Cool Websites

10 Minute Mail
For those times you need a throwaway email address (like getting two more free weeks of Hulu Plus). The email address will enable you to get confirmation then self destruct in 10 minutes. Get one here.

Fake Name Generator

For when you need a whole new identity. Get yours here.

What the Font
Website and app that figures out what font something is when you upload a picture. Try it here.

Camel Camel Camel
Shows you the price history of anything on Amazon and alerts you when the price drops. You can even upload your entire Amazon wish list directly. Try it here.

Mailbox Locator
Tells you where the closest USPS mailbox is to wherever you are. Find it here.

What the Fuck Should I Make for Dinner
A wonderfully profane meal suggestion generator. NSFW.

Online Etymology Dictionary
Gives you the history and derivation of any word. Check it out here.

Screenr
Easily make screencasts and share them. Free and easy to use. Try it here.

Strip Creator
Easily make your own online comic strips. Warning: very addictive. Try it out here.

Adobe Kuler
Find complementary color palettes with this Adobe color wheel. Check it out here.

The Rasterbator
Make a printable poster out of any image. Check it out here.

Scale of the Universe
If you like Cosmos, you’ll love this amazingly simple site that gives you some interactive perspective on the size of the universe.

Photo stream

Saw the end of the USA Pro Cycling Challenge in Denver yesterday. I was just wondering what an embedded photo stream might look like. Here goes nothing...

Bangalore - Day 3

It’s monsoon season so in spite of the partial sun I experienced on my first day, the sun has yet to make another appearance.

Mayur, a colleague from the office, invites me to join him and his wife at an area restaurant for dinner. My administrative assistant instructs the cab driver to take me to dinner and then wait to take me to the hotel. I feel oddly comfortable with the plan.

The restaurant is a quick casual format and after a slightly awkward ordering process in which I had to decide my order based on a list of options without descriptions, we settle down at a table. The total bill for all three of us comes to under 500 Rupees. $10 for dinner for three seems pretty reasonable. I offer to pay but Mayur insists. I start wondering how much an analyst in India gets paid – or what that translates as far as cost of living.

I read in the morning newspaper that Bangalore is among the top 3 most affluent cities in India, after Delhi and Mumbai. This was determined by the number of affluent families so it is not surprising that Bangalore would have this designation – it is the 3^rd most populous behind Delhi and Mumbai (Bangalore’s population is around 8 million). The interesting part is that the article identified 2.5 million families as “affluent” in India with 2.3 million among the “upper-middle” class as defined by ownership of both a car and computer. Ok, sounds reasonable. Wait. In a country of 1 billion, they are defining only 1% or 8-10 million as affluent. Then, they are referring to the vast majority of that 1% as “Upper Middle” class. They seem to have the same problem with statistics that abounds in the US. How can the top 1% be “middle class?” What about the hundreds of millions of people in India that are actually in the middle? How much do they live on?

Mayur’s wife joins us and despite my efforts to limit the onslaught, I can’t help but dominate the conversation with questions about India that I had been storing up. “Is a bindi religious or cultural? Does it mean different things if it is different shades or sizes? Why do Pujabi men wear turbans? How much should I tip the waiter at the restaurant? What do the drivers do all day while waiting? What did people think of ‘Slumdog Millionaire?’ What is public opinion about Pakistan? Is Kashmir a safe area to visit?” They never knew what hit them.

If you’re wondering the answers are as follows: 1) The red dot on the forehead is cultural 2) It used to mean different things about a woman in terms of her age, marital status and relationship to the people with whom she is gathered – for instance it would be different if a woman was with her in-laws than if she was with her parents. 3) Still not clear but something to do with Punjabi Indians being Sikh and the tradition that men don’t cut their hair. 4) Not needed for the hotel but generally 10% is appropriate. 5) Not sure. Must be rather boring. 6) Excellent movie. Very realistic portrayal of Mumbai – which, much to my surprise, they resent have changed its name from Bombay. 7) They think most educated people realize there is a difference between the Pakistani and extremists in Pakistan. 8) Generally yes – depends on time. You might hear some shooting.

After returning to the hotel, I walk over to Bangalore’s famous MG road – the market area that all the rickshaw drivers were warning was closed on Sunday.

The air feels pregnant with oil and spice – at once pleasant and uncomfortable. It doesn’t mix well with DEET.

The sidewalk is constructed of concrete slats, many of which shift slightly under foot. It is unclear if this poses any danger, but I can’t help but imagine a bottomless pit or river of sewage awaiting me if I happen to fall through.

While driving around the city I’d seen women and men with what seems to be homemade brooms move like ants over the sidewalks and gutters. The constant sweeping seems to have little effect as sidewalks are still covered with dust and debris. I wonder where they put all their sweepings or if they are simply moving it around? I wonder who pays them, and I try to image how dirty the city would become if not for their efforts.

At a roundabout near MG I pass an elaborate shrine constructed of three sided tall cloth “walls” and featuring a brightly colored Ganesha.- an elephant headed deity that is male but I had always assumed was female. The temple has rows of folding chairs and a handful of people are in attendance. It occupies a large portion of what appears to be an operational gas station. The perimeter of the gas station has been decorated with wires draped in green leaves and a motorcycle sits idle at the gas pumps. None of the other pedestrians pause to give notice.

The Indian aesthetic seems to value the variety of color and the shininess of the material over everything else. Shrines, signs, toys, and packaging combine to visual overload – like living in a street carnival. Some of the materials are beautiful and applied in other settings would be fantastic. The strings of woven flowers would be costly and beautiful in the US – whereas here they adorn the front grill of a local bus. The intricate design and wild colors of a temple hut that would seem spectacular in a park barely stand out against the chaotic background. Beautiful silks and flowers are given equal billing with tinsel and plastic. Materials that we have dismissed as gaudy or “cheap” do not suffer the same bias here. The current western practice of using subtle Persian floral designs print ads and packaging for everything from coffee to cosmetics is a idea that seems completely lost on them.

Walking along MG Road I find an ice cream stand and buy a soda. There is a smoothie stand behind me advertising the shop as “Canada’s #1 Smoothie.” Really? Canada? I have a girlfriend from camp. She’s from Canada. I am sure you have never met her. Even if it is true, is that impressive? Like, having a shop in Denver that claims to be “Mississippi’s favorite breakfast cereal.” So?

I walk down a side road off MG and find myself reassured that it is a safe road because there are women walking alone. It occurs to me that by this same logic I could find myself in a sketchy area with prostitutes.

I scratch at an itch on my neck. What that a mosquito? I am suddenly aware of every inch of my body. Why does my arm itch? I didn’t notice any bugs, did I? I am pleased that I decided to take the anti-malarial pills. How neurotic would I feel if I wasn’t taking them?

I walk back to the hotel, crawl into bed and flip on the TV. Half of the channels show non-stop Indian music videos. I had assumed that the music video was a prominent feature of Bollywood productions but I find myself curious if they film anything but the music numbers. One channel is dedicated to older films – still just music videos but instead of the modern practice of showing a lead man and woman in front of groups of identically dressed supporters, the older films usually have the women dancing in an empty field. The story, however, seems to be the same. Boy likes girl. Girl sings and plays hard to get. Boy sings. Boy gets girl. The end.

Bangalore - Day 2

At breakfast I read the local Bangalore newspaper and absorb their excitement over India’s National soccer team’s defeat of Syria to win the Nehru cup. There is a section of the paper for schoolchildren that includes puzzles and education. Through text and cartoons they explain “how to multiply large numbers that are close of powers of ten.” For example 1003 x 996. The explanation seems geared to young children and goes completely over my head. It becomes clear why the US is outsourcing technology positions to India.

As I finish breakfast the front desk informs me that my cab has arrived. He is 20 minutes early. I thought Indian’s were notoriously late? “Just a minute.” I don’t want to keep him waiting, so I grab my bag and camera and get into the cab.

We drive into complete gridlock. Lane markings are completely ignored. It appears that the road was designed for 2 lanes, but each row has at least three cars, a rickshaw or two, and bicycles and motorbikes thrown in. It seems impossible that we won’t collide, and yet I don’t notice a single accident.

Eight foot plywood or metal boards are set up as barrier to keep drivers away from road construction where a metro train line is being built. Each section is labeled with a metro logo and construction company insignia. This goes on for miles. While we are driving, I notice that some of the logos have been “touched up” with paint. We come to a stop next to a segment and it is suddenly clear that every sign has been hand-painted. It dawns on me that most of the things around me, from the car license plates and registration marks, to the yellow & black curb striping has been done skillfully by hand. I wonder how much this might cost and consider that with a virtually limitless workforce, almost anything can be done. Innovation and technology are not required.

At the side of the road I notice a handful of cows tied to one of the barrier walls. Most of the walls are marked “Post no Bills” and a few areas say “Do not urinate here.” The later strikes me as funny and unnecessary until I notice a variety of men at other spots stopping to pee. I suppose if it is isn’t marked, it’s ok? I wonder what is expected for the women and I make a mental note when walking to avoid any part s of the sidewalk that look wet.

A few cows wander freely down the sidewalks. Everyone knows that cows are revered in India, and I’ve heard stories of cars driving into crowds of people to avoid hitting a cow. However, the people’s behavior towards these animals appears to be more like indifference than respect. I watch as people maneuver around them with complete apathy, rather the way I might walk by pigeons at home. Perhaps drivers avoid the cows because it would cause more damage to their car than running into people? There are an awful lot of people here.

Watching as a cow picks through rubbish like dogs might in the US, I wonder what is available for the cows eat? There doesn’t seem to be vegetation around and I can’t readily understand how they came to be in the city at all.

We pass a sign advertising apartments that says “It’s spanking new.” I wonder if that is acceptable grammar. I always assumed “spanking” modified “brand” but come to think of it, what does “brand new” mean as opposed to just plain old “new?”

“Do you know the way to the office?” I ask the driver. “Yes sir. Sure Sir.” Comes the reply as a single phrase. “How long will the drive take?” “Yes sir. Sure Sir.” As best I could tell, it means, “I don’t understand your question.”

The office park is modern and packed with large international firms - JP Morgan, Oracle, Nokia. The buildings are tall glass and steel structures that stand in contrast to the corrugated metal huts and shacks just outside the entry gate.

Security requires that I sign into numerous registry books and runs down the list of prohibited items. No personal laptops, no cameras, no cell phones, no iPods, no storage devices or disks. This is going to be a problem. Should I just hand over my entire bag now?

They let me off by cataloging all the items (including serial numbers). The camera has to stay with them. I wonder vaguely if this is some sort of scheme, but since I don’t see a way around it I play along.

The sign on the door states that official office hours are 11:00am to 7:30pm with lunch from 1:00pm to 2:00pm. It is not clear if the late start time is standard for India or a result of supporting projects in Europe and the US.

Inside is a maze of office cubicles, each one packed with someone on headset and a computer screen. It looks exactly as I expected an Indian call center might. A group of young men in matching short-sleeve button down shirts scuttle around the office cleaning tables, refilling coffee supplies, and sweeping. I rack my brain to remember the name of that position from “Slumdog Millionaire.” It doesn’t come to me. I also can’t figure out how old they are. I didn’t realize that all Bangalore offices to have “office boys” as they are referred to by the staff.

People have a habit of shaking their heads slightly in a vague “no” type gesture while responding with “yes sir.” The effect is to turn all yes’s into slight disapproval. Them: “You want coffee with milk or no milk sir?” Me: “Yes, milk please.” Them (shaking head and slightly frowning): “Yes sir.” Me: “I mean, no thank you.” Them: (still shaking head with a slight frown): “Yes sir.”

A quick internet search reveals that this bobble-head gesture is well documented and observed, and though most people confess that it is somewhat infectious, no one seems to know the origin.

I find myself wondering if I am supposed to address them with “Sir” as well. “Thank you Sir?” Feels like I am mocking them so I decide against it.

Between meetings I discuss international travel and living abroad with one of the Indian nationals. “What did you think of Sydney, Australia?,” he asks me. “I loved it. It felt a lot like San Francisco to me.” “Yes, it is very much like Bangalore,” he tells me. What? Like Bangalore? How could that be? San Francisco is nothing like Bangalore. I suppose we all search for familiarity in places we visit. When I consider it, Sydney does have flowering trees that look similar to some of the flowering trees here. That’s about it.

I feel a few rumbles in my stomach and a moment of dread that I am in for a nasty bought of traveler’s diarrhea. I certainly had enough warnings before the trip. It was the milk in the coffee, wasn’t it? It was the coffee? The glass that I’ve been pouring bottled water into gets washed in regular tap water, doesn’t it? I am suddenly nervous about putting anything in my mouth. I figure I can make it the rest of the trip on bottled water and tea biscuits.

The rest of the afternoon is thankfully uneventful.

There is an exercise room at the office that looks long neglected and empty. The lights are off and I’ve seen no indication that anyone here thinks about it. Given the sugar that is an ever present addition to the coffee, buffets, deserts, and a complete lack of exercise, I can’t see how I will avoid gaining 10 pounds on my trip. It is easy to see why diabetes is a rapidly growing problem in the country.

As we leave the office for the evening, Amit’s driver pulls his SUV around to the door. “This is Lincoln.” comes the brief introduction between phrases on his cell conference call. “I am quite interested in hearing more about that. Hey, let’s grab some beers. So tell me more about your background.” continues Amit. Lincoln figures out that the “beers” comment was intended for him and we head out from the office park.

We double-park and Lincoln jumps out at a local bar. He returns in a few minute and hands Amit and I each a can of beer. “Cheers.” I consider if drinking in a car is legal in India. Like most things, it doesn’t seem to matter.

We drive past a man on a bicycle carrying two enormous plastic bags. His bicycle, like most of the others, has a protective metal cover over the chain, is thoroughly rusted, and looks like it was manufactured in the 1940s. I wonder if all the bikes come from one source and how someone might acquire one. They seem about two sizes too big for the riders, as if the previous generations were giants who passed down their bikes to their children. No one on the bicycles is wearing a helmet – but nearly all the motorbike riders have them on. I wonder if there is a difference.

Driving from the office to the hotel at rush hour the traffic produces a symphony of car horn beeps and bells – each car announcing its path and alerting a never ending line of pedestrians and bicyclists. At times it seems drivers are honking not to warn anyone, but rather because it is their turn.

Amit’s apartment is neat with a small balcony terrace. A number of his friends have gathered for the evening and we order food for delivery. I check the fridge for water or soda but only find beer and a few Tupperware containers of food. “Amit, do you cook?” I ask. “No, the maid makes dinner each day. There are a few perks to India – the driver, the house maid.” I take another beer. The discussion on the patio turns to drinking and I share my “insights” on Kingfisher beer. No one thinks the link to Budweiser is interesting. The food arrives and I am amused that a part is a large order of tandoori chicken legs – seems about the same as ordering wings at home.

Around 11:30 I figure I better get to bed so I ask Amit about ordering a cab. “One minute… Lincoln will take you.” He pulls out his cell phone and tells me that the driver will be waiting at the bottom of the elevator. I start wondering where Lincoln lives and if he is on-call 24 hours a day.

On Bangalore - Day 1

I wake up a bit disoriented but not too confused. It occurs to me that I didn’t take my pill and I wonder if it is ok to take on an empty stomach. Looking at my watch that still shows east coast time I wonder what the local time is. I reason that it is probably around 10:00 and I better get downstairs before they close breakfast.

I throw on some shorts and a shirt wondering what breakfast might look like. I stop by the front desk to inquire about the time and am surprised to learn that its 8:00am. I guess I didn’t miss the morning after all.

The restaurant looks nice but is entirely empty. A buffet is laid out, each item neatly labeled. I don’t recognize a single label and can’t identify much of the food on sight either. The cook offers to make an omelet. Seems reasonable. The ingredients are fresh but they are all going to be cooked, right? I take a tortilla looking flat bread from the buffet and ask what people eat with it. There is a bowl of soupy white topping that seems to go with the tortillas. It doesn’t quite look like raita or any other thing that I can identify. I put a small dab on my plate. I put a bit of a few other items on the plate to round it out and take a seat. What can I drink? It suddenly occurs that I have no idea what “Don’t drink the water” really means. I know that I am supposed to order bottled water only, but what about other drinks. Is coffee ok? They heat the water. How about juice? Probably not. I decide coffee is ok. I need coffee, so it seems worth the risk. “Would you like milk in your coffee?” Uh, no? Is milk ok? No idea. “No thanks, just black.” How about butter for the toast? This is going to be harder than I imagined.

Full, I head upstairs to finish getting ready for the day and get my camera. I want to find a local market to take photos. I don’t want to sightsee exactly. I spray myself with DEET and get ready to go. The spray makes my skin feel greasy and I nearly wipe out walking across the slick spot on hardwood floor formed when I sprayed my legs.

I check Google maps and it seems like the public gardens are just a few blocks away. I figure if I head that direction I will probably find interesting things. Across the street from my room are clay tennis courts and I watch as a boy warms up with a friend. For no particular reason I notice that he has an especially elegant backhand.

The road is not too busy and the sidewalk more walkable than I imagined. There are kids playing on a pile of dirt by a construction site who smile at me and mug for my camera. Unfortunately I didn’t notice them in time as the sun disappears behind a cloud ruining the light on the kids before I can take a picture.

Virtually every auto-rickshaw pauses as it passes me and I grow quickly accustomed to waving them off. “No, I am just walking.” This doesn’t seem to placate them but they reluctantly drive off. I am foreigner and an easy mark.

By the second rotary intersection I realize there are no noticeable road signs. Figuring out my way back to the hotel may prove somewhat difficult. Also there are large walls on both sides of the road so that the public park that seemed so close on Google may not be the least bit accessible. I keep walking, relieved to remember that I have the address of the hotel stored somewhere in my phone and assuming that any rickshaw driver could tell me how to get back.

I arrive to a fairly busy intersection and am amused by the lines of motorcycles, scooters & rickshaws at the light. I notice that the restaurant on the corner is the Hard Rock Café, which strikes me as completely out of place.

“The market this way is closed, sir” is a constant refrain from the rickshaw drivers as I head across the street and toward what seems like an open area. A driver offers to take me to all the “sights” – showing me a brochure of a few tourist spots around Bangalore.

I keep walking but when the next driver says “the market is closed. I’ll take you to the open market – 10 Rupees,” I finally give in. “Fine.” However, I start to walk back to the guy who wanted to show me the sights. “Want to take me to the open market?” He and this second driver begin a protracted argument in what I assume is Hindi. It seems rather confrontational as they usher me into the back of the rickshaw. Driver one gets in the back seat next to me as Driver two settles in up front. I am now pinned in the back seat with no way out. They continue their heated exchange as we start off. “Everything ok?” Driver two tries to explain. “We are brothers. We’ll take you.” That ends it. I nervously snap picture of the driver figuring that if they steal me or kill me, at least there will be some evidence. Of course the camera is with me so I am not sure how sound this logic might be.

“The market doesn’t open until 10:00 so we’ll stop at nice shop” I am informed. Wait a minute. I didn’t ask for a shop, I asked for the market. “Just a few minutes. You see if you like anything.”

We pull into a somewhat secluded little parking lot. A security guard opens the door to the shop and the drivers wait outside. How is this supposed to work? What happens if I don’t buy anything? I look around. Walls packed with wooden and marble carvings. The shop owner begins to walk me through everything in the store. “You are my first customer of the day, you buy something it brings me luck. I give you special deal.” Of course you do. I find a couple of little things for the kids that seem like they would be inexpensive. Total comes to like 1500 rupees – about $30. What? I figure this is the real price of getting the rickshaw – not the 25 cents they told me it would cost. Probably got off ok I reassure myself.

The drivers take me over to the old city market. This is more like it. Streets packed with brightly colored trinkets and people in equally brightly colored garments. Everyone seems to be heading somewhere. The pace seems frantic. The driver stops and walks me into a vegetable market. Ok, this will do. Of course I won’t buy anything since fresh fruit and vegetables are strictly off limits. I snap a few photos. The driver keeps following me. I can’t decide if I am comforted by him being there or annoyed that he won’t leave me alone. I decide to feel comforted.

Leaving the market the drivers load me back into the rickshaw. “We take you to nice shop.” “I don’t really want to go to another shop, I want to go to another market” I protest. They pretty much ignore me as we weave through hoards of people, frequently coming within inches of other rickshaws and buses. Each time I feel my body tense waiting for the crash, and each time I am surprised when it doesn’t come. The drivers seem entirely unfazed.

We stop at another store. “You will like this shop.” I am ushered inside by another security guard. The shop looks exactly like the first one. If it weren’t upstairs instead of downstairs I would be hard pressed to point out differences. The shop owner walks me through everything there. I manage to escape without buying anything – a small victory. The drivers seem annoyed that I come out without a bag. We drive on.

After another store, I remind them that I want to go back to the market. They agree but since I am hopelessly confused about what part of the city we might be in, I figure I have to play along. “Just one more shop.” They give me some story about vouchers and gas. I don’t quite follow other than understanding that I don’t have much choice in the matter.

We stop at another store. Following what has become something of a pattern I head in. “Which one you like?” comes the refrain from the shop owner. I try to blow him off with “I’m just looking,” but my weak protest stands little chance in the way of his assault. He requires me to look at jewelry. “Which pendant would you like? I give you the chain, no charge.” I don’t really want jewelry but I can’t see a way out of this. “I will need to think about it.” I try. He launches into “You are my first customer of the day. You to buy something… it brings me luck.” Oh no you don’t. I see other customers in the shop. “I will not bring you bad luck,” I rebut. He gets angry and tells me to get out of his store. “What is there to think about? I kick you out. Get out of my store.” I feel a strange combination of shame and victory.

I ask the drivers where the botanic garden is located. They tell me not far and we head that direction. The driver tells me they will charge me 20 Rupees an hour. “Ok.” We drop off the second driver and head to the botanic gardens. Roughly half way he informs me that we have to stop at a few more shops. “What? No, no more shops,” I tell him. He mutters something about gas and “after the garden.” I figure I can fight that battle later.

We pull into the gardens and the driver stops to get a ticket. I can’t tell if he needs the ticket for me to get into the park or for him to bring the rickshaw. An official guide pokes his head into the backseat flashing me some sort of badge that is around his neck. I get out and the new “guide” and I start walking up some enormous granite steps that lead to a monument.

The monument is decorated with blue genie type figures and apparently marks one of the boundaries of the gardens. The guide speaks much better English than my driver, so I am happy to have him along, though I wonder, not seriously enough, how he gets paid and how much to tip. The driver tells him we only have 45 minutes, which sounds about right to me but I am curious why the driver thinks my time is limited.

We walk around the gardens and snap pictures of things I find interesting. The guide keeps stopping and suggesting shots I should take. I find myself increasingly resenting this, ultimately resulting in my not wanting to take a picture of anything he suggests. However, rather than protest it seems easier to fire off a shot whenever he points. I delete most of these pictures while we are walking.

After about 45 minutes we make it back to the gate. The guide mentions that there is a concert at the band platform near the glass house starting at 6pm and I make a note that it might be nice to come back. I am not sure how I would get there since I refuse to go through the “stopping at every shop” aspect of the rickshaw ride.

The guide tells me that the charge is 750 Rupees for a half hour tour and since we have been together closer to an hour I must decide. “Decide what?,” I ask. He smiles. “Decide what?” I say to my driver. Still no reply. “Decide how much to pay you?” I ask again. I get a half smile along with a strange shaking of the head. I pull out 1000 rupees which seems like entirely too much. Since I don’t know what would happen if I don’t pay, I hand it over. What else am I going to do?

The guide disappears and the driver and I head back out in the rickshaw. “That was too much” my driver offers. Thanks genius. You couldn’t have said something back there? You just cost me like $20. What kind of service is this? “We go to one more shop,” he replies.

You have got to be kidding me. “I need to get to the hotel.” “Which hotel?” he says. “The Regaalis. Near where you picked me up.” “Ok. We stop at one shop.” “I really need to get back.” It is about 1:30 and I am hungry. We drive along and I spot the Hard Rock café. “Here, you can drop me here,” I plead. He pretends not to hear. “I have a phone call for work that I have to make. I need to get to the hotel. ” I lie. “Which hotel?” “The Regaalis, I told you.” I am getting nowhere and we are way past the Hard Rock. “Where are you going?” “One nice shop, you will like it.” Seriously? How am I ever going to get back. “What if I pay you extra and we skip the shop?” I ask. He doesn’t reply. I think about what it would be like to jump from a moving rickshaw. Probably not a good idea.

This shop is the same but different. Same items upstairs - items that I now view with complete disdain. The wooden elephant with a mini elephant statue inside that seemed interesting and a marvel of carving a few hours ago now seems like a cheap party trick. I wonder what factory churns these out and sells them to every “art” shop in Bangalore. Downstairs there are rugs and duvet covers. I try explaining that I have no need for rugs but since the shop owner has required his assistant to show me all the different types and qualities, I feel obligated to play along. The process takes a good bit longer than I wanted.

Back outside the driver is surprised that I did not buy anything. “You were in a long time not to buy anything.” “Just take me to the hotel.” I am relieved as we get back within sight of the Hard Rock corner. He pulls over. I get out quickly. “That is 500 rupee” he says. “No, you said 20 rupee per hour. We have been out for three and half hours and most of that time was going to shops that I didn’t want to.” “200” he says. “Here is 100. That’s 5 hours. That’s plenty.” I walk away and he smiles. I’m calculating just how much this little outing has cost me. I am also wondering if I have any idea how to get back to the hotel from here.

Back in my room I lie down exhausted. I blame it on jetlag but I know better. I download pictures to my computer. Some look ok so I feel somewhat vindicated. I wonder if I should have been more concerned carrying two-thousand dollars worth of camera equipment around the city but figure it is a little late to worry about that now. I dose off on the bed.

There is a restaurant in the hotel so I poke my head in for lunch. I am surprised to find the patio packed with people at 2:45. They have some type of buffet so I figure it will be easy. Lunch is good. The waiter seems surprised when I order 7up to drink rather than a beer – which just about everyone else in the restaurant is having. Rather than order a second soda, I cave and ask for a Kingfisher. The label calls it the “King of Beers” and I wonder about India’s trademark laws. I also wonder if Budweiser stole the slogan from Kingfisher – or if Kingfisher is, in fact, made by Budweiser. It is probably the most consideration of beer I’ve ever given.

After lunch I go back to my room. I’m soundly asleep until 7:00. So much for the band concert at the gardens. It probably would have been too much of a pain I justify. Dinner doesn’t appeal so I walk to a street shop to buy some soda and crackers. It is hot, cramped, and foul smelling in the little stand and it seems they are in the process of closing up. The shop is lit by a couple of bare bulbs. I grab a couple of sleeves of what appears to be tea biscuits and some kind of chocolate cookies. Thankfully they have a Diet Coke in the fridge. “40 Rupees.” That’s more like it I think as I’m leaving. It’s the best purchase I made all day.

On Bangalore - Arrival

The flight landed remarkably smoothly and breaking seemed, inexplicably, rather unnecessary. It was as if we had come to a stop in the air and did not need to slow down to taxi.

We pull up to a modern jet bridge even though I had been cautioned that Bangalore hs an an open air field with exterior stairs. I was pleased since I hadn’t bothered to apply DEET as advised by the travel nurse. I keep looking at the field lights and feeling surprised that I can’t see any bugs flying around – let alone mosquitoes.

I wait in the health screening line. A nurse wearing a filter mask is taking everyone’s temperature with some sort of light thermometer pointed a bit like a gun at their foreheads. I wondered why she is wearing a mask since no one else in the room has one, or whether I should have one.

After passing through customs I step outside where I am confronted with a string of perhaps 50 drivers, each with a name placard. Given my past difficulty in locating people in crowds I am struck by momentary panic that I might never find my driver. However, I am relieved to spot a PharmARC sign after just a few seconds and am off with the driver quickly. He takes my suitcase from me, which makes me slightly uncomfortable. Perhaps I have watched too many international suspense movies. The supposed “driver” always steals the bag, right?

Outside the air is tropical with a cool breeze, like arriving in Florida on a pleasant night. From warnings of others, I expected strong fumes and foul smells at the airport, but the air seems fresh and clean. The ground is lush, covered with thick grass and tall palm trees. I wonder if the place would look completely different in the daylight.

Of the three shops on the platform outside the airport, two are a Subway and a Baskin Robbins. Perhaps Bangalore is more like the US than I expected.

The car is a small compact. The driver grabs my bags, loads them into the front seat, and opens the back door for me. The steering wheel is on the right side of the car like in England – a fact that makes perfect sense but surprises me having never thought about it before.

Lining the road on the way to the hotel are a mix of third-world looking shacks and taller, modern buildings. Most everything is covered in advertising, much the way of European cities. I have always been struck by the quantity of advertising in foreign cities versus the US. I am not sure I can quantify it, but there is definitely a difference. I wonder what they did before cell phone companies as most everything was covered in cell phone ads, including enormous billboards that line the highway.

I arrived to the hotel around 1:00 am. It is a somewhat hidden entry as the driver has to honk repeatedly to get someone from the hotel to open the gate. The hotel is a good bit smaller than I expected based on the fact that some man on the Hertz bus in Philadelphia claimed to be familiar with it when he asked where I was staying. But given its size (about 50 rooms), he was probably thinking of somewhere else.

A bellhop takes my bags up to my room. I realize that I have no idea how much to tip or if that is even appropriate. The lights in the hallway seem to be burned out or turned off and the bellhop has to fumble with the lock before letting me into the room. He turns on the room lights and leaves without much of a pause as if he was expecting a tip. I mumble something about being sorry that don’t have any money. I don’t know if he heard or understood.

The room is small but nice. There is a twin bed – maybe bigger than a twin but not quite a full. I wonder if they have rooms for couples or if this is pretty much it. There is a nice TV and a rather large leather massage chair that takes up a good portion of the room. It seems out of place, but it makes me smile.

I plug in my laptop which fortunately fits the international outlets. I feel smart for not having bought the $30 travel set in Philly. I was afraid that I would be sorry. It doesn’t matter much since my attempts to connect to the internet fail. I figure that I will work out the internet problem in the morning. I text Rachel on my phone that I have arrived and crawl into bed.

I fall asleep fairly easily. I set my phone for a morning alarm but as I am entirely uncertain what the local time is (and can’t get online to confirm), I figure it will be whatever it is going to be. I think about the fact that it is probably time to take an anti-malaria pill as I am falling asleep.

Holiday Card

So I have, once again, spent far too many hour creating a family holiday photo - this year it is a take on I-Spy. A few people suggested to me that I should offer this service to others (for their holiday / creative family photos). Not sure I want to take that on -- since I can't quite imagine how much I would need to charge to spend as many hours on one project as I do, but it is a thought. Anyway, the real point is that I was searching the web for other ideas -- or other similar projects that people have done. I found shockingly little. No way that I am the only one dumb enough to be doing this. I guess I need to figure out better search terms. Most matches seem to be directions for doing it yourself, not the results that people who spent too many hours came up with. Oh well. The only interesting link I've come across so far is for an illustrator, which takes the idea in a rather new direction... http://www.kodakgallery.com/cornpoppy/main/holiday_card_2008_-_the_25th_anniversary_card?UV=921230953810_975712942705