• We arrived at the Victoria Terminus (VT is the British name for it, but it’s been renamed to CST since). This train station is supposed to be the architectural Taj Mahal of the British empire, but I can hardly compare the two. It was 6 am when we got off the train, and it was still dark out, so we waited to leave the station and dropped our big backpacks off at a holding area for the day.
  • Before leaving the station, a woman walked up to us and spoke to us in perfect English. We semi-consciously ignored her and walked away, as is the custom on your 18th day of being in India—generally, you ignore anyone that makes a remark at you since they are just trying to sell you something, etc. I guess she was used to this, so she explained that she worked for the government as a tour guide (still dubious), and wanted to give us advice on where to go. She also said she has seen way more hollywood stars than us (her list was definitely longer than mine:)), and explained that she was born in England and moved later in life. She gave us some advice, and then we parted ways.
  • Before we left VT, I had a horrible need to go to the bathroom. Luckily, we were prepared with toilet paper and all. I walked into the (for pay) bathroom, and the guy taking money at the door took the toiler paper away and said “no paper.” I walked out, but Meredith pointed out I’d have no other option that day. So I walked back, and he was frisking for toilet paper, so I went in with none. I’ll save you the details, but you can read about how one goes to the bathroom in India elsewhere, and you can fill in the details of how on my last day in India, I became an inaugural member of the Indian population. While I was mentally preparing myself for the experience, I stood in a line of 20 people for two stalls. I had time to reflect, and was assisted by the man cleaning the urinals (which we were standing next to). He was soaked from head to toe, and wearing flip-flops. Cleaning meant walking from urinal to urinal with a hose, spraying EVERYTHING, an scraping the walls with a hay broom. Needless to say, the result was like being in the front row of a Gallagher show, and I became one of the dirtiest people in India. Using the toilet signs you up for someone smashing on the door if you’ve been in there for longer than a minute. Such is life.
  • After running out of the bathroom and bathing in baby wipes and hand sanitizer, we were on our way! We briefly got lost in the wrong direction looking for a cool market and ended up in a market with hundreds of chickens and their feathers. Breakfast at McDonalds because nothing else was open and I was going to fall over from low blood sugar. Of course their selection was waaaaay different than anything you’d have in the US for breakfast. Then we began a walking tour of Mumbai.
  • We made our way to a large green open area in between the high court and Mumbai university, where there were 5 or so simultaneous cricket matches going on. On every corner of the field, and throughout the city, there were vendors selling crushed sugar cane juice that looked amazing, but was served in a glass cup that was not washed after its last use. Being chicken, we avoided the drink even though it looked amazing.
  • Heading down a different street, we saw a neat church, a library run by the Asiatic society, and a way more green park than the last one.
  • We then kept walking down a major street, a block of which had Dildo vendors displaying their wares. Really? Dildos?
  • We turned off onto a smaller street to see the Keneseth Eliyahoo Synagogue. The guards at the door, when asked if we could go in, said “Are you Jewish?” After affirming, they let us in. The place was very pretty, painted sky-blue even on the inside, and having some of the most ornate designs I have seen in a synagogue. We bought a book on Jews in India, got a view from the top pews, and headed back into the street (no pictures, sorry!). On the way out, we took note that Madonna had been there two years ago. Heh.
  • We were hungry and thirsty (close to delirium because we were a bit irresponsible in walking around, and it was RIDICULOUSLY hot), so we bought some suspicious water at a street vendor. Your last day somewhere makes you feel invincible I guess.
  • We made our way to Gateway of India, a big structure that looks like a gate that is open to the Arabian sea/Indian Ocean. It was touristy, with mostly Indians posing for pictures. We then turned around from looking at the ocean to see the Taj Hotel, the site of the terrorist attacks on 11/26/2008 (known in India as 26/11). The hotel looked like a palace, and looks like it’s in great shape. There are signs along the entrance floor telling people that they are “Working to restore a symbol of Mumbai’s enduring spirit & dignity,” and I’m sure that once they do, the hotel will be regal as ever.
  • We went to a restaurant for lunch, and I had the first thali which seemed like what I would consider a Thali. It was very tasty, and only made taster by the fact that I ate with my hands. I hope my friends at home allow me to do the same when I am out with them.
  • We made a long walk back, essentially seeing the same sites we saw earlier. Stopping by a bookstore, we saw, front and center, a book on how to fix several brands of Nokia phone. I had heard about this repair-everything culture before, but it never struck me how prevalent it was. The book had circuit diagrams and listed every possible problem you could have with a phone and how to fix it.
  • We had some time to kill, but not enough to see the beach, so we went back into the McDonalds near Victoria Terminus. We shared an ice cream cone, and sat around watching high-schoolers do homework and flirt. Some car had a horrendously loud sound system, and one of the techno songs they played was the Venga Boys song we had heard on our first night. It was a relaxing sendoff in a bustling city.
  • We got a taxi at the station after getting our bags. The ride took more than an hour in intense traffic, but we were leaving at 6 pm and the plane took off at 1 am, so no biggie. We drove through some slums (55% of Mumbai lives in such slums). Essentially, these are corrugated tin-walled living spaces stacked on top of each other so you have to use a ladder to get from one family’s floor to the next. No one looked terribly sad (but this is from the highway. I hesitate to use the word slum, because while the word slum implies how it looks, the slum is far from what you would expect economically. Despite the surroundings, people have set up a functioning economy, where there are home renters and owners, people work at various locations, and the economy of the slum exports $550 billion worth of products per year to the rest of the world. Not somewhere you’d like to live, but not exactly the complete image you might paint for yourself.
  • As we drove past the slum, we saw an astounding amount of kites in the sky. If you have read the “Kite Runner,” you’d have the explanation of how it’s done (at least in a fiction book based in Afghanistan). From the book, you glue glass shards to the string, fly the kite, and try to drive your kite’s string into another kite’s so that you can cut it down. The kite running part comes from the point at which you cut the kite—your partner-in-crime, once the opponent’s kite is cut, makes a mad dash toward where the kite might fall, and races half of the other children in the neighborhood to get the prize. I’m not sure that part actually happens given that running around to random places might be unacceptable, but it certainly sounds poetic. We had seen this throughout India, but as a final vision of the place during the waning hour of sunlight, it was quite exhilarating to see tens of kites flying high over the neighborhoods of Mumbai.
  • Equally exhilarating was the way in which we ate dinner at the airport. After trying to reason with the driver to know how much markup he charges westerners (“come on, I’ll pay you what you wanted, but I’m leaving India and want to know how much you overcharge westerners” didn’t work), we tried to get past the security check at the entrance to the airport. We arrived at 7 pm for a 1 am flight, so the guard told us that there is no food in the terminal, and that before going in, we should “go upstairs” and get a bite to eat. We thought it was strange that there was no food inside, but took his advice. We went upstairs, where we explained to the guard with a massive gun why we were up there, to which he kept responding “What’s wrong?” until he let us go. We walked for a good 2 minutes in a long corridor that seemed to not be designed for public consumption. Finally, we were pointed in the right direction by someone who looked very confused at out presence. Upon walking in, we were welcomed by about 100 employees of the airlines turning around and staring at us, and saw the banner at the back of the room, which designated this the “employee canteen.” We were about to turn around when someone ran toward us and told us to sit down and eat anyway. What a wonderful man! For ~$1 each, we got 2 chai, 1 uttapam (a dosa infused with potato), a cheese sandwich (did I mention Meredith was stuffed with Indian food?), Pani Puri (deep-fried bread stuffed with potato and tamarind, and drizzled with tamarind juice and yogurt), wada (like a samosa, but with fluffier breading), and an atmosphere that made you feel at peace with yourself as you waited. Once we were ignored by our neighbors, we felt at home and enjoyed ourselves. Upon returning to the airport to enter the terminal, we saw that the guard had changed, and that the place was filled with places to eat. I’m happy he tricked us—what a great final dinner in India!
  • At the airport, we changed clothes and took baby-wipe showers. We went through two security scans, and spent/exchanged the rest of our money (the exchange system enrages me, but I won’t get into that I guess).
  • The place ride home was delightful—at around 2 am India time, we were served dinner, which everyone on the plane except for me refused. I then joined everyone else in passing out for a few hours, and then woke up to watch some shows on my seat’s TV. Our neighbor ended up being not only talkative but immensely interesting. He’s a Christian from Goa, and speaks perfect English. He works as an engineer in Goa, and travels to New Hampshire to share knowledge with the sister plant several times per year. We spoke about the massive cultural differences between Hindi-speaking India and much of the south (from his perspective). We also spoke about peace (India/Pakistan, Israel/Palestine—two different perspectives on different places). He was interested in Meredith’s engineering background, and what I did at school. I’m happy he was there to share some final words with—we’re now in e-mail contact, and he has an open invitation to stop by Boston the next time he is in town! One interesting thing he mentioned was reverse culture-shock. Sure, you’re shocked by the other’s culture when you first land, but when you return to your country, you’re shocked again by how different everything is, as if you never saw it before.
  • That was our experience upon arriving in the US. Culture shock was everywhere, in a strange way. I felt uncomfortable crossing the street without cars beeping to acknowledge me. We were stricken by the whiteness of the walls in our apartment, and the cleanliness of pretty much everything relative to what we were accustomed. For some reason, since returning, I no longer drink filtered water, and I think the reason is that I am trying to convince myself it’s a nicety that doesn’t matter, and I thus can’t justify anymore. Weird small things, but they add up.