India - Day 3 - Delhi

11/30/14

Indira Gandhi International Airport, India

Reader, unless you understand me, thoroughly understand me, understand the way and the reasons I travel, understand my theories on fulfillment vs. enjoyment value, today’s entry will make no sense to you.  It will make no sense to you why I spent 15 minutes at each of India’s most famous monuments, yet spent three hours in search of a flag pin.  It will make no sense to you why #TheQuestForTheFlagPin could so affect my very mood and appetite.  It will make no sense to you why when with seven hours before my flight I had resigned myself to getting my flag pin, I had no desire for any further sightseeing.  It will make no sense to you why I will never need to return to the capital region of India, though I may in future decades go to Mumbai or Hyderabad or Kolkata.  Reader, unless you understand all of that, you will not understand why this Is the triumphant airport entry.

I closed last night in that magical garden, and the magic only continued after I closed.  Emily had told me that, being in India for only 48 hours, I “better not sleep at all.”  She was being sarcastic, but there was a ring of truth to it.  Emily is one of the smartest and most rationally thinking people I know.  She also has an annoying tendency about being right about almost everything.  It was after 4 AM by the time I went up to my room.  I would only be getting three hours of sleep, but who needs sleep when you can spend the night in that magical garden?  I lit up an Avo and wished that I had another cigar to spend another hour there.

I didn’t set an alarm, but I had no trouble waking up.  This time I opted to have the cigar with breakfast and take the shower afterwards.  I got much the same as I did yesterday, also getting fried eggs and a quarter of a waffle.  I had an Avo, which I brought back up to the room with me to finish.  I was running a little late, but I knew there was no time crunch today, fitting in Parliament, the three WHS, and souvenir shop before dark would be an easy task.  I was right, and I was done with the last WHS around 2 PM.  Thus began the three hours quest for the flag pin, but, first, the three hours of sightseeing.

My driver had almost no English, and he had his own idea of what I should see for today.  That is not a good combination.  I very insistently told him our agenda for the day: Parliament, Red Fort, Humayun’s Tomb, Qutb Minar, souvenir shopping, dinner, airport.  In the end, that was almost exactly what we did, though I caved in and stopped at the India Gate after Parliament.  As were heading to Parliament, he stopped by another site.  Didn’t I want to take a picture here?  “No, I just want to take a picture at Parliament,” I almost whined.  Our driver in Jamaica was much more understanding.  “You know Parliament’s not open at this hour.”  “We just want to take a picture in front of the building,” I had answered, using the Royal We, rather than expressing my girlfriend’s view on seeing the Jamaican Parliament.  “He likes taking pictures at Parliament.”  “Okay.”  The driver here in India seemed to be putting up a fight, cutting into his tip in the process.  Once we drove up to Parliament, I felt alive.  Here I was, getting my Official picture in front of Parliament, the day was getting off to a great start.  Best of all, there would be no tour guide prattling on about the history of the monuments.  I would use the UNESCO website for all the information I needed, and we could breeze through at my own, pace, only limited by traffic.

He wanted to take me to the India Gate, which was fine.  It was pretty famous, and we had plenty of time.  As we drove, I asked him where to get souvenirs.  He said that everything was closed for Sunday.  No, that couldn’t be right.  This was a country that was Hindu and Muslim, surely they wouldn’t be closed for the Christian Sabbath.  When I travel to the Caribbean, I always plan for souvenir shops to be closed on Sunday, and I make sure to plan around it.  Here in India, that did not seem to be an issue.  It was, and it wasn’t.  More on that later.  The India Gate was crowded and underwhelming.

I just wanted to get to the Red Fort and light my Partagas, the #CigarOfTheTrip.  He took me there without a fight.  It is ironic that I had to write that sentiment.  He is a hired driver, not a travel companion who should have equal input.  I was paying him to take me around, not to decide my itinerary.  If I wanted someone to decide my itinerary, I would have travelled with a tour group.  When we got to the Red Fort, he left me at the parking lot and said he’d be waiting at the car, which meant that I’d be subjected to the hawkers and the peddlers.  I lit up my Partagas and walked to the main entrance.  Of course, no smoking would be allowed inside the walls, but the pictures were just as good outside.  It had a typical Indian crowd, and I just wanted to get my pictures and get back to the air conditioned car.  It was not the Taj Mahal.  It was just an old fort.

Next was Humayun’s Tomb, the model for the Taj Mahal.  This time taking a picture outside was not an option.  I went inside, took my picture of the tomb, took a picture without the cigar, walked to a secluded area, and lit up my Romeo.  I then took my Official picture and continued to walk towards the tomb.  Someone asked me to take their picture, and I did.  As soon as I did so, a security guard told me to put away the cigar.  Not needing to take any more pictures, I told him that I was leaving, and he followed out to make sure that I did.  We drove from there to Qutb Minar, driving through as bad traffic as I had ever seen.  My driver said that this was light traffic and that there is heavier traffic during the week.  How was that even possible?  It is not just the bad traffic, but the erratic driving that makes it so unsettling.

I still had some cigar left when we got to Qutb Minar, a towering monument that claims to be India’s oldest monument.  I just needed a picture.  Once again, no cigars were allowed past security, but I was able to get a decent enough picture from outside.  That was it.  Time for the souvenirs.  I asked to go to Dilli Haat, but my driver said it was closed.  The website said otherwise.  He said that “mini Dilli Haat” was opened, whatever that meant.  I insisted he take me to Dilli Haat.  He took me somewhere else and lost his tip in the process.  I got the keychain and t-shirt but no flag pin.  I realized that instead of trying to explain what a flag pin was, I could just show them the picture of my flag pin collection on my pushboard at work.  That would do the trick.  No one had it.  They told me to try to Connaught Place.

That’s where we went next.  It turned out that Connaught Place was actually a district with lots of shopping centers and bazaars.  As we drove, I saw a bunch of roadside stands, the kind of places that sell the good souvenirs.  I told me driver to stop.  He said that it wasn’t Connaught Place and kept driving.  I then saw a perfect shop, the kind of place that would, if any place would, have the flag pin.  Again, I told him to stop, saying that I knew that it wasn’t Connaught Place but that I wanted to stop there, anyway.  He kept driving, telling me he would take me to Connaught Place.  Were we really having this argument?  It was like something out of a Seinfeld episode.  Once more, I insisted he stop, and he finally did.  We were at Janpath Market, and I walked all the way down the market, showing each vendor a picture of an Indian flag pin.  They had magnets and keychains and t-shirts and replicas, but no flag pins.  Ugh.

Alright, on to Connaught Place.  There was a place called Palika Bazaar.  No dice.  It was just a regular shopping center.  As I walked through, people kept literally shoving me because I was walking too slow, grabbing my back and using me as leverage to literally propel themselves around me and through the crowd.  I was shocked.  Well, anyway, I had another lead, so I ventured farther off.  I have a great sense of direction and an even better danger sense.  I did not worry about getting lost.  There was just one thing on my mind: the flag pin.  Well, that’s not true.  I have a great deal of trouble telling apart negative emotions and physical discomfort.  I wasn’t sure if I was stressed or depressed or heat-stricken or nauseated or lonely or what.  It is very lonely traveling east.  Everyone back home is asleep when you wake up, and they don’t start waking up until you have finished most of your activities for the day.  A few people were starting to wake up at this point, and the indication of that was the orange 2 or 3 or 4, letting me know that someone had logged into Facebook and Liked a bunch of my photos from the day.  I had no luck at the other place, either.

When I got back to the car, I untucked my shirt, signifying defeat and resigning myself to having to get an unofficial flag pin at the airport.  It’s what I did in Panama City and Port of Spain, but it’s never the same.  My driver was having none of that.  I wanted a flag pin, and he was going to find me one.  What’s this?  Did he suddenly decide to try and earn himself a tip?  For almost the next hour, he walked around with me, asking the different vendors, getting different leads, trying to find out who would have a flag pin.  He was told that a bookstore would be our best bet.  We walked into one.  I showed them the picture.  Eureka!  Wait, no.  Something was off.  There were holes in it.  The backing was wrong.  It was a light-up button, not a flag pin.  We then went to the next shop.  Yes, he had one old flag pin.  Wait, no, so close.  It had a safety pin backing, useless on my display.  Ugh!  He got another lead, and I bought it, anyway, mainly just so that I’d have something to show the different vendors.

We kept walking, and we soon found another bookstore.  He asked in Hindu, and I showed them the flag pin.  From the way the clerk shouted to the guy in the back, I knew he had them.  There they were, three perfect, pristine flag pins.  I bought them all.  My spirits lifted, my imagined depression was gone.  The stresses of my life were, literally, thousands of miles away.  Even the air felt cooler.  However, the one unmistakable sign that all was well was that I suddenly had a raging appetite.  I found a cigar shop, so I told him to take me there, knowing that the mall it was in would also have plenty of places to eat.  My driver informed me that rate only included 8 hours and 80 km.  The additional fees were nominal, but I felt scammed again.  I was told that it was all inclusive.  I had been planning to give him a generous tip, so I decided I would take that fee out of his tip.

I found the cigar shop.  It was overpriced, so I would just be buying a single stick, not a box.  I found a nice Chinese restaurant, and I relished the idea of posting my #ClashOfCultures picture actually using chopsticks at a Chinese restaurant.  I got two beers, honey chicken, and Beijing lamb.  Finding beef in Delhi is like finding bacon in Jerusalem.  It was delicious, and I headed down to the cigar shop.  The food was slow, so I knew that I would not have much time to smoke.  I chose a Trinidad and smoked it for about 15 minutes before heading back to my driver.  I smoked the rest en route to the airport.

When we got there, I gave him all the rupees I had, except for the one of each I intended to keep as souvenirs.  He said that it wasn’t enough.  He was right.  I asked him if he liked dollars and gave him the rest of his tip in dollars.  Even before I went in the airport, I was asked for my passport and ticket.  My ticket?  Don’t I get that inside?  He checked my name against the flight manifest and let me in.  I got my ticket, headed through security, picked up 22 cigars in packs, not seeing a box I liked, and get some much needed liquid sugar, along with a liter of water, and headed to the smoking lounge.

I put my stuff down and went to light my cigar, having lost all three lighters to security.  As soon as I stood up, someone took my seat.  Really?  Well, I lit up the cigar and stared at him and stood right next to him as I smoked it.  He just looked right back at me.  The seat next to him opened up, so I sat there and waited for him to finish his cigarette.  Once he did, I took that seat and proceeded to write this entry, which I will now close so that I can head to the gate and publish it and upload my photos.