Mumbai, but I digress

Not sure what this little Assyrian Bull is doing holding up a building in Colaba, but I loves these guys!

After a whirlwind day in Mumbai, which constituted my very first day in India all those years ago (about 1.1 years to be exact), I once again found myself in this rather charming (South Bombay) city, where relics of past centuries and rulers are strewn across the landscape and tall, imposing (not to mention slightly eerie) apartment buildings overlook slums. It is a mix, Mumbai is, which describes India well in many ways.

Thanks to WWII strength blackout curtains, I didn't wake up until 11:45am on Saturday! I don't remember the last time I slept in that late, but maybe my body was telling me 'sleeeeeeep', or maybe it was because I found this pretty awesome site, The India Tube, and spent hours looking up cool , hip places to see in India. Oops.

I have no idea why I thought I could walk the 12km from Parel to Colaba; the doubt in my Indian friend's words so heavy, I could feel it across the Internet and countless time zones away (how do you count a half time zone anyway? I'm 10.5 hrs off from New York for anyone who cares). And he was right. Unless you're in Colaba and a few other parts of town, Mumbai is just not a walking city. India is not a walking country. It just isn't done. I already touched upon this topic before, so I won't go into detail, but the infrastructure just isn't set up in a manner that allows for easy walking, easy public transportation for that matter.

After weaving my way through a few bric-a-brac market places, past stalls selling samosas freshly fried in deep pans of oil, I found myself on the most depressing, busy street ever, a street that follows the train track, the metro track-word to the wise: the doors of the metro don't close-corrugated metal sided and roof shacks and a whole bunch of wood paneling/floor shops. At least I know where to go to get hardwood floors if I ever decide to redo an apartment in Mumbai, but after passing the fifth shop, my resolve to get some exercise died, along with all of the spare fresh air in my lungs, and I hailed a taxi. BEST DECISION OF MY LIFE

Colaba is what one sees of Mumbai when one is a tourist. This by no means detracts from the true beauty of the place, however. There are some quite amazing buildings in the area, left over from British colonial times, blackened, which only makes the buildings look cooler. Trees shade the sidewalks, their branches reaching down like tentacles that gentle brush the heads of passerby-ers. Those coupled with heavy stone paved roadwork, well how could it not invoke the feeling of being in another era. This Mumbai, South Bombay, well it pulsates with pedestrian life and perhaps that is why a like it so much. I like walking cities. I like to meander, to explore, to aimlessly wander, without too much risk of being hit by an oncoming bus or sideswiped by a kamikaze rickshaw.

As for food, well if you're going to India not as a backpacker (because this meal cost more than 3 or 4 nights of backpacker accommodations) and are DYING for a salad, go to Indigo near Taj Mahal Hotel. They also do what looks like decent desserts and bakery items, pastas, etc. My new love are sprouts. Not like the bean sprouts with white semi-translucent stems, but sprouted beans and lentils of various sorts (it reminds me of my grade school science project: 'The Effect of MSG on Mung Bean Sprouts'. Summary of findings: Not good). Furthermore, try their chickoo shake.

Next I did some high fashion shopping at Bombay Electric. The first time around I failed to find this little boutique and instead found the intense, sprawling slums that are a little south of Taj Mahal. Bombay Electric is Mumbai's equivalent to Opening Ceremony, promoting modern, edgy, avant garde-y fashion design. It was a cool store, but unless I missed something, quite small with limited inventory. Or maybe I'm a spoiled New Yorker. One thing that I did successfully find there was the magazine, Motherland. It's associated with The India Tube and is a bi-monthly magazine that brings a fresh perspective on trends, issues, etc. in India. I truly look forward to their next issue.

After my shopping expedition (which required some sleuthing on my part to locate a paper shop, that's praises I overheard while sitting in the courtyard of BE), I made my way to Britannia, a Persian-Indian restaurant. Once I got there, I realized my stupid mistake, it being Saturday, and Britannia of course being closed. SIGH

But no matter because a cab appeared out of nowhere to whisk me 'home'. And that's when I realized:

A FREAKING BIRD, whose cousins I so deftly avoided all day, SHAT ON ME. And not only shat on me, but on my new white cotton-silk shirt. Literally seconds before I hopped into the cab. SHAT ON ME. As I snapped out of my paralysis of seeing the mess on my arm, my senses went into overload. First thing registered: oh my god, I can feel the wetness on my arm. Second thoughts, 'GET IT OFF! KFC the bird! Flying Rat, bird diseases'. I was so close to wiping it onto the nearest thing (re: nuclear green upholstery of the car), but stopped myself in time. Luckily the driver conjured up some ominous looking rags that no more gained nor lost from the addition of one more substance.

'Crap,' I thought. 'Crap crap crap!' (literally) So much for my being an adult who can wear adult clothes. But then again, perhaps a delicate white shirt was not exactly the best choice to wear during a Mumbai adventure. Case in point:

1. A bird shat on me

2. My black backpack, rubbed black dye into my shirt

3. Other mysterious speckles made its way on my shirt through the course of the day

4. In Mumbai you sweat and there are a lot of cars/dirt around. This combination comes off onto your clothes (not to be gross but I think I've crossed that point already so no matter)

= ruined shirt, or a shirt that at least the hotel's dry cleaning services could do nothing for. Absolutely no single stain was removed. Last hope is go back to New York, whenever I actually get to go back, and take it to the very best.

But I digress...no I don't! That's what I find so amazing about being in new places, or experiencing in general. All the little things, the mundane but absolutelyfreakinghilarious. A bird shat on me. When I finally get something dry cleaned-in the land of silk saris-it doesn't work. I over paid a rickshaw driver x4 to get to me to correct airport terminal after making an almost fatal (travel-wise) mistake-after having to take taxi the last km to the airport because my first rickshaw broke down. One thing about overpaying is that the driver drives FAST. He made my day, for he got me there on time, and I made his by grossly overpaying him, and in the end gladly overpaying him especially as he touched the fare to his meter and said what was probably a little pray of thanks. Even taking a bite of an ominous looking and tasting airplane dessert and thinking, 'this is probably going to haunt me later,' but still eating a bit more: hilarious. I mean, why not. It's really what life is anywhere, and I can only hope that I will always be able to see the ridiculousness of situations, experiences, people, MYSELF! I can only hope that I will never take myself too seriously, will never not be able to laugh at something later, even though it boils my blood now. Life: take it with a grain of salt, right?

(oh yeah, so I'm being horrible with pictures and even worse will long rambly posts that next to no one will read. But I realized that at least I'll be able to remember all the little things about my trip here :D )