A Day in the Life

Step 1

Genna and I spend the first five minutes of our discombobulated day attempting to dislodge the mucus pustules that have established residence in our lungs through the night. Leigh curses the fact that despite washing her hands 76 times per day, taking a multivitamin and utilizing the supposedly miracle performing Airborne elixir in all its effervescent glory, Genna has managed to kick their mutual cold well before she has.



Step 2

Our first task after arising is the laborious process of disrobing our teeth of thick nightly sweaters that cling to them like leather on Halle Berry as Cat Woman.



Step 3

We emerge into the dusty alleyways of current residence to acclimate ourselves to the refusal process that will soon be second nature - no autorickshaw, no boat, no hotel, no guide, no bicycle rickshaw, no hashish, no tchochke, not silk, no goat head and no saree. One or the other of us politely turns down requisite marriage proposal of the day. Sympathetically lament the VISA policies of the US with angry Muslim woman from whom we only need directions.



Step 4

Chai. And no white people, restaurant, acrid tea-bagged bullshit neither. We look for the slummiest alley with the most loitering men and the grumpiest looking chai wallah hovering over his blue propane flame and approach. Inevitably the sea of overlookers parts offering the only bench to approaching whiteys with red-toothed smiles. Using our limited Hindi request "Do chai" (there is no word for please here) and wait for enlightenment.



Step 5

Pick a direction. Any direction. Some mornings, the direction of food. Some, the direction of a skirt we wanted to see or a bowl we wanted to buy and loose. Sometimes the direction to where a bathroom might be. Accidentally end up at the monument all of the motivated tourists are getting lost while trying to locate.

Step 6

Practice haggling skills. "Is that kilo of grapes really worth 40 rupees? Come on, half of them are starting to turn and I can get them across the street for much less? They look more like 30 rupee grapes." Decide whether the salesman is actually insulted, or is just a very melodramatic actor. Pretend to walk away, turn around when they shout the price you want at our back.

Step 7-

Stop in the smallest hole in the wall you can find for dinner. Point to what our neighbor is eating, trying to convey that we would like to share one. Still somehow get two. Swear to learn Hindi word for sharing.

Step 8

Realize that it is now 7:30 and things are starting to close as simultaneously coming into the fact that biscuits (cookies, to you Yankee types) would be awesome in chai for dessert. Seek out confectionery, only to find that the only sweets still available are little syrupy balls of stuff that are way to sweet and if you are lucky, find streetside cookie oven guy, who somehow bakes little flat sugar cookies on a thin sheet of metal between live coals and a heavy pan placed on top.

Step 9

Order chai on the roof top of the hotel. Wait 45 minutes for chai to arrive. Dunk cookies in the sweet hot liquid and enjoy every bite. Try to read or attack the impossible task of catching up with writing in the fading light.

Step 10-

Crawl under the extra blankets requested, both huddle on one of the twin beds pushed together to form the Indian version of a double bed. Leigh, who lacks the ability to create heat herself, latches on to Genna "the oven" Kohlhardt like a panda cub to its mother, only wishing a more marsupialesque fitting were a possibility. The girl obliges, clamping pedal digits between angled warm skin. The two eventually drift off to sleep with strings of drool winding their way down the channels of smile lines like the 36 sewage drains flowing into the great Ganga River. The soundtrack of their slumber is rickshaw honking, the vibration of a water heater and the three hit songs that share rotation on the radio waves.