... and it all falls apart.

Maybe it's always like this.  When one get towards the latter end of a trip, a project, a road, one becomes impatient for it to be over, anxious for a result, less tolerant along the way.   And so it is for me.   Seven weeks into India.   Fourteen cities, if you count three times through Delhi.   Numerous hours in transit on just as many modes of transport.   Now on the train to number fifteen, Hyderabad.  

The passing scenery has ceased to amaze.   Although still occasionally surprising, it's just India.   Not that I'm oblivious to it now, just that my tourist lens has been taken off.   Brian described it as not having to look for interesting things in each place we visit anymore.   I felt it as the level of ease and comfort of returning to Delhi to start our journey south, toward 'home'.

This time next week, we'll be in Manipal.   I have pictures on my phone and pictures in my mind of what this home will be like.   I have a list of things we'll need to set up house.   I have a version of my professional self to 'pitch' as the value add to Brian's appointment.   I have hope.

All this in the wake of everything India has placed before, around and behind me in this short but intense time.   Everyday has presented unfamiliar situations, cultural norms and extremes, and decisions, to be negotiated ... and in tandem with the 'other'.   Sensory overload and I'm seeking refuge.

I hold out that hope that Manipal will be that.   When the press and tension eases, and the noise and smog lifts, I can see past the dirt and the differences, as long as the people are nice.