Happy Birthday

I made a life decision the other day. I decided to confront one of my big fears. As you may recall, I feel somewhat uncomfortable around the 8-legged creatures that roam the streets and inhabit my bathroom, so I decided to pick myself up by my cheek-bones and just deal with it. It was all very Dr. Phil. The other day I forced myself to just stand there while the beast eyed me up and down and yesterday I had a breakthrough. Everyone at the office knows of my little spider issue and so Sharad called me into his office to see the giant spider lurking under the desk. I may have exaggerated about the size of the spiders in my bathroom, and while this was nowhere near as big as the one I came across in Lucknow, it was large enough to take off a finger if it was so inclined. It had the spindly little legs and looked about as harmless as a spider can. I decided to touch it, and touch it I did. It was only then that Sharad told me that the spider I touched has a chemical or something on it’s body that will cause the skin to blister. Go figure. I ran into the washroom and washed my hands while singing “Happy Birthday”.

Why that particular song? Well, a couple of years ago I was watching Oprah and she did a show about the bacteria and fungus among us and it turns out that for effective disinfecting, one must needs wash one's hands for at least 15 seconds, approximately the time it takes to sing “Happy Birthday”. Ever since then, I have been having celebrations for one whenever I visit the washroom. So not only did I touch a spider, but I have a near death experience to go with it. Ok, so maybe not near death, but a near near death one.

I live in a flat not of my choosing with furniture that has nothing to do with taste and am now sitting in my living room which is ruled over my a piece of, er, art. It is a framed peacock made entirely of seashells which I assume were collected at the seashore by Suzy. No, not THAT Suzy, a different one, with a “Zee Y”. So in this temple of bad taste and I was surprised by my latest finding this morning. There I was in the bathroom, having one of my celebrations while my dust coughed and wheezed, sniveled and sneezed when suddenly something about the shower curtain caught my attention.

Now, I can honestly say that I have the ugliest shower curtain in the history of showers. And not just one, but 2 of them, side my side. Whenever I have had to look at them, I have developed temporary blindness and just ignored them. I have always been one of those people that need to find the pattern in things and I realized that my shower curtain had no discernable pattern and today my idiosyncrasies got the best of me and I took a better look. The whole design, which I have concluded is supposed to be tulips had the appearance of being handpainted. Handpainted kind-of-tulips on a sort of flimsy rubberlike plastic. And they appeared not to have ben painted by just anyone, but by a 4 year old.

I couldn't resist the temtation to investigate further. I gave them both a thorough going over and indeed, they are both completely hand painted. I was stunned. Not only were these the ugliest shower curtains ever to walk this earth, but they had been created in love. Someone had thought this through, had chosen colors, brushes and made unsuccessful attempts at shading. Yes indeed, they were nothing less than a work of love. And like many works of love, say a lopsided cake, burnt cookies or any piece of macaroni or bean art, it was like an ugly baby, a face that only a mother could find beautiful.

Merry Christmas

For some reason, and I assume it must be the early onset of temporary insanity brought on by the heat and endless mosquitoes, I have had the same song swimming through my head for the past week. When I wake up in the morning, my first thoughts are:

Oh the weather outside is frightful,
But the fire is so delightful,
And since we've no place to go,
Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!
It doesn't show signs of stopping
And I've bought some corn for popping
The lights are turned way down low
Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!

And the oddest thing is, I hate that song. I don’t even like it when it is in season, much less when it is 40 plus degrees outside. Could it be some weird strain of malaria after all? Could I have been bitten by the mosquito of Christmas past? Have I been bah humbugging a bit too much throughout my sub-continental adventure? It’s all very Charles Dickens meets “The Jungle Book” if you ask me. Am I unknowingly delirious and why is it that I am always to last to know when I am having a mental meltdown? Perhaps it is sunstroke. Perhaps I need more liquids. Given all the hot flashes I have been having, I would almost assume I was menopausal, but I highly doubt it. Although if my fading memory serves me correctly, I did read something somewhere that there is such a thing as male menopause. And why not? Why should women have all the fun?

Perhaps I am in need of a holiday. And if I took a holiday, some time to celebrate, just one day out of life, I am sure it would be alright and so next Thursday will find me sitting on the KLM flight to Amsterdam. In fact right about this time, I will be having one of those meals that should be classified as crimes against humanity. I am flying economy class. I make it my personal policy never to travel behind the blue curtain but my work has left me no choice. I will have to ask my friend Mark to try and get me upgraded, or to at least reserve me a great seat so I can at least pretend I am somebody, even if that somebody is a somebody who used to be somebody. I wouldn’t at all mind that question “Hey, didn’t you used to be someone?” to which I would reply “I’m not sure.” Who invented economy class anyway? Who decided that just anybody should be allowed to fly? I remember when I was very young and flying was a most glamorous affair. Stewardesses (and they were called that then) were the original supermodels. They were the Kate’s, Linda’s, Cindy’s and Naomi’s of the sky. People wore their best clothes and as a young boy I would be taken into the cockpit to meet the pilots, sit in the jump-seat and I would get my very own wings. It was grand.

One of my earliest memories is sitting upstairs in a Pan-Am 747 with my little Disney coloring books having absolutely no clue just how special it was to be on a plane. I practically grew up on airplanes, being shuttled back and forth between coasts, between parents and later, between glamorous shopping destinations. But why couldn’t mass travel remain an elitist thing? I don’t mean to sound like a snob, but really, does one truly feel comfortable during heavy turbulence while sitting next to someone in sandals and socks? I should think not. I most certainly don’t.

Queen's Day

I had a party to attend Saturday night and needed to look fabulous. Well, as fabulous as anyone can look in orange. I napped, I did some industrial strength moisturizing and went shopping for an orange shirt. I know, I know, the metrosexual’s closet is no place for orange, but I had no choice. I was going to a party to celebrate the Dutch Queen’s Birthday. Obligatory orange dress code aside, I am not a fan at all of Queen’s Day. Amsterdam becomes a nightmare as the entire country pours into the streets. People drinking at 6am and they just keep going until the end of the day. The crowds are unbelievable and what would normally be a 5 – 10 minute walk suddenly takes 45 minutes or more. Last Queen’s Day I soent with Nik on a houseboat, then on a tiny little boat that was always looking like it was ready to sink. Yes indeed, the very same boat whose engine conked out on us leaving us stranded in the middle of a canal during one of the hottest days of the year. – you can read all about that little adventure here

Anyway, I was on my way to celebrate the Queen’s birthday Delhi style. In a country where one can find fabrics and shirts in colors that I don’t even think exist outside it’s borders, we seemed to be in the middle of an orange famine. Of course, I realized why when I got Stephen’s SMS that he was boycotting orange for the party. Something about making him look jaundiced, which is just not a good look for anyone, regardless of how fantastic their bone structure is. I walked up Kotla, my favorite crowded and chaotic street here in the hood and found nothing. Fortunately there is a Docker’s store and for some unkown reason, they seemed to have the entire country’s stock of orange polos. I grabbed one and ran home as quickly as I could as I had just about 40 minutes to dress up like a piece of fruit before Danielle came to fetch me and whisk me away to Stephen and Pierre’s for some pre-party bubbles. I have to say, Pierre achieved god-like status in my eyes last night when he was pouring the Moet into my glass. I felt shaky, giddy, like a virgin all over again. These were real bubbles and I felt like Pinocchio had come home at last.

It was over bubbles that I met the rest of the gang I would be spending the evening with. There was John, whose name is actually Peter, but he seems to have binned his real name for an until now unexplained reason, there was Magda from Poland and Evangeliso (I hope I spelled it correctly, but my Greek is a bit rusty) who is one of those people who was impossibly handsome in his youth and has spent his post-youth wondering where it fled to. I feel for the guy, But can also relate. Sometimes I mourn the passing of my cuteness. Then SHE entered. Suzy. Or shall I call her Suzety? See, I asked her if she was Suzy with “Zee Y” or an “S-I-E” and she looked at me, locking her eyes on mine and without blinking said, “yes, it is with a Zet Y.” It was subtle, she complimented me on the correct spelling while at the same time pointing out the errors of my ways. I said tomato and she said tomahto and I was just about to call the whole thing off when she redeemed herself by playing to my insatiable ego. It was very transparent, but worked wonders. I can never resist a good ego petting. She told me how much she enjoyed my blog and I immediately melted to her, placing her name at the top of my list of cool and fabulous people.

Soon the bubbles were gone we were soon caravanning across the great subcontinent to a fabulous farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. Actually, maybe not in the middle of nowhere, more like on the outskirts of nowhere. We arrived that what can only be called a modest estate that had white lights thrown on anything that wasn’t moving and joined the already hopping festivities. There was a wine bar, a spirits bar, beer bar, buffet table, dance floor complete with laser, stage with piano where the Swedish jazz pianist would us with his boogie woogie, as he called it. We staked out our territory next to the free shaped pool, under the palm trees decorated with orange lanterns. Pierre immediately tuned into his French genes and started shoving cocktails on everyone.

Nibbly things were handed around and suddenly, the calm silence was shattered as the DJ starting spinning Shakira’s greatest hits. I felt like I was back in Driver’s car and started reaching for my seatbelt. What amazed us all was just how bad the DJ was. It wasn’t only the choice of music which had 1985 stamped all over it, but the fact that it just clumsily went from one track to another. It was all very confusing and I felt like Stella when she lost her groove. At some point in the evening, the DJ played Laura Brannigan’s “Self Control” and said very casually that she had died a few years back in her sleep from an aneurism. I immediately pack up and moved all my belongings to Denial. I simply couldn’t believe it. I wouldn’t believe it. How could I have missed such an event. How am I supposed to live without her? Of course it wasn’t until later that I realized I was on holiday when it happened, but CNN most definitely dropped the ball.

Just as we were about to say goodbye, the DJ discovered ABBA and once Dancing Queen was spinning, Suzy made a bee-line for the dance floor. It was only the next day that I was informed of Suzy’s love for cheesy disco music, but that is just between you and me, I would never make something like that public information. All too soon the night came to an end and soon we were all piling into our cars for the long journey back into civilization, to rest up for yet another party on Sunday…

Porsche Anyone?

It all started with an sms. I asked Stephen if he and Pierre would like to meet for cocktails Friday evening. I had a long week at the office and my whole body was screaming “two drink minimum”. They accepted and we decided to check out the Ivy. A couple of hours later, they cancelled out on me and suddenly it was teardrops on the dance floor all over again. But all was not lost and I was soon on my way to see Patti and Laurent, who live on my street, and who are also in possession of a flat that I personally feel should be given to me.

So there we sat on their terrace having cocktails and pasta with salmon while the little kittens played on played hide and seek and the mosquitoes feasted on gora flesh from the countries. They were going to someone else’s house for drinks and while I was really planning on going to bed early and getting some beauty sleep, I ended up tagging along to an oversized house on Prithviraj Road. Those are the homes that you never get to see, just the walls and gates that shield them from the rest of the world. While there were only 5 of us for drinks, there was at least double that in staff. There’s a man who opens the gate, the one who opens the carved glass doors, the one to point us into the large and empty living room where there was yet another to point us into the drawing room. Once there, there were 3 more, 1 to make drinks, one to serve them and one to serve hors d’ouvres – or as an old friend of mine used to call them Horsey Doors and I am sure there was a whole lot more where they came from.

After a quick round of drinks in the mansionette, it was off to a party in CP where we were immediately shoved onto the red carpet, flash bulbs going and people bussing one another. It was only when I almost smashed into the immaculately shiny Porsche on the carpet that I realized what was going on. Porsche was throwing a party for the who’s who of Delhi at a bar named Veda. Of course the coin only fully dropped when someone asked me which Porsche I was thinking of buying. I merely replied that I hadn’t made up my mind yet and ordered another perfectly mixed mojito and ogled the beautiful people with that look of "why am I here?" so that nobody would see I was somewhat impressed.

I learned an extremely valuable lesson on Saturday. Hangovers in Delhi should be avoided at all costs. The roads, the traffic, the heat, the honking. It takes a simple hangover and turns it into a torturous version of Dante’s “Divine Comedy”. Having left the party at about 4, I was offered one of the guest rooms at the appropriately staffed house where we had sucked down our cocktails just a few hours earlier. Suddenly at 10, there was a knock at the door. I had to get up as the host had to catch a plane to Bombay. Yes, I know it’s called Mumbai these days, but I like prefer the name Bombay. Imagine Samantha Stevens calling for Doctor Mumbai. It just doesn’t have the same ring. Anyway, there I was, my head spinning right round like a record, in someone else’s car and someone else’s driver going through my breathing tricks to keep last night’s nibbly things tucked safely in my tummy. Delhi roads are not unlike a rollercoaster, lots of roundabouts and flyovers and my stomach was just not having it. I kept breathing and chanting "just let me get home." I felt like Dorothy. I will spare everyone the details, but I arrived home with about 9 seconds to spare.