On the road to Bengaluru

The last time I dropped this storyboard panel* into a blogpost I was about to scoot down a Southwest Airlines ramp to see if anybody could save my leg.

I’m once again getting on a plane, but for a happier reason: I’m going to watch a friend get married. In India.

I’m the favorite chump of the God of Adventure, so suspect I’m in for a helluva ride.

This will be my first physical foray into India, but I’ve been fascinated by the Subcontinent for years. I first read the phrase, “Black Hole of Calcutta,” in grade school. Being a science fiction nerd, immediately thought “Space Pirate Central!” Why else would they call it a black hole?

Mom had a giant beaten copper tray from India; I’d imagine it serving flagons of ale, eye patches, and blasters to spaceborne Blackbeards. When I discovered that Calcutta didn’t even have a spaceport, I was crushed.

Since then I’ve shared a house with an Old Delhi family (in the US) and learned to make keema and lime pickle. I studied Urdu and Hindi ( until I realized I have zero talent for languages) and eaten curries on multiple continents. Yet I’ve never actually made it to India…until Pooja invited me to her wedding.

Pooja’s a highly skilled web developer from work, about to marry Vikas. We’ve spent years-worth of lunches discussing the latest holdup in their nuptials. “I want a traditional family wedding,” she’d say, firmly, “And you MUST come.”

Now it’s finally happening. I looked up flights and made a checklist. I leave a week from Saturday.

I’ll be in Bangalore, the 27th largest city in the world. It’s in Karnataka, in southern India, and pretty much the technology center of the Subcontinent, akin to the Silicon Valley.

Of course, I haven’t been on a plane since I took those wheelchaired second opinion trips to save The Leg. In the years since, I’ve entered a new profession (taxonomist), experienced COVID lockdown, and pretty much avoided anything that resembled a planeful of sneezing folk. The grocery store has became a major destination, so this flying stuff is kind of a big deal.

Sensible people would start slow, maybe an hour-long flight to Seattle, to acclimate The Leg to crowded seating and enforced bending.

Not me. I’ve booked a TWENTY-FIVE hour trip with a 15-hour overseas flight. The Leg gets grumpy if it can’t shift and flex every few minutes, and if it’s immobile for an hour or two, walking becomes painful. Unless I want to be hauled off the plane in a stretcher, I need to figure out a mobility-preserving solution.

Easy: Fly business class. Awwwwwwwwww, for medical reasons you must spend 15 hours in the lap of luxury. What a shame.

I found a good deal on a Qatar Airways business class ticket, where I get my own little roomlet with a fold-down bed, a giant monitor and HDMI connection for my laptop, power outlets for my devices, and an on-call menu. My wallet hasn’t stopped screaming since I clicked “Book this trip,” (that ticket was a good deal, not a miracle), but I’m almost as thrilled by the flight as the wedding.

Almost, Pooja. I said almost.

The (bad) traffic in Bangalore is legendary, so Pooja’s family will arrange for a driver. Bangalore also has Uber, so I’m covered either way.

Transportation. Check.

Still not sure about exactly where I’m staying, but I’m assured that Pooja’s family has booked the hotel and I’ll love it.

Lodging. Check.

I asked The Doc if I needed any special vaccinations or whatever. “Come on in,” she invited. She punctured my arms with about a million required immunizations and wrote an amazing number of prescriptions. Since her family hails from Bangalore, she included a ton of medical advice at no extra charge:

• DO NOT drink any liquid that isn’t in a sealed container, even if they tell you it’s been filtered. Especially do not brush your teeth with it, and when you take a shower, keep your mouth CLOSED. Even better, get a travel pen. **
• DO visit some of the historic places–you’ll love them. But stop calling it “Bangalore.” It’s “Bengaluru.” And, actually, it’s real name is supposed to be “Bendakaalooru,” which translates to “town of boiled beans.” Ahh–a sister city to Boston, AKA “Beantown.” 
• DO NOT eat any fresh produce that hasn’t been peeled. I already knew this one thanks to a delicious salad in a very posh Mexico City restaurant. The subsequent race down five flights of stairs to a tiny bathroom with ONE square of transparent toilet paper was…epic.
• DO visit Orange County, a paradise west of the city where you stroll among the spice trees, sniffing vanilla orchids and making friends with the monkeys.
• DO NOT think Imodium will work if you get travel tummy. What you will actually have is an intestinal infection (ewwww); here’s a prescription for antibiotics. You’ll also want to buy hand sanitizer, Pepto Bismol, and…I’ll give you a list.
• DO allow plenty of time to get anywhere. They aren’t kidding about the traffic, Cynthia.
• DO NOT dive into a crowded market to people-watch, find stories, and take pictures. I know you’ll want to, Cynthia, but you will learn more than you’d like of pickpockets and gropers.
• DO bring me back a mango. The ones we get here are awful.

I am now invulnerable to malaria, hepatitis, typhoid, cholera, and probably the screaming goopgobbers. I have masks for the plane and wherever else they’re required.

Medical. Check.

What do you wear to a wedding 8,180 miles away?

Pooja solved that one. “We’ll take care of your clothes,” she promised, “Just send your measurements and post a Pinterest board of your favorite styles and colors. We’ll do the rest. We’ve engaged someone to do your makeup and hair, and wrap your saree.”

I suspect Pooja has for years despaired of my nearly nonexistent fashion sense and is taking this opportunity to correct. Good luck to her, I say.

The wedding involves multiple celebrations over several days, culminating in the actual marriage ceremony on the morning of the last day, so several outfits are required. Approved styles tend toward bare midriffs, backs, and cleavage–I’m envisioning a wedding filled with graceful, silk-clad beauties and one fishbelly-white flesh balloon sporting a spangly bra.

Those pictures will never see the light of day. I promise.

I do HAVE makeup, even if I rarely wear it. I’m checking expiration dates and bought a spacious toiletry bag to hold it all. Pre-ceremony, I’ll hand the bag to the makeup artist and invite her to do her worst.

I’m in charge of my feet. Approved weddingwear is pretty much glittery gold sandals with four-inch spiked heels. “Just wear the ones you have,” she urged, probably not realizing that I am a stranger to the world of spangled, elevated footwear.

I have so far ordered ten pairs of shiny sandals from Amazon, looking for anything that (1) fits reasonably comfortably, and (2) won’t send me arse over tip into Re-busted Leg Land. I picked out two inch-high heeled pairs and called it a day. The rest are going back to Amazon.

Then I scheduled a pedicure for the day before I leave.

Clothes. Hair. Makeup. Feet. Check.

The powers-that-be at work moved mandatory planning meetings into the middle of my trip. They also used the word “mandatory” about ninety-‘leven times, leading to a lot of rescheduling of flights and such.

I suspect this is payback for all those Pacific-time meetings I scheduled for Asian colleagues. The first part of my vacation will involve teleconferences from 10PM to 2AM.

Fortunately, I’ll have crossed the international dateline and decimated my timesense, so I probably won’t notice. OTOH, it adds my work laptop and work phone to my luggage, along with my regular phone.

The personal phone needed an Indian phone plan; the work phone didn’t, one advantage of working for a non-US company. I’m loaded up with cables, voltage converters, and adapters, even an extra, folding keyboard. I’m considering adding one of those fold-out dual monitor sets; I typically work across three screens. We’ll see.

I’m fine-tuning my phone apps. India doesn’t let you import a lot of cold, hard US cash, but accepts cryptocurrency and most online payment systems, so I made sure those were hooked up. The bank advised me to connect it all to an international travel card for extra security. It’s added to both phones, as are electronic versions of all my travel documentation. I can access it all from the cloud.

Technology. Check.

My renewed passport is current, virginal even, so there’s plenty of room for travel stamping.  “You DO have your Indian visa, right?” asked Pooja.

Uhm…my what? Yup, turns out I need a 30-day tourist visa to enter the country. Eeeek!

Fortunately, and unlike all the US visa horror stories I’ve heard, an Indian visa takes 72 hours or less. Mine arrived in email within 12 hours. I printed it out, along with my immunization records and all that other stuff I might be asked to produce.

Nathan gave me an RFID-proof passport belt for Christmas. It’s big enough to hold passport, money, credit cards, and a phone under my shirt. All those paper printouts are gonna make it bulky.

Travel docs. Check.

Nathan’s not coming. “You’ll be in the big city, and I would only go to the jungle, where I would be eaten by a tiger,” he said, “Besides, I don’t really like Indian food.” (the one flaw in an otherwise stellar human being) Nathan has, however, promised to clean the litter box while I’m gone, probably the greatest expression of love he’ll ever make.

Hopefully I’ll have time for some sight-seeing, in between work and ceremonies and jet lag. Bengaluru is famous for its markets, temples, and shops, and jungly parks with tigers and elephants. I won’t make it to The Doc’s Orange County resort, yummy as it sounds (it’s been renamed Evolve Back and prices START at $421/night, so…nope). But I will hit up the gems, metals, and fabrics shops, and will take at least one stroll through the flower market.

Hopefully, all that’s left now is packing. Stay tuned.

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*For you non-animation fans: Pictured is a series of storyboards by the late Will Vinton, planning a claymation movie that, as far as I know, was never made. Will Vinton was a stop-motion animation genius who famously launched the California Raisins in the 1980s, won an Academy award, and established Portland as animation central. He wasn’t, apparently, a savvy businessman, so lost his studio to Nike (well, founder Phil McKnight and his son), who turned it into Laika and cleaned up on animation awards.

I got to shake Vinton’s hand once during an Oregon Glass Guild meeting at Uroboros Glass.

Years later, my friend Bob took my wheel-butted self to a gallery opening of his totally gorgeous glass art. We browsed the rest of the exhibits and found a bin of Vinton’s old storyboards. That panel hit like a hammer; I was contemplating whether or not to travel all over the country seeking second opinions or simply give in, cancel what was likely a very difficult trip, and accept amputation. The knight going to war was an omen: Cynthia, just get on the damned plane. 

I now walk instead of wheel, and that panel hangs in the office of another ultimate adventurer, The Resident Carpenter-Blacksmith. It still reminds me, sometimes, to just get up and DO. 

Thanks, Mr. Vinton.

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**You know I’m a gadget freak, right? I’m now a Steripen owner, guaranteeing that I can decimate all microcreepycrawlies by UV death ray…as long as the water’s not actually opaque. Nathan’s enthusiastic about also trying it on river water when we are fishing.