Mumbai, Footwear, and Umbrellas.

After 39 hours of travel, I landed at the Mumbai airport at 12:55am local time. The biggest issue there was getting the bags off the belt. Everyone on the flight had a luggage cart (a free one - you hear that O'Hare!) and they were pressed like sardines side by side. The bags trickled on so there was ample time to spot yours, but it took a herculean effort to move everyone aside. No one wanted to mess with the husky American with the hockey shirt!

I got through customs without a hitch, exchanged some USD for INR, and hoped with every fiber of my being that a driver with a card bearing my name was going to be visible among the throngs of people!

There was!

Mumbai Airport (BOM) 1:48am

I boarded my cab and we headed straight to the hotel. It was expensive as cab rides go in India (~$30), but worth every penny for peace of mind. The best part about getting in so late is that there is virtually no traffic at this time, so it only took about 30 minutes (that is purely a guess, given the addled state of my brain). The hotel staff were waiting for me, and that was also a big relief. I would at least have a bed to sleep in and a place from which to launch my Mumbai adventures.

I consider myself sort of a ‘master sleeper’. I usually don’t get jetlagged to a great extent and my plans to abate have it seemed to work. In addition to using the iPod-selected Mumbai time as a gauge for mental preparation, I looked to pharmaceuticals for an assist, taking an Ambien about five hours before landing which promptly resulted in deep sleep (with some crazy 747 crashing dreams, but that is another story). The airport experience and ride then served as a lucid dream between the Frankfort airport and hitting the pillow at the hotel and waking at 9am Mumbai time. I felt pretty good.

My first plan was to stake out the environment. This consisted of two short sojourns near the hotel, each time getting a little further, a little more confident before (in the words of Jonesy from ‘The Hunt for Red October) ‘running home to momma’. I was ready for the big time!

My first ‘real’ adventure consisted of finding an umbrella.

A side note here. When the weather forecasters predict precipitation, they use several models and the percentage you finally hear is the percentage of models that predicted precip in that area, i.e. 40% of the models predicted rain in Bozeman, so you hear ‘40% chance of precipitation’ – even though ’rain’ or ‘not rain’ is a binary proposition. Over time, poor models are discarded and ones that hit are used and/or given more weight – it’s the scientific method at its best!

The chances of rain in Mumbai were 90%. Now that’s high by forecasting standards. That being said, I humbly think that ANY model that failed to forecast rain today here should be immediately discarded and the authors of said models should be demoted to writing in the Farmer’s Almanac. There was literally no sun visible today and the rain varied from a fine mist (OK, stopping once entirely for about ten minutes) and sheets of rain from various horizontal directions.

Thus, the pressing need for an umbrella.

I looked in a couple of shops that could pass for grocery stores, I guess, and failed. I then thought it might be cool to check out the train station, because, hey, commuters might need an umbrella. The Churchgate train station is the terminus of one of the lines, and when I entered, I thought I would be prepared for the sea of humanity inside. My imagination being what it is, I feel as though I actually underpredicted what I did see, so I felt prepared to continue without having to chicken out and scoot back to the hotel. I found a stall that had a nice selection of umbrellas, complete with hawkers. There is no hiding that I am not a local Mumbaiker, so I played along with the game. I was shown a nice, high quality umbrella from a pile and told that it was 250 rupees (about $5). I was ‘incensed’ at the price and began to walk away. When they came down to 150 rupees, I agreed and was handed an umbrella from the same pile. As I walked away, I noticed them giggling at each other, because – I thought – that they would have gone down even further in price and they ‘got me’. To me, 150 or 100 rupees was not worth the haggling at that point. I also thought, being the humanitarian dude I am, that the 50 rupees meant way more to them than to me. When I exited the station, the rain was not strong enough to warrant the hassle of an umbrella, so I moved on toward my food destination. Eventually (inevitably, I guess) the rain strengthened in intensity, and I opened the umbrella. I realized then the reason for the mirth of the salesmen. The tines of the umbrella were rusty, and two of them were not connected to the fabric. I had been suckered by the old ‘bait and switch’.

I decided to keep going and retain the umbrella as a reminder to always be aware. More on it later.

For lunch, I went to Brittania, an Iranian restaurant that was highly rated by my guidebook. It was about 1km from the hotel and it think it took some savvy navigational skill to get there, so when I saw the storefront, I was quite self-impressed. The co-owner himself, the very spry 92-year-old Mr. Kohinoor, waited my table, likely the most fluent English speaker. I ordered chicken berry pulav, a curry dish with native Iranian barberries, somewhat similar to cranberries, and basmati rice. Simply put, it was delicious! I spoke with Mr. Kohinoor about my trip and exchanged many pleasantries about America, Iran, and Mumbai. His father had opened the restaurant in 1923 during the British Raj period and while the décor was nothing special – crumbling masonry on the ceiling and various eclectic art – there was a familiar hominess to it that was truly special. The life’s work of a family on display to the world, warts and all. I topped my meal off with a dish of caramel custard (also sublime) and left, but not before taking a picture with my new friend. My first meal in India was everything I had hoped it would be!

Brittania Restaurant

Mr. Kohinoor, Co-owner

Mr. Kohinoor was kind enough to offer some directions to the historic Gateway of India, so I hoofed it on over. The rains continued, but did not dampen the spirits (Did I really just write that?).

I passed by the museum. It was the Prince of Wales museum (now Chhatrapati Shivaji Majariaj Vastu Sangrahalaya – so let’s just call it ‘the museum’. I decided to stop in for a visit. At only 300 rupees (but 30 if you’re an Indian), it seemed like a bargain. Simply touring the grounds and building was worth the price. There were cool exhibits of ancient Indian sculpture and coins and a gallery celebrating the 150th birthday of Rabindranath Tagore, India’s foremost literary figure. The guidebook said the ‘natural history’ section would be a disappointing – a collection of cramped, sad stuffed animals – and they were right on. I imagine it’s what the Field Museum in Chicago looked like in 1920. (I’ll come back in 50 years to see if they have caught up with the times!)

The "Museum"

I then proceeded to the Gateway of India, which saw the ceremonial leaving of the final British troops after Indian independence. While beautiful and historic, it’s the kind of place that tends to attract the overtly tourist crowd and the local crowd bent on separating them from their rupees. Every few years, there is a ‘new thing’ to do that. When I was in Rome, it was those horribly annoying magnetic pellets that whine when they are thrown in the air. Here, it was massive speckled neon green balloons at least a meter in length. There must have been twenty vendors plying the same thing. I’m sure everyone will have one soon…just not me.

The Gateway of India

I thought a quintessential Mumbai tourist experience would be stopping for tea at the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel – a truly 5-star hotel – right across the street from the Gateway. Since this was one of the sites rocked by the terrorist attacks in 2008, there is a palpable security presence. I had to pass through a metal detector, and I noticed that entering cars were given a thorough underside mirror inspection. In shorts and flip-flops, at first I felt out of place, but the dress was completely bimodal – tourons like myself, and those sporting tailor-made stylish suits. It was the one place I found at least some people dressed like me! I asked the front desk where I could get some tea, and was ushered into the ‘coffee shop'. I immediately realized I was about to make a big faux pas, as this was clearly a ‘sit-down’ restaurant. I was seated with pomp and fanfare along with the explanation of the specials of the day. The person who escorted me in, who was listening, curtly told the waiter that I only wanted tea. The disappointment in the eyes of the server was obvious. I was at least hoping to try some of the finer teas that I saw on the menu, but before I could say anything, the waiter immediately brought me the ‘house tea’ served in a pitcher. I wanted to crawl under the table at this point. I did my best to be cheery and brief, sucked down two cups of (quite good) tea, left a 500 rupee note – probably at least triple the bill, in deference for wasting their time – and high-tailed it out of there.

The TaJ Mahal Palace Hotel

I decided to attempt navigating back to my hotel. The rains continued to buffet my – now cursed – umbrella, and I began to get a little disoriented. I trudged on and began to feel a blister forming from my flip-flops. I should mention that these are the first pair I have ever owned, but they seemed to be the right choice for wading in a combination of rain, dirt and raw sewage (I think they said that on the box). Empathizing with the plight of most Mumbaikers, I forged ahead while thinking "tough thoughts". The rain, the navigational lapses, and the pain finally got the best of me. I hailed a cab to take me to my hotel. I felt deflated and defeated until I looked down at the inside of my left foot to see not only a blister, but a bleeding wound, probably not the thing you most want to see in the streets of Mumbai. I felt vindicated that I my pain threshold was at least somewhat ‘manly’, and continued that mental thread as I poured hand sanitizer on the site. The alcohol-based salve shot arrows through my foot, and I gritted my teeth.

No caption needed!

My cab driver spoke virtually no English, but through pointing at the location on my guidebook map, we were able to find our way. I felt a huge wave of relief as I entered the hallway, obtained a bandaid from the front desk, and washed, dried, and dressed my wound. I then took a little nap.

I woke up to the lack of rain sounds, conspicuous in their absence. When I had first heard the rain earlier, I erroneously thought a neighbor with a shared window was taking a noisy shower; it was in fact rain pouring into the courtyard from the rooftop with the same hollow splashing sound. The silence encouraged action. I was still full from my lunch, but I thought I would take advantage of the respite in precipitation to stroll along Marine Drive, a spectacular stretch along the Indian Ocean. There were couples snuggling and actually a few joggers. I thought I saw some rain in the night distance, so I figured I had better turn back. I was too late; the rain came sideways in sheets buffeted by gusting winds. My umbrella, of little use normally, was rendered into a scarf attached to a rusty, mangled, metal stick. I laughed at the situation, joined in by a couple of locals, and deposited my first ‘durable’ good in the nearest wastebasket.

Drenched to the bone, but refreshed to say the least, I crawled into my room, dried off, and prepared for tomorrow – a visit to Dharavi slum at 8, which will require an early wake-up and travel by train from the same station I bought the umbrella. I think I will go to a different stall.