An exchange with an Indian chap (maybe in his mid-50s?), on the sleeper train from Varanasi to Kolkata:

"How old are you?" he asks me.

"25, sir."

"You look much younger," he says. Claudia snickers. "You very small, more like our boys here!"

We have a good laugh. He's right, after all. In Hong Kong I was beside myself; short of standing in the middle of a day care center, at 5-foot-4 HK was the first place I was the same height - or taller! - than most of the populace. In India though, I'm short again.

And boyish. Before I left the U.S. I thought about shaving off my goatee. I'm glad I didn't. In the U.S., without facial hair I get carded for R-rated movies. C'mon! I can drink and gamble, dammit. Half the time the person carding me probably has a curfew and "home room" in the morning. Another few years, and I won't even be eligible for the draft!

Oh well. Gads, if I'd shaved, Indian immigration probably wouldn't have let me into the country until they found out where my parents were...