Despite my best intentions to write a playfully taunting post about how much more epic my day was than that of the average bear (an animal far better looking than my friend Frank the Tank is smart–but that’s a story for another day), I can’t seem to stay awake long enough to give it the detail it so richly deserves.
Why’s that? Well…
For those of you who’ve been following my trip from Dallas to Delhi on facebook/transglobalist, you’ll already know that it’s been both a blast and a beatdown. For the rest of you–with over 12 hours’ worth of layovers en route, I arrived in Delhi before 7am this morning without a lot of energy in reserve. By the time the express bus got me to my part of town and I figured out which doorway signaled my evening’s accommodations, the city was beginning to warm and the heat sapped what focus remained. When I suddenly found myself in a quiet room with a bed and clean sheets, it was all over. Including the fat lady’s wailing, bel canto flatulence.
BAM!
Seven hours later I awakened, gleaming with sweat, having spent the majority of my first day in-country sprawled out and snoring on hot pink-patterned, sexytime sheets rather than rambling aimlessly through the Delhi streets–smoking beadies, staring down rickshaws and scooters, spitting my contempt for their vehicular cowardice in true Eastwood style, and generating the abundantly aromatic corporeal aura typically demanded of an heterogametic, flesh-rending bundle of testosterone such as myself.
Nevertheless, though one ‘Y’ chromosome shy of epic, it still turned out as a solid ‘fantastic.’ Even with my extravagent, unplanned ‘nap’ in the middle of the day, I may still retain rights to a minor taunt or two after all.
To wit, I just returned from wandering insanely crowded streets teeming with color and scent and sound and movement unlike anything I’ve yet experienced without chemical assistance. It’s like 13 Kathmandus piled on top of each other by a stoned city planner who has seen too many french films featuring the Champs-Élysées.
Beautiful, life-affirming chaos, marked off by millions of dirty feet. And cows. Lots and lots of cows.
And Delhi Belly be damned: with all of the mind-blowingly mouth-watering foods being served up by street vendors, tomorrow is going to be the first episode ever of “Gorge-me Gourmet.” As a consolation for my late start, tonight I made due with a $2.75 complete dinner (“Thali”). It was profoundly disgusting. So disgusting, in fact, that you guys should stay at home; don’t visit India and you won’t have to suffer through such rancid, horrid cuisine (and, well, so there’ll be that much more left for me).
Tomorrow I must atone. Tomorrow must live up to today’s promise. Tomorrow’s agenda must begin with a traditional North Indian breakfast, and continue with an obligatory Straight Razor Shave, subsequently unfolding randomly in a series of food and food and food and, finally, more food and food.
Until such time as my gorged belly returns, triumphant,
I remain,
Your insufficiently manly Transglobal Heckler,
—jim
