Showin’ ‘em how it’s done
I may start writing less. Things have become more mundane in Mumbai, but at the same time, things are picking up. Things are picking up meaning I’ve gone out three nights in a row. I’m not spending as much time sitting alone. But at the same time, I’m getting used to life in Mumbai. I’m used to people staring at me. I’m used to the madness of the streets and running across highway traffic. I’m kind of used to the awful and intermittent smells on the streets. I’m used to shooing away beggars. I rode the train again tonight. I can order my lunch at work, and I can order tea. I’m busy at work, doing lots of legal research. I went to a grocery wallah tonight and asked for “brown bread,” which is Indian for whole wheat.
I went to a Goan restaurant tonight with the Singaporeans. For those who don’t habla español, Goa was a Portuguese colony on the West Coast of India south of Mumbai until the 1960s. It’s famous for its beaches and has been famous with Western backpackers for its relaxed lifestyle, available drugs, and huge parties. My landlord family are Goans, which also explains why their last name is Misquitta, and why they are Roman Catholic and, why there’s a glow-in-the-dark crucifix in my bedroom.
How to describe Goan food? We sampled many different dishes. Basically they were all meat chunks (pork, chorizo, or chicken) in thick spicy sauces. There were fewer vegetables than regular Indian food. We had two different desserts that were some sort of thick gelatinous blocks. Goa is famous for its seafood, but we didn’t get any. A dark Portuguese-Indian-looking guy played the guitar and sang. He sang a Goan song, a Carole King song, Stand by Me, and Happy Birthday – it was Alvin’s birthday. The restaurant was decorated in a style describable as a Hawaiian tiki bar.
A restaurant manager wanted to take us down the street to show us the new Maharashtrian restaurant that the owners of the Goan restaurant had just opened. In the restaurant we just stood around among the tables while everyone else ate. This was a good set up. It put me and my four Chinese friends in a prominent position all the better for all the Indians to stare at us. The manager was telling us that we should come back and eat here. Marketing to the rich foreigners, I guess. He gave us some Maharashtrian sweets – crispy, fried pockets with some more sweet, fried dough inside. Alvin got his number. Apparently this isn’t the first Indian man’s number he’s gotten. Indian men can be rather friendly with other men – always holding hands and dancing with each other and what not. Mumbai is the capital of the state of Maharashtra by the way.
After work – but before dinner – I got a head massage at a barber shop. I wouldn’t have gotten one on my own accord, but the lawyers have been insisting for weeks that I just had to. Indian men are real fond of daily coconut oil in their hair. My company makes one of India’s most popular brands, Parachute, and that’s what the barber used for my massage. So, the head massage felt pretty good. It was a real rough massage. And then the barber strapped onto his hand this machine that looked like and was about the size as a Heineken keg can. It vibrated, and the vibrations passed through the guy’s fingers onto my scalp. I don’t think head massages are really my thing. I could think of better ways to spend my time.
I went to a Goan restaurant tonight with the Singaporeans. For those who don’t habla español, Goa was a Portuguese colony on the West Coast of India south of Mumbai until the 1960s. It’s famous for its beaches and has been famous with Western backpackers for its relaxed lifestyle, available drugs, and huge parties. My landlord family are Goans, which also explains why their last name is Misquitta, and why they are Roman Catholic and, why there’s a glow-in-the-dark crucifix in my bedroom.
How to describe Goan food? We sampled many different dishes. Basically they were all meat chunks (pork, chorizo, or chicken) in thick spicy sauces. There were fewer vegetables than regular Indian food. We had two different desserts that were some sort of thick gelatinous blocks. Goa is famous for its seafood, but we didn’t get any. A dark Portuguese-Indian-looking guy played the guitar and sang. He sang a Goan song, a Carole King song, Stand by Me, and Happy Birthday – it was Alvin’s birthday. The restaurant was decorated in a style describable as a Hawaiian tiki bar.
A restaurant manager wanted to take us down the street to show us the new Maharashtrian restaurant that the owners of the Goan restaurant had just opened. In the restaurant we just stood around among the tables while everyone else ate. This was a good set up. It put me and my four Chinese friends in a prominent position all the better for all the Indians to stare at us. The manager was telling us that we should come back and eat here. Marketing to the rich foreigners, I guess. He gave us some Maharashtrian sweets – crispy, fried pockets with some more sweet, fried dough inside. Alvin got his number. Apparently this isn’t the first Indian man’s number he’s gotten. Indian men can be rather friendly with other men – always holding hands and dancing with each other and what not. Mumbai is the capital of the state of Maharashtra by the way.
After work – but before dinner – I got a head massage at a barber shop. I wouldn’t have gotten one on my own accord, but the lawyers have been insisting for weeks that I just had to. Indian men are real fond of daily coconut oil in their hair. My company makes one of India’s most popular brands, Parachute, and that’s what the barber used for my massage. So, the head massage felt pretty good. It was a real rough massage. And then the barber strapped onto his hand this machine that looked like and was about the size as a Heineken keg can. It vibrated, and the vibrations passed through the guy’s fingers onto my scalp. I don’t think head massages are really my thing. I could think of better ways to spend my time.
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