FAFFD: April 11 & Epilogue

Monday, April 11^th was Sister and FBIL’s last day in Mumbai.   Mondays are a rough day in Mumbai- all of the museums and tourist places are closed.  So we decided to spend the day on Marine Drive, walking around, hopefully with a good breeze at our backs, and visiting a ‘hanging’ garden.  I apparently never took notes for this day, and so, a month later, the time-line and details are a bit messy; please bear with me.

My husband had to work again, of course, so the three of us piled into the car with my driver.  We decided to visit the ‘hanging’ gardens first, but before we arrived, my driver, incredibly excited, told us he wanted to show us something.  Curious, we let him drive us through narrow alleyways that certainly are not used to seeing our shiny black car.  Eventually, we could drive no longer, and we stopped and parked.   The wall closest to the car had a clothes string hanging, and freshly laundered attire, underwear included, was drying in the sun.   We are parked next to a large dumpster.  I nearly took a step in a used diaper as I exited the car. 

My driver walked us a short way to a flight of dirty cement stairs.   It opened to a large pool of water.  Currently, the water level was quite low, and we walked down twenty or so steps to reach the water’s edge.   My driver told us it would fill, nearly to the top, during monsoon season.   Various people were scattered about the levels of stairs.  Some were washing and drying clothes, others were reading the morning paper, and still others were buying and selling food.   One man was getting his morning shave.   A small (fresh?) pipe of water jutted out near the water edge- people were drinking and bathing in that.  

The water in the pool was rather disgusting- trash and twigs floating along the edges, a nasty greenish tone indicating too much growth.  But my driver’s face was simply shining with excitement.  He didn’t see the nastier parts of the pool.  He only had eyes for the ducks.   We stopped and stared at them for a while.  Like the dogs of Mumbai, the heat must be a bit too much for the ducks as well.  Many were just sitting and dozing in the sun, but some were splashing about in the waters, dipping their beaks in search of food.   

 I’m not up to date on duck names, but I definitely recognized some mallards.  There were big ducks, little ducks.  Frisky ducks, sleeping ducks.  Sister soon realized why this place was special- it was the only place (as far as we know) where you could see ducks in Mumbai.   Presumably they must be in many other places.   But there were well over one hundred ducks here, and, looking back, I don’t remember seeing them in the past five months of living in Mumbai.  It was indeed a special place.

My driver excitedly asked if he could buy some bread to feed the ducks.   He ran off, came back with a loaf of bread that he repeatedly told us not to eat, for fear of getting sick, and we each took a slice and began to feed the birds.

I immediately launched into Mary Poppins mode and started singing ‘feed the birds’ peacefully in my head.  But soon the peace stopped and became annoyance.  The birds didn’t like my bread!  What were we doing wrong?  For all the skinny animals we’d come across in Bombay- the thieving monkeys, the cows that would chase you for corn, the patient begging dogs, the cat that eats our garbage every night- never once had an animal NOT wanted the food.  I looked over at Sister and FBIL.  They were faring just as poorly as I.  But my driver- he was in his element.   The birds were snatching up his bread like the monkeys stole our potato chips.  He taught us his trick. The bread has to be rolled tight, so it was denser and would sink.   We tried it.   It worked sometimes.   But most of those birds just didn’t want our bread.

We had a whole loaf, which would be fun if the ducks were participating, but I just moved on to feeding the crows- they’d catch it mid-air in their beak if you tossed it just right.  At least they’d play with me! 

It was very hot, and it took a long time to finish the loaf of bread.  At one point, I turned, and behind us was a young guy in a towel.   He was about to, apparently, bathe in the little pipe of presumably fresh water.  We happened to have our cameras out, and he begged us not to take a photo of him bathing.   Who would do such a thing?  As soon as I had noticed he was going to strip off his towel, I had politely turned my back.  Still, what a different life- bathing in public with the ducks, fearful of tourists taking a photo of you.  

Eventually the heat and our impatience with the ducks forced us back to the car.   I was still feeling weak from the lack of food and sickness of the day before, so the heat felt much worse than usual.   I was quite happy to be back in the air-conditioned car. 

We backed up, turned around, and found the ‘hanging’ gardens.  I say ‘hanging’ because I think it is a bit of a misnomer to label them hanging gardens, when clearly, the majority of the flowers (or trees, at least) were growing straight out of the ground.  Yes, there were a few arches, with flowers that grew from the ground, up to the top of the arch, and then, yes, I suppose you could say those flowers were in fact hanging.  But really, it was just a garden.  A nice, peaceful garden, quiet because you couldn’t see the surrounding traffic, but still just a garden.

We entered the garden by walking up a steep flight of stairs.  It was around noon, and incredibly hot, so there weren’t too many people there to spoil our enjoyment.  We slowly made our way through the lanes, enjoying the pretty blooms.  It wasn’t exotic, or filled to the brim with bright flowers.  It was instead the type of place where it would be perfectly normal, while sitting on the grass enjoying a book, for a jacket-wearing rabbit with a pocket watch to come running up shouting that it is late for an important date. 

Perhaps our (or my, at least) favorite part of the garden was the shrubbery.  They were cut, Edward Scissorhands style, in various animal shapes.   We had fun identifying the less obvious ones- I would pick crazy animals, such as an anteater or raptor, whereas Sister would insist that they were, in fact, peacocks or other animals actually observed in India.  For some, there were descriptive plaques, and she always won.  

I loved the gardens, and had it not been so incredibly hot, would have enjoyed staying longer.   But the heat was beating down, I felt weak, and more and more people were bravely talking to us, so we were soon back in the car.   

Our next stop was Marine Drive.   We stopped at the end of Nariman point and then walked up along the Arabian Sea, until we reached the Intercontinental Hotel.  It was hot, we were thirsty, and we insisted that our driver go inside with us to cool down.

He was a bit nervous, I think.  He had told me before that he wasn’t even allowed in the hotels for using the bathrooms.   I had doubted that, at the time- how could they do that? And I figured it was a self-imposed, class/caste issue.  But who knows.   We went up to the second level, insisted upon a window seat, got a bottle of water and picked out two pizzas to share.  

It is really fun introducing new things to my driver.  I remember how excited he was to just touch my computer.   He was the same here.  He wanted a picture to prove to his son and friends he was in the hotel.  I really wish we’d gone to a nicer hotel.  This particular hotel, though nice, wasn’t very grand looking.  The walls were a sort of gray color- they might even be cement.  The decorations were minimal.  All and all, had I thought it out more clearly, I could have taken him to a much fancier place.  But maybe this was better as it wasn’t too intimidating.  

The pizza arrived, and my driver was shocked that it was thin crust, which is our family’s personal preference.  He insisted it wasn’t real pizza, and called it chapattis pizza, something you’d make at home.  So we thought that was funny, but I also felt bad that he didn’t really like his first hotel meal.  One pizza, a chicken bbq, was very good. The other, a pesto was only so-so. 

After we ate and took photos, we walked back down Marine Drive to our car, stopping constantly to study the massive black crabs near the water.  They were fascinating and a bit creepy.   We then headed back to Bandra.  We had intended to look at Bandra Fort, but it was closed (well, no signs indicated it was closed, but we got yelled at by a security guy, so we retreated).  We showed Sister and FBIL the beautiful Catholic Church near Bandra, and then drove back home. 

Sister and FBIL, despite arriving in Mumbai a few days after Mom and Auntie, had used the same airline, and had arrived on the same flight.  So I had, in my head, assumed that Sister and FBIL had the same departure time, as well (2:15 am).  So we came home, knew we still had plenty of time for fun (it was only early afternoon), and decided to check them into their flights. 

Thank goodness FBIL actually read the boarding pass.  The flight was NOT the same departure as Mom and Auntie, but actually hours earlier!  Fortunately, we still had time to eat some dinner, and then go for a last walk before they had to leave.  

We walked along Carter Road, watching the sunset.  It was still muggy, but at least the sun wasn’t burning our skin.  We left when it became dark, they showered one last time, and I let my driver take them to the airport.

Family and Friends Fun Days were over. 

 Epilogue:

It turns out that FBIL was the only one who didn’t get the ‘Bombay Boogie’ as Mom called it.  She was the first, on the last day of our Jaipur trip.   The morning after, Auntie and I succumbed to it.  Poor Fez got it while in line to check her bags at the airport, so I’m guessing she suffered the most.  Thank goodness we insisted on giving her some of our antibiotics before she’d left.   Fez actually stayed sick for a while, several days, poor girl.   Sister got sick immediately when she was back home in the US.  Five out six getting sick. Not good odds!

I had been given so many gifts from everyone.  The poptarts, chocolates, and cereals have all been eaten, and the oatmeal is nearly gone.  The toothpaste and face washes are wonderful still, and I’m so happy to not conserve my dental floss.  

One item I was given, a smoke alarm from Auntie, has already been put to use.   Less than a week ago, I was sitting, home alone, late in the evening, when it started to shriek.  I jumped up in panic, removed it from the wall to shut it up (oh, it made me miss cooking at my parents house; the alarm always goes off to tell you when food is done), and opened my door to see what was happening.  

I have to say, I forgot to open the door with my left hand, or a towel, or anything like that, but fortunately it was a sort-of false alarm, so I wasn’t burned.  When I opened the door, a huge cloud of white smoke billowed into my apartment.   I slammed the door shut, coughing like mad.  I have been in some pretty thick fog, but I had never ‘seen’ zero visibility like that before.   But inhaling the nasty smoke made me realize it wasn’t from a fire, but was bug spray.  

They have sprayed it in our building before, but I had been outside, in my car, and hadn’t realized they do it inside our building as well.   When I was outside viewing it, a man, just like the bug exterminator in Men in Black, walked around with a huge canister and hose and sprayed everything.  It smelled awful, and my driver (who’d just dropped me off at home) wouldn’t let me out of the car until my mouth and nose were covered.  

I’m glad I had experienced it before, because I realized very quickly it was the mosquito spray, and didn’t panic too much, although I’m sure it was not even remotely good for me to have such a big mouthful of the stuff in my lungs.  I grabbed a cloth from my cupboard, slapped it across my face, and continued to gchat with a few friends.  But the next day I had a horrible headache from the exposure.  

In other news, Mom has been desperately eager to teach her students cricket, but a combination of bad weather and bad behavior has put those plans on hold.  But she has, in the meantime, much to my driver’s delight, become an e-mail pen pal to him. 

I am going to visit Fez in June, so I’m incredibly happy that she gets to plan the tour and I can just sit back and enjoy myself!

Auntie retired from her job, and now gets to enjoy her days relaxing peacefully and visiting her children.

Sister and FBIL are planning a 2012 wedding in Indiana, and I get to annoy Sister with wedding questions and entirely too many photos of dresses I think she might like.

Oh, for one last time- I didn’t take a single photo in any FAFFD blog.  They were all taken by my guests: Mom, Auntie, Fez, Sister, and FBIL. 

FAFFD: April 10

There were only four of us left: Sister, FBIL, my husband, and myself.  We had a day full of adventures waiting for us on Sunday, April 10^th.  My husband left to play frisbee (or work, I can’t remember which), while the rest of us decided to visit Elephanta Island.  You might remember that I had already been there a week before, with Fez, Mom, Auntie, and my driver.

It wasn’t necessarily the number one place I wanted to go to, since I’d been there so recently, but I love walking, and I hadn’t been sick on the boat ride to the island, so I was perfectly fine going again.   My body, however, had different plans.

The day before I had been sick, and taken two strong antibiotics to kill whatever was inside of me.  I had felt fine by the afternoon, and thought the sickness was over, but I was wrong.   I woke the next day, early, to get ready for the hour drive to the island.  I ate a delicious bowl of raisin, maple, and date oatmeal, brought all the way from America, courtesy of Sister, but the oatmeal didn’t quite make it all the way down.  I tried to brush my teeth, but that was a mistake.  Toothbrush in one hand, my hair in the other, I had a lovely morning with the bathroom.   Honestly, though, my stomach felt so bad even trying to eat it, it tasted better going up than down.

Once again, I had to vote myself out of the daily activities.  I felt awful- sending Sister and FBIL to a busy, confusing gate and boat to get on the island, not knowing a word of Hindi or the world of Mumbai.  But at least they were both smart people.   And I’m pretty sure my sister has an internal GPS in her body.   So I felt better sending them, than say, Mom, who has a tendency to talk to creepy strangers and give all of her money away.  (But I still love you, Mom!)

Now, my driver is a bit impatient with history tourism, and I don’t believe he really enjoyed Elephanta Island too much the first time around, but he sure is loyal.   Because as soon as he found out I wasn’t attending, he called and asked permission to go with Sister and FBIL to the island again (rather than wait in the car, which is standard driver behavior).   I gratefully said yes, and went back positioning my belly and check against the cold floor.  

I was very happy he asked to do it, and I think the three of them had a good time.  After the island, they retraced our trip of a week before and walked through Colaba Causeway, though they didn’t stop to buy anything.  

I, on the other hand, was still in the bathroom, pjs on, having not eaten (nor successfully kept water down) all day.   Curiously enough, I learned that you start to produce a neon green substance after several hours and nothing food-like left in your belly.   So I guess it is true that you learn something new every day!  

My thought is my illness was from the antibiotics.   I don’t do well with drugs.  I can’t even take multivitamins-I get a terrible stomachache, and have, on an empty stomach, gotten sick and thrown those up as well.  I just hoped that Auntie (who was still on the plane with Mom, and had been sick the day before, like me) was faring better.   It is one thing to be sick in your own home; it is quite another to be sick on a 15 hour flight.  

Fortunately, I heard later that, despite feeling a bit ill, she was perfectly fine.  

Deciding to entirely repeat Mom, Auntie, and Fez’s adventures, we rented (again!) the movie 3 idiots for Sister and FBIL to watch.   My mind is a bit hazy, but I vaguely feel like we sat, watched the movie, and ate leftovers for the evening.   

The day before my cook had made a new dish, as per Sister’s request.  Chicken vindaloo.  It was delicious!   We all enjoyed it, and it has since entered our family food list.  My husband and I are quite boring, and only eat a few dishes: smoked eggplant, palak paneer, massaman curry, muttar paneer (only for me, though), and now, chicken vindaloo.   My poor cook must be so bored with our palate.   Even the grocery store guy teases her when she calls and asks for yet another eggplant. 

I think we were all worn out, and we went to bed.  It was Sister and FBIL’s last night in Mumbai, but they still had a semi-action packed morning and afternoon planned for the next day.  

FAFFD: April 9

Saturday, April 9^th was the last full day of the Indian version of Friends and Family Fun Days. That evening, Mom, Auntie, and Fez would all leave.  Only Sister and FBIL would remain, and they would leave two days later. 

Everyone woke fairly early on April 9^th.  We had a slum tour planned!  Now, this might sound very strange to people- touring a slum.  But the company has nothing but great recommendations.  The world’s largest slum, Dharavi, is just a few short kilometers away from my nice comfortable home.   The tour is not meant to gawk or deign pity.  Instead, it is to show how successful the people truly are in Dharavi.   There is plenty of industry, leather making, recycling, food production, etc that goes on in the slums.   So I had heard very good things about the tour; it was uplifting rather than depressing.  

Ironically enough, the tour agency that runs the visit was the best-organized group that I’ve ever communicated with in India.  Whether renting a car, ordering food, simply paying a new bill, or especially trying to plan our Taj Mahal tour, it is usually a struggle.  The people with the Taj Mahal tour were the worst, but I often won’t even order food, unless my husband is around because it is so frustrating.  But this company had a simple form to fill out, online, and then responded immediately.  When I responded back with a question, I again (shockingly) got a quick response.   I was so impressed with the organization, and thought that finally someone in India was doing service right.  Then I later found out it was run by an expat (American, I think) that my husband plays Frisbee with on Sundays.  So it wasn’t an Indian, after all!  But at least someone understood how not to cause frustrations.  

We had one small hitch in our plans- the tour was for only six people and there were now seven of us, because we were back in Mumbai with my husband.  Due to the small size and narrow alleys, I guess they like the numbers reduced.  My husband pointed out that it was India, and rules were therefore only suggestions, but I still worried.    I had originally figured that one of the seven of us would be sick after all of that travel.  Mom had been sick the day before, but was feeling fine by the evening.  So, I went to bed a bit worried the evening before the trip.

I shouldn’t have worried.   Or I jinxed myself.  I was the one who got sick!  I woke up, felt fine, even managed to shower until I got my own version of Mom’s Bombay boogie.  I didn’t lie on the floor for hours, though.  I quickly, at everyone else’s urging, popped two azithromycins before it got too bad.  I was now out for the trip.  There was no way I was risking a three-hour tour with no bathroom breaks.   We were down to six.

About a half hour before everyone was to leave, Auntie had the same problem.  She was out now, too.  She popped a pair of pills, as well. Actually, I think her directions on the bottle had her taking one.  Mine had me taking two.  So maybe I took more…. Regardless, the group was now down to five.   

Auntie and I waved goodbye to everyone and settled into the chairs and couches for a long, quiet afternoon of reading.  

For those of you who want to hear how the tour went- you’ll have to ask my husband, Mom, Sister, Fez, or FBIL.  I didn’t get to go.  Maybe someday my husband will put it on his blog.  But it sounds like they all enjoyed themselves.   Apparently, a group of Germans were there, and their tour guide (from a different company) never showed up, and so they joined them, making them more than six, anyway.  

In Mom’s words:

I loved the slum tour.  What struck me: Despite the conditions, women still had their hair combed beautifully and dressed nicely (even if a bit worn).  The homes were like holes in the wall with no doors-just curtains.  It felt like we were going through a big maze.  The bathrooms were cement block structures with holes in them and a big pile of trash.  What really amazed me was the industry of plastic recycling, pottery making, & leatherworks.  The plastic recycling was just an amazing process and to be on the roof looking at all sorts of things we'd just discard like plastic lawn chairs, jugs etc were carefully gathered, sorted, chopped, turned into beads and colored for resale.  All of the tools used in the process were crude machines but effective-like a very early Industrial Revolution.  It also amazed me that there were migrant workers who worked there and they couldn't afford one of those hole-in-the-wall homes so slept on an open dirt floor.  I also loved seeing the school children in their uniforms.  Our tour guide told us that India is required to educate 20% of the untouchables.  Not sure about his stats though.  Maybe he meant college as I think education is free in India.

Next, they went shopping for cricket bats while Auntie and I continued our couch vigil.  We were both feeling much, much better, actually.  No Bombay boogie anymore, those drugs really work.  We felt good enough to take a trip to the beach, even!  

The beach, we went to Ju Beach again, was probably my favorite part of the entire trip.  Yes, we’ve been to the most beautiful structure on earth, and yes, we stayed in lovely hotels, but there is nothing like playing with your friends and family on the beach. 

There were eight of us- my driver came, too.   He taught us how to play cricket!  It was so much fun!  We gathered quite a crowd- a bunch of mostly-white people playing the Indian sport- but they weren’t bothersome.  They kept back a respectful distance, or helped by keeping the ball from rolling in the water.   

None of us were too good at the game, save my driver.   Just like a softball coach, he could point at a player and direct the ball in their direction.  You could tell he was having a great time like the rest of us! It was so difficult to catch the ball (we were using a tennis ball) barehanded.   I had thought I’d be fine, having played so much softball, but I still dropped it constantly.  My husband was decent at batting, but the rest of us were fairly bad!  I think we have to re-train ourselves to not do softball swings!

Time passed quickly, and we eventually watched one last sunset before heading back home.  Yes, we put all of us in that small car!

Now, it just so happens that April 9^th was my dad’s birthday!  So we e-mailed him, of course, wishing him a happy birthday. We also had a skype session, with both Dad and Auntie’s husband, but I can’t remember if it was on his birthday or the day before.  I think it was actually the day before.  Regardless, all too shortly, it was time to take people to the airport.  

Now, Mom and Auntie were on the same flight. It left super late or super early (2:15 am), depending on your viewpoint. But Fez was on a slighter earlier flight (departing at midnight).  It was a rather unpleasant arrangement- do we make Mom and Auntie sit at the airport for two extra hours?  Or do we make my driver make an extra trip (round trip, about 1.5 hours) so that Mom and Auntie don’t have to sit for too long?  Mom voted for the extra driving trip, and so we all let Fez shower first when home from the beach.  

Now, I strongly dislike riding in a car, so the prospect of two trips to the airport was certainly less than thrilling for me.  Fortunately, Sister and FBIL went too see Fez off at the airport, so I got to guiltlessly I got to stay at home with Mom, Auntie, and my husband.  When they returned, my poor driver had to turn around and take Mom and Auntie to catch their flight.   I have to admit, I abandoned Mom and Auntie and let them go alone. I do feel a bit guilty about that!   I wasn’t feeling 100%, but I also just had no desire to sit in the car for two hours.  Plus, my driver is very emotional, so I figured I’d let him say the last goodbyes not in my presence. 

I know my driver surprised Mom with real cricket balls (we’d been using tennis balls), and I will admit, that after they left, he spent hours telling me how much he missed them and how he cried on the way home.   I’m glad I didn’t have to sit in the car alone for that hour!   It is just weird to deal with.  I mean, I’m happy he liked my family so much, of course.   But I just feel odd talking with him about his tears.  

Three down, two to go.   Fortunately for Sister and FBIL, they gained possession of the vacated spare bedroom!    I’m sure everyone slept well that night!

FAFFD: April 8

We woke on the morning of April 8^th a bit sad. We were leaving our spectacular hotel, with a pool we never got a chance to swim in, and headed back to Mumbai.   The next day, Saturday the 9^th, three of our party would leave: Mom, Auntie, and Fez.   But we still had fun things planned in Mumbai, and another airport adventure, so we did okay for the day.

We headed down the stairs for breakfast, and were surprised to see Auntie sitting there, but without Mom, her roommate for our trip.  Auntie told us Mom wasn’t feeling too hot.  In fact, she acted out Mom’s own description of her health by standing up, shaking her hips, and saying “I’ve got the Bombay Boogie!”  Well, with that demonstration, we all had to laugh at Mom’s misfortunes.  Auntie said, while Mom had said that, that Mom seemed to be in great spirits, so we ate our outdoor breakfast peacefully and headed back upstairs to pack.

Before she left, Auntie gathered a big stack of toast, butter, and jellies.   I think I have mentioned before that the juices are always weird tasting in India.  The same is true for the little mini table jellies.   The sugar content is just different, and always tastes wrong to our American tongues.   Throughout the week, we had systematically tasted and rejected the various flavors, so Auntie piled up the one flavor we hadn’t rejected (since we hadn’t tried it yet) and stacked it atop the bread. 

Fez packed while I filled out, with entirely too many details, the comment sheet about our trip.  I’d been filling a bit out each day, so I had very specific memories in regards to what we thought the tour guides did right vs. wrong.  Certainly it was too much writing; I was practically crossing my words like there was a paper shortage, but maybe it was helpful.    Fez and I decided to visit Mom, and see how she was feeling.  Fez brought along her book and was going to head to the pool after the visit.  She’d sit by it, darn it, even if she didn’t get to swim in it! 

I believe I mentioned before how confusingly our hotel was laid out.  In fact, it isn’t a hotel, but a 200-year-old haveli, or British mansion.  It had multiple courtyards, multiple levels, and plenty of tiny staircases.   Also, the room numbering made no sense whatsoever.  All three of our rooms, despite being in different wings and levels, started with the number one.  So numbers didn’t get you too far when room hunting.   

Fez and I had been to Mom and Auntie’s room the first day, when we checked in, and thought we were re-tracing our steps.  But we were so lost!  We found the room number right next to theirs, but not their room.  We wandered back and forth, got lost ourselves, found our own room, and tried again.  Try, try, try.   Eventually we found it.  It was quite close to our own room!  Oh well.  

We knocked on the door and Auntie opened it.   Mom was sprawled out on the bed, looking dead with exhaustion.   Apparently she was sick, repeatedly, in the middle of the night.  Eventually she woke Auntie to open the medicine, because she’d been too weak to do it herself.  But the last couple of hours she’d been doing better; at least she wasn’t stuck in the bathroom.  

We stayed and chatted.  I decided to use the bathroom, and a very curious room layout problem was pointed out.   From the bed, you can see directly through the glass bathroom door into the glass bathroom shower.  Weird. Fortunately, the toilet was off to the side and not visible from the bed!  

We amused ourselves by taking photos of the shower from the bed, and watching a movie.  Fez soon left to sit by the pool.   Two minutes later, we heard a knock.  “Can I use your bathroom?” we all laughed at Fez, who didn’t decide to do it before she left the room earlier. 

But it was quite a process for her.  The double bathroom doors were slightly too big, or stiff, or something, and wouldn’t completely shut from the inside.   When I had used it, I just jammed them together the best I could, and left it alone.  But not Fez.  She stood there, trying to shut the door, for a full minute!   Of course, we sat on the bed, laughing at her, and had complete visibility of her attempts due to the full-length glass doors.  Eventually I took pity on her and slammed them shut from the bedroom side of the doors.  Weird how they only would shut from one direction. 

Eventually she emerged and headed back to the pool.  She later said it was very pleasant and nice. 

I stayed for another twenty minutes or so, and then left the pair of them to Mom’s miseries.  I went back to the room (remarkably easier to find than their room) and finished our packing and that comment card.   

Fez and I looked at our massive collection of bottled water, and started drinking rapidly, as we knew we’d have to dump them at the airport.  When we were bursting full of water, we headed back down to check out.  

We boarded our van, drove the short ride to the airport, and said goodbye to our Watcher and Driver.   They were pretty nice guys, overall, and we gave them a good tip.

Along the drive I amused myself at a stop by watching a man futilely chase a dog that had stolen from him.  I think the dog was playing with him- he kept slowing down to give the man a chance!  The dog was so thin, and had droopy nipples- I wondered if it was a mother with babies.  The man was in a faded red shirt, with an orange sack hastily thrown over his shoulder.  He kept running with one arm outstretched, as if he could more easily grasp the dog that way.   But soon the van began to move again, and I never figured out whether the man caught the dog or not.

A representative from the tour agency met us, and stayed with us through the hotel checkout and all the way to the airport.  We all thought that was rather odd, especially since I’ve lived here for four months, but as he pointed out, often the tourists might not even speak English, so then it would be a complete disaster trying to check in for their flights.   So he very unnecessarily got our boarding passes and showed us through the front door.

Indian airports are different from US airports in that only ticketed passengers can even be in the building.  So our agency rep had to buy a guest pass to enter the building with us.  It was 50 rupees, I think (about $1).   So I don’t know how that really deters any bad guys, but maybe he has to provide his name, at least. Before he left, I passed off the very full comment sheet.   He folded it up and put it in his shirt pocket.   I had the sinking feeling it would never be read.

Now, I've already described one dilapidated airport (Chandigarh airport), but I think Jaipur's was even worse.   It was just so old and dirty.  It was small, and we went through the double doors, passed our checked bags off, and found security.  All of that was done in a tiny space, maybe the size of my apartment building.

The bathroom was the first place, as Sister pointed out, that actually required that wad of toilet paper we’d been keeping in our purses.  My sister tipped the inside employees.  I sure didn’t.  No toilet paper, not even the nasty disintegrating napkins that are sometimes passed off as toilet paper.   Why should we tip if they didn’t provide us with anything? 

We wandered to the empty security line.  Our flight was allowed to go through (only certain flights can go through security at any given time in India), and we amused ourselves at the description written on the wall, “Ladies Frisking Booth”.   LOL, could you imagine calling the security check a frisking in the US?  We did our best to keep a straight face while being frisked, as we shall call it, before meeting in the small terminal.  By small, I mean it was about the size of two Chicago apartments, full of very widely spaced chairs.  We sat by a window (Mom basically collapsed into her seat, poor girl), and waited. 

The terminal was even more boring than the Kalamazoo airport.  Yes, it had a duty free shop, full of chocolate and alcohol, but the guy inside told us you couldn’t buy the alcohol for a domestic flight.   I can’t even believe there are international flights from such a tiny airport, but who knows.   I bought some chocolate, at least, to pass around.

Oddly, there was booze and chocolate, but the food vendor didn’t have bottled water!  We sat, and waited.  The one scrolling marquee was broken, stating, “Welcom and have a n”.  There were no screens or boards announcing flights, and we sat, growing more and more impatient.  There wasn’t even an old-school wooden or plastic board that you could change the flight numbers by hand.   Nothing whatsoever to indicate what was happening at the gate.  Soon the time for our flight passed, but, looking out the window, there were still exactly zero airplanes on the ground.  It was really frustrating to be left in the dark.    A simple announcement, telling us it would be 20 minutes vs. 20 hours would have been appreciated!  

Being me, I used the time to eat chocolate, read, watch poor mom do her best not to collapse on the bench, and use the bathroom multiple times.  Eventually I looked out the windows to the crowd gathering in the security line.  They weren’t letting anyone else in the room- I guess because they didn’t want too many people in the waiting space at the gate.  So at least we had seats, and weren’t stuck standing in an ever-increasing security line. 

About the time our flight was supposed to land in Mumbai, the plane rolled up.  We patiently waited for the deplaning, and when a crowd of people gathered at the door, presumably to board, we joined them.  

One thing I’ve noticed about India is that it is a very fun place to visit.  I love seeing the Taj Mahal, staying in nice hotels with a good bottled water supply and pools, seeing the forts, eating the foods, and the tour guides are generally polite.  But the logistics of living here, and traveling here, are a pain.

On a scale of politeness in crowds, 1 being India, and 10 being Japan, America must fit somewhere around a 7.  We keep dropping in number.  I think we used to be really polite when I was a kid….    And that spread of politeness between nations shows up best in lines.  I keep hearing that the Japanese fled the tsunami in nice, orderly lines.  Even the cars still took the time to stop and obey the streetlights.  In India, there is a stampede killing hundreds every year, it seems.  And again, America is probably somewhere in the middle.  We act polite, but once you annoy us, the act drops and we fight back.   And we stampede, too, just for Tickle Me Elmo on Black Friday, rather than for religious gatherings gone bad.

So there we were, the polite Americans, standing in the line to go through the gate and board the plane.  An Indian man, maybe in his 20s or 30s, pushes up against me and tried to cut in line.  I did my best to ignore him and maintain my place.  But he continued to do it!   We jostled near the gate, and finally, I very firmly stepped directly in front of him, and Auntie stepped to my side, to keep him behind two people rather than one.  We succeeded, and handed our tickets to the agent first.

Before leaving, I turned back to look at him.  The agent was talking, in a not-so-nice voice, to the man.  He wasn’t even on our flight!  He wouldn’t get out of line, and it took a big voice to get him to back off.  He backed off about four steps.   Urgh.  Imagine how much better the world would be if we didn’t have people like him.   Sorry, just my general dislikes of living in India always come to a head in the airport.  Just once I’d like a flight where I didn’t have to fight to maintain my proper position in line.  

We boarded our flight to finally head home.  The flight itself was okay- it was the government run airline, which means the food wasn’t as good, and they didn’t give us the nice yummy juice box that you get on the other Indian airlines.   But it was soon over and it was time to do battle with the Indian public again.   

As I have mentioned in way too many angry flight-related blogs in the past, it seems to be a trend for Indians to jump up and push their way to the front of the plane as soon as we are allowed out of our seats, rather than politely waiting for row one, then row two, etc, to get up and leave.  

People started rushing past me, and, in a stroke of brilliance or idiocy (your pick), I heard our tour guide’s words, “you can’t change people, only yourselves.”  So, I figured, why get angry with these people when I can’t change them?  They’ll all rush.   But I can change myself.  I can fight back.  With that, I threw my large backpack in the aisle, blocking all the people who were trying to charge past.   I then very, very slowly took my time in waiting to stand until they were actually letting us off the plane.  I then picked up my backpack from the floor and made sure every single person in every single row before me got to get off of the plane before I did.  I bet everyone behind me hated it, but I felt empowered to fight against their annoying pushiness.  Thanks, tour guide!  

We hadn’t landed at the gate, so we walked to board the bus that would drop us at baggage claim.  Again, people from behind me tried to push me away from the door.  Again, I just swung my backpack hard, planted my feet, and pushed my way back.  I guess I’m just turning into a pushy Indian.  But I like being mean back!  I really, in general, am not a mean person, I swear!  Indian airports just bring out the worst in me.

My sister, for the first time in the history of our lives, had to use the restroom and not me.  I need to document that, because no one who has ever traveled with us would believe it otherwise.  So we rushed as fast as we could to the restrooms (there are only a couple of stalls) and then went to grab our bags. 

My driver met us, but counting him, there were seven people we had to cram in to the car.  At 4:30 am it was okay trying to fit that many people for a 20-minute ride to the airport, but at 4:00 pm in traffic it was a bad idea.  Sister and FBIL decided to take an auto-rickshaw with me, as they hadn’t been in one yet.  

My driver specifically told me to make sure I found one that would use the meter, rather than a fixed rate.   It was hot.  I walked along, arguing with one driver then the next.   In India, the drivers can just refuse to take you somewhere, and tell you a big fat lie of a fixed rate.  It is weird.  But it is India, so I’m used to it now.   I found one that would take us home, and asked, “meter”.  He nodded yes, and we crammed inside.  Three is a tight squeeze.  I insisted on sitting in the middle so they could look out the sides.   Once we were crammed in, he said, “no meter, 250”.  (250 rupees is about $5) I started arguing, but it was hot, and so we just went. He made up a bunch of lies, about how if I wanted to use the meter I’d have to go inside and fill out paperwork, etc, and pay an extra fee of 50 rupees.   I knew they were falsehoods, and I figured that if he wants to cheat me, I couldn’t change him.  But I could cheat him back.  Cheered at the thought, we started out.

Now, Mom, Auntie, and Fez seemed to really enjoy their rides in the rickshaws.  But they got to have short (maybe 10 minute) rides through relatively slower and thinner traffic in my suburb.  It was also shaded, so between the breeze from going fast and the shade, they are pleasant drives.   But on the highway, in stop and go traffic, the black roof of the auto is awfully hot.  On the highway, in a tiny auto, darting between big vehicles is a lot scarier.  And, in stopped traffic, breathing the diesel fumes from the trucks is very unpleasant.

We drove along, them gasping appropriately for hairpin turns directly in front of vehicles ten times the size of ours, but soon came to a low, short tunnel.   We looked at the stopped traffic.  Apparently, in the other direction of travel, a truck was stuck inside the tunnel, and traffic was backed up in both directions due to it.  We were directly inside the tunnel (it is more like being under a bridge, the tunnel isn’t too long) when traffic stopped.  It was awful. It was so hot, and we thought we’d pass out from the fumes.   

After five or ten minutes, we cleared the tunnel, at least, though traffic was still backed up. The novelty of the auto was dead for Sister and FBIL.  The driver, despite telling me he knew where my neighborhood was, started making wrong turns, so I directed him home.   The ride was long, and I’d been planning to only give him 100, but I wasn’t sure how long we’d been sitting in the car, so when we got out I handed him 200 instead.  We started fighting, he told me I was cheating him, I told him he cheated and lied to me first.   Actually, he really did, because he agreed to the meter before I got in the auto.   Some of the building employees came out, heard our story, and agreed with me.  Fuming, he drove off.  Right then, my car pulled up with the rest of our party.  

Very happily we headed up the elevator to drop off our suitcases.   We’d originally planned to learn how to play cricket, but, for some reason, travelling just wears people out.  We could walk for days in the hot heat, but the airplane really did us in. 

When we’d rested a bit, and enthusiastically greeted my husband, we wandered to my very favorite grocery store.  I love this store.  Every time I go there, they surprise me by having random items that the fancy expat-friendly stores doesn’t even have.   I also now know all of the employees, by their faces, at least, so it is a friendly place to go.  It is my own little Cheers, minus the booze and baseball talk.  

Auntie, who works in a cereal factory, found a box of cereal made in Michigan!! That was fun, so we took a picture of it.  I showed them around the store, smiled apologetically to the employees for their behavior (you don’t really pick stuff up in India- you tell them what you want and they get it for you) and then we picked up a couple bottles of wine/beer before walking back home to relax for the evening.  

Beds were scarce, so poor Sister and FBIL got a thin mattress on the floor; Fez continued on the couch.   But it was our last night together, so we all enjoyed the evening.  

FAFFD: April 7 (afternoon & evening)

After lunch and the turban museum we headed back to our van.  We still had many more stops for the day- to see a fancy building façade, used by women to stare at the street and not be stared at, to see the City Palace, which is where the current royal family lives, but is mostly now a museum, to visit an old observatory, and go to a parade!  

I checked my phone during our van ride.  We had e-mailed my Dad the day before, informing him of Sister and FBIL’s engagement.  I got a message back from Dad, “Cool.  Lumpo”.  Yup.  He is a man of few words.   Two, to be exact, when hearing his daughter got engaged!   We laughed over the brevity of it, and continued on our day of fun.   

It was the second half of our last full day in Jaipur, but we were still full of energy and ready to see our next stop.  After a short drive, we pulled over on the side of a busy street to see Hawa Mahal (Palace of Winds).  It is a many-storied pink sandstone wall that overlooks a busy street.  Women of the court, of course, were meant to be neither seen nor heard, so they had to stay behind screens that allowed them to view activities without being spotted.  No wonder women get stared at some much in this country.  If you weren’t allowed to even look at them at one point….   Hawa Mahal was beautiful, and completely filled with windows.  Of course the windows, rather than having glass, were carvings designed to shield the woman.  After we had viewed the façade, we went on to City Palace.

Hawa Mahal (Palace of Winds)

In 2009 I had taken the same tour, but I was sick and missed viewing City Palace, so it was new to all six of us, and I was very excited to see it.  Jai Singh built it.  He was the son of the person who built the Amber/Amer fort that we saw earlier in the day.   So it was an ancient building still in use.  I’m not sure why both forts were built at basically the same time.   But rather than decay, this fort is still maintained and used, and new, modern parts have been added.

City Palace is such a large, busy place that it is hard to know where to begin. But City Palace was a living museum.  The royal family (whatever that means in India, I’d never heard of them before) still lived there, in one section of the palace.  We saw fuzzy photos of them hanging from one wall.  Despite being royal, the cameras used for a 1990s family photo shoot looked like it would have been out of date in the 1980s in the US.  It really shows how much India has changed these past ten years, how much it has caught up, technology-wise.  I’d like to point out that photography was a no-no in many parts of City Palace, so I don’t necessarily remember the order of everything we saw.  So the story below is my best guess at the chronology of events.  

We entered through a dingy looking yellow wall, which opened to a much more impressive courtyard surrounded by pink walls.  Beyond the courtyard you could see the portion of the palace, also yellow in color, in which the royal family lived.  It was, of course, off limits to us commoners.  Next to the entrance was an ancient, fancy looking cannon, which, to please Mom, FBIL was a good sport and posed for entirely too many pictures next to it. 

We moved to the center of the courtyard, which had a large, columned pink structure raised three or four feet above the ground level.  Everything is supposed to be sandstone, but it was all painted an orange color, and I couldn’t honestly tell what building material was beneath the paint.  The inside had white flowers painted above the cutout walkways and fancy chandeliers hung from the ceiling.  Inside the structure were a few vendors, but the corners had tidbits of interesting things to learn.  

The side nearest to us had two huge silver jars that we stopped to stare at; they were probably five feet in height.  They were used to haul the king’s water supply while traveling, and I believe there were originally seven in total.    And you thought your nalgene bottles was sufficient.   I wonder how many elephants it took to pull one of those huge, water-filled jars!  Apparently they are in the Guinness book of world records for being the largest silver jars in the world.   The jars were made by melting down 14,000 silver coins.  They are fairly new, because the coins weren’t issued until 1894.  They were melted into sheets, and then beaten and shaped.

Silver Water Jug

 Rather than taking the natural course and wandering to the opposite side of the structure to see what was there, our tour guide led us to a sharply air conditioned room and hallway that was full of art work and thrones.   The room was fantastic, but no photography is allowed, so I can’t remember exact details of what we saw. The artwork was huge, larger than life photographs and paintings commissioned of the various kings.  One king wore see-through clothing and looked an awful lot like John Lennon, right down to the circular glasses.   Another was incredibly fat.  We learned later that his shoulders alone spanned four feet.   We walked past royal fans made of peacock feathers, and gazed upon the thrones, which I though were deteriorating and in need of a good seamstress to cut off all of the fraying threads.   Our guide moved too rapidly, and, to my annoyance, rather than stopping and waiting, he just let some of us fall back and miss his information.

We exited into a new courtyard, and I was beginning to lose my bearings.  He took us to a section to see how artisans worked, painting.   It was semi-fun.  The art was actually quite beautiful, and they used very tiny, delicate strokes.  The guy we watched told us his brushes were made of squirrel hair for the small strokes and camel eye lashes for larger strokes.  It was fun to watch until he started pulling painting after painting out, trying to get us to buy them.  Annoyed, we did a quick loop around the room- it was full of people doing similar things- before heading out.  At an incredibly quick pace, our guide took us to another section, which acted as a museum of clothing.   The older men’s clothing looked much more similar to women’s today wear than men’s today wear (for traditional clothes).  I guess it must be true of all cultures- women take men’s clothes and first names, but rarely does it go the opposite way.   After all, in America’s past, you’d have only heard of men named Ashley, Kelly, or Dana, not women, and only men would have worn pants.  But you don’t usually see a trend of men wearing dresses or taking women’s names.  Anyhow, I tried to explain that excitement to our tour guide, but he just seemed confused.  He also stayed a full room ahead of half of us, so I never once heard his descriptions about any of the clothing. 

He was rushing us, and all of us were getting angry.  We walked out of the clothes museum, and he walked us right past a sign clearly pointing toward an arms museum.  Finally, as the one who organized our group, and the most annoyed, I decided to have a little talk with him. 

Now, as I had mentioned in the morning blog of April 7^th, our tour guide likes to talk about philosophy.  “You can’t change people, so don’t try, you’ll be happier if you just accept them as they are”.  So I figured I’d try his advice.  I stopped him, and simply said something like, “We can’t change you, but we are feeling rushed and want to spend more time looking at things.  If you need to go, you can go and we will manage on our own.  We don’t want to change you, if you have to be somewhere else.  We’ll be okay without you.  But we want to go to that museum we walked past.”   Rather than the color draining out of his face, you could see dollar signs floating away from his head.  He insisted he wasn’t rushing us, but turned back and took us to the museum.

I’m so glad we went.  It was full of shields and armor and old guns, but my very favorite weapon has to be --- the back scratcher!  At first we just laughed, and our guide, who was now following me like a puppy, pointed out that they were solid metal.   And every display case had a royal back scratcher in it as a weapon!   I can just imagine a king, getting ready to go to bed, scratching his back.  An invader enters his room. What to do? Thwack!  He hits him on the head with the back scratcher! 

By the time we left the arms museum, he was back to his normal guide self, and took us across the street to the Royal Observatory.  He spent some time, on deaf ears, trying to convince us that Indians invented astrology and clocks, but the rest of his information was pretty interesting. 

The observatory was just so different!  I really liked it.  There were huge sundials, and we accurately found the correct time of day.   There were huge spherical pits in the ground, and where the sun’s shadow fell, it told what zodiac sign the sun was in.  There were smaller structures, two for each zodiac sign, which were used for even further details. I don’t know much about doing astrology, but it was all very interesting to see.   Unfortunately, it was all out under the now-scorching hot sun, and we quickly retreated to the shade and left.

Sun's shadow tells the zodiac sign

Something about Aquarius

world's largest sundial (the left side of it)

We exited City Palace through a courtyard with four magnificent doorways.    The first, and best, was covered with peacocks, but all four were beautiful.  After taking entirely too many photos, we headed to our van back to the hotel.

Peacock Doorway

 We did a very lovely video, recording the hotel's beauty for our family, but unfortunately, Auntie forgot to press the ‘play’ button, so the video will only ever be in our minds.   But I assure you it was great.   We went to everyone’s rooms, and when the video reached our room, Fez and I stayed.  I sat in a chair.  I leaned.  I almost fell over.  It was actually pretty great, because the lean and fall was all in slow motion, like a replay on TV.  Too bad we didn’t get that on video.

I was exhausted. The full heat at the observatory was miserable, and I was quite happy to get home and relax, or even sleep, as I had only had three hours the night before.  In fact, the parade, which was being held in a couple of hours, held no interest to me.  I just wanted to sit away from the sun.  In the room I opened a green-canned bottle of Pringles I had bought the day before.  They were all broken.  I poured them in a bowl and Fez and I ate them like cereal.   They don’t taste nearly as good that way.  Funny how the shape really matters for the taste.  

We spread out the blanket I had bought earlier in the day, testing it out.  It looked nice on the bed, which is good.  We opened up the mirrors she had bought at the same time, and picked our favorites.  She decided to give one to each of us.   My Mom had done the same with the coasters she had gotten in Agra on the day before.  We were accumulating quite the pile of gifts for each other! 

All too shortly we put our spoons and mirrors down, smothered on a new coat of sun block, and headed back out.  I continued to hem and haw, but the sun was already much cooler than it had been at the observatory, so I decided to go for it.  After all, how often do you get to go to a parade in Rajasthan?

The parade was for the Gangaur Festival, which just happened to overlap our trip to Jaipur.   It is, according to Wikipedia:

“Gangaur is a festival celebrated in the Indian state of Rajasthan.

Gangaur is the colourful and the one of the most important festivals of people of Rajasthan and is observed throughout the state with great fervour and devotion by womenfolk who worship Gauri, the consort of Lord Shiva during March-April. It is the celebration of spring, harvest and marital fidelity in Jaipur. Gana is a synonym for Lord Shiva and Gaur which stands for Gauri or Parvati who symbolizes Saubhagya (marital bliss). The unmarried women worship her for being blessed good husband, while married women do so for the welfare, health and long life of their husbands and happy married life.”

We drove back to City Palace, which is where the festival would start (it is, after all, where the royal family lives).  We parked in a lot, and Watcher H took us to view the parade, while poor Driver R got stuck with the van.  Watcher H was very excited, and said he had never been to the parade.  

Our tour guide, who was no longer with us, had earlier told us where to walk to view the parade, but I am so glad Watcher H was with us, because we would have been completely lost trying to follow the tour guide’s directions.   After swerving through multiple roads and doorways, past massive elephants and costumed people, he brought us out to the proper street. 

 “Do you want to watch from the street or up there?” he asked, pointing to an upper level open deck covered with a white awning, clearly indicating we should place ourselves at the deck.   We looked around.   We were the only white people on the street.  We looked up.  There were lots of white people up there.  Well, this was uncomfortable!  We finally decided it must be safer for us up on the other level, since absolutely no tourists were in the street, but it was an awkward decision- we (or at least I) felt like we were picking the ‘rich’ place to stand and it just seemed selective and weird.   On the other hand, a large portion of the people left on the streets smelled awful, looked like they hadn’t bathed in days, nor washed their clothes in weeks.  That is NOT typical of what I usually see in India, so it was unsettling for us.  Maybe for Watcher H, too, since he seemed to want us to sit upstairs.  So despite feeling odd about the decision, we happily went up the stairs to the shaded balcony.

We were seated in lawn chairs, third row from the front.  Coincidentally, also the back row.  Vendors were selling snacks and drinks, and women offering henna tattoos weaved through the rows looking for customers.  We looked back down at the street below.  All of a sudden, my mind drifted to Philippa Gregory’s The Other Boleyn Girl.  There we were, sitting up, shaded from the sun, offered food and drinks, about to watch the parade.  Meanwhile, the common people were stuck in the hot sun.

Eventually an announcement was made, and the parade began.   Poor Mom, queen of photography, was hampered by the fact she was having henna applied to her left arm. (Henna is a thick brownish-red paste.  When it dries, it crumbles off, and leaves an orangey-brown stain on the arm for a week or so.  The end result, a temporary tattoo, is called mehndi).  Mom continuously begged us to take more photos for her.   When she was finished, she bullied Fez to get mehndi done, as well.    While they were distracted with their drying arms, the rest of us watched the parade, occasionally snapping a photo or two to satisfy Mom. 

We watched as men, with huge, S-shaped musical instruments walked down the street.  My very favorite act was a man in a sparkly horse costume.  He was waving, grinning like mad, and swayed the costume as if he really was a horse.  You could tell he was having the time of his life.  But eventually, he decided the drummers weren’t up to speed, because he took the costume off, and showed the drummers how they should really drum!   So that was amusing. 

Men in full body paint, much like the silver dancer, gold cowboy, or all-red lady on the streets of Chicago, marched past.  I believe they were dressed like various Hindu Gods, but I’m not certain.  Watcher H told us he was the ‘good Rama’.  Regardless, he had horns, so as an American, I’m not used to horns being good in popular culture! 

Women in all black danced and swirled around.  They were completely disorganized, but their costumes looked great. Every so often they would stop and do an impromptu dance, but they were never choreographed or coordinated.

The same elephants that had given us a ride earlier in the day made an appearance at the parade. The elephants, if it is possible, had dour, remorseful looking faces. The elephants, with large holes torn in their ears (for earrings, made of cloth) would reach their trunk into the crowd, collect a tip, and hand the money up to the person riding on top!  Elephant after elephant went by.  I started to get bored- is that how strangers feel when they watch all the tractors at the Founder’s Day parade in Climax?

Eventually the elephants were gone, and gun-toting camels slowly passed.   The gun barrels were huge, attached to their rider-less saddles, and happened to be pointing directly at us.  The camels looked even more disgruntled than the elephants to be marching down the street.  

Camels with Guns

 Of course, it wouldn’t be a Rajasthan parade without mention of the turbans!  Multicolored turbans, blue turbans with gold tassels, long turbans that stretched down people’s backs.  I had so much fun just turban watching.  

Antique carriages, bull-drawn and fancy white horses soon passed.   One carriage had a fake king atop.  Shortly after the king passed, the parade (which was rather short) ended.   Watcher H began to strategize- deciding to stay up for exactly two minutes before heading back down the stairs.  Presumably two minutes was to let the crowd die down, but if that is the case, Indian crowds much be a whole heck of a lot faster at moving than American crowds, because I thought that two minutes probably wouldn’t be sufficient to move that many people!

After our two minutes, we hustled down the crowded stairwell, crossed the street, while watching two boys get into a fist fight over a coin, narrowly avoided stepping in horse droppings, and eventually found our way back to the van.   Mom and Fez successfully protected their still-wet hennaed arms and we were all proud that they had managed to navigate the crowd unscathed. 

I had thought about buying a bag of cotton candy while on our way to the van.  But the cotton candy happened to be in the tiniest bags imaginable, so I figured two bites weren’t really worth fighting the hustle and bustle.

After the parade, our drivers asked us if there was any last souvenir shopping we wanted to do.   Sister wanted a Kali statue, her favorite Hindu Goddess, so we stopped at a store to find one. 

The store was rather annoying.  They sat us down, and brought statues to us, rather than letting us look around.  I reassured everyone that was normal (at least that is how you go sari shopping), so that was fine.  She got a statue, I bought some coasters, and we wanted to leave. But the annoying part was that they wouldn’t let us leave!    I had stayed behind to pay for my purchase, and when I tried to go out the door, they told me my family was upstairs.  So of course, they hustled me through a bunch of stores, trying to whet my shopping appetite, and as I passed an open balcony, I spotted my family down below, clearly not upstairs.  So I got mad, pushed them aside, and rushed back down.   

We drove back to the hotel- it was only 8:00 pm or so, early by Indian standards.  We went to the lobby and we had them scrounge up some oil and lemon juice, which I took upstairs and applied to Fez’s henna.  It is supposed to make the color darker. 

We went back to our rooms and decided to meet in the lobby for dinner.  After Fez and I dropped our stuff off and freshened up, I grabbed the bottle of bug spray, opened our front door, and stood outside to spray my body.    I went back, leaving the doors open and the bottle of spray on the table for Fez. 

The next thing I hear is a blood-curdling scream from Fez.  She is pointing at the door, and I just see a glimpse of the monkey’s backside as it scampered away from our room.  Oops.  Guess I shouldn’t have left the door open!  Thank goodness Fez happened to be standing next to it when the monkeys invaded!  I’m certain, if she hadn’t been there, they would have made it into the room.   I grabbed her camera and did my best to take photos of the invaders, but they were quick and eluded me, save for a few pathetic shots of tails and one dark, hard to see monkey atop a pillar.

Monkey who tried to enter our room!

After that excitement, we cautiously made sure our balcony door, and all of our windows were closed.  We were the last people to dinner, again!   We applied the lemon and oil mix to Mom’s arm and then decided what to order.

The weather and jet lag was wearing on everyone but me.  I was fully recovered from my earlier heat exhaustion.  I realized that in the monkey excitement I had forgotten my half-empty bottle of wine (from the previous night), and hustled back up to get it.  Yes, I took my bottle from the dinner table last night.  Alcohol is expensive in India!   It was a mini-bottle, but still too much for one day.  Everyone else declined to drink, feeling a bit off.  Mom ordered a mint tea, but declared that it tasted like catnip.   It made her miss her cat.  I never miss that monster.  It is the worst cat imaginable, scratching on doors all night, longing for attention.  

During dinner we of course teased poor Fez for her utter fear of all animals.  We kept trying to find exceptions (Mom was sure she’d love her current cat mentioned above), but finally, we got Fez to admit that our old pet dog ‘wasn’t too bad’.   She wasn’t too bad because she was old and slept a lot and left Fez alone!   Oh well.  

After the meal, I ordered ‘apple pie’ from the dessert menu.  It is my quest to find real apple pie in India.  The first time I ordered it, in Bangalore, it came back as a custard-like thing that wasn’t at all remotely like apple pie.    I left some pretty negative comments on their comment card.   Tonight, before ordering, I had some questions to make sure it wasn’t repeated.   I kept asking ‘are the apples sliced’, but we realized that the waiter, completely confused, thought that I meant ‘was the pie was sliced’.   Well, yes, when it came to me, it was a slice.  A slice of an apple cake, though, not a pie.  Sigh.  I was so upset.  I decided to not eat it, in hopes that they’d exchange it for me, but that failed and I just missed dessert completely.  

I finally came home to Mumbai and just bought a darn pie pan and have been making my own apple pies.  I have an oven, but it doesn’t have numbers on the dials (this oven is OLD, it is a gas oven that still has to be lit each time you use it).  The numbers were worn away years ago.  Also, white flour here has a very different texture than that nice all-purpose white flour in the US.  So it is a bit different, but at least I have my apple pie!  

After dinner Fez and I thoroughly check our room to make sure no stray monkeys had snuck in.   No monkeys.  We were safe and went to sleep, ending our last day in Jaipur.