A day without installs or travels, so we sleep in for a change. I call to find my bagís finally arrived, but itís not that easy: Iíll have to go to the airport and clear it through customs. Apparently, something inside has been found questionable. This should be fun.
The to-from airport process makes me doubt Delhiís livability. Crowds are fine, but large groups of people packed tightly together is more of a defining characteristic of this place than an occasional hassle. I havenít yet braved driving here, yet itís so traffic-jammed that even passengers feel frustrated. And worst of all: as much as I like a thrilling ride in traffic, Iím pretty sure bicycling here would make my motorcycle bangup in London seem mild.
With narcolepsy, Iím soon to the airport. Itís as youíd expect: an hour of bullshit. Fortunately, Air France has wrapped my machetes n a thick layer of foam; this helps when customs bureaucrats decide to physically inspect the boxís contents. Amidst suspicion about the seemingly exotic computer equipment, Quincy, a small plush monkey a tiny ex-girlfriend insisted I bring with me, saves the day: the customs dudes laugh upon finding it and lighten up. I get through without any tariff. I mean, what kind of smuggler sneaks in a stuffed animal?
A beer and a bowling alley are early evening. We drink with Mr. Rajendran, the COO or some similarly impressive acronym of IIT, the India Institute of Technology. Indians who apply to IIT get into MIT as their safety school, so Iím a little surprised to find one of its top officials so chilled that heís encouraging me to take a year off before starting work over a cold Kingfisher. I guess when everybodyís brilliant it helps to not just blab about physics all day and actually have a personality...
Bowling alley is basically a broken arcade: every video game I try is malfunctioning in at least one way. And no: I will never be too old to play video games.
Dinner rules out again attempting to visit any hotspot here in the near future. Whatís supposedly a happening club is in actuality an overpriced, Americanized third floor in a shopping plaza full of uncomfortably stylish furniture and shitty music played too loud. These might be forgivable features that donít sound too different from many U.S. bars, but the drinking age is TWENTY-FIVE(!) and the guy to girl ratio is easily 4 to 1. after some sketch old man asks me why weíre sitting near the television and I canít spot so much as 1 Bollywood starlet, Iím about ready to run.
George Lucas = one hell of a guy. Star Wars is nothing to write home about plot-wise, but youíve gotta respect somebody who puts his multimillion-dollar blockbuster where his political orientation is. Iíd say Anakinís line thatís like ďif youíre not my friend, youíre my enemyĒ puts to rest any debate about whether this s an allegory on Iraq. I can see why conservatives are pissed: itís gotta hurt to realize youíre on the dark side:)