I don't know, India

I don't know what to write about. Nine months ago, I wondered what I would write about when I get home, if the daily grind of everyday life was enough to inspire regular writing. I figured as long as I was traveling, the day's new experiences would inspire prose. But now that we are the final continent of our trip, this trip at least, I can't sort it out anymore. Perhaps I forgot what is interesting when I am in an office with my daily routine. Although, back then I remember what an interruption a traveler's blogging meanderings about life and wonderment were to my routine when they showed up in my Inbox. Mostly, I didn't have time for it. Now, it all seems interesting. And, even the magic of India, feels humdrum at times.

Maybe it started in South Africa, where our travels stalled in the security of Johannesburg. Malawi was a welcome back to the road. Then Mara arrived. And we stayed in Zanzibar for more than two weeks. It was in the style of childhood family vacations in Cape Cod. We spent most of the day at the beach. We took long walks. We collected shells. Played cards. Talked about food. Found a few favorite restaurants and stuck with them. We ate omelettes and chapati every morning, with fresh fruit juice and fresh fruit. Instead of Truro, it was Bwejuu. Instead of the Yum Yum tree, it was Pakacha. Instead of lobster, it was octopus and crab. Instead of the Dolphin Fleet whale watch with its toasted buttery hot dog buns, it was the Nungwi and swimming with dolphins, followed by fried fish. As this journey has felt at various points, it felt like a fitting tribute to my mom. And my sister looked and acted as much like her as anybody ever has. More than just a tribute to my mom, it was a reminder. I will probably never go to the beach again in my life without thinking about her, feeling her spirit.

So, here we are. Day three in Mumbai. Back to walking as a city unfolds its mysteries underneath our feet. There are lots of things I could write about. Our bags' vacation from us in Oman. They got off the plane when we didn't and stayed an extra two days in the Middle East. They left us in the same clothes sharing a toothbrush for three days in Mumbai. We learned to play the game, “When I get my bag, I will...” It quickly became, “If I don't get my bag, I will...” as we resolved that there could be worse places to replace a wardrobe and our travelers' belongings than India. Then it became, “When will our bags arrive?” But, when we came back tonight to the granite and marble clad lobby of the Welcome Hotel, we found two plastic wrapped bags and denied they were our's. Then the guy behind the desk turned on the lights and I recognized the light blue of Annette's backpack.

I could write about the May Rose Bar and Restaurant that seems to be more and less than any and all of the words in its title. We stumbled into it after a romantic evening walking the promenade to Chowpatty Beach. There we sat on a mat and ate plates of sev puri, stopped for a beer, presumed to see the Queen's Necklace (which as far as I can guess, is the row of lights nearly encircling the bay in Central Mumbai). We needed a bathroom and decided we would stop for another beer in exchange. With some hesitation, the doorman at the May Rose lets us in. We find a semi-live performance inside that was inaudible outside. Four beautiful saree-clad women sit on a couch. Three men sit behind them against the wall. Each has an instrument – a keyboard, a drum, an electric drum pad. Two men stand at the front, sharing a music stand with two microphones resting on top and a half-zipped bag draped from it. They perform before a row of couches populated by a handful of men.

I take off my tattered “I love my life” visor when I enter, as if that is what makes our presence awkward. We order two beers and Annette goes to find the bathroom. Meanwhile I discover this is not a normal bar. And if by chance it is, it is not a normal night at the bar. I watch an old man call forward the woman in the red saree to pick crisp twenty rupee notes out of his hand. He waits until she sits down to present another. She doesn't smile. She seems more annoyed than anything, but each time, she goes and collects the money. She keeps in it in her right hand when she sits down. Then she texts on her phone, maintaining a look of total disinterest bordering on disgust. The two woman next to her don't get up. But their body language is similar. Arms folded. Sometimes texting on phones. Whispering expressionlessly to each other occasionally. One woman sings every fifth song before disappearing into the kitchen. The two men sing more frequently over a recording. A few notes on the drum or keyboard occasionally interrupt the recording. Perhaps they were meant to enhance it.

When Annette returns from the bathroom, I point out the oddity of the scene. So we play a new game, named, “Where are we?” My first guess is a super conservative Indian strip club in which the woman don't strip. Annette guesses “karaoke bar,” but I dismiss it, pointing to two signs that read, “Guests Not Allowed To Sing.” “Some sort of super boring bachelorette party,” I guess. The game goes on as we observe more. Then I excuse myself to use the bathroom.

The bathroom has a door that opens to a sink with a toilet room on either side of it. I find the men's room to be an all black western toilet and sink. There is no toilet paper. I pee and flush. I walk out to wash my hands to find two young men in uniforms looking at me strangely. They say something I don't understand. I am not sure if it is a proposition, a request for money, or just the usual over-staffed smothering Indian service (after Africa, at least). I return to the table to propose that it is an undercover gay bar. “There is no sex in the champagne room,” Annette responds. We laugh and eat the carrots and cucumbers that are provided, until Annette gets a perfumed and powdery bite. She informs me there is washing powder on the carrot and asks me to take a bite. I refuse multiple times until she finally lets up. We agree that we should hurry up and finish our beers, which we do. We exit.

Annette asks the doorman, “Do you speak English? What is this place?” He nods to the first question but then mutters, “no English.” Annette asks again, but again we get, “No English.” So, we walk home.

I could write about the misspellings and the signs. It makes Czech beer stains” (a.k.a steins) seem tame. “Do not pass urine here,” outside the wall of the police station merits comment. In West Africa, it just said, “Do not urinate here.” Perhaps the verb, urinate, didn't make it across the Arabian Sea. A few favorites are outside churches: “Life was simpler when Apples and Blackberries were fruit.” “We live in a rainbow of chaos.”

Then there is the strange order and modernity of Mumbai. The city I expected to be chaos, but feels far more normal than most West African cities. Yet, I am sure more people sleep on its sidewalks any given night than live in Accra. And the modern glass buildings give way to the sensory and chaotic markets that Moroccan souks aspire to be. We stop at a spice counter where 59 masalas are laid out in Indian metal dishes for our noses. We don't buy anything. I am reminded of the institutional feel of India. Bathrooms of black and gray stone. Cups and dishes of shiny tin.

And then there are the odors. A short walk reveals urine, incense, curry, shit, ox, citrus, cinnamon. And that is the first five steps.

I could always write about the food. That is a favorite subject, and as good here as anywhere. We haven't eaten meat in two days and barely noticed. We discovered vada pava – a fried lentil and potato ball served on a small white bun like a vegetarian White Castle burger. And Annette has fallen in love with sev puri, which, as far as I can tell, are the nachos of the Indian puffed rice family. Mostly I can't write about the food because I don't know the names of things and am at a loss to name the ingredients. Coriander is my favorite. It clicked for me before we left Tanzania that coriander is cilantro back home. Surely my foodie sisters would call me slow. But I eat fast.

I will let you know when I find something to write about...