Day one:
It was a long flight, but passed as easily as an extremely long line at John’s pizza in the Village. After watching two classic Hindi films on my personal screen, inhaling three surprisingly good Air India plane-ready meals, and shifting through countless cycles of REM sleep, Jeanine and I found ourselves on the tarmac of the Bombay/Mumbai airport. We took an Israel bus in rush hour-like packed tram to the terminal/baggage claim, and went effortlessly through customs, and Swine flu screening. Walking though the airport’s halls I couldn’t help but chuckle at the numerous signs warning us to “Just say No.” However, they weren’t warnings against drugs, drunk driving, or firearms, but rather a caution towards taxi drivers offering a ride to your destination. “We’re in INDIA!!” The little things I’d been warned about hadn’t really come into play yet, but I kept on the ready for the overwhelming smells, heat, and the over - seriously, over - like nothing you’ve ever seen before – population crowding.
We waited for our luggage amid a furry of movement of weary travelers, airport officials, and baggage. After a few smiles and really noticing the head wiggle, especially from the surrounding travelers, we were off; out of the safety of the air port and into the sticky Mumbai night. So it was about at this point that we both realized neither of us had confirmed who, where, or when someone would be picking us up. Uh, it is okay to laugh, we sure did. We perused the hoards of willing drivers and waiting chauffeurs wrapped around a pig-pen like gate immediately congregating at the exit, but didn’t notice anyone with our names on their placard, or with a white and beaconing complexion. While waiting off to the side with the mountain of luggage, Jeanine eventually found Shushi, or what I repeated to a wag of the head. This broadly smiling 20-something, sporting a shimmering vest/pant combo and holding a sign with my name upon it seemed to be our driver. I mean how many Michael Gropper’s could there be in India, arriving that night, on my plane (we confirmed the flight info), and expecting a driver? We exchanged smiles and went off into his divinely air-conditioned almost-mini-van adorned with a hotel’s placard.
The calamity of the airport was nothing to compare to the traffic in the streets. The lanes were mere paint for the pavement. The taxis, buses, rickshaws, motorcycles, and other vehicles swarmed along the road bobbing and weaving, honking and shouting, all the while avoiding brave pedestrians and hand carts attempting to make their own way along, across, or new home in the road. If the newness of the city hadn’t overtaken us, Shushi received a phone call from Sarah, the current Mumbai volunteer, asking where we were. Apparently, she was waiting to take us and we had left the welcoming party waiting…oops, off to a great start.
So here I am, finally stretching out my legs in a pleasant room of the Ramee Guestline Hotel in Dadar. The complementary breakfast is tempting me to go to sleep and acclimate myself to the 12.5 hour time difference. That’s all for now, but much more to come as I really get to know this marvelous country, its people, cultures, and culinary treasures.
nice view from the hotel room
It was a long flight, but passed as easily as an extremely long line at John’s pizza in the Village. After watching two classic Hindi films on my personal screen, inhaling three surprisingly good Air India plane-ready meals, and shifting through countless cycles of REM sleep, Jeanine and I found ourselves on the tarmac of the Bombay/Mumbai airport. We took an Israel bus in rush hour-like packed tram to the terminal/baggage claim, and went effortlessly through customs, and Swine flu screening. Walking though the airport’s halls I couldn’t help but chuckle at the numerous signs warning us to “Just say No.” However, they weren’t warnings against drugs, drunk driving, or firearms, but rather a caution towards taxi drivers offering a ride to your destination. “We’re in INDIA!!” The little things I’d been warned about hadn’t really come into play yet, but I kept on the ready for the overwhelming smells, heat, and the over - seriously, over - like nothing you’ve ever seen before – population crowding.
We waited for our luggage amid a furry of movement of weary travelers, airport officials, and baggage. After a few smiles and really noticing the head wiggle, especially from the surrounding travelers, we were off; out of the safety of the air port and into the sticky Mumbai night. So it was about at this point that we both realized neither of us had confirmed who, where, or when someone would be picking us up. Uh, it is okay to laugh, we sure did. We perused the hoards of willing drivers and waiting chauffeurs wrapped around a pig-pen like gate immediately congregating at the exit, but didn’t notice anyone with our names on their placard, or with a white and beaconing complexion. While waiting off to the side with the mountain of luggage, Jeanine eventually found Shushi, or what I repeated to a wag of the head. This broadly smiling 20-something, sporting a shimmering vest/pant combo and holding a sign with my name upon it seemed to be our driver. I mean how many Michael Gropper’s could there be in India, arriving that night, on my plane (we confirmed the flight info), and expecting a driver? We exchanged smiles and went off into his divinely air-conditioned almost-mini-van adorned with a hotel’s placard.
The calamity of the airport was nothing to compare to the traffic in the streets. The lanes were mere paint for the pavement. The taxis, buses, rickshaws, motorcycles, and other vehicles swarmed along the road bobbing and weaving, honking and shouting, all the while avoiding brave pedestrians and hand carts attempting to make their own way along, across, or new home in the road. If the newness of the city hadn’t overtaken us, Shushi received a phone call from Sarah, the current Mumbai volunteer, asking where we were. Apparently, she was waiting to take us and we had left the welcoming party waiting…oops, off to a great start.
So here I am, finally stretching out my legs in a pleasant room of the Ramee Guestline Hotel in Dadar. The complementary breakfast is tempting me to go to sleep and acclimate myself to the 12.5 hour time difference. That’s all for now, but much more to come as I really get to know this marvelous country, its people, cultures, and culinary treasures.
nice view from the hotel room
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