Along the Ganges

The oarsman of our little rowboat steers the vessel so smoothly that I hardly notice us turning to avoid other boats.

As we watch dawn break over the Ganges river, he tells us that Varanasi is "the holiest place on earth... Always holy, 24 hours, Varanasi."

Maha Shivaratri in Varanasi

We stepped out of the cab and our driver pointed to a line of people that stretched around the corner and out of sight. He said everyone was waiting to get into the temple--the temple two kilometers away, that is. Welcome to Varanasi.

Sitting on the banks of the Ganges, Varanasi is always a bit surreal (It's a very sacred place to die, apparently) but the big to do today was Maha Shivaratri, the celebration of Shiva's marriage to Parvati. I've read that Hindus fast all day for this festival and then stay up all night, but my (very shallow) research hasn't turned up anything about ritual waiting in line.

We took the opportunity to get to know people. My dad, the master of (be)friending people before Facebook made it cool, started asking locals if he could take their photos. They loved it! It seemed like everyone was flagging us down and posing and chatting and laughing.

A Taste of the Slums

After three days of beautiful architecture in Udaipur and here in Mumbai, I was starting to wonder if we had teleported to Europe. And all the boys in white playing cricket didn't help.

Then, we went to Dharavi, Mumbai' largest slum. Toto, we aren't in Kansas anymore. Or Europe or China or Thailand or anywhere else.

Slums--technically, any areas where people live on government-owned land--house 55 percent of Mumbai's population.

But, walking around Dharavi with our tour guide, Asim, who grew up in the slums himself, the poverty wasn't as jarring as the moments when I forgot that we were in a slum at all.

(Not) Getting the Girls

It's Valentine's Day here in Udaipur (Supposedly India's most romantic city!), and I feel like an awkward teenage boy: I want to talk to girls, but they don't even know I exist.

Although every man in India seems to call out, "What is your name? Where are you from?" I could count my conversations with Indian women on one hand. Even at our friendly, welcoming guest house, the proprietress always refers us to her brother.

In fact, I haven't even seen that many women. At Delhi's subway security checkpoints, I would always breeze through the empty female side, only to spend ten minutes waiting for my dad to catch up. Sure, that's karma for all the long ladies' restroom lines I've waited in, but it's also disconcerting. Like most teenage boys, I clearly don't understand girls. They're especially scarce on the streets at night; could it be a massive slumber party? Where are they?

A Whole New World

I love Indian food. In Hong Kong, with cheap, delicious Indian restaurants near home and work, I ate more curry than wontons. And when I first got here, I kept wishing I had a bigger tummy, to fit in more chana masala and special dosa.

Had I maintained the pace, I would have gotten my wish (and lived to regret it) but a few days ago my appetite vanished. I'm not going to call it the dreaded Delhi Belly (this has been milder than food poisoning, with a faint fever) but it sure has slowed me down.

The good news is, that gave us an excuse to see the monuments around Jaipur slowly--and they're so majestic that it would be hard to see them any other way.

The Pink City

If there were a Princess of India Barbie (Oh, wait.), Jaipur would be her home, and not just because every building in the old city is painted pink. As a salesman here told us, "Jaipur is shopping paradise."

From shoes to shawls , craftspeople here make just about everything quintessentially Indian. My favorite was the bangle shops. How many bracelets does it take to fill all the walls in a room, floor to ceiling? A lot. And they're all sparkly, colorful, and handmade.

In fact, sparkly and colorful describes just about everything in India, especially the women. Whereas in most other Asian countries I've visited, Western styles have taken over, Indian women wear traditional clothes all the time, possibly because they realize their fashions are way prettier than anything we Westerners could dream up.

The Pace of the Place

Walking down the street in Old Delhi is like being at the starting line of a big road race, except everyone is hurrying in a different direction. And there are bikes, cars, street ovens, beggars, dogs, horses and cows in the mix (Amazingly, some of those animals are napping).

We've been in Delhi for almost a week and still, on the eve of departure, I feel unqualified to say anything about this city.