On Sunday, November 8th, we got up for 6:30 a.m. mass, in Malayalam. We were among the first there, sitting on the left side of the chapel. Later, during mass, we realized that everyone on that left side, except Mary Joy, was male, while everyone one the right side was female. This realization made Mary Joy uncomfortable, so she asked Father George afterwards if she should have been sitting on the other side. He said not to worry about it. That was only how people did things at their home parishes, so they brought it here, too.
By nine o'clock we ready to go, so we and Father George hopped into the car, and Father Denny, the director of the retreat house, drove us to the airport, taking about two-and-a-quarter hours to cover the approximately fifty miles to the Kochi Airport. There we said goodbye to the priests and caught our flight to Delhi via Hyderabad.
Sitting next to me on the plane was a young man who introduced himself toward the end of the second flight. His name was Vishnu, and he worked for a Dutch firm, certifying organic farming programs. While he travelled a lot, he lived alone in Delhi,and was looking forward very much to getting back to his home village to visit his parents for the Diwali festival. When he learned that we would be leaving India the night before Diwali, he said that that was unfortunate. Diwali is the Festival of Lights, commemorating Rama's return to his kingdom after fourteen years in exile, the definitive triumph of good over evil. Everyone buys little clay dishes to use as oil lamps, colored electric lights are strung everywhere, fireworks are going off on all sides. In northern India it is the closest equivalent to Christmas in the United States--several days of visits and gift-giving and parties and sweets and nuts. Vishnu said that we would be missing an amazing time. He also said that our three weeks would be too short a visit to his country. There were so many places in India that we should see, so we would have to come back. He was a very nice young man, devoted to his parents, especially his mother, though now he would have to take time from work to prepare for another major festivity--he would be married in exactly thirty days, on December 8th! As we left the plane we said goodbye to Vishnu and wished him good luck.
Delhi smelled of smoke. This time of year, farmers in the surrounding states burn their fields, causing very high levels of particulate pollution, a constant gray haze that leaves grime on your handkerchief when you blow your nose. This is in addition to the Delhi's normal car-exhaust and other air pollution. Mary Joy took an immediate dislike to the city, which was enhanced when our pickup by a car from our hotel was bungled by my decision to follow an e-mail by the hotel that said that we would be picked up at Terminal 3, though it turned out that our plane actually arrived at Terminal 1. However, after an unnecessary shuttle bus ride,some phone calls, lots of waiting, and a drive through traffic, we ended up at Shangri-La's Eros Hotel, a very classy, modern hotel in the heart of classy, modern New Delhi. Mary Joy was surprised at how pleasant New Delhi is, sort of like Washington, D.C., with broad, tree-lined boulevards and impressive public buildings. We are not used to staying at this level of hotel, with seemingly dozens of people standing around eagerly for the opportunity to wait on us hand and foot. We had thought that the Radissons we had stayed at in Tamil Nadu and Mysore had been very nice, but I set up our hotel in Delhi under the assumption that we would want an oasis from the high level of culture shock. Normally, we couldn't afford a hotel like this, but while it was a little pricy for India, in New York City it would have been at least triple the price.
On the way in, Mary Joy remarked to the driver that Delhi was very different from the south. "Yes," he replied, "there they're black and speak other languages." This was the first time that anyone had mentioned the skin-color difference between northern and southern Indians, though in the south it feels strange that everyone in the billboard ads is much lighter-skinned than the people on the street walking under those billboards.
By nine o'clock we ready to go, so we and Father George hopped into the car, and Father Denny, the director of the retreat house, drove us to the airport, taking about two-and-a-quarter hours to cover the approximately fifty miles to the Kochi Airport. There we said goodbye to the priests and caught our flight to Delhi via Hyderabad.
Sitting next to me on the plane was a young man who introduced himself toward the end of the second flight. His name was Vishnu, and he worked for a Dutch firm, certifying organic farming programs. While he travelled a lot, he lived alone in Delhi,and was looking forward very much to getting back to his home village to visit his parents for the Diwali festival. When he learned that we would be leaving India the night before Diwali, he said that that was unfortunate. Diwali is the Festival of Lights, commemorating Rama's return to his kingdom after fourteen years in exile, the definitive triumph of good over evil. Everyone buys little clay dishes to use as oil lamps, colored electric lights are strung everywhere, fireworks are going off on all sides. In northern India it is the closest equivalent to Christmas in the United States--several days of visits and gift-giving and parties and sweets and nuts. Vishnu said that we would be missing an amazing time. He also said that our three weeks would be too short a visit to his country. There were so many places in India that we should see, so we would have to come back. He was a very nice young man, devoted to his parents, especially his mother, though now he would have to take time from work to prepare for another major festivity--he would be married in exactly thirty days, on December 8th! As we left the plane we said goodbye to Vishnu and wished him good luck.
Delhi smelled of smoke. This time of year, farmers in the surrounding states burn their fields, causing very high levels of particulate pollution, a constant gray haze that leaves grime on your handkerchief when you blow your nose. This is in addition to the Delhi's normal car-exhaust and other air pollution. Mary Joy took an immediate dislike to the city, which was enhanced when our pickup by a car from our hotel was bungled by my decision to follow an e-mail by the hotel that said that we would be picked up at Terminal 3, though it turned out that our plane actually arrived at Terminal 1. However, after an unnecessary shuttle bus ride,some phone calls, lots of waiting, and a drive through traffic, we ended up at Shangri-La's Eros Hotel, a very classy, modern hotel in the heart of classy, modern New Delhi. Mary Joy was surprised at how pleasant New Delhi is, sort of like Washington, D.C., with broad, tree-lined boulevards and impressive public buildings. We are not used to staying at this level of hotel, with seemingly dozens of people standing around eagerly for the opportunity to wait on us hand and foot. We had thought that the Radissons we had stayed at in Tamil Nadu and Mysore had been very nice, but I set up our hotel in Delhi under the assumption that we would want an oasis from the high level of culture shock. Normally, we couldn't afford a hotel like this, but while it was a little pricy for India, in New York City it would have been at least triple the price.
On the way in, Mary Joy remarked to the driver that Delhi was very different from the south. "Yes," he replied, "there they're black and speak other languages." This was the first time that anyone had mentioned the skin-color difference between northern and southern Indians, though in the south it feels strange that everyone in the billboard ads is much lighter-skinned than the people on the street walking under those billboards.
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