I usually order lunch from one of the local little restaurants when I am working. Usually it comes in little tupperware-type plastic containers. But sometimes it comes in bags, which I think is funny. Tricky to eat soup out of though.

I saw a woman getting her shoe fixed while she waited, which I thought was neat. There are a lot of little street cobblers, on the streets and at the train station. They sit and knock their instruments on their work board to get people to look down at them and to drum up business. This was the first time I has seen one at work, it was just funny to walk by and see a woman standing barefoot on the street getting her shoe fixed.

I was reading in the newspaper about is how some companies here calculate wages. (Maybe they do this in the US too, I don’t know.) A lot companies here are getting really aggressive about trying to recruit good people, so they will try to offer job candidates the highest salary possible. They are tricky though. What happens is they offer you one salary, but they don’t mention that this amount includes the amount you would save if you borrowed several thousand dollars from the company. They put in your contract that you are allowed to borrow x amount, and that it would be at, say, 2% interest. If you were to borrow this money at the market rate, you might have to pay, say, 8%. So they calculate how much that is in ”savings,” and “add” it to your potential salary, to inflate the amount. So what you don’t realize until later is that then your take home is actually a chunk less than what you thought it was going to be. Kind of funny. (when it happens to someone else)

I was walking around today and saw a 3 year old with thick, black eyeliner on. She looked like a weird little raccoon. I can’t imagine what her parents were thinking. Who would put that crap on their kid? Because I am pretty sure the kid didn’t do that to herself. She couldn’t have. I mean, I can’t put that stuff on right, and I can’t imagine that a three year old could. The three year old’s coordination isn’t that much better than mine. I had to remind myself not to stare; she looked so strange.

Not, incidentally, that anyone pays me that courtesy. Sometimes I feel like a walking freak show, like people here have never heard of a white person before. People look at me all the time. And they don’t glance subtly, people will walk past and turn around and look at me. I feel like I should start wearing a Viking helmet or something, give people something to stare at.

Something that I think is surprising is that several people have asked if I am German. I don’t know if it is that I look German, or if it is that a lot of Germans travel to India and so the first thing people think when they see a foreigner is “hey, that’s a German” or what. Not that I am insulted or anything, I don’t care either way, I just think it is unexpected. People did that to me in Taiwan too, a lot of people thought I was German.

The guy in front of me at the grocery store yesterday bought 8 tubes of toothpaste. Why would someone need 8 tubes of toothpaste all at once? What, is he eating it?

You can buy oil by the bag here. This sounds like a bad idea, if you ask me. By the box, tin, bottle, glass, can, bowl- almost anything seems as though it would be a better than by the bag.

You can also buy huge bags of chili powder here. Chili powder in quantities that I have never seen before. I guess to eat with your toothpaste.

A lot of the food here is really fattening. I don’t know why more Indians aren’t fat. Some are, but why not more? These are people for whom peanuts are not fattening enough. Oh no. They coat peanuts in breading and deep fry them. Then the peanuts are ready to eat.

I think it is cute that drugstores are called the chemists’ here.

Motorcycles serve as family cars here. Parents and kids all pile up and zoom along, and it scares the hell out of me.

And Saturday night is family night. You can’t get a seat in a restaurant because all the parents and kids and grandmas and grandpas and aunts and uncles and cousins are all out together having a good time. Kids run around everywhere. I have learned that unless I want to hang out at the front of a restaurant for an hour waiting, I should just plan on cooking at home on Sat night. It is nice to see families out together though.

Movies are big family events here too, especially the Bollywood stuff. Families go to shows at all times of night, little kids at late shows, doesn’t matter. There are rules about showing adult content in movies so the movies are usually pretty safe for kids. Indian kids must have crazy intense attention spans though, because the Bollywood movies are 3 to 3 and a half hours long with lots of big song numbers. But the movies always have an intermission. They even cut the American movies awkwardly around the middle to put in an intermission. Then everyone gets up and buys snacks.

The snacks are fun at the theaters. I can get all sorts of vegetarian stuff, like a veggie burger, vegetable sandwiches, samosas, mini pizzas, and other stuff that I couldn’t identify. I wish American theaters had stuff like that, but really I guess it would cost 2-3 times as much if they did and I wouldn’t buy it.

I went to one theater that had all big squishy armchairs to sit in for the movie.

Because of some bombings a couple of years ago, the theaters have started playing the national anthem at the beginning of every movie. Something about promoting national unity. So you go in and sit down, and then before the movie starts everyone stands for the anthem and watches a clip of the Indian flag waving. Then the lights go dark and the movie begins. I am unclear as to how this is supposed to prevent future bombings, since if you are the type of person who would set off a bomb blast, making you more impatient for a movie to start doesn’t seem like a good way to dissuade you from committing violence.

While I am on this movie theme, I took a walk the other evening along the beachfront near my house. When I got to the end of the walkway, I was surprised and concerned to see a huge crowd of people standing around, some policemen, and several news vans. I thought there must be some emergency. But I didn’t see any ambulances, or anything like that. Then I noticed a lot of people looking up, so I thought that maybe there was a suicide jumper or something horrible. But no, nothing. The crowd was just sort of calmly hanging out. Then I realized that the only thing the policemen were doing was crowd control, pushing the mass of people back from where the cars were driving, keeping the road clear. I couldn’t figure out what the deal was. When I got home, I ran into my neighbor’s daughter on her way out and asked if she knew what was up. She said, yeah, They’re a bunch of stupid people, people with no jobs. They gather there hoping to catch a glimpse of the Bollywood actor who lives there. They just wait there, for hours, because they have nothing better to do. Ah. Wow.

There is street shaving here. Men can get a shave on the side of the road. They sit on a crate or a stool facing a mirror hung up on a fence along the edge of the street. Cars and riks speed along in the road behind them, people walk by, dogs scamper around. And while the man sits there, facing the mirror, back to the traffic, some guy puts shaving cream on him and shaves him with an old straight razor. Then he gets a bit of water to rinse with and he’s done.

I have been reading the newspaper every few days. Favorite headline so far: “A look at some of the longest queues in India.” Riveting stuff.

I saw a sign on the train advertising tarot card readings and, enterprisingly, insurance. I think this is very clever. I can imagine what they were thinking-
Come on down! We’ll tell you what your future is; surely it won’t contain any disasters. Hmmm. Uuuuh, oh wait. Uh oh. That’s not a good card. I think that is the house gets hit by lightening card, with the minor car accident card, with a possible job lay off. But no worries! We can take care of your problems, one stop shopping! Find out about your future accidents, and take measures immediately! Just sign here! Brilliant.

I think people here are into astrology, I have been asked my birthday several times.

Another thing from the paper- a couple wrote in to ask about the paper’s financial planner for advice. They want to save for their daughter’s education and wedding. 50 lakh for her education, 50 lakh for her wedding. One lakh is 100,000 rupees, or about US$2,500, so US$125,000. But more to the point- they want to spend the same amount on her wedding as they do on her college education. Insane. I guess some people do that in the states too. They are also insane.

I saw an ad for salsa dancing. The teacher advertised himself as German trained, and made a big deal out of it. Is Germany a big center of salsa dancing expertise, and I just don’t know about it?

Some Indian chip flavors- I only know what a few of these even mean:
Indian Mint Mischief, Bingo Chatkila Nimbu Achaar, Kurkure Mast Malibari Style, Chutkule Masala Masti, Bindaas Masala Chaas, Tandoori Paneer Tikka, Hint of Roasted Red Chilly and Coriander

Finally able to post!

(internet connectivity has been a little sketchy, so i havent been able to post in a while. )

8/9/07
Second Day Out
I relied a little less on the guidebook for my expectations this time, and I think that worked out well.
I decided to hit some of the stuff that is a little north of downtown today. I took the train down into the city, but got off 2 stops earlier than last time. I walked west to Marine Drive, the street that sweeps up along downtown’s west coastline. It has a pretty promenade all along it that I walked up, following the water north to Chowpatty Beach. Here is a picture from Marine Drive that I took a few weeks ago, on towards dusk.
On my way up to Chowpatty, I got accosted by a friendly group of young guys. They walked up to me as I was trying to take a picture and started chatting.
“What’s your name?”
“Why?” (My name? What are they up to?)
“Do you like Mumbai?”
“Yeah, I like it. It is a lot of fun.”
“Where are you from?”
“I am from Seattle. In the US.”
“Where is that?”
I held up my hands and made a rectangle with my forefingers and thumbs and then used my right hand to point to the top right of the rectangle.
“There!”
“Aaah, ok!” and laughing.
“My name’s Vinod!” “My name’s Avneesh!” “My name’s -”
Lots of names and lots of hand shaking.
Smiles all around, lots of nodding.
Then we all sort of stood there for a second.
I wasn’t entirely sure what I was supposed to do next.
“Mmmm, ok, well, I’m going to go now.”
“What’s you name?” (Hmm, ok, I suppose they are just being friendly. Aggressively, arbitrarily, overwhelmingly friendly, but just friendly.)
“Evelyn”
Various pronunciations of Evelyn.
“Ok bye now!”
“Bye!” “Bye!”
It was so random.
Then I went on my way, and walked up to Chowpatty.
Chowpatty is a big deal because a lot of political meetings were held there before independence. It was nice, and remarkably litter free. Lots of people hanging out. Families, groups of school kids, couples. I went down to the water, got my feet wet in the Arabian Sea, looked around, watched some kids play in the (probably filthy) water, took a few pictures, imagined a few political rallies; essentially just wandered around a little. Then, as I was turning around, a group of friendly girls came out of nowhere and burst upon me with friendship bracelets. Honestly, I was just walking up the beach and this group of giggling girls materialized beside me and asked if I was having a good day. They also wanted to know if they could give me a friendship bracelet. Hmm, . . .sure. So one of them untied a ribbon with “Best Friends Forever” written on it and tied it tightly and firmly to my own wrist. Then they said “Happy Friendship Day!” and, each of them smiling, one at a time they shook my hand.
Why did two groups of total strangers set upon me with wishes of friendship in the space of an hour? I was mystified. Maybe it was national friendship day, or gangs of kids here are into this weird extracurricular activity, foreigner spotting. As the girls set off in search of their next victim, I took off my bag to see if there was something written on it, or some sign or something attached to my back. Nope. Ok, whatever. I took off for my next thing.

My next thing was Mani Bhavan, Gandhi’s residence in Mumbai, now a small museum. It is in the middle of a residential neighborhood near Chowpatty. The problem with that is that the streets here are knotted and difficult to navigate. There are no good maps of the city. The streets grew organically: they weren’t laid out by any prescient city planner. The city used to be 7 islands, then the space between the islands got filled in with dirt. Then buildings got built wherever it seemed like a good idea. Then more buildings, and so on. And now the street systems here are a mess. People use landmarks not only for when they give directions, but also for when they address mail. I am still mildly shocked that I was able to find the museum. The map that I have if this part of town is the one from the guidebook, and it is poor at best. Only major roads are on it, but what a major road is varies a bit around the city. So after several long stops, standing on street corners staring from my map to the streets around me, back to the map, then to the streets, map streets map streets map streets squint stare, ok I will cross the street now, maybe that will help, and a few really, really lucky wild guesses at what streets to go down, I got to the right area. I had stopped again and was staring at my map, hoping that it would magically start giving me a little more information, when a few helpful men walked by. I must have looked exactly like what I was, a confused white lady who wanted to go to Mani Bhavan, because as the guys passed, one of them barked “Mani Bhavan! There!” and poked the air with his finger, pointing to the lane across the street. I looked up from my map and grinned, gave him a thumbs up and called thanks. And yes indeed, MB was across the street.
MB is a pleasant smallish mansion with some fairly simple exhibits set up. On the first floor, displays of some pictures of Gandhi, some of his writings, etc. There was one display with pictures of all of G’s worldly possessions (he didn’t have much). There was a little of the correspondence between Gandhi and Tolstoy, which I thought was cool. There was a letter that Gandhi wrote to Hitler, telling him that he was possibly the only person who could stop the war from happening, and to please do so. The note wasn’t very long, G didn’t spend a lot of words outlining what he thought, maybe he knew there wasn’t much point. There was a typo in the Hitler letter though, which I thought was weird. I mean, if you are going to bother to send a letter to Hitler, proofread it for God’s sake. Maybe they couldn’t find the original and that was a first draft, I don’t know. Watevr.
There were some handwriting samples too. On one page, the writing is slanted one way, and then a third of the way down it shifts and slants the other way. Apparently when one of Gandhi’s hands got tired he would switch to the other one and continue writing. Wow.
There was also some information on Gandhi’s assassination. How his last words were something along the lines of: If I have to go to God because of a madman’s bullet, I will at least go without anger. And he died bowing to his murderer. That is some incredibly stubborn sticking to your principles of nonviolence. A stubborn, stubborn man.
On the second floor there were dioramas of various important events in G’s life. They were kind of funny/ kind of creepy. Like an eighth grade project that someone’s arts and crafts mom helped out with. Also on this floor, you could see the room that G lived in. As one might expect, it had a full liquor cabinet, lots of candy, and showgirl costumes.
From Gandhi’s house I walked north and west back to the coastline to get to two of big holy sites in the city. That sounds a lot easier than it was; I guess I should say that through a series of guesses, several more minutes staring at my map, panicked street crossings, the help of one security guard, information on one street sign, and sheer dumb luck I managed to find the right road to follow up to two of the city’s holy sites.
I was supposed to hit a big bookstore on my way up the road (one of my big holy sites) but I guess it has moved or been relocated because I walked up that whole long damn road (it was longer than it looked on the map) and it wasn’t anywhere. I was disappointed.

The first big holy site was the Hindu shrine Mahalaxmi Mandir. I was glad that I wasn’t expecting much, because it didn’t blow me away. I don’t know if it used to be really pretty, but now all the slums have grown up around it, or if it has always been unimpressive or what, but I wasn’t filled with the awe that I was filled with when I went to Buddhist shrines around Taiwan. First of all, I walked past the street that leads down to it, because there was no indication AT ALL on the main road that a major holy site was just a block away. So I wandered up and down the street a little, and finally asked a cop where to go. He pointed down a neighborhoody looking sort of street. I was a little skeptical, but I didn’t want to not go the direction the cop who was standing in front of me had just told me to go. So off I went. As I climbed the little hill, I was sort of stumbling around confusedly, seeing houses, not major holy sites, when a few monk looking guys walked up to me. One of them blessed me. He said some words and touched my forehead, and tied a red and yellow string around my wrist. I was confused, and wasn’t really sure what was going on, so I just stood there, letting him bless me, going with the flow, but wondering why they weren’t doing this to any of the other people walking by. When he was done, the monk said “100 rupees.” This brought me out of my daze.
“What?” “100 rupees.” “Why?” “Ok, 50 rupees.” “I’m sorry?” “S’ok, s’ok, 100 rupees.” “What?” He gestured to the string. “50 rupees. 50 rupees.” “No. No-wo. No.” “Ok, ok, hello. 100 rupees.” (Ah, now it all makes sense. You pay for your blessing, and I hadn’t been savvy enough to evade them, like all the people around me. Hmm, yeah, I don’t know about that. If you ask first, fine. But I don’t like being tricked, not even by wily monks.) “Take it off.” “50 rupees.” “You can take the string off” “50 rupees” “I don’t want it” “100 rupees” “Untie It And Take It Off.” With a gesture of finality, I shoved my wrist back at them. Waving, they said “No, no, it’s ok.” I gave them an irritated glare and stalked off down the road.
Mahalaxmi is the goddess of wealth, and I guess that having monks like that is part of how she maintains her wealth. Maybe she has a minor companion deity Vinnie- he sells things that fall off the back of trucks.
I don’t know if I offended some custom by not paying up, or if I was an ugly American, but I didn’t like the sneak attack. Maybe I should have known that it would cost money (everything here does) but they approached me, so I didn’t feel that I was under any obligation to pay them.
Incidentally, if you are wandering around alone, it is a huge pain in the ass to untie a string that has been tied around your own wrist. Also, the dye wasn’t fast, and I had a yellow stain on my wrist from the string a few days later.
A little further down the lane was the temple. The inside was ok, there were lots of stands where you could buy offerings. I didn’t, because I wasn’t sure how the whole system worked, and I doubt the goddess of wealth will be hanging out on my doorstep anytime soon regardless of how much fruit and flower I buy her. Inside the temple there were some stairs down to the shore, and a little fenced in area by the water that the shrine has guarded against the encroachment of the neighborhood. There was also a snack bar. I do appreciate it when a religion doesn’t always take itself too seriously.
Since I am not Hindu, I thought I would stay out of the actual shrine part of the temple. I wandered the courtyard a little bit, and was just leaving when a very kind man noticed that I had been walking around the courtyard, but not in the shrine itself. He must have thought I didn’t understand where to go, because he came up and gently took my arm, guided me over to the worship area, and explained clearly to me how to go inside. Apparently I had to go into the side marked ladies. . . not gents. I was concerned that he didn’t think I had realized that on my own. (To be fair, I probably did look confused. Or like an idiot. Seemed to be my lot that day.) But sure, ok, since the man was so nice, I dutifully got into line, waving and smiling and nodding and saying thank you. I followed the others in line up to the shrine. The shrine itself was very very shiny, with pretty gold faces, and flowers and fruit. But even watching the worshippers, I couldn’t quite figure out how the system worked. People came up with plates of fruit and flowers and handed them to the men behind the counter at the shrine. Sometimes the men took all the stuff off the plate, sometimes just some of the stuff. Then they handed back the plate with part of the original stuff or new stuff on it, and also often handed the women a small brown fruit looking thing, which the women seemed happy to get. I couldn’t figure out what it all meant. The counter guys were professionals though. They were smooth and efficient about moving the goods around, like Las Vegas card dealers, but at the same time were respectful of people standing and praying at the shrine.
I took a few pictures of little shops outside the temple that were selling offerings, and I got a decent shot of the outside of the temple from my next stop, but no pictures inside. Photography was strictly forbidden. Even in the food court.
I walked out a different way to avoid the monk-string trickers.

My last thing was Haji Ali Mosque. The story (that I have read the most often) is that Haji Ali was saint on a pilgrimage to Mecca and died en route, and requested that his body be thrown over board and that a mosque be built wherever it washed ashore. Which is supposed to be how the site for HA Mosque was chosen. The unique thing about HA Mosque is that it is built a little out to sea and there is a long causeway out to it which is drowned in the high tide, so you can only walk out to the mosque at low tide. And if you are out there when the tide comes in, well, you’re out there for a while. I made it to the temple during low tide. The causeway wasn’t too packed with beggars, though I think it often is. The guidebooks all say that the path is usually lined on both sides, but it is the monsoon season, so maybe a bunch of the beggars do something else those months.

I was tired by the time I got back home, so I put on a face mask to relax. I found an organic froofy stuff store on my way home from the train station, super excited about that.

One final note, an advertisement. I guess the 2 big books that everyone who comes to Mumbai reads right now are Maximum City, which Kenneth and my mom have mentioned, and Shantaram, which I just happened to pick up at the bookstore near my house. I liked Max City, but if you are looking for a really good read about Mumbai, pick up Shantaram. I read the 900+ pages in just a few days. It was fabulous, one of the best books I have read in a while.

Monsoon

8/7/07

I got caught in the monsoon today on my way home. I have been out in the rain some, but never have I been out and about.when the rain was really raging. It was terrible today.
I was able to leave the downtown office early, because my last student was stuck somewhere due to the storm, and couldn’t get to the office to meet with me. So I started out for home at around 6:30 pm, while it was still slightly light out; not that you could tell through all the storm clouds and rain. Then I had to walk to the train station, 10 minutes with water beating down on me in all directions and wind shoving me back and forth. I huddled under my umbrella so that I stayed a little dry, but there was nothing I could do about my skirt, the wind and rain drenched my legs completely. I made sure to walk on the sidewalk because I wasn’t very steady on my feet- my shoes were completely waterlogged and my feet slipped and slid around in them, and my umbrella acted a little bit like a sail, moving me back and forth in the water. By the time I got to the train station I looked like I had been dipped repeatedly into a pool from the waist down. But at least my shirt was dry, and that made me feel a little better.
The train platform was relatively dry, as was the train itself, so by the time I squished off the train at my station I hadn’t really gotten any wetter. It was a little annoying to have my skirt dripping into my shoes, but at least I wasn’t cold. It was a balmy furious rain.
I pulled out my umbrella outside the train station and looked for a rik to take me home. Unfortunately everyone else was doing that too, so it took me a while to find one. I eventually had to hijack one as it pulled up. Before the driver had even let out the passengers he was carrying, I was shoving my head into the cab, asking if he would take me to Lilavati Hospital (near where I live.).
I got home, relieved that I hadn’t had to walk through the muddy mess of the streets (muddy with god knows what) and still somewhat dry. As usual, after I got inside the first thing I did was go into the bathroom to wash my feet off. I got into the shower and turned on the water. But I forgot to switch the water from shower to faucet, so I got a full spray of water, from the head down, and all over my shirt. Damnit.

It monsooned last Friday too. I wasn’t able to go to work, because I couldn’t get to the train station. The street in front of my house flooded up over ankle height and there was no way I was going to start wading through that junk to get to a rik to the station. I just don’t care about the SAT enough to fight against the odds to go talk about it. Besides, there are all sorts of curbs and broken grates everywhere, so I am not particularly impressed with the safety of wandering around blind in the flooded streets.
There were way more cars out that day than I am used to seeing. I think people didn’t want to be out walking.
Luckily I had gone grocery shopping the day before. It was fun, watching the impressively dense rain dump down out of the sky. Glad I didn’t have to go out in it.

Evelyn’s Big Day Out

7/27/07
Thursdays are my day off. The past few Thursdays have been taken up with getting my bearings and running errands. But this Thursday, I decided, would be my first Tourist Thursday. After all, I am here to see stuff.
So I got a train downtown around noon. Well, I tried to anyway. I got tricked again by the train that doesn’t go all the way downtown, but stops at the next big station, Dadar. So I had to get out and find where to stand for the ladies first class and wait for the next train. After wandering a little, I found the saris and joined them. After 25 long minutes, (my wait is usually about 5 minutes) the train finally came. Then, imagine my horror, the car that stopped in front of my group of ladies was second class!! The first class one was several cars back! But after standing there for 25 minutes dripping sweat everywhere, no way was I going to stand and wait for another train just so I could get onto the right car. So I had to bustle into second class with the hoi poilloi. It was a decisively different experience. It seemed that everyone wanted to get into the car right away immediately at the same time, but for some reason, didn’t want anyone to get off. The group in the train car wanted to rush off, and wasn’t concerned about letting anyone on. So one mass of ladies was shoving and pushing off, and another was heaving forward. I was a little surprised by the aggressiveness of it all, and hung back until everyone else was finished and squeezed in when the last of the ladies was settled and the train was about to start. (I think I was allowed on because one or two of the ladies at the edge figured I was too dumb to know how to get onto the train and felt bad for me. I am going to work on my idiot look, because they were absolutely right, I am too dumb. I will take whatever help I can get.)
I took the train to the end of the line, Churchgate station. Before I left, I made sure to walk up along the train so I could see where the ladies car was, and so I would know where to stand for first class later, when I wanted to go home. Then I left and crossed the street and started looking for the Government of India Bureau of Tourism. The guidebook says that it is easy to find, right across the street from Churchgate station. The guidebook also says that it is extremely helpful. It was neither. This is not the first time a guidebook has let me down, I expect that it will not be the last.
The map in the guidebook gives a very rough idea of where the tourism office is; luckily I had a map that gave me a better idea, or I never would have found it. I circled the block that it was supposed to be on, but found no clear indication of where it was. My map showed the office’s north side sitting right up against a street, and I figured that would be easy to find, but the only road I saw as I walked around was the one further up on the map, too far north. I walked south a little to see if I had missed it. I passes a dingy little alley with a bunch of stands selling cheap merchandise, but the alley was too small to be drawn onto a map of the city- you couldn’t have driven a car down it. I kept walking, and next I saw a large building behind some construction materials and a locked gate. The around the side of the building there was a small “India Tourism Office” sign between two immense “Buy Train Tickets Here” signs. (Apparently the tourism office is right near the train station’s office.) Ah, ok, so there it is. But how to get inside? All I see is construction and locked gates. I walked back to the ridiculous alley that, apparently, is actually on a city map of Mumbai. I must have looked confused, because a kindly hawker asked if I was looking for the train ticketing office. I figured, yep, I sure was. He told me to go to the other end of the alley/road/glorified dirt path and in through the gate. I went down and found the gate. The gate I was supposed to know to go in was broken down, had complete lack of “Tourism Office, this way” signs, and was blocked by a parked car and a bunch of bricks and broken tiles. Ah, friendly. I kicked and stumbled my way through and went up to the office.
The people in the tourism office were very polite. I told them that I was in the area for a few months and would like any information they could give me. They gave me a mediocre map, a small magazine full of ads, and a handout of things that I already have information on because they are listed in my questionable guidebook, but that were explained in less detail than in my questionable guidebook. Then they looked at me as though they expected me to leave, so I left.
I saw two sweaty, irritated white people wandering around the block as I was leaving, but I wasn’t feeling friendly so I left them to their fate.
I walked over to Flora Fountain, which I mention only in order to give props to the guidebook for being correct when it described the fountain as quotidian. It was interesting to see the colonial architecture around the fountain though, especially because the old British looking stuff is directly contrasted to all the exotic palm trees and lush greenery.

Next I walked to St Thomas Cathedral, which is supposed to be the oldest building in Bombay. It looked old, but in better condition than a lot of other buildings I have seen here, so I expect that a good deal goes into its upkeep. I think it is about 300 years old. (Bombay isn’t a terribly old city; it was a bunch of fishing villages until the Portuguese and then the British started building.) There were several plaques up on the walls, commemorating old colonialists, some who dies of sickness, some who died in battle. That was strange, sort of history come to life-ish/reaching out from the grave-ish.
Near the cathedral is the city hall, which acts as a central library. The guidebook gushed about the impressive building and ancient and illustrious air of the library within. The guidebook, you’ll remember, hasn’t been doing very well. This didn’t help. So, the guidebook was now 1 for 4. (1 for the fountain)
The library did not feel ancient, or illustrious, or impressive. The building is big, and it is old. The book is right when it says that very little has changed since the eighteenth century, when it was built. Very little has changed, and very little has been cleaned. Maybe there are beautiful rooms in other parts of the building, but I didn’t find them, because I couldn’t figure out how to get off the dusty ground floor. I felt like I was walking around the gymnasium of a poorly funded junior high school that was built in the 20s. So I used the bathroom and took a picture of the card catalogues and left.
Now, after a series of disappointments, let us move quickly on to the next attraction, Victoria Terminus.

Well, actually, wait. I should say something about the buildings near the unimpressive library/city hall. The city hall is just one of several buildings encircling a small garden called Horniman Circle. The circle itself is nice; as I walked through I saw office workers scattered around enjoying a break from the office. But the thing I liked most about this part of town was the surrounding architecture. The other buildings were really interesting, because they were built with a curved front to reflect their positions around the circle. These other buildings seem to have a series of other government offices in them. They are tall and stately, and with their unusual fronts they sweep around the circle, neatly enclosing it.

Now, on to Victoria Terminus, the train station that is Mumbai’s main jumping off point for the rest of the continent, and the main goal of my wanderings today. VT has been renamed Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus, but people still call it VT. One of my books quoted the journalist James Cameron as describing its style as “Victorian-Gothic-Saracenic-Italianate-Oriental-St Pancras-Baroque.” Another book says that it is a cross between “St Peter’s in Rome and the Taj Mahal in Agra” with some wedding cake thrown in. Yet another book says that it is an “extravagant Victorian-Gothic fantasy (which) falls somewhere between Notre Dame and the Taj Mahal, with a hint of fairy-castle thrown in for good measure.” It is the biggest British built building in India. It is a wonderful monstrosity. There are gargoyles and turrets and colorful brickwork and lattices and ornate carvings and stairways to nowhere. Stone lions guard it, and pillars buttress elaborate stone archways, and lacy opulence drips throughout. This is not a building that is on speaking terms with subtlety. Its facade is superb. Inside, it fades into a regular train station, which is a little disorienting, because you kind of expect to see crazy little gnomes running around on mysterious errands and fantastic animals sitting down for a feast. I don’t think that I would want to eat a wedding cake that looked like this, but it is a fun structure. Guidebook: 2 for 5.

Next I hopped across the street and ran into a McDonalds. Hmm. I wanted to see if it was true that they have veg options in the McDs here. Turns out they do, the McVeggie, a vegetarian burger. And chicken burgers, and fish burgers, and something called a Chicken Maharja Mac. Then something called a Shali Paneer (Indian cheese) McCurry Pan (which I find funny) and a Paneer Salsa wrap (which I find disturbing) and a McAloo Tikki (which I find fun to say). No hamburger. Also, the kids’ meals appear to come with only a burger, a drink, and a toy. No fries. I almost asked about the veggie burger, because it would be exciting and weird for a vegan to be able to eat at a McDonalds, but then I decided that I didn’t really want to give them any business, so I just took a few pictures of the bizarro-McDonalds and left.
The restaurant got me hungry, so I went to a coffee shop and had a vegan shake. Mmm, god it was good. I haven’t been getting regular coffee, and this was sweet syrupy coffee goodness. I had an image of that shake in the hanging in from of me like a carrot all day. I think the coffee shop has a branch near my house. Mmmm. I think when I get back to Seattle, before I go home I will need to stop somewhere for a soy latte. I miss coffee. Good coffee.

I walked along the maidan footpath to get back to the train station. The maidans are large public parks. The guidebook says that there are usually some cricket games going on. GB: 3 for 6. There were indeed a few groups of cricketers, some wearing bright white uniforms and playing in more formal games, some in regular clothes playing what looked like pickup games. The maidans were big and pretty, but I didn’t expect them to be so littered with trash.

Back at the train station I asked around to make sure I got on the right platform to get home, and found the saris, this time closer to the front end of the train- where I had found the first class ladies car earlier. Eventually the train came, and we all got in. No hurry to get in this time, the train waits at the end of the line for a little while before starting its journey back north. We all filed patiently on and sat.
After getting in, I went over to an empty row to sit down, but as I scooted over, the women on the other side of the train said “Stop! NO! It’s Dirty!” I moved back, and it took me a second to realize what they meant. Someone had pooped on the floor.
Why, poop bandit? Wherefore, poop bandit? Who would do this? Was it some very ill person who couldn’t wait? Was it some ill in the head person who thought that train cars double as public bathrooms? Was it a misguided, perhaps renegade, performance artist speaking out against social paradigms? Was it some revolutionary who was making a Marxist/anti-classist/anarchist/down with capitalism/up with the masses/political statement against the ladies of the ladies first class compartment? Who knows, but no one wanted to sit by it.
I went home. Sigh. If it was a political statement, the radical should have made a little sign explaining her (presumably bandit was female) ideology to stick in it, because as it was the message was lost on her audience. Unless the message was just that poop on a train is gross. We all got that.