Lap of Luxury

April 23, 2010
New Delhi, India

On the night of April 22nd, Stacy and I set off from Udaipur on our last overnight train ride in India. She would be going to London the next day (if the Icelandic ash cloud allowed it, and if our train was not horrendously late), then home to the States. I would be spending the night in Delhi alone, and then continuing on to Kathmandu the following morning.

We traveled second class sleeper A/C on overnight trains. In this class, there are four berths on one side of the corridor, separated by a curtain, and two berths on top of one another against the other side of the train, running lengthwise. Upon showing your ticket, you were handed a sealed brown paper package containing two sheets, a blanket, towel and pillow. (I always got excited when receiving this package, as if I expected something different to be inside the brown paper. Maybe I just liked the clean linen scent I got after tearing open the wrapping – it was one of the few things in India I could count on to be properly laundered.) On every prior trip, we had shared the four bunk compartment with strangers, but it never mattered much. I liked the fact that we were separated by curtains instead of trapped in a locked room, as it was in first class. Curtains lent a bit of privacy, but allowed for a quick escape if you woke up with some creep putting his hand down your shirt (which never happened, but I had read that it was not unheard of). Earplugs or iPod and an ambien drowned out the noise most of the time, and people actually sleep on these trains.

For this trip, we were stuck one of top of another in the lengthwise side sleeper for the first time. From the outside, they look just fine, identical in price and size to the larger 4-berth compartments we had grown accustomed to. These side bunks are like mini-coffins. They are narrower and have fewer amenities (such as a power outlet or fan) than the ones across the aisle. They are claustrophobic and kind of a bummer. I crawled up to my top bunk, giving Stacy the bottom one since she'd be traveling for 30 or so hours, and tried to get some sleep. There was a massive altercation one curtain over, which of course 12 people got involved in. After the noise became so loud it was drowning out my music, I even screamed for them to shut the hell up through my curtain. I think they actually listened, though I half expected someone to swing back my curtain and move the fight to my bunk. I was cranky and uncomfortable, and had my diatribe prepared for them. Thankfully, I didn't have to use it. During the night, some woman got on with her extremely loud toddler who she refrained from telling to shut up. This kid whined and talked and sang at the top of his lungs all night long. It took all my willpower to not get up and give the mother a good tongue lashing on her shit parenting skills as the child was well within the age of being able to understand “shut your mouth, people are sleeping. ” That directive never came so the whole car had to suffer. I felt bad for the two business men sharing the compartment with the kid; they would obviously be unrested for their morning meetings in Delhi. But as this is India, nobody says a word about such things. Just an aggravating head waggle. It was not the best train journey we had.

One of the major flaws with train travel in India, in addition to the delays (and trains are almost always delayed) is that station stops are not announced,ever. You simply have to know what and when and where your stop is. For regulars who know the route, this is obviously no problem. For foreigners and natives alike who don't take these trains often, it can present a huge problem. Sleep is never sound since you are always worried about missing your stop. This trip was a prime example. We were set to to arrive in Delhi at 6:15 AM, and know our train left on time. So we set our alarms and woke up groggy and early, hearing the requisite deep voice chanting, “Chaaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeee” over and over, so we knew it was morning (the chai-wallahs always materialized on the train at dawn, no matter if we'd stopped at a station or not. I think they jump on and off from their villages, like in the movies.) Then you get up to use the toilet and lug your bottle of water and toothbrush along, brush your teeth as some dude clad only in a lunghi and flip flops is hanging out the side of the train catching some air (err, dust) and take in the morning spectacle of every villager in India having their morning crap on the train tracks. In this case, I asked one of the train workers (conductor I could not find, but this was a car overseer guy) when we would be arriving in Delhi. His English was not happening, so I carefully examined his head waggle and could only gather that we'd be late. I went back to my bunk and fell asleep again.

I awoke from a dream to some guy pulling my curtain open. Stacy was up and frantically gathering her belongings. We were the last two people in our car, along with Stacy's new friends, the luggage porters who had jumped on the train as soon as it pulled into the station, and aggressively made their way to the white girls. Stacy decided to hire them, which was fine with me. I didn't want to carry my heavy bag any more than she did. We were escorted to one of their pals, a taxi driver, who wanted to way overcharge us for his cab. In my half awake and annoyed early morning state, I started arguing with him. When he learned our destination, the Oberoi New Delhi (a birthday present from my parents), this guy had the gall to tell me that I was going to a five star hotel and should not be arguing with him over 100 rupees. My response was short and the only time I've lost my temper in India (not a cool move), “What I pay for my hotel room is none of your business, asshole. I know how much it costs to get there so stop trying to rip me off.” He walked away, and I wasn't sure whether I'd won or lost that one. We had the option of about three hundred rickshaw drivers to choose from, but I could not fathom rolling up to the Oberoi in a rickshaw. I doubt they even allow them on the property. My giant backpack was enough to turn heads. We luckily found another black Ambassador cab, and got to our destination within an acceptable rupee level.

By sheer luck, Stacy's plane was scheduled to leave for London that day. After several days of zero flights from India to anywhere in Europe, coupled with virtually zero news coverage due to the developing cricket scandal, this was great news. We had some tea and caught the end of a terrible Sharukh Kahn film on TV before she headed off to the airport. And just like that, I was on my own again. I settled in for the day and night with a survey of my surroundings. I was in New Delhi, which I had not seen a lot of. I had only gone to one Ghandi Museum (there are two), and had not gone with my friends when they went to the India Gate. There was an interesting art exhibit at one of the modern galleries, and I did not spend nearly enough time or money at the Ghandi Khati cloth store. But all of that held little appeal. Despite the fact that I'd been on a train for about 14 hours, I had not really been slumming in the past week. I did, however, decide to take full advantage of my luxury hotel room and not leave the grounds until I had to, which was not until check out the following day.

As far as luxury hotels go, the Oberoi was nice, but the room and the amenities could have been better. I think I got spoiled having stayed in one of the best hotels on earth in Hong Kong, but if I'm at a hotel that claims to be five star, I do not expect to see anything (like wallpaper) older than 10 years. I expect combs, razors, shaving cream, loofahs, mouthwash and any other toiletry I desire to be there already. About this, I've already informed the management. Everything else, especially the service, was excellent. I discovered a wasp in my room (I am deathly afraid of wasps, bees, hornets) and called downstairs to have it removed. At first the man hesitated, but then he killed it. Poor guy, it was probably totally against his religion. I tipped him well, I think. Then it was off to the pool, which was so cleverly landscaped you might think it was part of the lawn if the sun was shining the wrong way. My room had a view of the pool, which I initially noticed was dirty and looked old (as the day went on there was an army of people out vacuuming it). Turns out my view was only of the show pool; the real one was hidden far from view. I had an assigned cabana boy, who brought me cold water every 30 minutes, a refrigerated rose water spritzer for my face, cool washcloths for my neck, and a wide array of complimentary sunscreen. As I've said before, India does luxury well.

Part of the reason I chose the Oberoi Delhi was for their award winning Italian restaurant. I had eaten pizza once since February, and was slowly dying from macaroni withdrawal. The menu looked good, and so I made a reservation for one, put on a dress and headed downstairs. I was greeted by the matrie'd who was a real live Italian from Calabria. He had a poor man's Valentino look, though minus the orange tan. He liked me instantly, and sold me on an appetizer of San Danielle prosciutto and Indian melon with mint (you'd think it wouldn't work, but it did. And well.) followed by linguine with fresh blue crab and white wine sauce, the blue crab having been flown in that morning from Kerala (a province in the south). I liked the mix of local ingredients with traditional Italian preparations, and the food was great. So were the two glasses of wine, the white table cloth, the leavened bread, the silverware... I savored it all. It was nice to be able to throw in an upscale meal amidst the 2 dollar thalis every now and then. I was full and happy and only wanted an after dinner drink. Unfortunately, Amaretto nor Grand Manier were available in Delhi due to import export problems. Valentino told me that Amaretto was not allowed in the country. I corrected him; I'd had a glass after dinner at the Oberoi restaurant in Udaipur, so he should recheck the laws as well as with his employer. Clearly offended, he insisted “it would be his honor” to get me a glass of limoncello, which in my book translates to “on the house.” I don't drink limoncello often because it makes me instantly drunk and has none of the digistive properties of its less toxic cousins. But what the hell, it's not like I had anywhere to go except upstairs. I was also reluctantly sold on dessert, which I didn't need or want but ate anyway (I have got to make cinnamon ice cream when I get home, it was tasty). A large group of Indian business men walked in sometime between my ordering the dessert and limoncello, and I waited a bit too long for both. I ate and drank them quickly, paid my bill (which included the ridiculously priced drink), said goodnight to the staff who were all my friends by dinner's end (guess they don't see too many white women with elephant tattoos dining alone) and promptly ran up to my room and threw up violently. Maybe it was the drink, maybe it was the crab, maybe my body had become more accustomed to daal than I thought, but my nice Italian dinner did not want to stay down.

And that's how I spent my last night in India – alone and puking. It was the first time I had thrown up during my entire trip. At least it was into a sparkling clean and private porcelian bowl, and only a few times. It was not on a train, or on the street, or in some dingy guest house toilet. I'd managed to escape India without catching food poisoning or dysentery, or worse. Not a bad run.