort of guided tour or have hired a driver, they invariably want to take you to one. If you've been to India, you've likely visited one of these horrible establishments. Often it starts as a demonstration where you see how the local tradesmen labor to produce the local handicraft of future heirloom. Shortly after the demonstration you're ushered into a showroom where you're presented the option to purchase any and all of your Indian souvenir desires, from overpriced elephant statues to overpriced "real" pashminas to overpriced silk rugs to overpriced inlaid marble tables.

Phase One, the demonstration

So why would anyone go there? It's easy (and probably obvious): commissions.

Let's say I was hypothetically having a conversation with a driver. Let's say hypothetically he offered up what his commission is when he takes customers into emporiums when traveling. I always knew the concept existed but had no idea exactly how it worked. Yesterday, I hypothetically found out (I'm sure if a driver were to actually give away this secret, they'd be blackballed from the hypothetical drivers' union, kind of like when a magician gives away how tricks are performed.)

With commissions, there's nothing too magical. It's a fairly simply two-tiered commission approach. For getting a customer in the door, the driver receives Rs. 200 (about $4.50). That's Rs. 200 for the entire car, not per person. For any item purchased, the driver receives 20% of the sales price.

This explains the drivers' incentive for hauling customers into these shops. There's a relatively rich reward (while Rs. 200 might not sound like much to you, it actually makes a difference to a driver) just for getting someone there. In the off chance the driver is lucky enough to have someone purchase something, the reward quickly escalates into weeks or even months (if there's a particularly gullible mark) of wages.

While I still hate emporiums, I now see limited value. If you have a driver that you particularly like, emporiums become an easy (and cost effective way) to put a little something extra in their pocket. Just make sure you walk in, feign interest for no more than five minutes, and walk straight back out.

Just don't spend too much time. There are far better things to see in India than the inside of an overpriced store full of knick-knacks.

Return to Dilli Haat

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

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

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

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

Lindsay and Sunil; just like old times.

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

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

This look doesn't inspire bargaining confidence

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

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.

The Glory of Sharma Farm

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

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

Unassuming signage can barely contain the glory within.

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

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

Piles...

....and piles....

....and even a piano.

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

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

Restoration in action

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

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

If You Need It, She Can Find It

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

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

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

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

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

The Best Rs. 150 Ever Spent

For little more than three dollars, Lindsay brought home a toy that is all things; practical, the likely source of hours of entertainment, and quite probably the “John is going to be a really bad influence” gift for any of our friends at home with children between the ages of six and eleven. Please note, this “toy” is NOT two bottles of Kingfisher Premium Lager. It is, however, the Badminton Bug Zapper.

The Badminton Bug Zapper serves the exact purpose as those mosquito zappers you’re all familiar with that glow blue around your backyard barbeques (or other places of general gathering during the summer) that go, “zzzz-zzzz” every few seconds indicating the glorious demise of yet another biting pest. The Badminton Bug Zapper, however, is literally shaped like a badminton racket, which has obvious ramifications; not the least of which is turning mosquito hunting into a bona fide sport in the apartment. So as not to confuse the Badminton Bug Zapper with any other Badminton rackets you may have laying around the apartment, the manufacturers were responsible enough to put a lightning bolt design in the head, clearly indicating there is electric current involved. The manufacturers were also generous enough to put an on/off switch with a safety mechanism (i.e., you have to push a button to complete the circuit) to ensure it’s only by those whom are qualified. In addition, there’s a cool little electrical current whirring sound that gets produced when you turn the switch to “on” and press the safety, so it’s pretty obvious when the juice is flowing. The manufacturers were also ingenious enough to not require batteries; this beauty plugs right into the wall.

Now, with the first sight of mosquitoes, I grab my trusty Badminton Bug Zapper and chase them around the apartment; not only is it fun to hear the “crack-pop-pop” when you get a big one (yes, big mosquitoes make a different and grossly more gratifying sound), but it feels nice to do my share around the house.

Last night was the first night that I heard the annoying buzz of a mosquito hovering over my head. After a few minutes, I decided to break out the Badminton Bug Zapper, turn on a light, and make the little buzzer pay. Of course, Lindsay was still asleep. Lindsay also has a tendency to attract mosquitoes. Needless to say, she wasn’t too excited to be woken up from a deep sleep, being told to move quickly, and then hearing the near instant crack of yet another successful kill. Had the hunt been less successful, I’m certain she would have been even less excited. Regardless, the Badminton Bug Zapper has found a much needed place in our home. Personally, I can’t wait to turn Badminton Bug Zapping into an official athletic competition.

Feel free to pass along any suggestions.

The Birthday (aka Goa, Part II)

While the trip to Goa was timed perfectly for a much needed break from Delhi, the primary purpose was to celebrate Lindsay’s birthday. It was also the first time we’ve done a resort-style vacation without a thing planned besides informally figuring that we’d need to find time to schedule a massage and a strategy to snag the preferred chairs at the pool. Upon arrival, we took a tour of the grounds and quickly made our way to the pool, which was a beautiful southwest facing infinity pool overlooking rice paddies (someone old us it was wheat, but I had never heard of a wheat paddy, but then again, it’s not exactly Kansas, so they very well  may have been wheat paddies) with palm trees blowing in the distance. You couldn’t actually see the Arabian Sea from the hotel, but you could just kind of tell there was a massive body of water lingering just beyond the last row of trees. We spent the afternoon alternating between swimming, reading, and cocktails. Yeah, that’s right, cocktails in the afternoon. Shocking.

Apologies for the length of the post, but I’ve tried to break it up in pieces.

Ranger, Leisure Concierge

While sipping cocktails by the pool, the leisure concierge, whom we had met at check-in, found us at the pool and brought his menu of offerings. His name was Ranger, and he claimed his parents named him after the Lone Ranger. While that was probably just a story to endear himself to unsuspecting tourists that could pronounce and remember the name, he seemed like a good enough and genuine dude. Among Ranger’s more interesting offerings was something called “beach bubbly” which amounted to sparkling wine sunset beach picnic and a combination outing to the local fish market to bargain for seafood and a lesson with Chef Linda as she prepared the food you had purchased. Thankfully (as you’ll learn later) we opted to skip the beach bubbly based on the menu but figured the fish market would be a good opportunity to feel like we did something “local” rather than only lounging by the pool for three days.

India’s Pike’s Place Market

 We awoke early on Lindsay’s actual birthday to venture to the fish market with a guide and driver. We were too early for the retail market so we headed to the open-air wholesale market, and we were glad we did. It was a market in its most basic form with dozens of impromptu stalls selling everything from snails to sharks to other various sized fish pulled from the Arabian Sea. It certainly wasn’t a place heavily visited by tourists as evidenced by the fact that we were able to walk around without the constant pull of hawkers and beggars; basically, we were left alone to explore. Lindsay placed herself in charge of bargaining for the night’s main course and relegated the the evening’s starter to your’s truly. As we approached the kingfish section, it was time to bargain. We really had no idea how much fish we needed, so a “medium-sized” kingfish seemed appropriate.

Lindsay quickly got herself into Indian market bargaining mode. The salesman’s first asking price was Rs. 1200 (I’m not going to convert everything into dollars here, but let’s just assume we’re using a $1.00 = Rs. 46 rate going forward which makes this a $26 fish). At least he recognized us as Americans. Lindsay’s initial bid? Rs. 350. The salesman quickly got crazy eyes and started yelling incoherently (“incoherently” is another way of saying it was a language I didn’t understand). Apparently, he was insulted. He grabbed the fish, took it to another stall that had a scale (in hindsight, it’s a little odd he didn’t have a scale), and weighed the fish; just over two kilos. He came back and basically said, 500 rupees per kilo so 1000 rupees. Lindsay pulled the “let’s start walking away” move. Having taken two steps toward his neighbor, we heard his price quickly begin to fall.  His newest offer was Rs. 500. Lindsay had the figure 450 in her head (not sure exactly why, maybe because it was close to $10?), made one last effort to try and get that price, and felt comfortable with Rs. 500. Upon walking away from the stall, the hotel guide who had been mysteriously silent through the entire process said, “You got a very good price on that fish; it would have cost at least Rs. 700 or 800 at the market in town.”

Since the tiger prawn selection was somewhat limited at the wholesale market, the fish market in town was our next stop. The Margao marketplace resembled some of the markets we’ve seen in Thailand; however, it was still early in the morning so the crowds had not yet arrived. The first stall we found had absolutely enormous prawns that were the size of a fist. The price for those was equally outrageous at Rs. 1100 per kilo. The shopkeeper was treating it as fixed price and wouldn’t budge .We walked away. We weren’t so fortunate this time as we allowed to keep walking. At the next stall, they didn’t have prawns nearly the size but the prices were much more reasonable. The second shopkeeper also seemed intent that it was going to be a fixed price affair; based on the commotion Lindsay caused when she stepped on a stray cat as I was trying to bargains, I decided that Rs. 225 for a half kilo of prawns (about 12 based on the size I had selected) was fair for my purposes and dinner had been purchased.

The marketplace also contained fresh fruit stands with the world’s smallest bananas (probably figuratively, not literally) and a butchers’ row with stalls dedicated to various meat types, including the first beef butcher I’ve seen (Goa has very much a Portuguese influence, and with that has many more Christians). After walking around for ten minutes or so, we figured we had had enough local flavor for one day and headed back. At 8:30am we were at the hotel.

Chef Linda

The rest of the day played out quite similarly to the day before; swimming, reading, and cocktails. We did, however, find the time to squeeze in an afternoon massage.  The second bookend on the fish market experience was to learn how to cook the local catch with Chef Linda at one of the hotel’s restaurants. While the lesson basically amounted to us watching her prepare the food, it was still a fun experience to get into the kitchen and see how it was done. If nothing else, it convinced me that buying and preparing fresh shrimp isn’t really as gross as I had always suspected (i.e., I won’t feel as tied down to the bags of frozen cooked shrimp in the grocery store at home).

The prawns were prepared with loads of butter, garlic, coriander, and chopped onion and were absolutely delightfully delicious. We selected two preparations for the kingfish; simple grilled  filets and chunked cubes in a red masala. Both preparations were great, though Lindsay was partial to the grilled filet and I the masala; if for no other reason that I could enjoy with some naan.

Lindsay’s birthday concluded with one last cocktail by the pool that was interrupted by Ranger, who had learned it was Lindsay’s birthday, and one of his leisure concierge lackeys that brought a birthday cake and serenaded her with a “Happy Birthday” song (Ranger also plays acoustic guitar, his talents are multi-faceted).

The Beach

The day after Lindsay’s birthday we had very little planned so decided it was time to experience the Goan beach which was supposed to be a ten or fifteen minute walk from the hotel. I think we may have missed a turn and the walk was a little longer; however, it gave us the opportunity to walk the main streets of Majorda, the nearest town. To be perfectly honest, the beach disappointed. As soon as our feet hit the sand, every shack’s front man approached us to either have a drink, rent a chair, get a beachside massage. If a front man wasn’t approaching us, a beggar was. In short, it felt like India. Not that that’s a bad thing; it just wasn’t the intent of the trip.

As sad as it is to say, the most entertaining part of the beach was getting photographed in the ocean (it’s my newest thing, kind of like (but nearly as entertaining as) getting a photograph at the entrance to a National Park). Honestly, the only reason that was even entertaining was that Lindsay had set down her flip-flops to take the picture and an unexpected large wave nearly washed them into the sea.

The most surprising thing about the beach was the way it catered to Russian tourists. Many of the signs labeling the beach shacks were written in Cyrillic script. Upon seeing the script, I started to feel like I was at some Black Sea resort. While I’m sure there are many nice resorts on the Black Sea, again, not the intent of the trip. Upon seeing one beach massage in action; which consisted of a topless Russian woman laying facedown, with her husband basking in the sun a few feet away, the male masseuse eagerly working out any knots, and some sort of masseuse’s assistant leering at the customer. Surprisingly, Lindsay wasn’t into this and decided it was time to head back to the hotel.

Holi

The downside to traveling on a holiday weekend is that you end up missing the ability to actually celebrate. Holi is India’s festival of colors and amounts to participants having colored water fights. It stains clothing, hair, you name it. One American colleague here on a short visit took part in the celebration and came to work on Tuesday with her blonde hair looking like a clown wig. When I saw her later in the week, nothing had changed.

On the ride to the airport in Goa, there were numerous revelers on mopeds that were absolutely covered in colors. We couldn’t get any pictures because our driver was driving a bit fast and erratically, which is to say he was driving very normal. My sister actually passed along a good slideshow (the pictures are well beyond anything I could have produced):

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/35662831/ns/news-picture_stories/displaymode/1247/?beginSlide=1

Needless to say, it’s something I’d like to experience next year. When we arrived at the gate in Delhi, the Kingfisher ground crew had obviously partaken as their hair and skin was stained underneath their clean work uniforms.

The trip and break from “India” while remaining in India was exactly what we needed. By the second day of the trip Lindsay mentioned that something like this might be necessary every eight to twelve weeks. While I’m not sure I need the tropics that frequently, we’re only three short weeks from our first “John” trip of this adventure; two weeks trekking in central Nepal to Annapurna base camp. Not much time to get into hiking shape.

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.