In Delhi

"Let me check to see if I can let you go," said the woman working behind the desk in Newark's airport.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because your passport is mutilated, that's why!" she retorted as if I was the stupidest person in the world for not knowing that. Her supervisor came over and let me go. But not before issuing a warning, "You might have trouble with the government when you get back." Thanks for the helpful advice, jerk.

It was an arduous flight. I cried during the wedding in Meet the Fockers, I saw Godfather for the first time, I saw Rocky for the millioneth time, and watched Austin Powers. I also had a nice talk with the lady next to me that rambled on too long.

I was anxious about the taxi ride from the airport to the hotel. Apparently, the drivers try to tell you that your hotel is booked or closed and take you to one where they get a commision. I played dumb, which was enhanced by not sleeping for 24 hours. I made up some ridiculous story that I was meeting my friend, but didn't know the name of the hotel. Instead he was going to call me. All I had was an address. Everything tunred out fine and I even talked with the driver a bit. He came to Delhi 20 years ago. He asked if I spoke Hindi and I said that I just couldn't get it. He said it was easy. I said I knew, but was too stupid. He chuckled in appreciation of my modesty and was turned out to be helpful.

I wandered for a while trying to find the hotel. I'm in the Pahangarj area, which houses a lot of tourists. It's probably not a great representation of Delhi. But you can't escape India. The noises, the smells, the dust, the heat.