I vould like to buy some paynt.

Namaste! After 28 hours of travel, I can brush my hands off and say that these past two days in Delhi have been completely worth sitting next to Julia for so long.

Lessons from the first two days in India:

1. South Delhi looks like the sprawled out, dusty streets of Mexico (at least, in my imagination/movies since I've never actually been there). The "Sea of Humanity" that everyone talks about doesn't exist in South Delhi where Nirali's place is.

2. Chatni (chutney) is the Indian version of Cancun Taqueria salsas--you can get five or six sauces with every dish. Julia won't eat any of them, but I keep forgetting that they are made with tap water... so my tongue is perpetually black from all the preemptive Pepto I'm taking.
3. Dirty street chai is everything I dreamed it would be and more. Made on the spot at a sidewalk stand, vendors use dented old pots and janky metal grates to serve 5 rupee (11 US cents) cups.

4. Community is everything--the breakfast vendor that Nirali goes to won't serve eggs this week because of the Ram Navmi holiday... not because he necessarily follows, but because his customers won't patronize his stand if they do adhere to the beliefs.

5. Indians are like speed skaters: incredibly spatially aware. The "Sea of Humanity" is in full swing in Old Delhi, where the Red Fort and the Ghandi memorial is. Hundreds of people with massive bundles on their heads, rickshaws, motorbikes, vendors, kids, tourists take up every square inch of a tiny broken street under a canopy of tangled electrical cables. It's like in speed skating, when you need to put your hand on the person in front as a buffer... except times a thousand. We've had so many close-calls in rickshaws but the drivers always know exactly how much room they have to pass--usually 2 centimeters.
6. Visitors get the "Foreigner Special Treatment" at tourist hotspots. At Jama Masjid, the largest mosque in India, all foreigners are singled out and made to wear these ridiculous robes to cover our whole bodies. Justification : our sleeves were too short, except that Indian women were wearing shorter sleeves and had uncovered heads. Some tourists also fell for the entrance fee that guides were charging, although there actually isn't one. Pictures of Julia and me in the foreigner-branded robes to come.

7. An Indian accent gets better deals at the bazaars. While looking for kurtis at the market near CP (only one open on a Monday), I improved my Russell Peters imitation by 200%. One vendor told me 1850 rupees for a shirt worth 150; once Kristi came into haggle, he became buddy-buddy with her, "I tell your friend 1800 because she is foreigner. You're Indian, I give it to you for 850." Her fob accent gets the shirt for 250 because he knows I'm paying.

8. Weep over the excess supply of labor and resolve to do better. I feel horribly guilty every time I take a rickshaw or accept a cup of chai from the pantry boys at my office. It's incredible how hard people work here, and how many jobs are created from helping others do things we do ourselves in the States... like finding me a band-aid for the blister on my foot. Sudev has to hug me often because the burden of wealth is so, so heavy.

Yesterday, our rickshaw driver lost his sandal while taking us through Old Delhi before I even noticed that he pedals an old bike every day with only a pair of flip flops that look 10 years old. And we only paid him 30 rupees (65 cents). I want so badly to tip everyone substantially, but you can't even do that because it messes up their economy, encourages more "foreigner special treatment", and is physically dangerous to you if word spreads.

The pantry boys at work are so kind, offering to retrieve photocopies and take my lunch orders, nodding and backing away with "Yes ma'am" and "Please, ma'am" gesturing along the halls to guide me to my next meeting. It breaks my heart when I thank them profusely and they slink away, smiling with weary eyes.

I have to constantly remind myself that any job makes it possible for them to earn a living; there simply aren't enough white-collar jobs for everyone. Gregory David Roberts handles it well in Shantaram, when he discovers that his hot showers are the result of men hauling individual buckets of water up several flights of stairs to fill the tank: at first, he swears never to shower again... but upon learning how they would be unemployed otherwise, and noticing how they are proud to work, he swears to take three showers a day.

I have a long way to go until I reach that state of acceptance, but for now I will settle with admiration for Indian workers.