Bangalore

Namaste, Everyone! Greetings from Bangalore! We arrived about 1:30 this morning, India time. And, speaking of time, don’t take my conversions to the bank; I don’t think I have them right yet. It’s definitely 6 hours later in Paris than it is in Cincinnati, but that’s not much use to me now. I will have to rethink the Bangalore piece when I’m fully awake.

To get to this city we took two flights, the first from Cincinnati to Paris and the second from Paris to Bangalore. Each one was about 9 hours. On the second leg, especially, I kept thinking of the old (key word) World War II song, “It’s a Long Way to Tippperari,” because that is exactly what I’d say about the distance from Cincinnati to Bangalore. It was a long time to be on a plane.

When you were young, did your parents ever make you sit on a chair? The idea would have been for you to spend some time alone, thinking very hard about what you did to deserve such a fate. You probably counted the minutes until you could get up; did they seem interminable? Try that for 9 to 10 hours at a stretch, 39,000 feet up, supported by only an invisible cushion of air, and see where your thoughts lead you.

Our second flight, the one from Paris to Bangalore, left late after we waited on the tarmac for the Paris smog to lift and the cabin to be sprayed for mosquitoes. In addition to those pesky obstacles, I was sure I’d heard “Air controllers are on strike” among the announcements from the cockpit. Fortunately, they were in Algeria.

The flight was very smooth except for a couple of strange sideways dips shortly after we took off. “Turbulences,” said the flight attendant, as though it were routine for an aircraft to turn on its sides like a trick. My Indian seatmate and I looked at each other wide-eyed, and that was our first real communication.

Sally and I read a book before we came to India, a book telling women what we would need to know in order to get around—and get along—in this country. Mainly, women should not look men in the eye or start a conversation; either gesture could be taken as flirting, a no-no. So there I sat, inches from this young gentleman, afraid even to acknowledge his presence. It didn’t seem right, and I wondered if he already had me pegged for an unfriendly American—at least I thought that until the plane did its spontaneous dance in the sky above Europe. Then we both grinned at each other in pure fear. There’s nothing like a few “turbulences” for making friends.

The lunch menu was a choice of French, “World,” or Indian cuisine. I chose a French meal with white wine. When the plane suddenly put on its little air show, I wondered what my seatmate would think if I chugged my wine.

I practiced my right-handedness during lunch, slyly observing how HE handled the old knife and fork. Most of the time his left hand lay curled in his lap like a hooked fish, so I did the same with mine. He did have to raise his from the dead a few times to tear off a wrapper or open a bottle two-handed. We’re all human.

I am fairly sure—with my limited ability to decipher a French accent—that it was announced on the second flight that the toilets directly across from my seat were to be the domain of the male travelers, and that the women and children could use the ones in the back of the plane. Was she kidding? I think not; it bore out another cultural difference I have read about in travel books. But I wasn’t going to do it.

Anyway, after the long trip, here we are-- safe and sound. We are staying at the…well, what is it? The stationery says “The Unwind Island.” There you go, but I don’t think that’s the real name of the hotel. Let’s use it anyway.

The hotel is new. I haven’t unpacked completely; the first order of business after we’d registered was sleep. Today I will begin my first day in India by making this hotel room my own and seeing some of Bangalore. But first, I am definitely hitting the shower. Whoever said that cleanliness is next to godliness must have been a traveler.

I had breakfast in my room: Coffee that I made in my one-cup travel coffee maker, hooked into the wall outlet through my converter, and a couple little fruits that look like bananas that shrank. The books say something like, “Don’t eat it if you didn’t peel it or cook it yourself,” so the little yellow fruits are what I chose from the complimentary fruit plate that was in my room last night.

My morning coffee would not have been possible without my new SteriPen, a little miracle. I’d expected to have two bottles of water in my room, but I didn’t. Luckily, I had shelled out $99 back in America for a traveler’s SteriPen to sanitize questionable water. You’ve heard “Don’t drink the water”; there was even a Broadway play with that as the title. You’re not even supposed to consume a drink that has ice cubes in a foreign country. Well, you turn on the SteriPen and stir it around in said water and it’s made safe to drink. Or we’ll see, is what I should add to that.

I’ve already heard from our host in Bangalore, and his greetings were most welcome. It would be hard to overemphasize the value of knowing someone kind and helpful at the other end of a long journey to a foreign country.

There will be no work today as we begin our adjustment to life in India. By the time we arrive at our host company’s offices tomorrow, I should be rested, organized, and ready.

Until next time.