Two Years’ Change: Monumental in the Developing World

I’m back! I’ve arrived and spent my first “night” (do 3 sleepless hours in bed count?) in Gurgaon.

It’s lovely thus far. I’m staying with friends, and their apartment is Spartan and comfy; the road outside looks to be freshly paved; and perhaps most influential of all, Delhi International Airport has transformed itself into a palace.

The Delhi I arrived at two years ago resembled so much the Bombay I’d visited two years prior to that: distinctly third world, with its military presence and its simple, dirty, stuffy corridors. Last night, I was treated to what I’ll call bright and shiny things: New people-mover stretches along the extensive arrivals level; fresh, clean, unstained carpet; bright lights; alcoves with not only clean benches for sitting but also green, fresh plants. LED displays blinked everywhere and Pepsi-product-filled vending machines, which I’ve very rarely seen in India (why have a machine when a human soul can make money doling out drinks?) dotted the terminal.

Passengers exiting the terminal into Immigration and Baggage Claim are greeted by art, with a wall full of the hands art installation. Uncharacteristically clear signage guides visitors through arrivals lines that don’t intimidate. In fact, the lines move quickly! Officials smile and are helpful. A customer service rep near baggage claim takes a satisfaction survey. An AirTel representative turns on a bank of phones for curious travelers.

Outside, the sidewalk is nearly clean, and drivers line up in an orderly line against the rail with their placards. My driver is here! And so is another AirTel booth, this time with a man who can recharge my Sim card. Now a quick stop for bottled water – more smiles! – and then off to perhaps the greatest adventure: a 7-story parking garage. Praveen, my driver, is beaming. And in truth, this is undeniably fancy stuff. On every other arrival in India, I have dolefully followed my ride – in-laws-to-be, fellow expats, pre-paid cab drivers – into a dark, poorly lit gravel or roughly-paved lot, filled with cabs parked willy-nilly, many housing sleeping drivers, in order to exit the airport. Tonight, instead, we’re filing orderly out of a well-lit structure complete with attendants taking tickets prior to finding your car, just like they do in the states. Could it be that India is catching on to efficiency?

I have twelve days to find that out. I hear movement outside my door; time to be up and about!

Summer in the City

After just three years of living here, it's still strange to me that as the rest of the country turns to cooler weather each "autumn" -- pulling out sweaters and scarfs in burgundies and grays -- we in San Francisco throw open our windows, strip down to our swimsuits and head outside to soak up the sun that has been so long in coming to us.

It's Sun., Sept. 26, and the temperature in my fair city is a balmy 81 degrees Fahrenheit, one of the warmest days we've had all year. Yesterday was so warm that after sweating -- a phenomenon! -- at the Polk Street Blues Festival, we went to the beach at Crissy Field, where V. actually swam in the water several times. As in, fully submerged in the water, floating around, enjoying the cool of the Bay. That never happens here. And the forecast is for the warmth to continue, right on into next weekend.

I can't really complain about the heat. We do wait for it all year, and it's quite lovely to have, especially with the 10th Annual Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival just around the corner. But it does come at a conflicting time this year. As one who just got married, I'd really like nothing more than to be nesting right now -- settling in, buying new furniture, getting organizers for the kitchen, etc., etc. But who wants that when it's so lovely outside? Being inside IKEA feels like a jail sentence of sorts. So I must resign myself, I think, to the out-of-doors realm until post-Indian-wedding. Apartment, you shall have my attention some day. Just not today.

Day 4: Playing House

Since the hubs has this new day-time gig, it truly does feel like we're playing house. I go to work; he goes to work. I get home from the gym after work, and he's already here, sorting the mail and gathering his laundry. It's the first time since we started dating that we've worked the same hours. Thank you, new shift, for enabling the fun.

Tuesday Musings

Toward the end of the day today, I discovered a gaffe I made nearly three weeks ago, before I left for my wedding and honeymoon. I CC'd my entire team on a draft e-mail to another person. No major harm was done, but it clued the team into a project I was working on that wasn't yet finished. Worse yet, in the mix-up, I forgot to attach the project, which is now lost (along with the hours I spent on it). Atypical for me, easily attributed to bride brain, etc. -- but still difficult to stomach. Boo.

Other things, though, are looking up. I left the office before 6 p.m. today because I knew V. would be waiting at home, owing to his new 9-to-5 gig. My new strategy of dressing up also seems to be proving itself in small ways: friendlier exchanges with strangers on the bus, the odd compliment, self-esteem boost, etc. I'm also drinking wine out of an over-sized wine glass as we speak, which means I'm back in the proud, capitalist United States of America -- a land I learned to appreciate all over again on our trip, lovely though it was.

Last but not least, I have an unexpected letter waiting for me from a dear friend, someone I met during a tumultuous time for both of us. I think we would have been friends anyway, but we became fast buds under the circumstances. A note from her is not at all a bad way to end Day 3 of the return to normal life.

Chicago, Chicago

I'm back in Chicago -- for a work trip -- after a five year absence. I've only been here a few hours, but it's absolutely fantastic so far. Right now, I'm at the Giordano's at Rush and Superior for a late (by Central Time standards), where I'm waiting on a stuffed spinach pizza, sipping a beer (Goose Island, not bad) and nibbling antipasto.

I've come here for a number of reasons. First of all, it's not too far from my hotel, and since I landed at 7:30 p.m., I was hoping for something nearby. Second, it's a pizza place -- and, as pizza places tend to be, laid back enough for me to get some work done while I wait for the doughy, cheesy goodness that is Chicago deep dish.

Mostly, though, I cam here because it's where I went on my first date with my first 'real' boyfriend more than nine years ago. (Nine? Nine! Can you believe it?) And I wanted to re-experience this.

Those of you who have been with me long enough will remember that particular boyfriend turned out to be a dud of the highest order. I'm not a big believer in dredging up the past, so I won't go into details here -- but suffice to say that is was not a satisfactory first boyfriend experience. (Luckily for me, subsequent significant others, including my fiancé, re-set the bar to a high mark.)

I came back tonight so that I might have a chance to view this particular pizza joint through the eyes of a much more learned, much more experienced, much more confident me. I wanted to be able to look around at the red-and-white-checked table clothes, the leather booths, the hardwood floors and, yes, the pizza, and know that, while I can't go back and re-do the experience of my first boyfriend, I did learn from it, and I've become a better person for having endured it.

So, a toast, then, to the first and worst boyfriend I ever had: May he, wherever he is, be nicer to the girls he's wooing now, or receive the same treatment from them that he gave to me.

Hear, here!