Dad Visits For Twelve Days

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My Dad flew into Delhi around noon, and I met him back at the Star Hotel, a midrange place on the strip of lonely neon hotels near the airport. I was really glad to see him, but was a little worried about what he would think of the whole place. If I had problems with India, my Dad, with a similar mindset and less tolerance for bullshit, would surely have a problem.
We immediately got into the thick of Delhi. I don’t know if this is a good strategy, but I have employed it now with my girlfriend and my Dad, and plan to do the same thing with my sister when she comes. We took a rickshaw into Humayun’s Tomb where we wandered around a little. There was some sort of construction or renovation project going on outside of the tomb. Dad pointed out the ineptitude of the workers and how unorganized the whole affair was. I just stood proudly and listened. The construction jobs around the city would provide constant entertainment to my Dad, a lifelong contractor, and thus to me.
I had forgotten how easy my Dad was to travel with, and how experienced. Seeing as I had lived in Delhi for a few months and spoke a little of the language, he left the arrangements and navigating up to me. But he was pretty much up for anything.
After Humayun’s Tomb, we caught another rickshaw to Connaught Place, where we walked around and had a good dinner at United Coffee House, a self-proclaimed “Bohemian food” place. The food was pretty good, but coming straight from the United States, I could tell my Dad was unimpressed. I wondered if I would even touch my “spaghetti” back at home, let alone think it good. But I did enjoy my spaghetti: it was a wonderful reminder of home and a taste of comfort food. Plus, the atmosphere was great.
Dad got his first experience with beggars around Connaught Place, and it was interesting to note how many beggars seemed to latch onto him. I guess he looks friendlier than I.
From Connaught Place, we caught another rickshaw back to the airport area. The rickshaw driver, claimed he needed to rip us off (which we obliged) because it was some sort of women’s Hindu festival, where the women dress up and get henna tattoos. “I need to get back home to my wife,” he kept saying. “It’s an important night for the men… do you understand?” We let him cheat us, and he was friendly enough. He commented on Dad’s muscles several times. Then, his rickshaw broke down on the side of the road. A taxi van stopped and said he would take us to the airport for half the price. Our first rickshaw driver was adamant that we stay with him, help him push the car to a mechanic, wait for them to fix it (God knows how long that would take), and then he would drive us to the airport for the same price we agreed upon. I thought some logic was missing here, so we apologized and got into the taxi van.
The new taxi driver was insane. He talked to himself, leaned his head out of the window and gave catcalls, and drove like an absolute maniac, down streets the wrong way and swerving around corners into oncoming cars, all to avoid traffic. He would occasionally turn back towards us and ask us some odd unintelligible question, and then nod and turn back to the road. We did arrive at the Star Hotel in one piece, but after our arrival, the driver demanded more money. We refused, and he began to rev his engine and swerve the taxi towards us. We headed for the Star Hotel as quickly as possible.
Dad was exhausted, having not slept since his twenty-five hour flight, and having gained an extra twelve hours to his day, so we went to sleep early that night. We had a flight to Kathmandu at seven the next morning.

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Comments

[Kristie Smith]

your dad
Ronny-your dad raised 3 kids. You would be surprised how much bullshit he can tolerate. Mom