Wake up at 5 am and run to the ATM nearest perpagare account that the hotel does not accept credit cards; waiting (the type of reception and counted money), taxi, hotel check in, quick coffee run toward the gate .
My colleague Joe and I sit in air exhausted.
Hold.
In Delhi there is a fog so thick to do serious competition to the Po valley. In fact, the plane takes off. We wait.
At one point, Joe pulled from his bag a jar of Nescafe and asked for two glasses of hot water. Camped on the plane, we are preparing to pass the time a semi-home-made coffee.
failed to take off three hours later, arriving in Mumbai (but I still like to call it Bombay) to 13.30 instead of 10.00.
Bombay I like now, much more than Delhi. Its atmosphere is much more Indian and the traffic is unruly, casino is a bit 'everywhere: tin roofs that alternate in glass palaces, barracks of steaming fried oil and elegant stores of established brands, stray dogs and piping hot cappuccino at The Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf.
"Everything is as a precipitate in this moment of peace charge and dirty. On our arrival at Bombay from above, mud mounds, reddish, cadaverous, marshes between small, greenish, and a landslide endless shacks, warehouses, new miserable quarters: the bowels of an animal seemed dismembered and scattered along the sea on these depths, hundreds of thousands of small stones, green, light yellow, white and shining tenderly; (..) the first Indian faces from just outside 'airport, taxi drivers, their helpers boys (..) And the race was like a fissure through the city. "(P. Pasolini" The smell of India ").
0 comments:
Post a Comment