August 25: WOW

This is nothing like I expected. Nothing.

This is surely because I am:

a) in Bangalore -- a slightly wealthier, more modern city than, say, Bombay or New Delhi, that has gone through incredible growth in the last five years

b) staying in a modern hotel -- the bathroom has, I SWEAR, for its sink one of those trendy glass basins that sits on top of the marble. The kind of thing that is de rigueur in every new urban restaurant bathroom these days. (Still better than those see-through Swiss toilets though.

c) am surrounded by locals whom I know fairly well.

But still.

My plane landed at 1 AM, and so I wasn't in a cab to my hotel until about 2 AM. I chalked up the spaciousness -- of the airport, the sidewalks, the streets -- to the late hour. I had prepared myself for crowds and poverty. Instead as my cab driver sped forward (never slowing down at an intersection, simply leaning on the horn to make sure his presence was known) my thoughts were along the lines of: "Those banyan trees would make good climbing trees," or "Hey, we're driving on the left side of the road!"

This morning, after a breakfast of vegetable curry that despite all warnings that REAL Indian food was going to be too hot, was fantastic, I made plans to go into town with five fellows -- two from Germany, two from New Orleans, one from China. As I walked out of the hotel, a friend from India stopped me and gave a bit of a warning that sounded almost like an apology: "Now you're going to see the real craziness of India." The six of us hopped into two rickshaws (which are powered by motorcycles here, not bikes) and . . . went into Indian craziness.

Except it wasn't crazy. It was exuberant. Simply energetic and exciting and happy. Our rickshaw looked a lot like a yellow hansom cab, except there was only a roof and a floor. The sides are wide open, so you feel the wind as you drive -- an automatic mood enhancer. But there was more. The inside of the rickshaw was decorated in puffy blue and green designs with gold piping, and had a fake chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Our driver didn't know the exact address of where we were going, so he called to motorcycle drivers -- often with a woman in a sari riding side-saddle behind them -- as he went asking directions. He, too, blew the horn as he passed through every intersection, but it sounded nothing like a cranky NYC traffic jam. This was more of an announcement to the world, a rickshaw's shout of "I am!"

When we got out of the rickshaw, a little boy perhaps age 5 called out, excited about the Westerners and a chance for money. He did three cartwheels with a smile and then held out his hand for coins.

I didn't give him any. I had been so prepared for hoardes of people begging that I had inured myself ahead of time. I was going to nod and say no to anyone who asked . . . and I realize now I didn't need to. He was the only person all day who asked for money, and he even did something in return: he gave me his exuberance. Next time I'm paying up.