Red Fort Diaries

The crowds today were unreal--on the Metro (think Tokyo), in the bazaars, at the fort, at the mosque (more on that later). We started wondering if it was always like this. India's population is close to 1.2 billion so, assuming a five-day work week (big assumption, I know), a quick mental calculation reveals that the number of people off from work or school every day exceeds the entire population of the US. Add to that the New Years holiday and you will likely still have no conception of what I'm talking about.

Anyway, just inside the bounds of New Delhi sits the Red Fort, though that's just the outside, carved from rust colored sandstone. Inside it's all intricately carved marble and gardens and a complex irrigation system connecting dozens of pools and fountains. That this lone picture fails to do it justice is the definition of understatement. So y'all will have to come back in late January for the full report.

After nearly two hours we were back on the street hunting for a ride to Jama Masjid, or Friday Mosque. Rs 50 (about a buck). Transportation is cheap.

It was at that moment, careening down the street, that Karen realized her purse was gone. Credit and debit cards, driver's license, Rs 4000. Fortunately they didn't get her phone, and I'm holding on to her passport, but she'd been warned: cute little shoulder bags with no zipper and a single snap are not what one goes wandering about India with. Not to make it an I-told-you-so moment (mainly because she'd been directed otherwise by everything from travel guides to the nice lady at the hotel), but word: you're not in Palo Alto any more.

Anyway, the cards have been cancelled and she can't lose her wallet again. I thought it might be a bit of poetic justice to make her wear an extra-ugly money belt for the rest of the trip, but she's got nothing to put in it. Perhaps best of all, she's promised to never again make fun of my hunting vest, in which I store everything in separate, tightly velcroed pockets. Sure, I may resemble John Goodman from The Big Lebowski, but I'm not getting picked.

When we got back to the hotel, Karen mentioned the incident to our Maitre'd. His response spoke volumes: "This kind of thing makes all Indians sad."