I awoke on the day marking three weeks I'd been in India, with three questions from Brian:
Are you happy?
Are you having a good time?
How do you feel?
My answers were, in order, yes and no, it's amazing and terrifying, and I feel great and underlying sick ... with anxiety. These things I feel not as binary states, but all at the same time. To illustrate how this can be, let me tell you the story of The Oberoi Cecil and the roadside dhaba.
Planning a quiet day Saturday, we found ourselves on The Ridge above Shimla, still walking and still in search of an elusive cup of coffee, in a world where nothing opens til 10am. Even that is false hope when kiosk after kiosk checks their 'Nescafe' machine to see if it's heated up, as they only turn it on at 10am. And 'Nescafe' I hear the unspoken query? Yes, it saddens me to say, this is the only coffee, and to compound the sadness, this instant powder, not even freeze dried, is put into coffee machines, and topped with warm frothy milk, complete with pre delivery sugar and chocolate dusting, then presented as an espresso. Soy milk is thing only of my dreams.
As I have quickly, even abruptly, discovered, nothing in India ever quite goes how one would expect. Waiting in the sunshine, I decide this is an ideal opporunity for a yoga pose. A young man comes over to talk to us and cricket conversation done, he then tells us the sites to see in this 'Echoes of The British Raj' city of Shimla, perched precariously on the cliffs, and emerging from the mists like Shangri La. An easy walk along the ridge, just 5 kilometres return ... but in these shoes?
Armed with the Heritage Walk 1 listing we set off for our stroll and soon pick up our ever present entourage; this time a hoard of school children on excursion from Delhi. The 'stroll' was a bit more up and down than anticipated, as well as a bit more roadworks than road. My handmade blue shoes from Mr C Fook Chong, were really not made for this type of walking, and we were still looking for coffee. Number 15 on the Heritage List was The Oberoi Cecil.
"Is anything happening there?" I enquired, quite used to landmarks turning out to be derelict buildings.
A property with green turrets and a crisp white facade came in to view, and a discreet brass plaque confimed our arrival, and then ...
The full dress uniform doorman ushered us in, then no short of twenty namastes from and to immaculate staff members serenaded us tnrough the double foyer and into the atrium Lounge Bar. As opulent as Versace Palazzo or maybe The Author's Lounge, ... Bangkok, here in The Himalayas on the border of Tibet. A relay of attendants seated us, provided menus, and informed the bar staff we would be ordering, and then I was escorted to the bathroom. For any of you who have travelled in countries with differently equipped 'bathrooms', you will understand my delight at a fragrant dish of floating flower petals, classical music softly soothing the space, perfectly clean from floor to ceiling, folded toilet paper, and not one but two rolls, liquid soap, cloth towels and subtle yellow lighting. I smiled my way back up the stairs to The Lounge and found Brian reclining in a wing back chair, resplendent in his jeans, tshirt and hiking boots, but quite at home.
Back to the coffee. At the exhorbitant amount of 225 Rupiahs each, we ordered a latte for Brian and a Masala Chaas (spiced lassi) for me.
"The Masala Chaas will take 10 minutes, as it has to come from our main kitchen. Would you like the latte to come at the same time?"
You've got to love that sort of attenion to detail.
"Of course, that will be fine."
("I think we will be quite hapoy to sit here.")
Our drinks arrived and I immediately had coffee envy. This was real coffee. Two fresh baked biscuits, a jeera shortbread and a moist chocolate brownie were presented on a little rectangular glass platter. My tall cool lassi came with a sealed straw sitting in a tiny shot glass. We sipped. We savoured. We soireed. I ordered a coffee too ... and two more biscuits accompanied. Vases billowing with creamy white chrysanthymums sat on plynths about the lobby and lounge. Red carnations in stem vases adorned each table. The bill discreetly appeared; 742.10 Rupiahs including all taxes. Truly this was still cheaper than three coffees in Australia anywhere, and we got biscuits! How much do we tip? We settled on 50 Rupiahs. Retracing our path of just an hour or so ago, we namaste'd and smiled, and stepped back out through the opened door, into the reality of a not quite typical Indian city, and contiued our walk.
Brian had been working up to having a parantha from a roadside dhaba, and he'd decided today was the day. We'd passed a corner with a clutch of kitchens doing a roaring trade. This was our next goal. Some more walking in my inappropriate shoes and we step up the two dusty uneven slabs of concrete into the one person wide entrance to the dhaba. On our left is a quiet young man wearing earphones connected to his phone and sitting next to the till. On our right, open to the street, is the kitchen, where the cook deftly rolls and stuffs paranthas, scoops dahl and rice, an makes chai. In front of us in the entry is the maestro, a young man who takes and delivers orders, while flipping paranthas, running next door for more ghee and generally keeping everyone happy. We identify the filling for the stuffed paranthas, and confidently order ek aloo and ek ghobi parantha, plus do chai chinni nai. Seating is wherever you can find a spot, and we sit in a both opposite a bemused local diner. Paper cups are put in front of us, then a jug of water comes. Paranthas are rolled and flipped as we watch. A pot of chai is made just for us, because no one else but crazy foreigners want tea without sugar. The local ratio is 10 to 12 spoons of white sugar to 2 spoons of tea, in about half and half, water and milk.
Our paranthas are delivered on paper plates, recycled out of a box that must have contained some sort of blender, judging by the pictures and Hindi/English printing. An industrial sized jar of green mango pickles, with a communal spoon, is rotated to our table. Deft charades and fluent food Hindi narrowly avoid a 20 gram slab of ghee being lofted onto the centre of each parantha. Identification of which is which is part of the game. They taste fresh, hot, spicy of course, and great. The tea, no sugar, is masala chai, a big bonus, and hot, plus maybe the best we've had. The maestro materialises paper serviettes for us. Signs on the wall ask us to dispose of our takeaway plates, so we stack them and slide out of our seat to pay. Handing over a 100 Rupiah note, I am given a 50 in change. We step back outside onto the street, wash our hands using the cups of water, and drop the cups and our plates in the plastic bin.
Lunch for the two of us just cost us the same amount as we just tipped at The Oberoi.
Are you happy?
Are you having a good time?
How do you feel?
My answers were, in order, yes and no, it's amazing and terrifying, and I feel great and underlying sick ... with anxiety. These things I feel not as binary states, but all at the same time. To illustrate how this can be, let me tell you the story of The Oberoi Cecil and the roadside dhaba.
Planning a quiet day Saturday, we found ourselves on The Ridge above Shimla, still walking and still in search of an elusive cup of coffee, in a world where nothing opens til 10am. Even that is false hope when kiosk after kiosk checks their 'Nescafe' machine to see if it's heated up, as they only turn it on at 10am. And 'Nescafe' I hear the unspoken query? Yes, it saddens me to say, this is the only coffee, and to compound the sadness, this instant powder, not even freeze dried, is put into coffee machines, and topped with warm frothy milk, complete with pre delivery sugar and chocolate dusting, then presented as an espresso. Soy milk is thing only of my dreams.
As I have quickly, even abruptly, discovered, nothing in India ever quite goes how one would expect. Waiting in the sunshine, I decide this is an ideal opporunity for a yoga pose. A young man comes over to talk to us and cricket conversation done, he then tells us the sites to see in this 'Echoes of The British Raj' city of Shimla, perched precariously on the cliffs, and emerging from the mists like Shangri La. An easy walk along the ridge, just 5 kilometres return ... but in these shoes?
Armed with the Heritage Walk 1 listing we set off for our stroll and soon pick up our ever present entourage; this time a hoard of school children on excursion from Delhi. The 'stroll' was a bit more up and down than anticipated, as well as a bit more roadworks than road. My handmade blue shoes from Mr C Fook Chong, were really not made for this type of walking, and we were still looking for coffee. Number 15 on the Heritage List was The Oberoi Cecil.
"Is anything happening there?" I enquired, quite used to landmarks turning out to be derelict buildings.
A property with green turrets and a crisp white facade came in to view, and a discreet brass plaque confimed our arrival, and then ...
The full dress uniform doorman ushered us in, then no short of twenty namastes from and to immaculate staff members serenaded us tnrough the double foyer and into the atrium Lounge Bar. As opulent as Versace Palazzo or maybe The Author's Lounge, ... Bangkok, here in The Himalayas on the border of Tibet. A relay of attendants seated us, provided menus, and informed the bar staff we would be ordering, and then I was escorted to the bathroom. For any of you who have travelled in countries with differently equipped 'bathrooms', you will understand my delight at a fragrant dish of floating flower petals, classical music softly soothing the space, perfectly clean from floor to ceiling, folded toilet paper, and not one but two rolls, liquid soap, cloth towels and subtle yellow lighting. I smiled my way back up the stairs to The Lounge and found Brian reclining in a wing back chair, resplendent in his jeans, tshirt and hiking boots, but quite at home.
Back to the coffee. At the exhorbitant amount of 225 Rupiahs each, we ordered a latte for Brian and a Masala Chaas (spiced lassi) for me.
"The Masala Chaas will take 10 minutes, as it has to come from our main kitchen. Would you like the latte to come at the same time?"
You've got to love that sort of attenion to detail.
"Of course, that will be fine."
("I think we will be quite hapoy to sit here.")
Our drinks arrived and I immediately had coffee envy. This was real coffee. Two fresh baked biscuits, a jeera shortbread and a moist chocolate brownie were presented on a little rectangular glass platter. My tall cool lassi came with a sealed straw sitting in a tiny shot glass. We sipped. We savoured. We soireed. I ordered a coffee too ... and two more biscuits accompanied. Vases billowing with creamy white chrysanthymums sat on plynths about the lobby and lounge. Red carnations in stem vases adorned each table. The bill discreetly appeared; 742.10 Rupiahs including all taxes. Truly this was still cheaper than three coffees in Australia anywhere, and we got biscuits! How much do we tip? We settled on 50 Rupiahs. Retracing our path of just an hour or so ago, we namaste'd and smiled, and stepped back out through the opened door, into the reality of a not quite typical Indian city, and contiued our walk.
Brian had been working up to having a parantha from a roadside dhaba, and he'd decided today was the day. We'd passed a corner with a clutch of kitchens doing a roaring trade. This was our next goal. Some more walking in my inappropriate shoes and we step up the two dusty uneven slabs of concrete into the one person wide entrance to the dhaba. On our left is a quiet young man wearing earphones connected to his phone and sitting next to the till. On our right, open to the street, is the kitchen, where the cook deftly rolls and stuffs paranthas, scoops dahl and rice, an makes chai. In front of us in the entry is the maestro, a young man who takes and delivers orders, while flipping paranthas, running next door for more ghee and generally keeping everyone happy. We identify the filling for the stuffed paranthas, and confidently order ek aloo and ek ghobi parantha, plus do chai chinni nai. Seating is wherever you can find a spot, and we sit in a both opposite a bemused local diner. Paper cups are put in front of us, then a jug of water comes. Paranthas are rolled and flipped as we watch. A pot of chai is made just for us, because no one else but crazy foreigners want tea without sugar. The local ratio is 10 to 12 spoons of white sugar to 2 spoons of tea, in about half and half, water and milk.
Our paranthas are delivered on paper plates, recycled out of a box that must have contained some sort of blender, judging by the pictures and Hindi/English printing. An industrial sized jar of green mango pickles, with a communal spoon, is rotated to our table. Deft charades and fluent food Hindi narrowly avoid a 20 gram slab of ghee being lofted onto the centre of each parantha. Identification of which is which is part of the game. They taste fresh, hot, spicy of course, and great. The tea, no sugar, is masala chai, a big bonus, and hot, plus maybe the best we've had. The maestro materialises paper serviettes for us. Signs on the wall ask us to dispose of our takeaway plates, so we stack them and slide out of our seat to pay. Handing over a 100 Rupiah note, I am given a 50 in change. We step back outside onto the street, wash our hands using the cups of water, and drop the cups and our plates in the plastic bin.
Lunch for the two of us just cost us the same amount as we just tipped at The Oberoi.
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