My hair sprouts off in hyperbolic functions with an approximate origin of my nose. I look like a dusty version of a headful of celery (or a fennel, for those compatriots of previous adventures). India will leave no soul stone (or facial wrinkle) untouched, they will be deeper engraved. I had to remark to Kev before I left Thailand - I've never felt so old. And never have I felt so young at heart. Never have I felt so far from all of you than in this land. The great fortune is that with distance do we stand upon the top of a very telling viewpoint.

I have come to recognize I am more parts powerless than powerful in a land where goats demand the sidewalks, and cows demand the road medians. So, for a few rupees per mission, I've enlisted the help of a young hotel worker. I write to you now only since our mission for an electrical converter was successful. The batteries are wigging out a bit, but it's only fair that if I'm being a little shocked, they should be as well. We had to ask four local shopkeepers to find a closet electrical shop. Which is half of the number of directions you'll need to scope out a "Cybercafe."

But that was yesterday. Today was for navigating around Ahmedabad. I thought I could walk it, so I made my way for a bridge, map committed to memory, but here the streets don't move in just four directions, and I quickly ascertained that I was headed in the wrong way. I was a bit exasperated from dodging rickshaws, until on the way back to the correct course, a man about my age held his hand out smiling at me. Recalling an old man that would simply not let go of my hand until I had browsed some of his shoes for sale, I hesitated, but eventually accepted the handshake. He smiled and said in perfect English, "Welcome to India." I smiled gratefully and said "Thank you." as we both moved off in opposite directions.

Fifteen minutes later, about four dusty kids came running off from the side of the road, laughing and smiling at me, holding their hands out. I shook hands with one of them, but this was no normal handshake. The four of them were talking Gujarati and pointing at my ring - one of them was trying to slide it off. At this I pulled away and hustled along further down the road. I was lucky. Double either the age or number of those kids and I would have lost the ring and the camera in my pocket. I was lucky to have a consequences-free lesson. I figured it was time to hail a rickshaw.

By the way, I wouldn't dare drive here! It's so much more hectic than Thailand.

The rest of the day went with less surprise. I found a poorly upkept museum. At times, I have I felt like I was the only tourist in the city, a thought reinforced by the fact that the museum workers were eating lunch off a newspaper on the floor, and when I came in they had to flick a unusual switch to turn the lights of the museum on. Despite this, the content of the museum was fascinating. I learned that I am six days late to see Ahmedabad's biggest festival, the festival of kites (crap!) Beyond this, however, I also learned more about Gujarati history. Besides being a land of unmatched religious syncretism (name a faith, it's been here forever), this is also a state proud of its heritage - it is not only the home of Gandhi but was essential to the struggle for independence from England. This rebellious spirit lives on with newer causes such as the NGO, SEWA, a women's empowering movement with headquarters not far from my hotel.

And the food... it's just amazing. According to Lonely Planet, most Indian food in restaurants of the US is of Punjabi origin, a mere fraction of a sample of Indian food. I hardly have a clue what to order, and afterwards, have less of a clue how to eat it - but I am learning. After speaking with other travelers, I've decided that all the CDC wisdom about what to eat and what not to eat in India is mostly pretentious paranoia, and I'll have nothing to do with their guidelines. I drink bottled water, but all the food's fair game to me, and I haven't had to face any problems yet. The food here is just too good to leave unexplored.

I must say that the textile fashion of Indians are mesmerizing at both extremes - the simple white cloth or efficiently drab polos of the men, contrasted by the colorful variations of orange, green, red, blue, that women wear. No one needs brand names or designer labels here. Though I did see a man with a backpack that had Kodak on it, with the Reebok logo underneath. Shameless and beautiful piracy (reappropriation?) of a noble order. Good on 'im.

With that I should let you go, to do some catchup on work from Australia and keep my sleep levels high before a day of temple crawls. I should be back again soon.

Appendix I: Lost Dogs

I forgot to mention a few items in the last post. During the World Social Forum I visited a few bookstores. Many books are relatively cheap, so after seeing several names I had read in college I was powerless to keep the bookworm at bay. Reunited with some new Amitav Ghosh, I now have plenty to stay me for those quiet tuckaway moments.

I was also happy to notice that across the side of the bus that brought me to Ahmedabad was the name Priti, the same name of the professor who first sparked my interest in India. More to the coincidence: I embarked to her home state in India. As I pondered in a post from long long ago in New York, sometimes coincidences are just enough to spark you from a waking slumber.