WHY IS MY RIGHT LEG GETTING TIRED?

While getting myself to Bangalore has so far seemed to be a herculean task, getting from the Bangalore airport to the hotel was still a challenge ahead of me.

The last time I was here, I had my ordeal with the shifty taxi driver impersonators and through my naive trust in the indigenous of India got myself ripped off and scared senseless as I was led to a suspicious car, intimidated by a luggage lad who could not blink his eyes into paying a gratuity, and then transported into unknown provinces, scared I was being kidnapped and that I would be soon sold into slavery.  "Hut Boy" they would call me.  And every night, after putting the cow in the garage and clearing the monkey turds from the stoop, as I'd go to lie down on my rock, I'd hear "Good night Scoot.  Good work.  Sleep well.  I'll most likely kill you in the morning."

So now, having learned the tricks of the wiley non-taxi-driver airport posers, I exited the airport with confidence, saying "No" to this one, "No" to that one, and just giving the international "talk to the hand" sign language to the other.

I pity the fool who doesn't say no!

Feeling like a pro, I sauntered out of the airport and into the sultry evening air of Bangalore and queue up for a cab in the easily-found "taxi" area.  Like a queued pig in line for the slaughter, I too move with the herd, choosing optimism as a blatant mockery of fate.

Only over here I think they might call it karma.

And as karma, fate and chance would have it, I soon find myself in a cab, my bag in the back, and we're on our way to the hotel.

Except we're not.

Apparently we need to put some fuel in the car.  This would ordinarily roll off my back like so much acid off a duck's, but there's a lot of suspicious activity going on around the car while it is being fueled.  There are some dudes standing around a motorcycle as it is getting juiced up.  Nothing too odd about that, although the dangling, smoking sticks of potential energy of flaming death hanging from their fingers as they stand in the cloud of petrol fumes does put a slight twinge of anticipation into the experience.

Then there is the kid with the bucket.  He is walking here, there, to, fro, carrying the bucket and not really doing much with it.  As he approaches the car, I try and shrink down and pretend to be invisible, lest he decide I might pay for a window washing or need my teeth cleaned.  But then he veers off, once again following his unfathomable path.

Soon the driver returns, cranks up the ol' engine, and pulls out.

And NOW we're on our way to the hotel.

Except we're still not - not quite.

Since it is the middle of the afternoon - well before the end of the workday - traffic is terrible.

It was a lot like this, only worse.  Really.

It takes us about 2 hours to get to the hotel where it should have taken about 30-40 minutes.  All the while my driver is getting frustrated, throwing his hands into the air, saying various words that probably border on the obscene, and then giving up and taking alternate routes.  I am curious to know if we would have arrived earlier had he stayed on the primary route, but now I'll never know.

I'm sure that staying on the original route would have resulted in one less adventure, however.

With each new alternative route selected, he puts the petal to the metal and tries to make up for lost time.  He's a pro, too, exercising the skills only people who survive learning to drive in India can acquire.

Keeping the lane divider right in the middle of the car, weaving to and fro through mopeds, motorcycles, rickshaws, cars, trucks, you name it, he's violating at least 12 laws of physics any given minute.  The car is in a constant state of acceleration or deceleration with no steady state.  Certain death is surrounds us in a baffling cacophony of horns, bells, toodles and shouts.

When we're not tailgating, it is because we're slow enough that mopeds, rickshaws, pedestrians and other miscellanea are swarming around us like rats fleeing the Titanic.

When we're not jammed up with everyone else, we're tailgating someone or something, beeping and swerving as they mosey to one side or another.  And by tailgating I don't mean like that guy who was "on your bumper" when you were driving on route 95 the other day.  In India, you get close enough to test for the Casimir effect.

You know what I mean.  It's that physical force arising from a quantized field between two uncharged plates that can produce a locally mass-negative region of space-time that could destabilize a wormhole to allow faster than light travel.  Duh.

It isn't long before I realize that my right leg is starting to ache.  It's getting tired!

Turns out there is no brake pedal in the back seat of the taxi, and the continued pressure of trying to push my right leg through the floor to activate the brakes has tired my leg out to the point that my calf is starting to cramp!

You laugh, but you weren't there, man.  You weren't there.

In fact, I feel I am justified.  The taxi driver apparently has some device monitoring his speed and location.  Every time he gets going and starts drafting various vehicular facsimile at speeds that would stymie a fighter pilot, a voice announces: "Please slow down.  You are exceeding the speed limit.  Please slow down.  You are exceeding the speed limit."  At first I could not figure out why the driver would have this device but never actually slow down until he had to.  But then I figured it out.

This isn't a warning.  It's praise.

Finally pulling into the hotel from the main road is like escaping from a raging river full of piranha and climbing out onto a nice, calm shore.  The frenzy of vehicles is left behind, and we pull up to a set of guards pushing a metal gate in our way.

Time for the bomb check!

Using a giant dental mirror they check the undercarriage of the car, go through the trunk, and then pass us through.  And suddenly I'm in the lap of luxury.

I did not get a picture of the guys at the hotel, other than the fact that the uniform was different, plus the guy was different, and the car was different, it was the same.

THE INDIAN EMPIRE STRIKES BACK

Like a turd that won't flush, I have returned.

Yes, I'm back in India, and this time, I've got plans.

...and my plans are also not in the main computer.

But first, a few notes about how I got here.

So I knew I had to make another trip out to our Bangalore and Shanghai offices, and I knew I didn't want to do this in the summer when, as far as I could tell, it would be sweltering hot and I would die.  I also know that I had to make a trip to Germany in late April, and I knew I dislike long plane rides.

You put all that together and I, in my infinite wisdom, decided to go from Germany to Bangalore, from Bangalore to Shanghai, and in doing so limit the amount of radiation I'd be absorbing this year flying at 40,000 feet back and forth between those locations and home.  And to top it off, my wife and I will be celebrating our 20th anniversary in Greece and Italy, so why not just tack that on as well, I said?

So I'm away from home for 5 weeks.  What could go wrong?

Oh yes.  THAT.  (From the last India visit.)

At the risk of dissing Germany, it is boring compared to India and Shanghai.  Hey, Shanghai is boring compared to India. In fact, I suspect that I'd find being dumped into a trash compactor in the heart of the death star would be less exciting than India.

But first, one must GET to India from Germany, and for me that meant a plane trip.

Now the company travel policy states that I must choose the cheapest flight option.  My own personal policy is in conflict with this, stating that I must choose the cheapest acceptable business class flight so that I won't have to sit hip to hip with the cattle class which everyone knows carry various germs and crying infants.  I have found a happy medium here by booking the business class flight and expensing only the amount of the quoted cheapest equivalent flight (the one I would have booked had my meddling policy, well, meddled.)

For me, that was Air India's flight to Bangalore through New Delhi.  And for Air India, that meant that I would have a fine ride on one of their "state of the art" Boeing 787 Dreamliners.

Let me tell you about that state of the art plane they got there.

I admit it was a little better than this contraption.

As we are taxiing to the runway, picking up speed, there's an ominous "thump, thump, thump" sound and vibration that varies with the airplane's velocity.  It's like when you drag your wheelbarrow out of storage and the tire has a nice flattened spot where it settled over the last several months, and ONLY that spot on the tire is flat.

As we go full throttle for takeoff, this thumping gets faster and faster until the front of the plane rises above the tarmac, giving the plan a less-than-pleasant shudder as the wheels retract, still spinning unbalanced.

State of the art technology.  Somewhat less state of the art maintenance.

Worry is a choice.

Now, at the risk of calling upon myself criticism and insult, let me point out that it is human nature that we do not learn from history.  In fact, one of our more beloved presidents once said:

There's an old saying in Tennessee -- I know it's in Texas, probably in Tennessee -- that says, "Fool me once, shame on... shame on you.  Fool me... you can't get fooled again."

So for those just joining us, when I last went through Delhi Airport, I was forced to "exit" the secure area and check back in like a noobie just arriving too late for his flight as part of my connection, forcing upon me a very stressful, sweaty but calorie-burning sprint through the airport.  So this time I carefully considered that my entry into India was likely to incur the same anti-immigration policy of hardship and attrition, and, calling upon my vast resources of wisdom and intellect, I decided that a layover of 1.5 hours would surely be sufficient to accomplish the trivial tasks of deplaning, getting my luggage, going through customs and border control, checking in at the ticket desk, going through border control again, then security, then finding the gate, which undoubtedly would be among the first few that are near the beginning of the airport terminal maze.

Someone once defined confidence as "that feeling you have before you understand the situation."

So imagine my surprise when, even though my plan worked perfectly up to the first stage (exiting the plane), it failed utterly in that the fact of my "elite status" of being business class failed to produce my bag as one of the first few to be spewed out onto the carousel.  Five minutes go by.  Ten.  Fifteen.

There's a clock right in front of me and I can feel it laughing at me.

And then, just when I thought all hope was lost, my bag plops out in front of me.  I grab it and run.  Customs is blessedly quick and then I'm out!  I'm free!  I'm...

... lost!

I stand there in New Delhi airport, right outside the secure area (no reentry!) looking around in a daze for any sign of where I should go.  I really have only two viable options: left or right.

It's hard to be a decider.

Being conservative, I go left.  And about 10 meters later I pause, turn and look behind me, and see a sign that can only be seen from this far down the hall pointing the opposite way for domestic transfers.

The lesson is: always keep looking behind you in justified paranoia.

Well, I am not yet running, but I am speed-walking my suitcase like an old man with a bad hip rushing to the bathroom before he pees himself.

I get to the ticket counter and, amazingly, there is no one in line.  This actually worries me.  What kind of evil sorcery is this that there would be no line at the airport check-in counter for a flight, unless...

... unless I'm too late.

The lady there asks me where I'm going, and I tell her.  The look on her face is a precious combination of pity, disdain, worry and frustrated amazement.

"Ooooh, you don't have much time," she says.  I heartily agree.

"You'll need to hurry up," she says.  I vigorously concur.

"You'll want to get to the gate quickly," she advises.  I violently acknowledge the wisdom of her words.

She puts the newly-printed boarding pass on the counter in front of me and circles a time printed there: 9:15.  In fact, she circles it twice.  She tells me to put my bag on the conveyer.

I dutifully obey.

And as I do, I notice that the sticky routing tag thingie is on there from my last flight.  I am in a rush.  She will be delayed, possibly confused, if she sees this, so I decide to help.

Just ask my wife.

I rip that sucker off the suitcase and the woman behind the counter looks at me like I just broke the neck of her favorite rat.

"Ooooooooo!  Noooooooo!" she says.  I anxiously pay attention.

"That needs to stay on there!" she exclaims.  I worriedly believe her.

She tells me to run along and that she'll fix it.  As I scurry away in shame, I ponder whether the meaning of her words includes my bag getting to Bangalore on the same plane as me.

So, taking heed of the advice so freely given, I begin to run toward border control.  This, too, is wonderfully short of queued people, and I find myself through to the border control dude in a mere 2 minutes.  The time is now 9:10.

Usually they close the gate some 10-15 minutes before departure, and I'm already thinking that I should plan contingencies, but what other options do I have but to try?

As the border control guy is moving at glacial speed in examining my passport, visa, face, ticket stub, I begin to sweat.  It is a trio of factors: it's hot in the airport.  I've been rushing.  I'm scared and nervous.  Put those together and I'm sure the guy is thinking I'm carrying an exploding vest or plotting some kind of grievous clown-killing crime and the stress is making me sweat and hop from foot to foot.

But he passes me along anyway.  I nearly run the 100 feet to security where the line is still short, but moving not at all because the dude sitting in front of the display is looking at his buddy and they are having a wonderfully fun time talking about things not related to getting their job done.

Like sands through the hourglass, so are the drops of worried sweat falling from my brow.

Security takes maybe 5 minutes, but given that the anxiety I'm feeling has reached nuclear levels, and Einstein proved that energy and matter are interchangeable, and Newton concluded that gravity is proportional to the amount of concentrated mass, and Einstein further showed up that arrogant Newtonian noob by proving that time slows down in a gravitational field, it felt like about 2 million years before I got through security.

Now, I have to get to the gate.  It is just after 9:10 and the picture in my mind has the circles continuing to multiply, swirling around and around that 9:15 figure on the boarding pass.

And with appropriate reverb, the ghostly recollection of the ticket counter lady continues to scold me: "You'll need to hurry up... you'll need to hurry up..."

And I run.

Now, airports are all specifically designed with precisely the purpose to prevent you from getting to your gate in a timely manner.  Of the many tactics utilized to achieve this goal, one of them is to put the duty free shop right on the other side of security, complete with an unavoidable, twisty, winding path full of gawkers who risked all to get thru security only to stop and leave puddles of drool on the slippery floor as they ponder the existential meaning of the concept: one can get a great deal by paying no taxes for incredibly over-priced bottles of liquor, flasks of perfume or boxes of chocolates, none of which stand a snowball's chance in hell to survive a plane trip unscathed.

Maybe you missed the inference, but (a) these airport zombies were in my way, and (b) this #@%@#$ yellow brick road through duty free land was extending my time to the gate by seconds I could no longer afford.

Leaning into each turn like a drunk striving to remain vertical, I dashed through the liquor section.  Like a refreshing cool spring breeze, I blew through the perfume section.  And like a Jamaican olympic sprinter, I tore through the chocolates.  (Not the actual chocolates - the section.)

And having defeated this level, I graduated into level 2.

Actual photo from security surveillance of my run to the gate.

Bobbing and weaving like an NBA pro, pushing old women, toddlers, eager shoe-shiners and hopeful clowns out of my way, I booked it like a panicked midget running from a gaggle of admirers.

After what seemed like a full marathon, I finally turn a corner and see the looooong terminal hallway with the gate numbers stretching into the distance.  From here you can see the curvature of the earth as the hall recedes to the horizon.  And my gate number is too far away to see.

Fortunately for me, there are moving walkways.

Let us pause here to consider an airport phenomenon.  I contend that the following statement is true and reliable, provable in any part of the world, at any time.

Along with bottles of water, nail clippers, scissors, fireworks and semi-automatic rifles, people also throw out their brains as they are going through airport security.

Why do I say this?

This year I decided I would spring for the TSA pre-check program.  I paid $88 to join this aristocracy because of all my travel planned for this year. It is supposed to facilitate a faster journey through security and into the land of duty free delights because of its shorter lines and less-strict scanning. However, it seems each time I am in pre-check watching the "privileged class" in front of me go through they are somehow reduced to baffled sheep being herded through the process with no ability to think about what is going on

"Everything out of your pockets?" they are asked, to which they nod or say yes.

Then they are rejected by the scanner and found to be carrying large key rings, battery packs, swiss army knives - you get the idea. One guy had a large smartphone with what looked like 2 miles of cabling wrapped around it jammed in his pocket.  Some of these dolts get rejected multiple times, and each time they are sent back their faces betray their shock and surprise that the lighter they are carrying in the other pocket did not pass without detection.  The people being held up by this idiot mock and shake their heads in scorn, and then repeat the blunder without a hint of shame.

It would be nice if it ended there.  But no.

So here I am, sprinting through the New Delhi Airport. I finally get to the looooong corridor of the gates as I mentioned above, and I am (a) relieved to see that they have moving walkways as far as the eye can see which would make me seem to run like The Flash, and (b) severely dismayed by the log-jam of people on these things standing and enjoying the thrill of the wind not able to blow thru their hair due to their slower-than-I-walk-when-I'm-tired-and-just-had-my-foot-gnawed-off-by-a-ferret thrill ride. I can see them thrill to the scene of a sweaty, out of shape American with a huge backpack bouncing on his back stumble-running alongside them at what must have seemed to them so fast that the light was blue-shifted as I approached and red-shifted as I receded.

By the time I get to the gate it is 9:16 and there are no people left lined up to board, although I can see the end of the line of people heading to the plane on the other side of the glass wall separating the tardy from the punctual.

My throat is so dry from heaving that I could have quenched my thirst with a glass of sand.  My lips are sticky and have those bits of congealed spit that stretch into disturbing webs between the lips as I try and mouth the words, questioning whether I am too late.  My glasses won't stay on the bridge of my nose because that nose is lubricated with sweat slippery enough to apply for a patent for an organic alternative to WD-40.

The guy who checks the tickets looks at me with a bemused smile and asks for my ticket.  For reasons that defy physics, it is not sopping wet with my sweat, unlike my shirt, pants and under bits.  He scans it and passes me through.

I am sooooooo relieved.  I made it.  I endured the test. I finished the race.  My reward is due.

And as I walk down the gangway toward the plane, I look down at my ticket to admire how dry it is.  And it is then that I notice something.

My ticket tells me that estimated boarding time is 9:15.  Departure is not scheduled until 9:45.

And with that, I find my seat on the plane, sit on the nice soon-to-be-not-so-dry seat, turn the little air thruster thingie to full blast, and wait the wait of the shamed.

Three hours later I am in Bangalore, walking out of the airport, WITH my bag, looking for a legitimate cab.  Three hours of airplane air has dried my shirt, most of my pants and left my underwear feeling suspicious but I walk with the confidence of a man who has succeeded in arriving safely with his bag, not at all worried that there might be a darker shade of blue on the seat of my jeans leaving people to speculate about how much my butt must sweat more than the rest of my body.

GOODBYE SHANGHAI

My 13 hour flight from Shanghai to Toronto was the most enjoyable 13 hour plane ride I've ever had.  After all, when you have your own personal jet of air that you can adjust in 1000s of ways who can complain?  Just because every 15 minutes the air coming out of this nozzle would suddenly switch from odorless bliss to emergency venting of the pressurized gasses stewing in the sewage tank of the airplane isn't any reason to express dissatisfaction with the flight.

After all, my lungs had already been through worse.  I was like a war veteran looking the enemy in the eye and saying "I dare you."

Except I shut off that valve faster than a Walmart super shopper making a run at the last X Box on Black Friday.

I arrived in Toronto at 7pm local time and had an 11 hour layover.  I wasn't about to spend that in the airport, and so had reserved a room at a nearby hotel.  The plan was to not sleep on the plane (and other than dozing off for about an hour I was fairly successful at that) so that I could sleep in the hotel and kick-start my return to EST sleep habits.

However, like all good plans, reality met it and slapped it across the face, kicked it in the groin and then spat on its quivering remains.  I was just starting to doze off a bit when my alarm jolted me out of bed at 2:30 so that I could shower and catch the shuttle back to the airport.

Why so early?

Well, as everyone who is anyone knows, the wise and nobly apathetic TSA says that for international flights a smart fella would get there three (3) hours ahead.

This is how you write the number 3 in Chinese.

Thus, for my 6am flight I'm here at the United Airlines counter at 3:15, calmly standing here with several other compliant passengers, all of us looking around anxiously like we expect the police to bust in from any direction (but really trying to spot the UA personnel from afar so as to reassure our nervous selves that we’re not insane for being here at the airport at 3:15 am).

It was kinda like this except… no, it was exactly like this.

At EXACTLY 4am, and not a second sooner, 3 ladies and 2 men come out of nowhere to the counters like ninjas surprising an unsuspecting pigeon. They settle themselves at the counter.  They adjust their chairs.  They type stuff. They move stuff around on the counter. They count stuff. (I have reason to believe that they take inventory of the universe before looking any of us pathetic customers in the eye.) One comes out to straighten the cordon lines.  Then she goes back to repeat the steps just listed in case any were missed or done below her high standard of quality.

Dear United Airlines. Can you MOVE any slower?

Any sense of urgency they might have is well concealed behind a professional look of apathy and bureaucratic piety.

Finally by 4:12 they start processing passengers. When I get up to the counter (which wasn’t too long because I was there so eyeball-shatteringly early I was #3 in line), after processing my reservation and handing me a boarding pass, I am told to go "quickly" to immigration as there is not much time now before my flight.

Ah, I see. Urgency is one of those things you give to others and are careful not to horde for yourself.  Seems wise.  In fact I should have thought of this and got here earlier.

Oh wait.  I DID.

Properly advised, I scurry along at a pace designed to cater to the sense of urgency I've been given and yet not look like I've just stolen this carry-on I'm dragging behind me and I'm running from its former owner.  Since I'm one of the first several people going down this route, customs and immigration and security are happily lightning-fast. The yawning customs officer, checking my passport, asks me how long I have been in Canada.  "Oh, about 9 hours" says I.  When that look of "get the hell outta here, eh?" gets thrown my way I inform the nice man that I had a layover.  His yawn was more than enough to communicate that his interest in my story had sufficiently waned and I was free to move along.

And so I am through and walking to my gate.

Now, like most airports, after you get through security and into the terminal you are greeted by many places where you could stop and shop were you not immensely anxious to get to your gate to get a good seat so you can sit for a long, long time hoping to be the first few standing in line for a long, long time so that you can be the first few on the plane so you can sit for a long, long time.

Plus there’s the added advantage of finding a spot for you carry-on luggage in the nearly unlimited storage space provided on the plane.

I find that I am hungry.  However, while the nexus of the terminals naturally has all manner of shops, including many choices where one could get food, none are open at 4:30am.

Well-placed signage directs me to the right for my gate.  To the right is a long hallway that gently curves out of the line of sight to the right.  It is well lit, and wide, with white walls and various posters and advertisements all the way down each side.  And there is no one as far as the eye can see except for a lonely janitor pushing a cart at a reckless mile or two an hour.  One of the wheels on the cart has a squeak.

I begin my journey toward the gate, my footsteps echoing.  The janitor’s wheel squeaking.

A light flickers.

In the distance, a dog yelps suspiciously.

I continue walking, and what with a normal walking pace for an average-sized biped using no means of assisted locomotion, I pass this jackrabbit of sanitation engineering as though he were standing still.

After about 2 minutes, I come to the end of this well-lit corridor where there is a T intersection.  The sign points me to the left for my gate, and I head down that way.  There’s a junction between the section I’m in and the next section of long hallway with a sign that reads “7 minute walk to the next gate.”

Yikes.  Fortunately I arrived here weeks before the plane is scheduled to depart, so 7 minutes seems like it would not be a problem.  Except that the next corridor looks, well, scary.

If I a woman by myself I'd be nervous.  Ok, I’m a man and I was nervous.

You’ll note that the forbidden corridor to the right of the glass wall has lights, whereas my corridor does not.

Such long and scary walks only serve to increase my hunger.  So imagine my hope and expectant joy upon seeing a sign for a bagel place ahead, allegedly located at the gate next to mine!  I’m especially enthused since the sign says BREAKFAST ANYTIME. That certainly has promise.

Except it is not open yet.

Ah Canada. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways... Done.

I take a seat, whip out a book and start burning time.  There’s one other dude here staring intently into a laptop.  He does not even look up at my arrival, and I’m perfectly fine to share his belief that interaction with a human being in a creepy out of the way gate with no security and inadequate lighting and lots of places for one to stash a body is simply asking for more trouble than one needs.

After about 10 minutes of this silence, a lady arrives at the gate, complaining about the lack of open breakfast places and the "creepy" walk to this gate.  Part of me wants to burst into creepy laughter so she will decide not to talk to me again, but wisdom prevails.  (I did not do so.)

Which brings me to the end of my Asian Adventure.  It’s only been a little over two weeks but I miss the comforts of home, and look very much forward to things like ice in my drink, pizza, vegetables that I can spell, meats not still stuck to entrails, high speed internet that is reliable and just works, signs and verbal communication in Spanish with a little English sprinkled in for old times’ sake, and most importantly my wife and kids, whom I miss more than any of those other things.  And when I get home, I plan to order REAL Chinese food to celebrate my return to the free world.

In the meantime, here are some other random pics from my adventure that didn’t quite fit in the narrative.  Enjoy.  Or not.

Bangalore

The glass standing between me and The Mist-inspired flying insects outside this window is slowly eroding away.  I was given cause to fear having discovered this on day one.

A view out of my hotel room window.  That's just a little bit of the poverty here that puts American poor people to shame.

The sink.  One must stick their head into the bowl to see this.  Why would I have done so?  How else would I have seen this???

The Moldy Orchid shows yet more of its finer qualities.  This is another part of the sink.

That's not dust up there.  If you get close enough the furry hairs of the mildew and mold reach out toward you as though hungry for meat.

Here's where I kept my stash.  That's like 20,000 rupees in there, man.  I would have been rolling in it had I thought those rupees were freshly printed and untouched by billions of unwashed hands.

That's my shoe.  I wanted proof that I was in fact there in Bangalore.  It's blurry because I walk fast.

Rubble.  Why not?

Part of my walk from the hotel to the office.  In general the area is pretty nice, if you ignore the smell from the river.

More of the walk to work.  Some of those spots on the street are things you don't want to step in and track into your hotel room or the office.  I had mentioned the plethora of canine gang members about.  This is how they mark their territory.

I was always afraid when walking under that bar that it would fall on my head.  Every time.

Guards in front of the golf course entrance next to the hotel.  You can decide if I talk of the humans or the canine.

Hotel lobby is deceptively nice here at the Musty Orchid.  I've heard from others who have stayed here that if you're lucky enough to get a room on a lower floor you can hear the rats scurrying about in the walls and ceiling.

They must know that visitors from places like America are likely to need more than the normal amount of toilet paper in any given day.  I respect their wisdom.

Light traffic on the way to the other side of Bangalore.

Shanghai

A surprisingly uncrowded walkway near a science museum.

This doesn't do it justice.  The city's buildings are decoratively lit making the downtime Shanghai areas really neat at night.

This is a cool pedestrian bridge.

Shopping lies behind this gate.  We did not go in.  (I insisted.)

You might note, as I did, that sidewalks are for suckers.

Here there be dragons.

And here there be nerds, too.

That woman's shirt says "Make me happy."  I'm thinking it is one of those impossible challenges.

LEAVING SHANGHAI

Sunday was a day “of rest” wherein I read my book, caught up on this blog, did some email and other work, napped and ate the most western variations of food I could find on the menu at the hotel restaurant.  I did not in any way even come close to setting foot outside of the hotel or having to interact with people, human or otherwise.

Monday is my day of departure, and as such I checked out of the room @ noon after a morning of packing and catching up on email and the like, then sat my American butt down in the business center of the hotel to enjoy some more work catch-up before my taxi arrived to take me to the mag-lev train.

Interestingly, and again I probably could have gotten a picture of this but there were extenuating circumstances (as in I was afraid they’d notice and question me about it), mere minutes after sitting down in the empty business center there was a ruckus in the hallway.  The business center is separated from this hallway by a glass wall so I can see out (and those there can see in), other than the entry way which is guarded by a rather stern looking Chinese lady who tests the worthiness of all who might wish to enter with questions like “what is your room number.”

This ruckus grew quickly to a cacophony the likes of which can only be spelled correctly with a spell checker.  A significantly large mob of people were passing through this hall on their way to the lobby.

Now “significantly large mob” in America might mean something like 50 or 100 people.  That would be a lot of people pushing their way through a hotel hallway into the lobby.  Maybe 200-250 coming from a wedding or conference happening in some off-to-the-side meeting hall.

This procession of humanity built quickly to a steady flow and impressed me with its constancy so much so that I decided I’d try and start timing how many people seemed to be passing by every second.  I averaged it out to 5-8 people per second.  Since I did not expect this stampede in the first place I did not note its start time but after a couple of minutes I started checking the clock.  All in all I can confidently say this literal raging river of raucous rabble-rousers lasted at least 10 minutes, possibly as much as 15.  Do the math and that puts this surging mass of Typhoid Marys at a count of 3,000, maybe as many as 7,000 people.  I kid you not.  I mean I really, REALLY am not exaggerating.

Don't give me that look.  I'm talking true, man.

It was like the hotel became possessed and started a long, drawn-out, high-volume projectile vomit of humanity.

All the while I’m here in my business center “cave” with the glass walls being more and more distracted, watching the never-ending parade go by.  I can see the envy in their eyes as they look in and notice me, sitting in a large room, all by myself, with lots of comfy chairs and sofas and more than enough peace and quiet and serenity for one person to righteously wield.  But they are without free will, pushed along in the inevitable flow of time and the progress of the herd, unable to do anything more than stare longingly in at the zoo exhibit that is me.

I so wanted to start swinging on the light fixtures and fling a turd or two.

To bring the story to a close… the taxi driver was supposed to pick me up at 1:30.  At 12:25 he comes in with one of the hotel staff and it is the same guy who picked me up from the airport with the “Hamilton, Scott ” sign.  This time he is holding a sign which says “Scott Hamilton.”  He seems proud to have gotten the correct information this time but confused as to why I did not spot him out in the lobby.

It might have been that he was early.  Early and waiting in the middle of a measurable % of the population of China all loitering around in the lobby.

Regardless, we get my bags and hop in the car and start beeping our way through the crowds that have leaked out of the lobby and into the front of the hotel.

Chinese folk do not seem to respect the dangers of encroaching vehicular manslaughter.  Even when said predator begins to lean on the horn and inch forward, at best we would get someone to acknowledge the car with a stare that in the universal language of scorn and derision communicated displeasure at our mere existence, and at worst, folks would not even turn to see the source of the insistent bleating horn and sidle off a few inches to one side or the other as if the mere suggestion that they get completely out of the way was an affront to their royal dignity.

I had no idea this was a convention of Descendants of the Chinese Emperors.

Jumping ahead… The maglev is pretty neat.  The tracks are of course not like normal train tracks and look like it would not contain a train moving at any speed.  And yet this sucker can go pretty fast.  During the hours I was riding it the top speed was capped for reasons not explained at a mere 300kph.  That’s ~186mph.  The ride is not as smooth as I expected – the high speed RAIL train we had taken months ago from London to Paris was pretty fast (maybe as fast) but much smoother.

Shouldn't we be worried if the only thing preventing this thing from leaving the tracks is a momentary loss of electricity?

This is the cheapest seat I could buy - not too shabby.

Nonetheless, it is pretty dern fast.  It takes about 30-40 minutes by car to go from my hotel to the airport, and while the maglev station is a 5 minute ride from the hotel, presumably in the direction of the airport, the train ride took about 7 minutes.

In case you can't read that, it says 297kph.  Our top speed that day was 301kph.

Of course I had to wait about 15 minutes for the train to arrive, so while it didn't necessarily save me a ton of time, it was pretty neat.  Plus I got to see this thing while waiting for the train.

You tell me what this is.

My theory is that if you fall on to the tracks this thing spins into action and incinerates you with death rays so you can't cause any damage to the train.  Those maglev trains can't be cheap, you know.

Or so one would hope.

SHANGHAI - THE TOUR

All week there has been the constant expectation that I would see and experience Shanghai.  This takes the form of two basic expectations: (1) that I will eat what is set before me and (2) that I will explore and see all that Shanghai has to offer the unsuspecting tourist.

I, however, am not so easily fooled.

Throughout the meetings with various teams and people in the week, I had several offers, some obvious and some veiled, to “help” me see Shanghai.  There seemed to be a general disappointment expressed in these incidents when I expressed that I was a busy man, you see, and had been limiting my exposure thus far to Shanghai in the form of the hotel, the ride to and the ride from the office, and, of course, the office.

Since the unanimous opinion seemed to be that all work and no play makes Scott a dull boy, it was decided for me that X would take me on a tour of Shanghai the Saturday after all my meetings, since I was so conveniently staying the weekend.

This is the same X who graciously provided transport to/from the office all week, and I kept reminding him that he had a wife and kid and I should not be anywhere near a priority.  In fact, I’d be ok taking his advice and various tourism links he provided to venture out on my own (well, not “ok” per se, but I’d venture… a bit) and he need not rob time from his family and weekend to play tour guide for me.

But he insisted with a will strong enough to thwart all of my reclusive habits.

I got the impression that were I to refuse that I’d start an international incident and times are already somewhat rough between the USA and this glorious People’s Republic.  The last thing I need now is John Kerry pestering me on the phone about how I am making his job even harder than it is.

And don’t get me started on Obama.  Man, what a talker.

As a compromise, I insisted that we do just a few things and definitely avoid shopping.  I had narrowed down my request list to the following…

The Yuyuan Garden

http://www.travelchinaguide.com/attraction/shanghai/yuyuan_garden.htm

The story behind this garden is described in the link above, so I won't repeat it here.  This garden was restored in the midst of a developing city and seems to have succeeded in being a place in Shanghai where one can be sheltered from the noise and bustle of the city in a garden that reminds all who come there of the forest and mountains.

The folks who did this did a very good job.

The actual acreage upon which this garden is built is actually quite small, and only when it is pointed out to you as you are going through its various buildings, patios, garden areas, ponds, etc. do you notice that you are just a thick wall away from traffic and general city mayhem.

This is a place I could live in, albeit only in good weather and with a plethora of slaves to keep it up.  I might even wear sandals but would probably not take up practicing kung fu.

Who am I kidding.  Of course I'd practice kung fu.

Here are a few pics from inside.  They are woefully inadequate to show its beauty and extent.

X finally took matters into his own hands, asking a stranger for a picture of the both of us.

To get to this garden one must park in anywhere you can close by (we found a garage) and walk through a shopping/market area and find the ticket booth and entrance to this gem.  I confess that had I come here without my guide, X, I’d never have located this on my own.  I’d have peered into the crowded market area, seen the throngs of people, taken a picture and fled like a scared kitten when the vacuum cleaner turned on.

That guy in the foreground is NOT a mannequin.  Really.

Where's Waldo?

Xin Tian Di

http://www.travelchinaguide.com/attraction/shanghai/xin-tian-di.htm

I had told X that I’d like to go here to do lunch, and in fact we were planning to meet Dave (from San Diego) here as well.  I did not get any pictures from this area, although visit that link and you’ll see it is a quaint but crowded market-like scene.

X picked a 5-star-reviewed Vietnamese restaurant on the street that happened to be right next to an empty western restaurant.  There was a long wait to even get a table for this Vietnamese place but X used his inside knowledge (meaning he spoke at length in Chinese and so I've no idea what transpired) to work out a deal with the staff and got us a table fairly quickly.  However, while waiting for the menus, drinks and food, I could not help but note that we were sitting in a table in the sun looking longingly at all the attractively shaded empty tables next to us belonging to the western restaurant that no one was eating at.  No one at all.

If no one uses it, there's probably a good reason.

Nevertheless, we held fast our conviction to stay and had some pretty good beer (Tsingtao light), pork, chicken and I even ate some spinach-like stuff so that I blended with the indigenous folk.

After the meal, Dave had to leave as he was heading back home that evening and so X and I walked around the area a bit.  I took the liberty of asking X to make this our last stop after lunch. He was putting up quite some resistance and I failed to win him over to my point of view.  I am hoping in retrospect that I wasn't sounding like a whining baby with my “I just wanna go home” routine.

X was wise, however, in insisting I stay the course.  There were more things for me to see and experience that make me glad I caved.  There are two things I choose to bring out in this narrative, and I really wish I had had the wherewithal to capture some pictures.

First, this was Fashion Week in Shanghai.  How do I know this?  Well, first of all there were the signs.  Some of which were in English announcing the fact quite clearly.  But in case one is unable to discern the meaning of such signs in the various letters and calligraphy so generously laid out for all to see, there were the models and photographers.  They were everywhere.

Now, American TV makes it seem like being on site where models are being photographed would be exciting, getting to see beautiful women wearing fancy clothing and striking elegant poses.  Perhaps that’s what it’s like in Paris but here in Shanghai there are some slight differences.

For one thing, not all models were women.  Some are kids.  Like 5 year old kids.  With a group of 40 people gathered around them as they strut down the street in their “The Gap” like clothing holding balloons and looking like they really just want an ice cream while the photographers are hopping about taking pictures from all angles.

Then there are the ladies.  These ladies are also quite young but wearing enough make up and dressed up enough to pass for questionable dates for diplomats at various Embassy functions.  Either that or gymnasts in the next Olympics.

One foot in the grave already.  Clearly.

I did my best to photo-bomb several of these human mannequins so keep an eye peeled in the next Shanghai Fashion magazine for me looking dazed and confused in the background.

The other thing I got to see in this area was the memorial/historical museum dedicated to the founding of the Communist Party of China.  This is a walk-through (paid-entry) museum dedicated to showing you the history of what was happening when the communist party and Chairman Mao rose to power and how great it is for you and me.

I was wondering if I’d be able to get a membership but didn’t see a means by which I could do so.  Plus in retrospect it might have complicated my reentry into the States, so it was probably for the best.

The Bund

http://www.travelchinaguide.com/attraction/shanghai/bund.htm

I’m glad X insisted on "just one more place," because we did go to The Bund, which is an area bordering the main river which cuts through Shanghai, and we were able to see some more interesting sites.

You can't see it here, but there's a dead body floating in the river right above the last line of floating green things.

No, it's not the hard hat at the bottom, but the butt and lower back bobbing above the surface of the water near the top.

Other than floating bodies, the Bund is a bit like Baltimore Inner Harbor meets D.C. Mall.  (In the Baltimore Harbor the bodies don't float.)  Then you add a lot of people.  Quite a bit of them.

Have I ever mentioned that I dislike crowds?  A lot?

In the background is the original mayor of Shanghai.  In the foreground is a very unhappy lady.  The two are not related.  I think.