“A philosopher…Great.”

           I emerged outside, and took my first unfiltered Delhi breath, followed immediately by my first hacking cough; my body’s initial response to the thick diesel filled smog sadly posing as breathable air.  After I regained my composure, I, to no avail, repeated my ritual pacing in search of my name.  Shortly thereafter, a white, bearded, middle-aged man appeared in front of me.  I went up to the man, and introduced myself, asking him if he had ever been here before, what he was doing in Delhi, and if he knew where his ride was.  I discovered that like myself, this was his first time in India, he was a philosophy professor, and I really don’t need to write anything further on him, because, lets face it, this was not going to be my savior.

            I decided my best course of action would be to go back inside and make another phone call.   Unfortunately, this proved impossible, as the Indian man with the large automatic weapon explained to me that “once you’re out, you’re out”.  Frantically, I began searching again.   I could not find any trace of a placard with my name on it.  Then while I was devising a plan to get back inside with the philosopher, Roopchand appeared with my name in hand.  Only after an hour after I had begun searching for him.  Filled with relief, I handed two of my bags to him and we made our way to the car.

            Leaving the airport parking lot, I began to observe surroundings, when the reality of the contrast between Indian poverty and Indian wealth began to set in.  Feral “street” dogs wandered aimlessly through crowds of men, sitting in the dirt for no apparent reason.  Women, who appeared exhausted, were followed by young shoeless children making their way across the city.  Teenagers with model airplanes for sale tap on the window as we pull out of the airport’s guarded roadway.  We pass a bull standing outside the entrance to one of the Hindu temples.  After about a kilometer of this, we enter the Lodi Park area of South Delhi.  Here, the roads are immaculate, with beautiful flora guiding our path all the way to the hotel.  We arrived at the entrance to the Indian Habitat Center (http://www.indiahabitat.org/main.htm).  Roopchand unloaded my bags from the trunk of the car and told me he would be there at 10 the next morning to pick me up.  I then made my way to the front desk to check in, and make sense of my surroundings.

“Excuse me? Does your phone work in India?”

           After making it through the surprisingly efficient line at customs in the brand new Air India terminal, and then surprisingly having no trouble claiming my luggage and changing my dollars for rupees, I headed for the firing squad of drivers awaiting their corresponding travelers.    Pacing up and down the line, I searched intently for my name among the sea of placards.  After about ten minutes of unsuccessful searching, I did what I always do when I feel lost or abandoned.  I looked for someone smarted than I.  Unfortunately, by that time, all of the intelligent individuals in the crowd had found their respective rides, and I was stuck with the family from the New York security line with the overly confident father, the under-enthused daughter, and the appeasing mother who seemed to be the glue of sanity between them.

            “Sir, you said you’ve been here before, correct?”   I asked with a glint hope in my voice. “I don’t have a phone yet, does your phone work in India?”   He looked at me; his eyes mirrored my confusion.  He informed me that he could receive calls but not place them.  To which I responded, “Alright, if you have any luck, let me know.” I never saw them again.   I made my way over to the line of pay phones, where an attendant was there ready to assist me in placing a call and taking my money.  I showed the attendant the first number I wished to call.  I connected with Roopchand, the company’s driver who was tasked to pick me up.  However, though he was talking to me, and I to him, not much communication was taking place.  I hung up the phone.  “Sir, I can take American Dollars if you’d like”.  The call was 6.06 rupees (about 12 cents, American).   I gave him a ten-rupee bill and got exact change.  I then called the company’s administrative assistant, Kalpana, and informed her that I’d been there looking for about thirty minutes now, and Roopchand was no where to be found.  She instructed me to go outside and look for him there.

            Now I was hesitant of the outside world at this point.  I had read and heard countless stories of overzealous cab drivers at the New Delhi airport ready and willing to rip the luggage from the first incoherent Caucasian traveler in sight, and then fight amongst themselves over who was going to get the potential massively inflated fair.   I stood by the glass sliding doors and to the best of my ability, assessed the situation at hand.  It seemed that there was a second barricade between the arrivals and the rest of existence.  Feeling that I was all right as long as stayed on my side of the barricade, I ventured beyond the environment-controlled terminal and into the unknown in search of the elusive Roopchand.  

Air India Flight 102

“Attention, now boarding Air India Flight 102; direct service from JFK International to New Delhi.  All zones, all rows.”  Oh shit, that’s me; here we go.  Put the remains of my massive sandwich back in my brand new brown leather Kenneth Cole Reaction Messenger bag, my older brother Ian got me for Christmas, and made my way towards the point of no return.  Beep, rrrip, went my boarding pass in the hands of the Air India attendant. That is all it took.  A beep and rip, and I was on my way to India.

I made my way through the three-leveled boarding path until I made it to the threshold of the enormous Boeing 777.  “No turning back now”, I muttered to myself as I boarded the plane.  The plane was immense.  I walked through business class, back through almost three sections of economy class until I reached 45J, my home for the next 13 hours. 

I sat in the middle seat between an older to middle aged Indian woman on the window, and a young Trinidadian business associate on the aisle.  Unfortunately, neither the Trinidadian nor the Indian woman made very good conversation friends.

After eating the second half of my sandwich for second lunch, some Lamb and potatoes for Dinner, I switched off between reading a few chapters of my Indian guide book and watching Something’s Gotta Give on my personal screen.  I don’t know why.  May it was the adrenaline coursing through my veins, maybe it was the crazy family in the next row going to meet the family of the Indian boyfriend, but I did not get a wink of sleep the entire way to India.  Shortly after breakfast, the captain came on.   “Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your captain speaking.  Due to a favorable tail wind, we will be landing in Delhi, India an hour and a half before schedule.”  So, after about twelve hours and thirty minutes after wheels up in New York, we touched down in New Delhi; 1:45pm local time January 3, 2012.

The Line Starts Over There!

“I’m sorry sir, but the line to check in starts back there.”  That is what the large man directing foot traffic in JFK’s Air India terminal told me, as I turned to see a secondary line of 50 people waiting to get onto the line to check in.  “All right, it’s noon right now, flight doesn’t leave till 2, I’ll be fine”, I said to myself.   When I conquered the first line, I gained access to line number two.  Waiting patiently, I pulled along my oversized black garment bag, gym bag filled to the brim with prescriptions and toiletries, and my two small carry-ons.  Finally, after about an hour of waiting, I made it through the second line to receive my boarding pass, and the third line to drop off my checked luggage.  I was amazed at the size, and number of bags some of these folks were bringing with them.  All I could think about was the poor employees that had to lift these things onto the conveyor belts while constantly dealing with disgruntled passengers worried about missing their flight.  “Ma’am  I wish I could help you with all those over sized bags.”  She smiled and wished me a good flight.

After getting through that mass of lines, I almost forgot that I still had to go through security.  I made my way down some stairs, where admittedly, I got a little turned around before I realized where the line was.  Goal in hand I made my way towards queue number four.  Standing in front of me was a cute little old Indian couple that took their sweet little time walking down the line as they blew air kisses to their adorable granddaughter of no more than five.  Behind me, an American family was making their way to India on vacation.  We struck up a conversation.

The father, a tall gentleman of wealth and means was quick to relay the vast number of times he had been to India, and how excited he was to be taking his family.  The daughter, about 15, did not look nearly as thrilled.  I expressed that this was my first time going to India, and the father jumped into all of the things I had to be weary of.  At that time, I took off my shoes, and went to security.  I would not see them again until arriving in India.

Making it through security with only 20 minutes till boarding time, I raced to buy some water, gum, and batteries; my airplane trifecta.  I made my way to the gate and sat down to my tasty Se-port Deli Gasm (Thanks Sarah, You’re the Best).  As I finished the first half of the sandwich, the announcement to board came over the loud speaker.  Line number 5 here I come…

New Year, New Continent

2012 is starting off with a bang.  I was blessed to spend time with wonderful friends in New York City to ring in the new year.  I think we'll call this send off number six, Sarah.  As I prepare for my impending journey around the world to India, I can only be thankful for the support of my friends and family who have gotten me this far.  I dedicate this blog, especially to my brother Ian, who gave me the nudge I needed at the right time, which in turn jump-started this adventure from possibility to reality.  I chose the name Sensory Crush as the title of my blog, because no matter who I talk to about India, that seems to be the overarching theme of their experiences.  They all talk about how there is so much going on, all of the time, that it feels as if their senses are being crushed by the immensity and variety, of the sights, sounds, and smells of the country.   I hope all of my followers can take a little something from this blog, and that hopefully my experiences inspire.