Third Weekend in Bangalore

Our weekend started on Friday night when we went out for Italian food at a highly recommended, trendy (and pricey) Italian restaurant called Fiorano. While the food was mediocre, the fresh mozzarella in the Caprese salad (fresh tomatoes and basil layered with the cheese and drizzled with olive oil) was really good. Amazingly, they make it from milk they get from a local supplier and manufacture it right there. They sell it, along with their signature breads, for a reasonable price, much less than a comparable imported Italian cheese would be.

On Saturday, John had to connect with a colleague for a lunch meeting at his hotel. Instead of getting a car and driver from our hotel, we decided to hop onto an auto rickshaw and save some money. As usual, we got caught in traffic, which took more time that we had anticipated. When we arrived at the hotel, John called his colleague from the lobby to tell him he had arrived. Ten minutes later, the colleague called asking where John was. It seems we were waiting in the wrong lobby, in a hotel that is a member of the same group so that it had a similar name, which had confused the driver. A second auto rickshaw finally got us to the correct destination and John hurried off to the hotel restaurant for a late working lunch. I found a small café where I could get a quick bowl of what the menu called Mexican soup (chicken hot dogs in a tomato base with a few vegetables.)

Nearby I found a liquor store selling Sula, an Indian wine some friends had recommended two days earlier. Until then, I didn’t know such a thing existed. The eight-year-old winery is “committed to placing India firmly on the global wine map as we continue to produce wines of outstanding quality and superb value.” The approximately US $10.00 price made me yearn for Trader Joe’s selection and low prices.

This second quote from their website made me want to make the long trip from Bangalore to the state of Maharashtra between Mumbai (Bombay) and Pune to “learn more about our terroir, or discover how green our thumbs really are in sustainable agriculture. If reading about all this isn't enough, come on over and experience our vineyards yourself.”

Still with a couple of hours to kill, I found a promising beauty salon called Lakme. Later, using an on-line “Salon Locator,” I found that they are part of a chain (115 locations in 36 Indian cities) and that the salons can be found all over India. There are 20 in Bangalore alone.

I got a manicure and pedicure at the same time ($10.00 for both plus tip; ironically the same price as the wine!) by two competent young women. One of them was from Pondicherry, formerly a French colony on India’s east coast. The other was from Manipur, a state that is part of the Northeast, where I traveled a few months ago. Several of her colleagues at the salon were also from there. Many people have migrated from this region to do all kinds of work in Bangalore. Since my visit to the Northeast, I have learned to recognize them by their lovely looks and quiet charming manner. Here are some other faces of Northeast India.

































When I was finished and John’s meeting was over, it started to pour a very hard monsoon rain. This brings us to one of Bangalore’s quirks: a taxi system allowing you to hail a cab on the street does not exist. The choices are to arrange a car and driver from your hotel or from a transportation service and have that driver drop you or wait for you, or to call for a car from a taxi service. That option can take a lot of time before they arrive; in this case the hotel doorman told us it would be a half an hour. (But this being India in the monsoon, it could have been a lot more.)

So we had no choice but to try a third option, to find an auto rickshaw. I crouched under an overpass where some young Indian men made a place for me, as John (trying to protect himself with the one umbrella we had brought with us) tried to find an empty auto rickshaw and get it to stop. He did that, agreeing to pay much more than double the usual price ($4.00; I would have paid a lot more at that point. The ride back to the Halcyon John described as something Disney should try to replicate as an amusement ride. Up to a foot of water had accumulated on the streets by that time and adjacent cars splashed huge amounts of the wet stuff on our feet.

That was in addition to what was coming down on us, since the sides of this particular vehicle did not close off as some do. (The driver suggested the low-tech solution of placing the umbrella vertically to block the rain driving in on the worst side.) Some rickshaws with their low clearance were unable to negotiate the depth of the water and they fell by the wayside. Ours made it, however, and our being extremely wet was the only inconvenience. (I have no photos of this little adventure for obvious reasons.)

After we dried off and changed clothes, we finished the evening with an excellent Indian dinner and Kingfisher beer at a neighboring condo. I had met Gheeta and her mother when they helped me bargain for some fruits out on the street near our place. They normally live in San Jose, California, not far from where we live in the U.S. They are here, as we are, for a several month stay. John and her husband, Ramana, also a high tech guy, enjoy talking Geek Talk together. Gheeta’s parents, who are visiting from Hyderabad, and the couple’s two beautiful young daughters make up the family.

It May Not be Nagaland but It’s Not Kansas Either

I had requested a residence hotel with a functional kitchen and the Halcyon had that. So our next task was to buy something to cook. The first supermarket we found was completely “veg.” While we don’t eat red meat, I was hoping for chicken, fish, or even canned tuna. They had none of the above. We bought some things anyway including 1-liter bottles of Italian olive oil and red wine vinegar that set us back $20. U.S. (Imported items have huge duties in India. While these two items aren’t available in an Indian version, things like pasta are available at about a quarter the import prices.)

We asked the driver if he knew any place to buy chicken. He searched and inquired and soon stopped by the side of the road, telling me the nearby shop was the place. It was filled with chickens all right, live and in cages. He told me in halting English that they would kill one for me. I thanked him but said that I would look for it all wrapped in plastic like I was used to.

The next market, a brand new branch of a European chain, Spar, was the place we had been looking for. We found almost everything on our list including reasonably priced spoons, spatulas, hot pads, a can opener and grater. The one thing we couldn’t find was laundry bleach. When I asked for it, a female employee started to lead me to the cosmetics section. I told her I didn’t think it would be there, that I wasn’t talking about hair bleach. “Oh,” she said, “I thought you wanted bleaching cream.” I told her we didn’t use that too much and she said, “Yes, because you don’t have to. Your skin is good.”

Terri and I often found this mentality in remote Northeast India where the locals had seen very few foreigners. As we visited their villages of palm or bamboo thatched huts, women often inquired about our white skin. One asked our guide if she had been born in our country would she be white. It makes me sad to photograph these lovely women whose rich skin tones I admire and realize that the western standard of beauty has colored their view of themselves. Here are some photos of beautiful women I have photographed throughout India.