Jock's TravelBlog Because sometimes I go places

Portland

This travelblog is a lie. OK, not so much a lie as not the truth, or not the whole truth. It is just one view of the truth. It is my truth, but there are others. One for every person that goes there. All I ever wanted to do was put down my thoughts, and tell an entertaining story. I hope I succeed. Still there are things I haven't written about: work, thoughts too personal to commit to the page, and events that didn't seem to fit in the narrative.

I am acutely aware that I have only really seen one part of on city of an entire country. It's like judging the US by New York, or France by Paris. I was only there long enough to scratch the surface and see a little of what lies beneath. I know I will be back, and stay longer next time. Even still I will be an outsider, and have an outsiders perspective. Find other perspectives, look at them all and maybe you will see the Truth with a capitol T. Better yet, if you are even remotely tempted to go after reading this, then I cannot but encourage you. Find your own truth, and add it to the mix.

Mumbai

I had one last working day, and last minute shopping. T introduced me to the world of Indian desserts. Up until now it had been a world that had been lost on me. Indian restaurants in the US seemed to only offer two choices -- rice pudding and a fried ball in a sweet liquid -- neither of which I found appealing. T takes me to a small shop called American Dry Fruits, odd considering everything they served was distinctly Indian. The shelves are lined with jars of dried fruits. At the back is a glass counter. There's an array of different items, many coated with a shiny foil. You just don't get reflective desserts in the US.

"This one is Cashews," T says, pointing at little diamond shapes. Without asking, the man behind the counter takes one out and hands it to me. I give it a cautious taste. OK, clearly there is a world of sweets here worth knowing about.

T and the man behind the counter would point out different items. Each time I am offered a sample. It's wonderfully low-key. They tell me what each is, and I give it a try. Most I like. A few I don't. Finally I pick a smattering, and they are packaged for me.

The flight leaves at 6:15 in the morning the next day. I am advised to be at the airport three hours ahead of time. I arrange for a car, and somehow manage to get everything I care about in my bags. Some sacrifices had to be made. My lonely planet guide had to stay behind to make room for my newly acquired desserts, then to bed for too little sleep.

The immigration officer on the way out doesn't give my passport a second glance. I am almost disappointed. He tells me to follow the yellow signs to the security check. I look up and see that all of the signs are yellow, though some of them do indeed point to the security area. I drop off my bags at the x-ray machine and then get in line for the metal detector. Each person goes though, the alarm sounds and then they stand on a little platform. There is a separate curtained off area for women.

I stand on the block and the guard motions for me to put my arms out. He runs a wand over my body. After he makes a full pass, and then looks puzzled. He runs the wand over my body again. After the second pass he puts the wand to his badge and a tone sounds. He does a quick third pass on me.

"No metal," I say.

"No," he agrees bemused. I had sent all my metal items though the x-ray machine. Apparently they don't do that here and treat the first metal detector as a formality, knowing there is going to be a second check anyway.

There is one fewer stop on the way back. We don't stop in Delhi. Otherwise the flight back is uneventful back. I sleep most of the way. I've had too little sleep and am still tired from my weekend. As we leave London, I look at the display that predicts when we will arrive in Chicago. I pull out my ticket and look at my connecting flight. I have just over an hour between arrival, and departure. That is far closer than I would like to cut it.

It takes far longer than expected for bags to start to appear on the ramp. I spot my first, and soon after that the other bag I checked appears. I stack them and head off to customs.

"What did you buy in India?" The woman behind the podium asks.

"A couple of books," I say, "and a bunch of textiles. Silk mostly." I spot a little room off to the side where I imagine they do baggage inspections. I have visions being taken there and unpacking everything. Did I remember all my receipts? Am I really within the duty-free amount?

"I love silk!" The woman beams. She looks more like a girl than the authority figure she is. "You have a great trip home sir." And I am off.

O'Hare is a huge airport. Five separate terminals are connected by its own private train system. International is terminal five, I am going to terminal one -- the furthest one. I check my ticket and see that I need to get to gate 29 in concourse C. So that would mean I need to go to just about the furthest gate in the furthest concourse, and I have just under forty minutes to get to my terminal, clear security, and get to my plane. Not a lot of time, but I can make it.

There is a long line at security. It didn't look long when I got into it, but then it rounded a corner and revealed a sea of people. I am suddenly reminded of the temple we visited. It's the same shuffling in line, and each of us gives our offering to the acolytes of the Transportation Safety Administration. At least this time I know the ritual -- I even have to take off my shoes. On the other side -- shorn again -- I make the dash. I make it with about 5 minutes to spare.

This leg seems like it is the worst. I have already gone so far, isn't it over yet? The flight is packed. I am sitting next to a marine just out of bootcamp. Next to him is a tiny young woman coming home from college. They are clearly hitting it off. I just want to sleep. Like so many men, the marine likes to occupy as much space as he can. He has his backpack between his legs and his knees are pushing into both of our seats.

At first I am sympathetic. There isn't enough room for all of our bags, and he is tall so it can't be very comfortable. I know I am not. He shares his stories of boot camp, and what little he has learned of jet-turbine maintenance. Eventually I become annoyed with his stories and their clumbsy flirting. I also realize that I am taller than this fellow when he gets up to go to the bathroom. When he returns he resumes his spread eagle posture.

"Hey buddy," I say, "color within the lines" and I point down to his knee on my side.

"Huh," he replies and squeezed in a little. I take my victories where I can.

In Portland I collect my bags, and set out to find a cab. No one tries to help me with my luggage. No one offers to hail a cab. One slides up to me quietly and efficiently. I give him my address and nearest landmark. It is already dark, and there air is cool. I am home. I wash Mumbai from my glasses, and get ready to sleep properly for the first time in more than a day.

I am more that glad I went, and I wish I could have stayed longer. Next time I will. Next time I will get out of Bombay. I will go south and see Pune or Goa. Maybe I will actually see the Taj. There is so much more to do and see there. So much more of the puzzle to try and figure out. However there is no pleasure as great and that first night back in your own bed after a long trip...

Mumbai

Unlike the previous day, I did not have a specific goal for the day. I had been told of a couple of book store to check out. So the first order of the day was to check one of them out. Everywhere you look in Mumbai you see these black and yellow taxis. There are any number of ways to get around in the city. There are trains, busses, auto-rickshaws (these actually look like little three-wheeled VW Vans), private cars, scooters, motorbikes, bicycles, and even the occasional oxcart. If you don't have a car (or the like) and aren't on your commute, then the taxies are a main way of getting around.

I stepped out of my hotel, and hailed a cab. That's not quite the way it works. You step outside the hotel and wait for a moment. If you don't look like you are going anywhere one to the army of white uniformed men comes forward and asks "are you waiting for you car, or would you like a taxi?" You tell them you want a local taxi, and within moments one of the flock outside is upon you.

"Crosswords bookstore," I say, "Kemps Corner." Remember this is a place where you navigate by landmark. This was all the address I had, but it was enough to get me there.

"Bookstore," he confirms, "Kemps Corner"

And we are off. If traveling to the office seemed harrowing, the cab ride tool it to another level. He actually traveled at a slower speed overall. However is was far more aggressive than the other driver, weaving in and out of traffic. The bookstore is on the other side of an overpass, so if you have to go slightly out of your way then make one of those harrowing right hand turns.

Crosswords is an impressive place. Not quite up to Powell's standards in Portland, but it reminds me of one of my favorite bookstores in San Francisco, Stacey's. Books and Music cost less here. It makes sense, the economy could support the higher prices we have in the US, so market forces drive prices down. Also the overall cost of the US book or CD has been paid for, so overseas sales are just an extra opportunity. It was very tempting to stock up, of course I would have gone bankrupt from all the money I was saving.

Back to the hotel, on the ride back I actually saw two cars hit one another. As wild an erratic as the traffic is, there are very few traffic accidents and fewer still deaths. I believe more people die crossing the railroad tracks in Mumbai each year than die in traffic accidents.

Before leaving the hotel, I picked a landmark out of the little traveler's guide I had been given. I didn't really care where I went, I just needed a starting point.

"Flora Fountain," I say.

"Where Flora Fountain?" He asks. Good question. I tried to think of a shop I knew was near there, but the taxi driver suggests one: "Bookstalls?"

"Yes," I say, :"the bookstalls"

"You need ride back?" He asks.

"No," I say.

"No problem," he says, "I wait for you, no problem"

I try to think how to convince him I don't want to go back. After a moment I say, "No, I am meeting someone. A friend."

The driver seems dubious. I mean why would someone want to go somewhere and not come back. And what kind of friends could I be meeting at the bookstalls? Then a moment of enlightenment comes to him.

"Indian friends?" He asks.

"Yes," I say.

"OK," he seems satisfied. By the time we have finished with this conversation we arrive at the Flora Fountain. It is pretty enough during the day, but like so many things here it comes alive at night -- bathed in green tinted lights.

The bookstalls are just that. Imagine the stalls you see everywhere in the city, but piled high with books. Every conceivable kind of book. Art books, photography, textbooks, fiction, self help. It's a open air used bookstore two city blocks long. I could easily spend a Sunday afternoon here. Then there are stalls selling CDs and DVDs. These are the famous bootleg movies you hear about. I am tempted to pick some at random, as kitchy souvenirs, but I decided one felony was enough for this trip.

The booksellers were very low key. If you were looking for something in particular, they would look for it. I heard one chatting about the book a woman was looking at. The CD and DVD guys on the other hand were on par with used care salesmen. "Hello! You want DVD? Movies? Softwares? Hello!" I was fascinated by what they chose to sell. There was the standard stuff: Office, Photoshop, etc.; but there were a lot of developer tools, and enterprise-level software. At first this confused me then I realized there must be any number of students and smaller companies that buy all of their software this way.

The Victoria train station is a massive temple of Victorian masonry. Once you get close to it and look closely you realize the architect was slightly mad. Firstly there isn't one detail or architectural style from the period that is missing. There are arches. There are towers. There are statues. There are gargoyles. Everything. Someone ordered on of each. When you look at these details you realize they all have a distinctly local flavor. There are oriental flourishes. The indigenous animals are all represented. Some as gargoyles, some as reliefs and other kinds of ornaments. One tower is ringed with gargoyles that are dogs. All the classic animals are there as well, the lions and the griffons and the rest of that club. It may not have been the architect that was mad, but someone was -- or had an interesting sense of humor.

The area around the station is an open air bazaar. No snake charmers, or things you might see from an old movie. Just lots of people selling lots of things. Each person is calling out what the sell in their own rhythm. They overlap with one another and blend and mix in an almost musical way -- though slightly atonal. When the salesmen see me, they tend to add ":hello!" to the mix.

And now for my one real moment of culture shock, or just shock (culture or no). Lepers, there are lepers here. I mean there are lepers everywhere, but it is such an easy disease to detect. Most people think "hey, I can't feel my feet" and get it looked into. According to the World Health Organization, if the disease is detected early it is now considered curable, and the treatment is free. However there needs to be an infrastructure of public health that allows for early detection. That leaves the very poor out in so many places.

He had no legs anymore, gone just above the knee. I had read about the disease, and seen pictures, but never in person. If that weren't enough, a woman came up to me and said "don't touch him, leper." I knew it didn't matter. The disease isn't transmittable to adults, only children. That is what makes it so nasty, catch it as a child but it won't show up for decades. He was so thin. Thinner than anyone else I had seen here. He was lying nearly face down on the ground, hands out. He didn't say a word, just looked out at the people passing by. Not with sad pleading begging eyes, but with a thousand mile stare. I took a ten rupee note out of my pocket, and dropped it in his hands. I don't know, maybe he wasn't a leper. Maybe it was a con, but I don't think so. Besides what's a quarter of a dollar in the greater scheme of things.

I loop back around the train station, and head down one of the main lanes. I spot a man squatting by a wall. At his feet is a neatly folded cloth. On the cloth are what look like three cookies or crackers of some sort. He lifts one and reveals a red label at the bottom. I immediately know what I am looking at. He starts to shuffle the cookies. There is a man standing in front of him. He peels out a 100 rupee note from his pocket and puts it down on the center cookie. The dealer spots me and motions to me.

"Bet?" He asks.

"Only that you are cheating," I say. I start walking again. The man lifts the cookie -- no red label. The standing man looses. The only thing that surprises me about the three card money game is the cookies.

My mouth is dry, I am thirsty. I am also hungry, which comes as a bit of a shock. The walk and the heat have suppressed my appetite for most of the day. I spot a familiar icon and walk towards it. I am curious to see what the clown king of fast food is like here.

It is immediately recognizable as a McDonalds. The color scheme, Ronald, etc. It is also acutely different. There is the obvious difference in the menu, no beef. More than any other international chain, they probably do a more complete job of adapting to local tastes. So in addition to the things I was used to seeing, were fascinating things like a curry pizza, and a Chinese chicken sandwich Their fries however taste the same the world over. So were the patrons. Kids on their day off pooling their money for an order of fries. Families with children already imagining what toy may come with their meal, and the rest. Like the rest of Mumbai, space was a premium.

Fortified I continued on. I hadn't been tracking my steps, but I a fair amount of the city had moved under my feet. I made more of a point of exploring the side streets and back alleys. I wanted to be alone in my head. This trip has been exciting, but it has also been exhausting. Not just because of the foolish physical demands I have put on my body. If I lived here I would eventually learn what to filter out. As it was, I was just absorbing everything that came at me, and that is mentally draining.

All over the city, I see people playing Cricket. In the parks there are adults and kids playing games of increasing amounts of formality. An ad-hoc game on one side, played with a tennis ball. On the other men in pressed white uniforms and the full suite of protective gear play a much more formal game. As I have gone about my travels I have caught and thrown back about 5 stray balls. One group of kids even invited me to play.

I spot the familiar landmark on top of the Ambassador, and gravitate to it. I am still taking my time. I take a turn and find myself at one of the train stations. Every few minutes a train goes by, doors left open so people can get on and off faster. As the train goes by I always seem people at the doorways. Some are teenagers hanging out for the thrill of it, the rest just for the cool breeze. If it had been earlier in my sojourn I would have boarded and gotten off at some random location and walked back, but I was longing for a familiar site.

By the time I arrive at the seawall the sun is beginning to set. Orange ribbons of color are threaded though the sky. It is a beautiful sight. Tomorrow will be my last day, and I will have to work. This is the last day that is my own. I buy and ice cream cone and sit on the wall, and slowly let the world get dark around me.

Mumbai

Friday night I dine alone. This is the first time I have done so since I have gotten here. Breakfast lunch and dinner I have been with someone who knows me. It is a nice transition. No nocturnal walk this time. The next day I know will be my own, so I pull inward. I read, I watch some TV an a movie. The love of musical numbers in Hindi movies is well known, so I will not go into it here -- other than to wonder what the non soprano singers do for work.

Well rested and fast broken, I prepare for the day. I dress down as much as I can. The pants that gave up their last bit of structural integrity in the trip over were intended for this purpose. I packed a non-descript tan shoulder bag I and bought on another trip. I pack all the little things I might want -- tissues, a snack, my phone, a granola bar, etc. -- into the small compartment. Into the large I place a liter of bottled water, and my camera. The battery is freshly charged. The card freshly cleared.

Camera bags are too obvious. I would be tagged as a photographer before people even saw the camera. Cameras are easy items to fence and to sell the world over. I don't want to advertise. More importantly, to me, it that the knowledge that I might take their picture sets people on edge, and that is the last thing I want. Cartier-Bresson and the other greats of street photography learned to just blend in and let people forget they had a camera. I am still learning this skill.

I want to capture people in the act of being themselves. Much of the time I shoot from the hip. I keep my eyes in the direction I am going, and point the camera my instinct. Its a risky way to shoot. You can never be sure you are pointed at the right thing, and when I later reviewed the pictures there were so many that would have to great, if only the camera had been tilted up a bit more. No use crying over spilt milk.

I am also a coward when it comes to photography. So many of the things I want to capture are small, intimate, moments I see all around me. I have the camera in my hand. All I have to do is move a foot one way or another, and quickly bring the camera up to take the picture: Lovers caressing, shopkeepers arguing, a father giving his daughter money and sending her off on some errand. These pictures could so easily have been mine, but a self censoring urge stops me most of the time. It doesn't matter that they are out in public, it seems to be too personal, so I resist and hate myself.

Fully equipped, ready to go, and coated in sun-screen I set out. I have no goal other that to walk ten miles. The average human walks at 2 miles every hour. That is one mile every 30 minutes. I am a more dedicated walker and normally do one every 20. I already know that I cannot maintain that pace here. The humid air is thick, and makes it easier to exert yourself. I step out of the air conditioned confines of my hotel and start out on the familiar route on the waterfront. The sun beats down in full effect.

I walk a couple of blocks down the path I know well to get my bearings, then turn off onto a side street at random. Now I am exploring. The whole time I am keeping track of my pace, and my position on my mental map. The revolving restaurant at the top of the Ambassador hotel proves to be a quite useful landmark. It is visible from much of southern Bombay, if you know what to look for.

That is how people navigate here, by landmark. A city like Mumbai wasn't planned, no one could be that mad. It happens over time. Seemingly simple areas on the map turn out to be warrens of side streets and alleys. So when giving someone directions it might be "down the alley next to the Strand Book Stall." Streets (and cities) change name. It is an easy place to get lost in, but if you aren't going anywhere in particular there is always something to find.

At one point I find myself at one of the circus'. Not the traveling show with lion tamers and acrobats, but that classically British system of a circular road with large roads feeding it like the spokes of a wheel. Walk the sidewalk of one of these roads you eventually loop back upon yourself. Seen from the standpoint of a pedestrian it is more like the petals of a flower. I walk one petal, and then the next. At the end of each loop I glance around just to make sure I still have my bearings. After I make the third loop a security guard from one of the hotels comes running over to me. He had been noticing this strange behavior.

"Are you lost, sir?" He asks.

"No," I say with smile. "Just exploring." I am having the time of my life.

"Happy exploring!" He says, waves, and jogs back to his post. At night, most people would leave me alone. Everyone had a job to do, or a place they needed to go. This is the weekend and people are more relaxed. Security guards wave, or more commonly give me the thumbs-up. It makes me feel like I am part of some conspiracy. I notice that young men, in their late teens or early twenties, make a point of saying "Good day! How are you?" Since I am fairly sure there isn't a secret hospitality patrol, I presume they want the chance to practice their English with a "native speaker." Either way I always say hello, and that I am doing fine. That seems to be all the conversation that is required.

Sometimes it seems like a place where things are better on the inside than the outside. Almost none of the apartment buildings have fresh paint. The cement always seems to be showing though, but the tiny glimpses I see into the apartments show neat and tidy places, homes that people take pride in. The same is true with the shops and office buildings I see. In a sea of chaos, people carve out their places of sanity. Even when it is just in their own head. It is easy to the forest of average men women and children going about their lives, amidst the things that stick to my western perspective.

I am periodically reassured that I picked a great time to come, that this is the mild time of the year. I cannot imagine what the summers must be like. The sun is beating down relentlessly. How did a fair skinned cold weather people like the British ever manage here? I run out of road in the direction I have been walking and turn the corner. All of a sudden I am on a block of little stalls. Everything any anything is sold here. I see a man sitting on the ground selling socks, next to a wobbly table selling toner and inkjet cartridges There is a spot where a pair of men seem to have a business fixing flat tires. Then there is food. I see food everywhere.

I start to feel a little dizzy and realize what I haven't had anything to drink in a while. The thought makes me desperate for water, but it is too crowded here to stop and open the bag. Normally I would just go out into the road where most pedestrians walk, but traffic is very heavy. I push on though -- I will let the pain pass though me, and will not fear. Fear is the mindkiller. Fear is the little death. At one point I pass by a man sitting against the wall with a bathroom scale in front of me.

"Weigh yourself? One rupee only," he says. I can honestly say that I had never considered that such a business would exist. Even on the streets where you see microeconomics at its most literal. You an buy single cough drops, or an individual cigarette in the stalls. Why not this. In the time I am on the street, I saw two different people avail themselves of his services. So apparently there is a demand. When I finally get clear of the street to a calmer area, I finally get a chance to drink deeply. I feel a sharpness come back to me.

Eventually I pass by the World Trade Center. I honestly don't know why every city seems to have one of these. Its not like they are the seat of the New World Order, and run by a consortium of the Illuminati, the Trilateral group, and the Bildebergers -- at least not to the best of my knowledge. I do know that I am now in the part of town called Cuffe Parade. Here I see one of the starkest contrasts between rich an poor. On one side of the road is the World Trade Center and highrise office buildings housing some of the largest financial companies, on the other is a shanty.

The road I am walking on suddenly turns orange. I look more closely and realize that they are the shells of small shrimp. Instead of the next building in the shanty I see the hull of a boat under construction. I new I was near the water, but I didn't realize quite how close. I can see the ocean peak between another hull and a small concrete building. It's low tide and there are boats listing in the wet sand. I pass by posts with wire lines spread between them, every foot or so up the length. Fish are drying on them. There is no one there, but the birds (and cat & dogs) seem to leave them alone.

I catch sight of the Air India building so I know I am close to where I am staying. I glance at my watch. It's been just about 5 hours since I started. By the time I get back to my hotel, I am fairly confident I have hit my ten mile goal. The cool of the hotel is almost unconformable at first. I rest, freshen up, and walk back to a small Italian place nearby. I eat a hearty meal, and watch the lovers on the sea wall. Not a bad way to spend a day...

Mumbai

The working week is a blur. Meetings, sessions with my teams, lunches and dinners with various representatives of the company I am visiting. I am struck by the number of people employed in every location. Someone to open the door, attendants everywhere always ready to help, a cashier and a separate man to package up your purchases. In one restaurant we went to, there was a separate guy whose whole job seems to be to open to doors to the bathroom. That one seemed odd.

It reminds me of what I know of the US prior to WWII. When labor is so cheap, you can afford to provide a different level of service. It is hard on my American sensibilities. I want to do things for myself. It makes my fingers itch when I can't. Every morning I arrive at the office, and a man comes by with a cup of tea. On the first day I asked for a cup, since then it just appears. The similarity extends beyond labor. There is less waste here. Physical items are more dear. They see more us before the are consigned to the pile of all things

When the working day breaks, then there is some opportunity for sightseeing and shopping. I was sent here with a list of things to acquire. Mostly textiles, since it would be too hard to carry back statues, or orchids. Blissfully no one has asked for those. Perhaps the most fascinating was the shopping for sarees. I am not quite sure what the women who asked for them are going to do with them, but mine is not to wonder why. A saree shop could not be more quintisentially Indian. It is colorful, chaotic, endless in its variety, and makes maximum use of space.

You enter the shop and the walls are lined with shelves. Each shelf is filled with piles of sarees, piled one on top of another. An attendant comes up to help you. Let your eyes stay in one place, and the item will be pulled down for you. This is true everywhere. I am learning to keep my gaze moving, or distant. The saree you were looking for, or the whole pile will be taken down and put in front of you. It is a neatly folded pile of cloth. Perhaps six inches thick, a foot and a half wide, and an inch or so thick. Flip-flip-flip! It is opened to reveal the interior pattern and the edging. This is what the serious shopper is judging it by. I keeping thing "look at all the pretty colors"

The women make snap decisions if the don't like it. Nehi, and then flip-flip-flip, it is folded up again and out of sight. You hear all over the store, the sound of the cloth being folded or unfolded, and that word. I already knew it meant "no," but it wouldn't be hard to figure out by context. Regional accents are everywhere here. I have heard the word pronounced five different ways. I've been given lists of colors to pick. If the one I am looking for does not meet with T's disapproval, I choose it. My Boss and T now think I am some kind of power-shopper. Really I don't have an eye to make that good of a decision. So no reason to linger.

Across the street from the Saree shop is a Hindu temple. Or more accurately a whole mall of them. Just like a real mall there is an anchor temple, and a variety of other temples in different sizes. Then there are a variety of supporting stalls selling items to give up in offering: Grains, fruits, flowers, a change machine. The mall analogy is completed by the Indian street version of the food court. I am struck by the fact that all the vendors seem to be sitting on their counter the same way. One leg tucked underneath them, one leg dangling down.

Actually I am stuck by how people on the street rest here. They squat low to the ground, feet flat, with the arms resting on their knees, and their rear nearly to the ground. I can't tell you if it is comfortable or not, without limbering my ankles significantly. It seems to work for them.

We walk down the road to the main temple. I am embarrassed to say I don't know which one. Too many gods, too many names I am not familiar with. Here in Mumbai no era seems to get thrown away. They are all here. You see ox-carts and BMWs on the same road. The entrance of the temple has a digital clock on it, and metal detectors at the door. I am carrying so much metal on me there was no chance it wouldn't go off. They take one look at me, and then in my bag and say "No pictures please." I repeat "no pictures."

I am picking up little ways of communicating here. There is a certain amount of repitition built into every phone call. You say something that may be important, they rephrase it back. So many languages, so many accents, you have to make sure people understand you. It is one of the unconscious survival mechanism that evolve. I am noticing the rhythm of conversations, and the little things people say. "No problem," "OK OK," "sure sure," "ah cha." The way they sometimes drop the definate article. The English slang they use "maximum" for biggest, or best. "This is the maximum commute time." "It's the maximum mobile phone." "This is maximum city," indeed it is, and maximum city is a blur.

We take off our shoes and give them to a small woman sitting in a corral of sorts. There is a carpet there, and neat piles of shoes. We head off to the temple. There are metal barricades that shape the line -- one for women, and one for men. Sort of like Disneyland, but for a god. There is a monitor above the gateway, and you can see the preperations of the monks. At least I presume they are monks, I don't know what the proper word is, so monk will do. They are clearing away all the offerings from the last time the line was let through. Then they come out with incense and purify the temple, and the crowd. Some of the people in line take the smoke and make the motions of washing it on their bodies. It is thick enough that you can see it roll over them before it dissipates.

I am feeling quite awkward. I have no religion. I have no gods. I am an atheist. I am also a hypocrite. I don't like being in a temple or a church when there is a ceremony going on. I know they don't care. Everyone here lives with any number of religions around them, peacefully Sometimes more sometimes less. Still I feel awkward, but when will I get this opportunity again. I don't want to not see what is going on either. I am a hypocrite, and just have to live with that. First the line moves slowly. The line is compressing itself. Then a few people are let in. Then the whole line. I flow around the edges. I see the offerings being given, see the prayers being said. I feel like a voyeur, and don't let my eyes stay in one place, but I try and take everything in as the current takes me out the door.

We see the hanging gardens. Not so much like the one from the list of wonders, but nice none the less. It is built on top of a covered reservoir. No space is wasted here. The ground is covered in a red clay like soil that looks very nice, but when it gets wet it collects on my shoes like iron filings to a magnet. Things aren't always thought though here. They are sometimes content if something looks correct, not if it behaves the way it is supposed to.

The gardens afford a view of the Queens necklass. It dominates southern Bombay. The park is filled with schoolgirls in their khaki uniforms. They are doing the things that schoolkids do after school everywhere. They are playing, chatting, just hanging out. I find them more interesting that the topiary animals. It's these moments I look for, the chance to see life happening. The Sites are nice, and worth seeing, but I want to see things as they are. How do people live here? How do they play?

Each night I go out for a nocturnal walk. At first it was just by the water, that was the area I knew. As my mental map grew, I start venturing further afield. At midnight the streets are still busy. I don't feel any danger. Partly because while there is crime and violence here -- like in any city -- these are not particularly dangerous places. The other reason is that I am just about the most watched man at night. Every security guard follows my movements. Some flash me a thumbs up.

Mumbai is teeming with life. At first all you can see are the people, but after a while you start to notice the other inhabitants. The dogs are easy to spot. Some are clearly owned, but many are just free roaming. The ones I see aren't in packs, as feral dogs are want to do. It was several days before I saw my first cat. Near the shanties they seem larger, tougher all muscle and streetwise. In other parts of town, they are smaller, slipping in and out of the shadows, hunting the rats that come out at night. I have seen butterflies ever day I have been here. At night bats fly around the mall near the hotel eating the insects drawn to its lights.

I don't take any serious chances. Once a man started following just at that uncomfortably close in a way that makes me think he is following me. Old training kicks in, I walk a ways to see if keeps the same position. I keep my hands away from my body, so they can't be pinned there -- my fingers in two groups. I look over my shoulder and let him know I see him. Then I cross the street. He continues on the way he was going. The threat was only in my head, and that was the most dangerous encounter I have had here.

Later that night, a older man is walking toward me on he street. His hair is white, and has the small build of so many people here. He looks fit. He looks me up and down, and then puts his fist in his open palm. This is the Chinese martial arts salute. No one has done this to me in years, and never on the street -- seemingly at random. I return it.

"Who teach?" He asks.

"Sifu Shin," I say, naming my Kenpo teacher. I doubt he knows Tommy Shin, who last I heard was still in San Francisco.

"Good," he nods and continues passed me. Surreal as the encounter is, I take it in stride. I am loosing my capacity for surprise. More accurately I have been in a constant state of surprise. Everything here is new to me, or different, or unusual to my western eyes. The working week is finally over, and I have the weekend to myself. Now I just have to make sure I am brave enough to venture out in a serious way on my own.

Mumbai

First working day in the country. I am acutely aware that I have a distorted view of everything I see. For the majority of the time I am here, I am a member of a privileged class. We have a car and driver (no sane first time visitor would want to drive here). I have no sense of anonymity. I cannot blend into the crowd. I cannot just be. I am the Visitor. I am the Rich American (only by comparison of course). It's like being a minor celebrity, and I don't know how comfortable I am about that. I would love to just hang out with my teams and chat and joke with them, and see the India they know. Of course that won't happen, I don't have that kind of relationship with them. They've just met me.

The drive into the office is interesting. You start out on main roads. A variety of shops and residences go by, then things start to change. The streets become narrower, and more crowded. The car makes a right hand turn, that seems extra harrowing because they drive on the right, and all my passenger instincts are wrong. Then the streets are packed with roadside stalls. Food vendors, places you can make phone calls, a little stationary and photocopy place, etc.; the full gamut. Everything packed together. This is India. I and My Boss are fascinated my a little group of stalls were men are getting shaved with straight razors. My Boss wants me to get a shave. I am by no mean scruffy, but I am the only one of the two of us for which this is an option.

Suddenly the car makes a turn. How did the driver know? Was their a street sign? He stops halfway down the street. Apparently this is the place. There is a stairway and a pair of little elevators. One arrives, and a little old security guard is driving the elevator. Whenever the gate to the elevator is open, a little tinny tune is played. It eats it's way into you head. I wonder if it has driven the man mad. Up we go. The walls are dingy. Most public walls seem to be. This is a harsh environment to keep external things clean. Suddenly there is a transition, and we come up on what looks like a modern office building anywhere, except that everything is just a little bit more cramped.

One thing we are not is wanting for food. We are guests here, and they see to it we are well fed. Seemingly, every kind of food is here. For lunch we get sandwitches with the crusts cut off. So cute, almost anachronistic. Yummy though. That evening My Boss, T, and myself go out to dinner. We decide to check out the revolving restaurant in the Ambassador hotel. We had passed by it the previous day, and it looked like a dump. At night the building looks magical. At night everything in Mumbai looks different. All the lights and ornaments that look out of place during the day, come out into their own at night.

It turns out to be a Chinese restaurant. Indian food is the baseline, that is what is here. That is what has always been here. So many restaurants I see, seem to server the food from somewhere else. That is what is exotic. Exotic has lost some of it's meaning here. For a revolving restaurant it seems to move at a breakneck pace. You feel the motors rumble below you. They clearly believe that food is better if it is moving, and they want you to be sure that you can tell it is.

It is the most unusual Chinese food I have ever had. I know what I get in the US isn't authentic, but this seems even more removed. It's filtered though a different lens, and tailored to different tastes. It was rather good -- at least what I ordered, I don't think My Boss fared as well.

So far each night, have gone for a walk on the seafront. I am brimming with energy, I need to burn some of it off. Nor do I want to just sit in my hotel and watch Hindi movies, and InidiPop music videos. Though both are quite entertaining. There is a perceptible texture to this place, I feel it on my skin when I step out of my western oasis, and out onto the street. I am only here for a short time, and this is a nut I know I can never crack, but I have to try...

Mumbai

As soon as you step out of the airport, you are faced with the reality of India. Here is a modern international airport, and just outside you are presented with a crush of people. We had booked a prepaid taxi inside, and were sent out to find it. Immediately a young boy started directing us.

"This way sir, this way mam," he says as he reaches to take My Bosses' bag. Another man come up upon me and tries to help me. I resist until we get to the taxi yard. Then I make the crucial mistake, I take my hand off the handle to look around. He is immediately on my bag and haranging the driver to open the trunk. There is much wresting with the bags and finally they are all loaded. The open the door and usher us in. Just before they close the door, they make a point of rolling down the window.

"We help you sir, you give us money," he says. Both he and the boy have their hand out. "Pounds sir, pounds." That was an odd thing to say, neither I nor My Boss look British.

"No pounds, dollars" I say. I reach into my pocket and pull out a bill. Immediately they try and tell me it isn't enough. I'm punchy, and the reality of the buying power of the Rupee hasn't fully hit me. I double it and give it to the boy.

"For both of you", I say. The kid takes the money and starts to back away. If he doesn't squirrel it away quickly I have a good idea he won't see any of it. The kid will learn or not, that wasn't my problem. The man tries to tell me it wasn't enough. For reasons known only to my own foolishness I try and argue with him. Eventually I just roll up the window and stare ahead until the driver comes back from wherever he went to. Then he is off.

Driving in Mumbai reminds me of a flock of birds. They swoop, and dive, and cut one another off. They don't collide, and it isn't always clear why they make the moves they do, but the swarm makes its way. It early in the morning on a Sunday, so we make good time. Mumbai is waking up. I've seen extreme poverty before, but there is something different here. We see people bathing in the streets, doing their laundry, preparing food. It's not even a shanty, this is all on what would have been the sidewalk. They make no effort to hide it. The only thing I can think of to compare this too is my father's stories of Shanghai before the revolution.

I expect to see a transition, here were some of the poorest. Next I expected to see a shantytown, then run down buildings, etc. up the economic ladder. Eventually it would reach some apex and the pendulum would swing back the other way. Some swings would be greater, some not so much. From above it would look like the ripples in a pond circling out, but it wasn't like that. The line that physically separates the rich and the poor is as thin as a strand of silk. It's all right there swirled together. There is no room for separation. Everything is shoved together out in the open. This is India, take it or leave it.

We checked into the hotel, which seemed like an oasis of calm in the chaos. After we took a much needed shower and I found an unwrinkled pair of pants, My Boss and I took a walk on the waterfront. We are staying at the southern end of Bombay. There is a little bay, like the hook and the end of the tail of a seahorse. It's called the Queen's Necklass. I didn't understand why until night.

The walk on the waterfront is a popular one, especially for courting couples. They walk hand in hand down the sidewalk, or sit and snuggle on the sea wall. Life happens in public here. It is all out in the open. Houses and apartments are small here, and often more than one generation lives together (or in close proximity). In the crush of humanity here (and I will use that term more and more), you have to make your own private spaces.

This means there is no real taboo against physical contact. How could there be? If 17 million people each needed the personal space of a border collie, then you wouldn't be able to fit Mumbai in all of Oregon. You get bumped, you get jostled. This is India.

We spot a man with a Monkey on a leash. I'm note sure what kind, possible a Macack. Its the size of a small bulldog. He spots my camera and my eyes lingering on the monkey for a fraction of a second and it begins.

"Hello sir. You want picture? No problem. No danger." He launches into his banter. I shake my head and don't stop. If I could have captured a picture of them before they noticed, that is the shot I would have wanted. Hell I even would have given him the money after I did. But the last thing I wanted was a picture of a performance meant for the tourists. He launches up from his seat, and follows me.

"You want picture?" I hear again. "No problem. No danger. He does very fine Michael Jackson dance." I nearly stop at that. I want to ask him "The Moonwalk, or Billie Jean," but he wouldn't get it. I just shake my head and keep walking. He follows for quite some distance. Same banter over and over again, said in the low slightly whining drone I hear the beggars use. The "no danger" part amuses me. He'd better not piss off that monkey too much. It is strong enough to rip off his fingers, but it just pats along next to him. This is India.

We loop back on the other side of the road. As we get close to the hotel we look at some of the side streets. On the main drag there were just people -- including a film crew -- here there was commerce. Bombay is a place of commerce, large and small. Money changes hands everywhere here. Tiny stall after tiny stall are lined up on the sidewalk. It's still possible to walk on the sidewalk here, just. People walk in the streets without a second thought. There is the periodic sound of car horns. Sometimes it means "here I am, do not move" and sometimes "move you are in my way." Somehow the difference is always clear. Even to me, and I have only been here for a couple of hours.

I can feel my body heading for a crash. I can see My Boss is too. We head back to the hotel, to take a nap. A couple of hours later I am wired again. I want to get up, I want to get out. I wonder if I should head out and catch up with My Boss later. The phone rings. It is T. She is the representative from the outsourcing company we work with. She shares and office with me, and helps coordinate the efforts of my teams. She has come separately on this trip. I'm glad she's here. Not just because I like here, but because she used to live here, before coming to the states. She has a perspective that straddles both worlds. We arrange to go out to dinner, the three of us.

She asks the question you are always asked when you are on vacation, "where do you want to go out to?" We have no opinion, we've never been here. I suggest that I have heard that they have good Indian food here, so T takes us out for a little light sightseeing and then to dinner. We see the Gateway to India, it's a popular spot. Locals and tourists domestic and imported. The flow of people is like a river and we get swept up in it. It pulls us around the building. After we take a drive and T points out some of her favorite buildings. You can see the British influence here, and their love of big works of masonry. You can see every other era here as well. Nothing seems to get replaces, just added on too. This is India.

At the restaurant, T is worried that I am not enjoying to food. I am. It is wonderful. It is both familiar to the Indian food I eat at home, and different. There seems to be a wider range of flavors. They are painting with a different palette and catering to different tastes. I know when we had members of my team over to Portland, I always worried if they were OK with the food. It is what you do when you have guests.

At the end of the meal we start to hear the sound of drums, and then trumpets. It builds and get closer. Eventually it stops in front of the restaurant. We go outside to take a look. It is a wedding. There is a crowd outside the restaurant, and a horse. All are dressed up. Eventually the groom comes out of the restaurant. There is more music, more ceremony. He looks put upon, long suffering. This is his wedding, but it is not for him. Its not for his bride either. This is for everyone else. So the bride and groom take it all in stride. The groom mounts the horse and the procession begins. There are colorful costumes. There is dancing. There are fireworks. There is a little car playing music. It is everything our dry Anglo-Saxon Protestant traditions aren't.

I'm sure at the next wedding, the bride and groom will celebrate twice as hard because it is not them...

Mumbai

When you step out of the plane into the Airport in Mumbai, the air is still quite cool. It was early in the morning arround 5 AM, so there weren't that many people pressed around us (though more than a few). You go down a flight of stairs to the immegration line and it begins. The air becomes hotter, and the humidity begins to become noticiable. In the line I am struck by the worn down look, but it is a modern place. New video cameras are mounted to a piller with a noticeable crack in it, that was then painted over. The line moves at a slow but steady pace. I see all the different stereotypes, the business man, the seasoned traveler, the family returning home, the college student, etc

I expected just to be asked the standard questions when I got to the front of the line. "How long will you be staying here?" "What is the purpose of your business?" then a stamp and pushed out into the chaos of the outer airport. That is what happened to My Boss. I was given a different introduction.

"Your passport is in very bad shape," the first man said. The lamination is starting to come up -- this is the last trip I planned to take with that passport. He shows it to the second man. He shakes his head. Not the head wobble that means "yes," but an exaggerated slow "this is a very big problem" shake.

"How do you think you can come into the country with this?" He asks, almost sad.

I explain that the consulate had no problem with my passport when I got my visa. The man then explains that that is not the consulates concern, it is his, and he is the one who says that he has the authority to say if I can pass into the country. He says it very fast, underneath the PA system so it his hard to hear him. I ask if there is anything that can be done. He smiles and says that I can go back to the US and get a new passport.

He is smiling when he says "You're name is joke, but this no joke."

Great. A lifetime of people mispronouncing and making fun of my name in my own country, and I get it from a clerk in a uniform in another country. Of course he is the two bit trumped up clerk with Authority, so I don't press the point. I think I know where this is going, but I want him to make the first move.

"Is there anyone I can talk to? Anyone who can help me?" I ask.

"No sir," he says, "there is no one you can talk to. Just me." I look worried, then he says, "but don't worry you will be alright." OK this seems like a contradition, but I play along. He asks if I am here with anyone else, and I point to My Boss, who starts to come over.

"You tell her to sit down, and this will all be OK" he says. I call over to My Boss and she takes a seat and watches bemused as I keep talking to the man. He then points out that my visa says Tourist and that I am here on business.

"How do you think you can conduct business with a tourist visa?" He says. Again I look worried, and again he says the contradictory "but don't worry you will me OK." He says it with a heavy accent on the O.

He's not going to make the first move on where I think this is going. I've been in the Philipeans, I have some idea how the game is played. So I try and make the opening. I ask if there is a fee I can pay.

"No sir, no fee" he says. Maybe he wasn't suggesting a bribe. Maybe he is just the most picky immegration official on the planet. "Nothing can be done, but you will be OK." Then he adds "You just have to decide what you can do."

That wasn't the ringing endorcement for a bribe I was hoping for, but decide it was the best I was going to get. Why the hell didn't he play ball with the fee thing. It gives him the opening to make this all seem legitimate, and let me know how much he wants. It's all made so much harder by that dammed PA system. There is lots of repeating ourselves, and half understood sentances. I reach into my pocket and pull out 1000 Rupees -- about $22 US -- and put in on his desk.

This loosten some things up, and he tells me I need to sign in black. I ask for a pen and he hands me one. I start to sign and he gets angry and tells me it must be black. Of course I was signing with the damned pen he gave me. I dig out my own pen, and as I do he looks down at the desk.

"The amount is very small," he says.

"Would twice that be better?" I ask. Mind you 1000 Rupess would buy a pretty nice meal, but this guy has me on the line. Besides I had spent 30 hours getting here. I was tired. I needed a shower. I wasn't going back without making a fuss to anyone who would listen, but if paying the guy would do it, I was willing to play that game. I drop 1500 more on his desk. I only have 1000 left. I'm glad I made a point to exchange some currency before I left.

He looks down, and seems disapointed, but there isn't anyone in line anymore. Nor is it like I can get any more cash. And $55 is a damn fine bribe, I was beginning to get mad, and I think it showed.

"OK sir," he stamps my immegration card. Then he leans forward and says "If anyone asks, your passport fell in the water"

I thank him and go join My Boss to find the customs line and I hope no one else needs bribing. When we are clear, I explain what had happen. I ask how to describe it on my expense report. Eventually we decide it should go under tips...

Somewhere over India(?), London to Delhi

It is long past the strangely written romantic commedy/drama thingy., and the American movie that played after that, and the random music videos. The vast majority of the passengers I can see are asleep, and up until a moment ago I was as well. Then some switch turned on and I bolted awake. Unlike the other times, no one had bothered to close the window shades. On my side of the plane I watched the ghostly white wisps of cloud whip by, regularly illuminated by the light from the plane. It was an eerily beautiful site. Then I turned to look out the windows on the opposite side, and saw light. Lots of light. A city.

The trip status isn't showing on the monitor. So I am working from memory. We passed over Russia, then Kazakhstan, then Afghanistan, and then into India. Based on the time before we land, I think we are now over India. That thought made my heart race. There is still a quarter of a day to go on this trip before we land for the last time, but I am in some sense already here. Its a milestone. Not that I did any of the work...

Somewhere over Europe, London to Delhi

Another landing and another takeoff on the Chicago to Mumbai flight. Actually the flight is Chicago to London to Delhi to Bombay. When we booked the flight it just said Chicago to Mumbai with two stops. When the tickets arrived we learned that one of the stops was London, but couldn't find out where the other stop was. The website didn't say, nor was the Air India representative I talked too very clear on the subject. It became a matter of some curiosity where this other undisclosed location was. It was only when we got on the plane did we learn that it was Delhi.

When we arrived, we were given the option of staying on the plane, or departing to the Air India lounge. It wasn't that hard a choice to make. We were desperate for air that was if not fresh, then at least fresher. If the Chicago airport is simply huge, Heathrow is huge and build like a maze. My Boss and I ended up at several clearly wrong places, based on the same innocent sounding directions. Once we found it, it was a nice break before getting back on the plane. If O'Hare had been filled with places to eat, then Heathrow was filled with places to shop. If I had remembered this before the misadventure of trying to find the lounge, I could have bought some pants. Expensive pants to be sure, but I wouldn't need to keep draping this shirt over my lap.

I have fallen in love with a snack they keep offering on the flight. Mo'pleez is described on the package as "Crunchy Potato Snacks Spicy" and aside from the dangling modifier, it is an accurate description. I could also describe it as a spicy puffed potato latticework that as been machine extruded and pinch off at the ends, but that would take all the romance out of it.

They have started to play an Indian movie. It's subtitled in English, which you would think would help more than it has. It is either a rather innovative film that is blurring reality and the dreams off the different characters; or it is a strangely written romantic commedy/drama thingy. I am not willing to place a bet just yet. Either way someone should slap the cameraman until he agrees to hold the camera level.

Not for the first time, I reflect on the length of this trip. It will take longer to fly there, than it does for the earth to turn half way around. If we could just hover in place and let the planet shift below us, the trip would be quicker; but that option is available to no one. So we do it the hard way.

The flight is much more full than it had been on the first leg. It will be interesting to see what the flight is like on the last leg. No clouds out the window now. We seem to be flying through them, it looks like someone has erased the world....

Somewhere over the Atlantic, Chicago to London

There is a video screen in front of me on the plane. Sometimes it displays our course, and the navigational facts: Local time, wind speed, distance to our destination, etc. Other times is plays movies and music videos. The latter are an odd mix of western and Indian. Travis will be played next to a traditional song, which will be followed by some fun pop ear pudding by a group call Strings. The reminded me of the Rembrants though without the harmonies. Then it will switch to a scene from a dance competition, then to what looked like a Canadian version of Candid Camera. There were movies, but I was dozing at the time and have no clear memory of them.

The map of our trip is very careful not to draw any borders between the countries. It's an interesting way to look at the world. I wonder if it would work? Or in the absence of national borders, would the world be more like ancient Grease, with City-States and their protectorates. Would that be better or worse?

I have no sense of my internal clock at this point. I've set my watch and laptop to Mumbai time, which at this moment is thirteen and a half hours ahead of Portland. Quite literally half a world away. We are turning into the UK, soon to land in London. It will be morning there, and we had just been served breakfast. In Bombay it is the afternoon, and I would be just beginning to contemplate what I wanted for dinner. In Portland I would have been asleep for two or three hours, and food would be the furthest thing from my head (except possibly for my dreams). I'm wide awake, though I have no idea how long that will last. So best to get these thoughts down while I am still cogent.

We are flying above the clouds. The are a pale field below us. Like someone had taken the green, green, grass of England and poured bleach on it. It looks like it has been freshly mowed, with the tire tracks in it. It's beautiful. I wish I could go walking in it. I wouldn't make it very far...

Somewhere over the US, Chicago to London

Murphy. My last name is Murphy. There is a law that goes by that name as well, and I have learned its lessons well. If it can go wrong, then it will. Jock's corollary is so be ready for it, roll with it, and improvise if you got too. It's held me in good stead, but apparently the travel gods wanted to put it to the test.

Our flight was planned in two legs. Portland to Chicago on United, then Chicago to Mumbai (hensforth I will follow the locals tradition of randomly switching between the old name of Bombay, and the new name of Mumbai) on Air India. I mean why not? They have the name of the country right there on the plan So you know they go there. Once we arrived in Chicago, we had to make our way to our connecting flight. The difference in size between the two airports is dramatic. The one we arrived at is the size of a small town. It certainly had more restaurants that many places I have been. It has it's on railway and police force. You could almost see making a television series about an airport this large. Oh wait...

My traveling companion, who I shall refer to as My Boss (for she is), had decided to return before me. So she needed a new ticket issued. So our stay at the counter was longer than most. It gave me a chance to scope out my fellow travelers. It is December, but not quite the peek travel period for returning to the old country, well old if you were from there. Since we am not, everyone supposes we are traveling on Business. We are, but that's not the point. Then they assume we are going to Bangalore. That we are not. Bangalore is the Silicon Valley of India, so I suppose it is a natural assumption. Mumbai is -- well -- Mumbai, it seems to defy description. Take New York, add a liberal amount of Los Angeles, and stir in some San Francisco.

We are in high spirits when we get to the counter. We are going to India, it is really happening, and so far the trip is going quite well. I wanted to take a picture of the scene, a mob of mostly Indian people waiting in line. Each with a massive amount of luggage. Having forgotten the small cameras, I pulled out my cell phone to use that. I will confess to being a phone snob, and underwhelmed by its quality, but I am also a pragmatist. I turn to get a good shot and bump into My Boss, and drop the phone. We both bend down to pick it up, and that is when it happens.

Its a long trip. More than twenty-eight hours airport to airport. There was a time when people dressed up to travel. They wore there best, Men wore a suit and tie. It was novel, and unusual, to fly. Now it is a commodity. Now we dress for comfort. I wore the most comfortable shirt and pants I have. The shirt is still in good condition. I ration how often I wear it, since I will never be able to replace it. The pants were just a older pair of khakis. A little frayed at the edges, but presentable. I remember thinking "I am going to retire these pants after this trip." I didn't know how profited that thought was.

I had rolled a document that had fallen out of my bag and put it in my left pocket. As I bent it caught against the inside of my waistband. So it was now pushing at both the top and the bottom of my pants. Before I could stop, I heard the sound. Cloth ripping is a distinctive sound. If you hear it once, you know what it is instantly. It could have been worse, it could have been the seat of my pants that went. Instead it was the front thigh -- Incredible Hulk style. I immedately took off my overshirt I was wearing as a jacket, and tied it around my waist. Improvise, roll with it.

At one point I managed to secure a sowing kit and effected a makeshift repair. I can actually sow fairly well, but this was a challenge. The fabric was too fragile at the tear, and the thread too weak to hold. I am sure the flight attendants (and my how attendant they are) are wondering why I insist on draping an old olive drab shirt over my waist. Perhaps they think I am cold. If I do my job right, it will remain a mystery...

Somewhere over the US, Portland to Chicago

The air is dry aboard the plane, just like all plane. The movie is some uninteresting romantic comedy, but it's fairly entertaining if you listen to it in Spanish. The trick now is too fall into that self hypnotic zone where the time just passes. I'm not quite there, so you pass the time as you can. It's hard to peg the man sitting next to me. Most of the flight he has been asleep. Now he's awake, no longer interested in his book he is staring straight ahead and bouncing his leg so violently that I can feel it over the turbulence. It doesn't bother me, and I wouldn't bug him about it if it did. He seems nervous, and doesn't need me adding to it. I've sat next to worse.

The other passengers seem to be handling the flight better than him. Not many laptops out, so probably mostly personal travelers. They are quite, not many conversations to latch onto. The occasional word or phrase drifts by -- "I don't know," "He's bigger than that," "We'll call when she get there," etc. Not even enough to play the game of making up the story behind what you hear.

There will be time to kill when we hit Chicago. Not enough to leave the airport, that would have been nice. I have never been to Chicago. I have been through it, and over it, and by it, but I have never spent any actual time there worth speaking of. The airport is nice from what I can recall. The last time I was there was for my best friends emergency wedding (not quite what is sounds like, but host of a series of entertaining stories I hope to tell one day).

You want to think you will be productive on the plane, that you will get this project on that thing done. You try, you get some of it done, but it's a hard space to work in. I want to get over the creative hump and get started on my next novel, but it is getting mixed up with my thoughts about India. Who knows maybe that will work...

Portland, OR

I'm sitting in the Portland airport (PDX) waiting to board the flight for the first leg of my journey. Everything is packed, and only a few things were forgotten (sadly one of them was the small digital camera, which is going to make one personal project somewhat difficult), but nothing I can't live without. Being who I am, my mind is filled with a fair quantity of fairly usless information about the trip:

Getting there:

• Depart Dec. 3
• 28 hours airport to airport
• 25 hours on planes
• Change planes in Chicago
• Stops in London and some undisclosed location
• Time travel forward 13.5 hours
• Arrive Dec. 5

Mumbai:

• Formerly known as Bombay
• Population of 17 Million people
• Estimated to be the most populace city in the world by 2006, taking the crown from Tokyo (it may already be, there is no way to count actual population)
• Home of Bollywood
• Only city in India to contain a national park
• More than 3000 railway deaths per year
• 25% of the population lives below the poverty line

Going back:

• Depart Dec. 14th
• Time travel back 13.5 hours
• Arrive Dec. 14th

So all I really know is that I am not prepared for the trip. I've been to Europe a couple of times (which is more than most Americans can say), and I've spent a month traveling in the Philippians. I'm not a timid traveler. I like to get on the ground and see what is really there, and not just the places you are supposed to see. However I know that this will dwarf everything I have seen and that there is no way a sane man could say he is prepared for it. All I know is that I will hit the ground running, with an open mind, and try and be ready for everything that happens.

I can't wait...

Portland, OR

I've been making a pile of things I know I will need for the trip. The first think I put down were two black notebooks. Each is about 3 inches by 6 inches and less than a quarter of an inch thick. I like to carry notebook at all times. Even when I have a PDA or whatever electronic devices on me, I carry the notebook. Paper never looses charge or reboots. You can tear off a page and give it to someone else. You can press things between the pages. It's taken a while to find one that fits my lifestyle. I don't always wear a coat, so it needs to fit in my pocket along with everything else I carry. It took a while to find the right on for my needs, but the Moleskine trim notebooks work well.

My current notebook is nearly full. I will retire it before I leave. Almost nothing will need to be transcribed out of it. Most information spoils faster than unrefigerated eggs. The current one has a todo list for the trip. It is currently 3 pages long, There is nothing that unusal on the list, just lots of little things that are useful when you are on a trip. Just all the little things I want for trip. I like to think that I have the skills to get by in any urban center, but there is nothing wrong with stacking the deck. I will admit that my list contains more photographic equipment than most peoples.

Last week I crossed "Visit Doctor" off the list, and it hurt when I did. It had been 10 years since I had my last tetnus booster, so it seemed like a good idea to get up to date, and I had a perscription I needed renewed before the trip. The last thing I ever want is a migrain on a 20 hour flight. Since I'd had a nasty run in with an infection recently, so my doctor didn't want my immune system to take any chances. I also walked away with perscriptions for emergency antibiotics and some anti-malarials.

My insurance didn't cover any of the innoculations. I guess they were willing to risk that I might get Typhoid. I was not. The bill wasn't pretty, but it wouldn't have stopped me from going. Nor will the recent advisary that Americans keep a low profile. I am more excited about this trip than I can express here. Nothing is going to prevent me from going, and nothing is going to prevent me from exploring. Nine days won't be enough to understand Mumbai, let alone India, but I am going to do my damndest to walk away with a piece of the puzzle.

Besides I'm now imune to so many things I feel like a superhero. Five days and counting...