Dilly Dallying in Delhi

At the Indira Gandhi International Airport, the sky was a bizarre, foggy, dark orange, as I had already noticed from the airplane windows. We stopped at a curb and talked about the weather, including what the weather’s like where I live; I mentioned snow and ice. A shiny black car pulled up, the driver got out and opened the back door for me and flung open the trunk for my suitcase, and I climbed in the back seat while slipping off my backpack. It weirded me out that three people had already helped me; they each had their own little designated job. I also felt like a hippie posing as a princess, since so much of my travel experience involves staying at student hostels, walking long distances, and riding subways.

I experienced Delhi traffic. The trucks have high-pitched, frantic horns, reminiscent of Harpo Marx’s bicycle horn. I laughed when I heard the first one, as a bright green truck whizzed past, and the driver laughed at my laugh. He was very friendly, which is fortunate because I otherwise might have been less amiable whenever he squeezed in next to a truck with only an inch or two to spare. On the other hand, I was so manic that even if the driver had sharply swerved from one lane to the other, I might have blithely giggled and squealed, “Wheee!”


Indian drivers disregard the lines on the streets; they act as if two lanes are really three or four lanes and huddle together when they stop at a street light, where a motorcycle weaves around all the other vehicles and gets in front. It’s funny to watch. I doubt it was merely the jet lag that prevented me from worrying about dying in a car crash. I was so euphoric that I may as well have rolled down the window, stuck my head out, panted, and wagged my tail in silly doggy glee.

I said, “It sure is a lot of traffic for this time of night.” The driver called the trucks “lorries,” like the British. Most of the vehicles are colorfully painted trucks with a yellow background and green or orange script and often flowers or other designs painted on them. They were shaped differently than any vehicles I’ve seen before. Taxis look like boxes on wheels, and other vehicles remind me of London cabs.

The driver, as he raced along, supplied a driving tour. It was after dark, so I would have had a better view in daylight, but he pointed out various buildings to me. We drove through an area full of many embassies, including for the U.S., and they all looked like huge palaces behind brick or stone walls. Most of the big buildings have walls and gates. We passed a gate that reminded me of the border between Pakistan and India, and the driver explained that’s for people who want to move back to India, including from Saudi Arabia. The most aesthetically appealing structure was, of all things, a military memorial: a shiny black tower with a huge sphere inside the base.

We passed President Nehru’s house. A pale stone wall surrounded it, and from what I could see the house was a simple but large building behind the wall and gate, at which a blue sign announced, “Nehru Planetarium.” The driver explained that Nehru was the first president of India, and I smiled and said, “Yeah, I’ve read about him!” The driver giggled with me. I didn’t mention that I’ve also read the speech he made when independence from the British Empire finally came along in 1947.

The car stopped in front of the tall white modern Park Hotel, where a bellhop took my suitcase out of the trunk, the driver disappeared, and I entered through the front glass doors. The hotel lobby is groovy. It could use lava lamps. Clear beaded curtains curve around two lounge areas containing bright red and orange couches and armchairs, and silk cushions decorate the couches. It looked so psychedelic to me that I tried not to laugh. But I was a total space case, as I normally am the first day or two when traveling.

I associate bellhops with movies from the nineteen thirties and forties and plays set in that time, including Lend Me a Tenor. A bellhop, wearing a maroon uniform suitable for one of those films or plays, took my suitcase to my room and demonstrated how to work the lights and all. Under a stone Vishnu head behind glass was the bar: a drawer full of snacks and a fridge full of alluring beverages. I gave the bellhop a tip of five American dollars, since the rupees I have so far are huge bills; it was a large tip, I realized after he left, but I didn’t have anything smaller.