If this is Pune, it must be Thursday
First, let me just say that I put off updating so that I could leave the plea for Ryan up there a little bit longer.
Sorry, Ryan.
Also, we didn't end up going anywhere for the weekend. I slept nearly all of Saturday; we went for a long walk around Malabar Hill today (see new flickr pics); and tomorrow we're either going to take a daytrip to nearby Alibaug and try to launch the kites (which really didn't work from the roof of our building's parking garage -- too many trees, and I felt a bit self-conscious with the entire construction crew from next door's unfinished high-rise hanging out and watching us), or else putter around the house and run some errands and stuff. I'm banking on the latter. See previous posts about the Decline of Glamor.
But, yes, Thursday was Pune.
Pune is a pleasant (enough) little high-tech town of a couple million (such are little towns in India), about three hours' drive east. I was going because the Consul General had an invitation to speak at MIT -- that's the Maharashtra Institute of Technology -- and I've brought speakers to that school before. Before we left, though, the trip had morphed into (1) a visit to the state agricultural marketing board, (2) the MIT visit, (3) inauguration of a software company, and (4) dinner with the Indo-American Chamber of Commerce, before driving back the next morning.
So, there I was, at the crack of dawn Thursday morning. Just me and the Consul General (CG). Three long hours in the car together. Outstanding "face time" with a senior member of the Foreign Service.
Readers, I was fast asleep within ten minutes.
In my defense, I should say that, otherwise, I'm a business roadtrip pro. I knew I had exactly enough time after check-in and before our first event to brew a cup of coffee in my room. I knew that to make Indian packaged coffee palatable, one has to empty all the little freeze-dried packets in the cup, and cut it with half again as much sugar. I knew that at the front desk I had to keep a deathgrip on my bag and carry it to my room myself -- that was learned the hard way, during a business trip to Baroda, in which my plane was late and I had exactly ten minutes to get changed for a formal dinner, and I let the hotel bring me my bag in their leisurely fashion. I was a tad dishevelled that evening.
I'm sure I'll do a whole riff on this at some point, but the interesting thing about Indian politeness: it's emphatically not about being considerate to the guest. It's about explicitly and publicly meeting the demands of politeness -- in which your role as guest is to pretend the host's impositions are what you wanted all along. Thus, the hotel will be almost nasty about insisting on bringing your bag up to your room. It's more important that they be seen to take care of you, than that you have your stuff when you want it.
Lest you think that's about the ten-rupee tip that's expected, here's another one: during my flight back from Baroda, another pre-dawn trip with the CG, we were ushered into a rotting private airport lounge with noisy and overactive air conditioners blowing mildew straight at us, and kept there until we could be the last ones to board. We actually tried to sneak out at one point, and were herded back. The condition of the lounge wasn't important -- after all, the public don't see it -- so much as that the city government/airport authority could be seen to offer us special treatment. Never mind that by the time we actually got on the plane, all the overhead bays were full, so that our carry-on bags had to be placed half a plane away from us and farther from the exit, so that when we landed we had to wait until every last person deplaned (and I do mean every last; no one thinks twice about trampling in India). Highly inconvenient. But not the concern of the departure airport; they met their obligations. Essentially, it's the politeness equivalent of only cleaning the bits of the house that other people see (which, by amazing coincidence, is also the philosophy of my maid).
I usually don't fight the faux-consideration; there's no point. There was only one time I can remember taking a stand, at a hotel breakfast buffet in Hyderabad. Some flunky snatched my cereal bowl from me, and was about to pour from a pitcher of milk that stood a 50 percent chance of being hot.
"No," I said, "let me."
He resisted -- after all, as far as he was concerned, I was just saying my lines in a scene with a predetermined ending.
Except cereal is personal, and -- the travesty of hot milk aside -- I'm rather particular. Cereal should have just enough milk to be fully submerged, but not much more, otherwise it's impossible to finish the cereal and the milk at the same time, and the whole experience is as good as ruined. It got ugly. I ended up bellowing "NO!" while forcibly wresting back the bowl.
Hey -- you don't mess with breakfast, ok?
Anyway, the agricultural board: A group of farmers greeted the CG by wrapping him in a wool shawl and handing him a coconut. The leader rather angrily thrust a second shawl and coconut into my hands. I was confused, until I glanced at his notes, and saw that "Mr. [my name]" had been scratched out and replaced by "Ms. [my name]" Ah, right. The shawl and coconut had been readied, but he couldn't, with propriety, actually drape anything around me, and the anger was because it was my fault for being female. Right. Got it.
The meeting itself was one of those "why are we having this?" meetings that seem to take place frequently here. The CG was awfully gracious about it, whereas I have a tendency to ask "sorry -- why are we having this meeting?" I guess that's why he's the CG, and I'm frankly, not all that good at my job and am seriously considering going back to grad school.
After the speeches, the accolades, and the trying to look interested in endless PowerPoint slides on mango supply chains, they brought out the mangoes. This was, as Andrew Sullivan says, the money shot. While a gaggle of photographers knelt on the other side of the table, inches from our faces, flashes popping, we were supposed to eat (with our hands) the notoriously soft, runny, messy Alphonso mango, while making mmm, Mikey likes it faces. Again, the CG was somewhat better at this than I was.
We were then frog-marched out of the building (see above about politeness), into the hot sun, and made to admire mangoes being sold in the stalls. I tried to hang back -- surely, the photographers just wanted the CG doing this? -- but that just resulted in a solo performance, as the cameramen -- that's precise language, not sexist generalism -- couldn't seem to get enough of the short, chubby sunburned memsahib hefting and sniffing at the mangoes. Mmm, Mikey likes.
We were served a fabulous four-course lunch: corn chowder, a big plate of something-or-other that was doubtlessly swimming in ghee and cream, fresh naan, an after-course of pulao rice (I always forget that rice is served later, and it's always so tasty when drowned in ghee that I can never resist), and then yet more mangoes. This one was a different variety -- the Kesar -- and firmer, and even sweeter, if possible. Very silky and impressive. Give it a powdery finish, and it could almost be Thai. Then, finally, fresh full-cream homemade ice cream. I don't know whether it's because the cows are worshipped, but, honestly, Indian ice cream can be divine.
As we got back in the car, someone came out and began loading the trunk with boxes of mangoes. I really didn't protest too much. Actually, I'm not sure I protested at all.
...And it's bedtime and I don't trust the "save drafts" feature here (based on experience), so more on the Pune trip soon.
Sorry, Ryan.
Also, we didn't end up going anywhere for the weekend. I slept nearly all of Saturday; we went for a long walk around Malabar Hill today (see new flickr pics); and tomorrow we're either going to take a daytrip to nearby Alibaug and try to launch the kites (which really didn't work from the roof of our building's parking garage -- too many trees, and I felt a bit self-conscious with the entire construction crew from next door's unfinished high-rise hanging out and watching us), or else putter around the house and run some errands and stuff. I'm banking on the latter. See previous posts about the Decline of Glamor.
But, yes, Thursday was Pune.
Pune is a pleasant (enough) little high-tech town of a couple million (such are little towns in India), about three hours' drive east. I was going because the Consul General had an invitation to speak at MIT -- that's the Maharashtra Institute of Technology -- and I've brought speakers to that school before. Before we left, though, the trip had morphed into (1) a visit to the state agricultural marketing board, (2) the MIT visit, (3) inauguration of a software company, and (4) dinner with the Indo-American Chamber of Commerce, before driving back the next morning.
So, there I was, at the crack of dawn Thursday morning. Just me and the Consul General (CG). Three long hours in the car together. Outstanding "face time" with a senior member of the Foreign Service.
Readers, I was fast asleep within ten minutes.
In my defense, I should say that, otherwise, I'm a business roadtrip pro. I knew I had exactly enough time after check-in and before our first event to brew a cup of coffee in my room. I knew that to make Indian packaged coffee palatable, one has to empty all the little freeze-dried packets in the cup, and cut it with half again as much sugar. I knew that at the front desk I had to keep a deathgrip on my bag and carry it to my room myself -- that was learned the hard way, during a business trip to Baroda, in which my plane was late and I had exactly ten minutes to get changed for a formal dinner, and I let the hotel bring me my bag in their leisurely fashion. I was a tad dishevelled that evening.
I'm sure I'll do a whole riff on this at some point, but the interesting thing about Indian politeness: it's emphatically not about being considerate to the guest. It's about explicitly and publicly meeting the demands of politeness -- in which your role as guest is to pretend the host's impositions are what you wanted all along. Thus, the hotel will be almost nasty about insisting on bringing your bag up to your room. It's more important that they be seen to take care of you, than that you have your stuff when you want it.
Lest you think that's about the ten-rupee tip that's expected, here's another one: during my flight back from Baroda, another pre-dawn trip with the CG, we were ushered into a rotting private airport lounge with noisy and overactive air conditioners blowing mildew straight at us, and kept there until we could be the last ones to board. We actually tried to sneak out at one point, and were herded back. The condition of the lounge wasn't important -- after all, the public don't see it -- so much as that the city government/airport authority could be seen to offer us special treatment. Never mind that by the time we actually got on the plane, all the overhead bays were full, so that our carry-on bags had to be placed half a plane away from us and farther from the exit, so that when we landed we had to wait until every last person deplaned (and I do mean every last; no one thinks twice about trampling in India). Highly inconvenient. But not the concern of the departure airport; they met their obligations. Essentially, it's the politeness equivalent of only cleaning the bits of the house that other people see (which, by amazing coincidence, is also the philosophy of my maid).
I usually don't fight the faux-consideration; there's no point. There was only one time I can remember taking a stand, at a hotel breakfast buffet in Hyderabad. Some flunky snatched my cereal bowl from me, and was about to pour from a pitcher of milk that stood a 50 percent chance of being hot.
"No," I said, "let me."
He resisted -- after all, as far as he was concerned, I was just saying my lines in a scene with a predetermined ending.
Except cereal is personal, and -- the travesty of hot milk aside -- I'm rather particular. Cereal should have just enough milk to be fully submerged, but not much more, otherwise it's impossible to finish the cereal and the milk at the same time, and the whole experience is as good as ruined. It got ugly. I ended up bellowing "NO!" while forcibly wresting back the bowl.
Hey -- you don't mess with breakfast, ok?
Anyway, the agricultural board: A group of farmers greeted the CG by wrapping him in a wool shawl and handing him a coconut. The leader rather angrily thrust a second shawl and coconut into my hands. I was confused, until I glanced at his notes, and saw that "Mr. [my name]" had been scratched out and replaced by "Ms. [my name]" Ah, right. The shawl and coconut had been readied, but he couldn't, with propriety, actually drape anything around me, and the anger was because it was my fault for being female. Right. Got it.
The meeting itself was one of those "why are we having this?" meetings that seem to take place frequently here. The CG was awfully gracious about it, whereas I have a tendency to ask "sorry -- why are we having this meeting?" I guess that's why he's the CG, and I'm frankly, not all that good at my job and am seriously considering going back to grad school.
After the speeches, the accolades, and the trying to look interested in endless PowerPoint slides on mango supply chains, they brought out the mangoes. This was, as Andrew Sullivan says, the money shot. While a gaggle of photographers knelt on the other side of the table, inches from our faces, flashes popping, we were supposed to eat (with our hands) the notoriously soft, runny, messy Alphonso mango, while making mmm, Mikey likes it faces. Again, the CG was somewhat better at this than I was.
We were then frog-marched out of the building (see above about politeness), into the hot sun, and made to admire mangoes being sold in the stalls. I tried to hang back -- surely, the photographers just wanted the CG doing this? -- but that just resulted in a solo performance, as the cameramen -- that's precise language, not sexist generalism -- couldn't seem to get enough of the short, chubby sunburned memsahib hefting and sniffing at the mangoes. Mmm, Mikey likes.
We were served a fabulous four-course lunch: corn chowder, a big plate of something-or-other that was doubtlessly swimming in ghee and cream, fresh naan, an after-course of pulao rice (I always forget that rice is served later, and it's always so tasty when drowned in ghee that I can never resist), and then yet more mangoes. This one was a different variety -- the Kesar -- and firmer, and even sweeter, if possible. Very silky and impressive. Give it a powdery finish, and it could almost be Thai. Then, finally, fresh full-cream homemade ice cream. I don't know whether it's because the cows are worshipped, but, honestly, Indian ice cream can be divine.
As we got back in the car, someone came out and began loading the trunk with boxes of mangoes. I really didn't protest too much. Actually, I'm not sure I protested at all.
...And it's bedtime and I don't trust the "save drafts" feature here (based on experience), so more on the Pune trip soon.
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