The men push food on me like somehow their self-esteem is tied to how much I eat. At a Rajhastani restaurant in Delhi, for example, three waiters hovered over me explaining how to combine the various dals and curries with the various rices and vegetables and breads (all of which was delicious, but too, too much). They brought me enough food for a week and drizzled everything in ghee, which is melted butter, but they act like it has no calories when I attempt to politely refuse. Or like it’s a personal assault on their character. Five other tables of diners kept yelling out, “Excuse me!” and “Sir!” and “Waiter!” trying to get their attention, but they were too busy forcing me to overeat to notice.
On the Jet Airways plane from Siliguri to Delhi, the flight attendant, a young man, complained when I didn’t finish my meal. “You didn’t like the dessert, Miss Braz?” I can’t figure out why he’d know my name, let alone care about how much I’m eating. He actually winced when I declined the fruit juice aperitif.
In Gangtok, I would eat an early dinner at about 5 or 6 at the hotel restaurant (truly some of the best dining I’ve ever experienced). Like clockwork, at 8 p.m., a waiter would call my room and ask what I wanted for dinner. “I already had dinner,” I’d explain.
“No ma’am,” he’d respond. “That was too early for dinner. You will eat dinner now.”
As soon as I ate dinner, they’d ask me what I want for breakfast the next day.
I finally screamed “You’re making me fat!” at my favorite waiter when he brought out my sixth serving of bread, smothered in melted butter, one night. He looked hurt and I ended up eating it all to make him feel better.
I feel sorry for the one guy who speaks English everywhere I go. He’s the guy who takes it upon himself to uncreate all the confusion I spend most of my time creating.
I took a shared jeep from Darjeeling to Gangtok and happened to have the fortune of being chauffeured by the only driver in India who drives sanely. Which means the five-hour jeep ride was on course to last at least 15 hours. At the Sikkim checkpoint, I stalked into the “Foreigner’s Registration Office” waving my Sikkim permit while the military guy painstakingly recorded the passports of a busload of Indian tourists.
“What’s the point in my getting the permit ahead of time if I still have to wait?” I demanded. The military guy shrugged. I ran out to the jeep and grabbed my seatmate who, earlier, was able to explain to me that I could eat momos at the rest stop and maybe that would keep my mouth busy long enough for me to stop bitching about the length of the journey. I thrust my permit at my seat mate (I regret not getting his name) and gestured for him to explain to military guy that I am totally legal and therefore the holdup was totally uncalled for.
Then another snag occurred. One of the other passengers was hauling at least half a dozen computers. He didn’t have the appropriate paperwork according to a different military guy. Computer guy, the jeep driver, the one guy who spoke English and I (the other women all remained very ladylike, in the jeep) all gesticulated wildly, pointing at our watches. Finally, computer guy and the jeep driver worked it out so that the jeep driver took responsibility for the computers’ safety while computer guy stayed behind at the checkpoint to sort out the paperwork.
Then the jeep driver started driving like everyone else in India. I noticed he continuously glanced in the rearview mirror, at me, like maybe he was a little scared.
I’m not always the most difficult person in every situation. Sometimes other Americans are around and I’m able to defer my role to one of them. Like the gals from Boston, MBA students doing volunteer work in Siliguri as part of their course load. They were stuck in Siliguri (which I’ve previously mentioned is HELL) because, apparently, no planes had landed or taken off from the local airport in Bagdogra in over a week.
They were at hotel’s “concierge” desk, trying to move on to Plan B, the 15-hour train to Kolkatta. First and second class were already sold out for at least a week, though, which left them with a really big conundrum. Third-class rail travel for 15 hours, versus who-knows-how-long at the Cindrella Hotel in Siliguri, waiting for the fog to lift, which was scheduled to occur sometime in April.
Believe it or not, I had acceptance. I realized I was not going to be riding a train for something like a week to get to Delhi. I’d have to wait out the fog. I went for a walk in Siliguri to buy candy. I’m willing to stake everything I own on the bet that I’m the very first Western woman to do that. Every vehicle that passed yelled out something at me. I wonder if they know what “Fuck you” means.
I got back to the hotel with a bag of my favorite candies, Alpenliebe milky butter toffee (there’s no escaping butter). I tuned the TV to the Australian Open and was actually kind of happy when my phone rang. It was the front desk calling to tell me a Jet Airways representative was in the lobby, requesting the pleasure of my company.
They sent a bellman to my room to get my luggage. The Jet Airways guy said, “I remember you. I spoke with you last night.”
“NO,” I stressed. “You spoke with a different annoying American. I never called you. I have acceptance about this situation.”
He looked confused. “Anyway,” he said. “We will go to the airport and see what happens.”
When incoming planes began landing, travelers in the waiting area of the Bagdogra, India, airport clapped, whistled, hooted in jubilation.
In Delhi’s domestic air terminal, I stood in line waiting to reserve a pre-paid taxi. Men pretended I wasn’t there and pushed ahead of me. I scowled, to no avail. Apparently, my ability to intimidate is reserved solely for jeep drivers. Finally it was my turn, somehow, but the taxi reservation guy didn’t know where my hotel was. He asked me for directions.
“How would I know?” I said. “I’m not from Delhi.” Which I thought was obvious.
A guy standing in line behind me pulled out his cell and called the hotel for me, got directions, gave them to the taxi guy, and off I went.
I arrived at the hotel (Sweet Dream Inn) and presented my passport for checking in. Familiar with the process at this point, I began to answer questions before even being asked.
“No, no, Madam. I will fill everything out,” the man at the desk said. “All I need to know is when you will be having dinner.”
