The flight was very long - eight hours from Chicago to London where I had a dull two hour layover and then ten hours to Delhi.

We landed at two am local time. For an international airport the place seemed spartan, unpolished, basic. I made my way through the immigration hall with stone cold white walls, ceiling and floor but with bright blue flowered wallpaper tacked completely all over the row of officials’ desks. And then I rounded the corner after customs to find myself in between two long rows of people holding signs and waiting expectantly for new arrivals. Silly that I perused the crowd, almost wishing for a familiar face. I was obviously more tired than I thought.

I wondered around trying to get my bearings. There were few foreigners, westerners like myself, in sight. Thankfully all of the signs were in English as well as Hindi. Private cars to the left, public transportation and taxis to the right. Hidden at the end of a row of vendors along one wall I found an ATM machine. Funny how there can be so much comfort in such a little thing. Faceless, no trouble interpreting accents, no fear of being ripped off or taken advantage of, reassuring because it is so familiar. The series of instructions are always the same even if you substitute rupees for dollars. And then I felt a little safer with the currency in my pocket – almost like I could speak a little of the language.

My plan was to stay in the airport until daybreak. I thought negotiating my way through what I knew would be a crowded filthy city full of touts and beggars would be much easier and much less daunting with a little daylight. I fell asleep with earplugs to drown out the TV blaring Hindi and the chatter that I couldn’t understand. And then I was awakened by a group of traveling Indian couples who plopped into the connecting chairs to my left and loudly told each other their stories after jarring me awake.

Daybreak arrived. My Lonely Planet guide book said the local bus started at four am. It was around six. I headed out the doors to the right and was greeted immediately by taxi drivers who just would not leave me be. I searched desperately for what I thought would be the bus stand and obviously marked bus. Nothing doing. But after wondering around the haze of filth, people, confusion – someone pointed me to a dingy bus and suggested that it was the city bus. And the driver outside agreed although I really questioned whether or not he understood my English question. And I climbed on board a bus packed with around sixty people. Dirty, cramped, barren with maybe only three other women on board that I could see, it was standing room only. Then a man standing began to make a commotion and he made another man who was sitting give me his seat. I felt a little guilty and wasn’t at all sure I wanted to feel grateful to someone as my guard was up, but I took the seat. I didn’t feel I could really say no after all that. And I smiled and tried to speak to the nice man who had made my seat for me but he wasn’t interested in conversation. Maybe he didn't think it was proper.

So that awful crowded bus took me to the New Delhi Train Station. I almost didn’t get off as I didn’t realize we were there at first. I couldn’t see out the windows on the other side of the bus for all the people. But I made it out only to find myself completely lost on the street. I chose that destination as I figured Pahar Ganj, the backpackers’ hangout, would be easy to find from there. Again I was accosted by multiple insistent taxi and rickshaw drivers in a street that was too crowded with oncoming buses, cars, trucks, rickshaws and people, and with overwhelming filth and suffocating amounts of smoke and diesel fumes. I kept trying to ignore the touts, telling them “No, thank you,” when I absolutely had to speak to them, and all the while searching for a sign or something to help me get my bearings. I went, of course, the wrong way. Then I saw a big green road sign just like home but with the additional Hindi characters for Pahar Ganj. The road to take was a large four lane road with a bridge over all the multiple railroad tracks. I wasn’t sure exactly where I was going, but it felt good to walk after my long flight and wait at the airport.

And so this is India, I thought. And this is Delhi, armpit of India, as a friend of mine had described it. All of the awful things you hear and believe about India here for me now to experience – the poverty so obvious and disheartening, the filth, the stench, the rats, the beggars, the touts. It’s a world of drab and frustration punctuated by women in beautiful colorful flowing saris.

And then five schoolboys got off a bus on the other side of the street and ran over to me laughing back at their counterparts still on board. I think maybe they had been dared. One asked my name and they all laughed. I don’t know why it was funny. And then he grabbed my left breast and gave it a squeeze and then ran away laughing with all of his friends. Western women are to be disrespected. We all love sex and nakedness and sin. That is what the movies portray. That is what they believe. And I was covered appropriately in long pants and sleeved shirt that wasn’t too tight. I marveled later at some of the traveling women in the backpackers’ haven still wearing tight tank tops without bras, nipples standing out. And then the boys were back, coming up behind me laughing. One grabbed my buttocks with both hands and then they all ran away as fast as they could before I could react. Degrading, humiliating, frustrating for me, I couldn’t run after them with my luggage. And no one else passing by seemed to care. And then they were back yet again. “What is wrong, Madam?” one asked. And as he diverted my attention, another again grabbed my behind. And they all ran like stupid coward schoolboys. And I darted down a dark and dirty narrow side street thinking that getting lost and scared sounded much better than any more degrading groping by laughing boys.

As luck would have it, at the end of this narrow dark street was the Main Bazaar of Panar Ganj. And I found the Ajay Guest House and German Bakery recommended in the guide book. And I had a bagel and some black coffee and then went to check in. But they were full. And so were the next three guest houses that I went to set back in the walls of the crowded dirty street. Finally I found an overpriced but clean place called Hotel Shelton that promised hot water, air conditioning and a western toilet for 400 rupees or about eight dollars. The only truth was the western toilet. I took a nap and a much needed (cold) shower and then went looking for dinner. The Ajay Guest House advertised a rooftop restaurant so back I went. Climbing the four sets of stairs to the top, I found the most peaceful place so far in Delhi. Lots of plants and concrete walls were there to obscure the view of the dirty street. There were a few little round two or three person tables and at one sat a traveler. He was 6’3’’ with long blonde hair, wild long blonde beard, tiny white wire rim glasses and an off-white Indian punjabi draping his lanky frame. We started with small talk about the restaurants and the city and then I ended up sitting down with him as he was most fascinating and seemed to want some company. He was an American from Minnesota and on his way home in a day or two as his sister was dying of ovarian cancer. He had just broken up with his wild, rebellious, rainbow haired girlfriend who has titanium clips on her fallopian tubes even though she has never had any children. They had a traveling two year relationship – love at first sight – but she treated him disrespectfully and he couldn’t take it anymore. He still loves her, for sure, but I think maybe he has really had enough. Nothing like the girl you love having sex with someone else she hardly knows on a night she could be with you instead. There was pain in his story. And it was good to listen. And I shared my thoughts and feelings about Steve. And before we knew it, it was one am.

And then the following afternoon as I was waiting for the train and I saw him again. And he said he had been thinking of our conversation and that he felt I should give it all – heart and soul. And he says it wistfully almost. He said the two of us would never work out – me and him – although I can’t remember why because I was so astounded he would think or say such a thing. And I gave him my email and a big hug and took off for my train. I wonder if I will ever hear from him. No difference. It was nice to have the company – even with the crazy stories about the CIA and his mushroom growing and his (doubtful) trust fund that will keep him from having to work but that has not kicked in yet even though he is 34. Oh yeah, and the alien invasion and the end of times and the reptile in all of us and, and, and…..