Kolkata: Worlds Collide

If I could mash a few cities together that would add up to Kolkata, it would go something like this: New York + Havana + London (with an occasional hint of Paris). But it’s decaying…quickly, and almost before your very eyes every second of each day. But it's a beautiful decay. One I easily and quickly got used to.

Our prepaid taxi sped from the airport and through the city headed for our hotel. A word here about taxis in India: most drivers have no idea where there are going. Like schools of fish moving in unison, the taxis swarm and weave; streets aren’t marked, there are no real traffic laws, people use horns not signals. And if they stop and ask someone directions, it’s important to understand that almost nobody knows where something is unless they are standing down the street from it - and even that's not true all of the time.

Our driver stopped and asked at least 5 people for help. We soon realized that we had circled the hotel several times. We finally found one young guy who spoke pretty good English. He could tell we were frustrated. He understood our taxi driver was lost, but, and happily, in accordance with my earlier rule, we happened to be less than a block from the front door of our soon to be oasis.

“Where you from?”

“The States…Chicago?”

He grinned (as if to say “Get used to this kind of cab ride”), “Welcome to Kolkata. Your hotel is down there, around the corner.”

We pulled up to the hotel. If our trip up until this point had been about stark contrasts, we were about to be blown away. After being whisked into the lobby of the Oberoi Grand Hotel, we quickly realized that we were way out of our element.

Out bags were scanned, we passed the through the medal detector. Everyone placed their palms together and bowed to us. We were whisked into the lobby, asked to have a seat on one of the many well-upholstered couches and told to wait while our paperwork was readied.

Finally in this environment we realized something all at once. We looked like shit. Like the lights coming on at the end of a long party, we were disheveled, to say the least. Mike’s beard had grown into a tangled mess, his hair was tussled and misshapen, and he was wearing some indigenous Indian clothing that had never been washed with two sets of prayer beads. We both smelled awful. My hair had begun to curl over my ears, and I was beginning to think that our decision not to shower that morning was ill conceived.

As these thoughts raced through my mind, a suited manager carrying a cocktail tray approached. “Some refreshment sirs, I can tell you’ve had a long journey.” He handed us some fresh lime soda and two cool rolled washcloths. He may as well have baptized us. We were reborn.

We were shown to our quarters in short order. The tour was concise but thorough. The balcony doors were opened to reveal a view of the private garden and the pool surrounded by towering palms. I could here the chatter of pigeons and other birds as the blue sky emptied of light.

We exhaled.

The attendant asked if there was anything else that we required. I said no, and in typical American fashion shoved a wad of faded rupees into the man’s hand. He looked at it as if I had just placed a large wet used tissue into his palm, “Sir, we do not accept gratuity for individual service here at the hotel. At the completion of your stay you may hand a sealed envelope to the hotel clerk and the proceeds will be distributed evenly among the staff.”

“Oh.” I said.

We gorged on room service from the world-renowned Baan Thai restaurant downstairs and passed out watching Bollywood on TV.

In the morning, we were again blown away by the food at the hotel. The breakfast buffet consisted of nearly everything you could want no matter your country of origin: exotic fruit imported from Thailand, cereals and muesli with fresh curd, homemade yogurts and potted creams, French pastries, fresh squeezed juices, and on and on and on…and then we ordered the actual breakfast. Most mornings in India we had Poori Bhaji; soft fried dough similar to fresh tortillas served with a potato stew. The Oberoi’s version was hands down the best. Although their Idli was also really pretty great.

We returned to the room, showered, and decided it was time for Mike to shed the Allen Ginsberg/Che’ Guevara look he had been carefully cultivating. The concierge told us of a place where we could receive such grooming. We walked a circuitous route through the streets of downtown Kolkata and eventually arrived (after another confused cabbie experience) at AN John Salon.

We had seen places in India to get haircuts before; usually they were little hole in the wall places where I would feel comfortable buying a candy bar, but this place looked like any western salon in any city in the US. We went in. A men’s cut was 400 Rps. (about $8) the beard cost and extra $100.

I went for a walk, when I returned, Mike look refreshed. I realized that I needed one too. Thirty minutes later we emerged both looking like a million bucks, or at lease 1000 rupees. Either way, it was worth it.

We walked up the street both continually commenting about how much we loved Kolkata. In retrospect, Delhi is LA without any of the glam or Hollywood aspects to it. I almost categorically dislike LA. Kolkata has some amazing depth. The architecture is an amazing blend of centuries old colonialism, retro 70s high-rises, and new construction.

Then there are the buildings that are nearly impossible to place in any time. They are decrepit, barely standing, and fully occupied. Ten story buildings stand leaning (visibly - see below) as if you can almost see them tipping over. It makes one nervous to walk next to them.

We grabbed a Hot Kati Roll (Kolkata’s version of a hotdog – and my new favorite food) and walked to the Maiden (Kolkata’s Central Park). After watching a bit of a cricket match and peeing in public for the first time (everybody does it…even the police) we walked south through the park. We soon came across a heard of goats grazing. The family that “owned” them lay in the shade nearby. We continued along past the 150 young women who seemed to be training for the military. They marched in formation. We also saw a fair number of incredibly high-powered machine guns laying in the grass.

We continued south in search of a Toursim office where we told we needed to pick up a permit in order to be able to tour a place called the Marble Palace on the other side of town the next day.

In the stuffy bureaucratically intense office, we were shown to a desk whereupon we observed one of the most intense arguments between two people that I've ever seen. It took place between the manager and an employee. I was sure we were going to see someone disemboweled with a stapler. Mike was pretty sure the subordinate was just fed up with being yelled at all the time. I think he was right.

Permit in hand, we jumped in a cab and headed to lunch at a Lonely Planet recommended place called Kewpies for authentic Bengali food. We walked. I assured Mike that we could find it. I promised.

One sweaty hour later, Mike was looking pale. We needed food. And shade. After asking seven shop keepers, we soon found the restaurant in a small alley only a block from where there had begun circling and asking directions. It was one of the best meals we had during the whole trip.

If Mughal and Southern Indian food is a freight train of spicy flavor, Bengali food is trolley. It’s subtle and balanced. Not too spicy. Not too salty. It's even a little sweet. I could eat at Kewpies twice a week and not tire of it. After filling ourselves with two enormous Thalis, including my new favorite dessert (a sort of custardy sweet cream served in a small terra cotta pot) we reemerged into the daylight.

We relented into another cab and eventually made it back to the hotel and straight to the pool. After a light dinner, we crashed…and went to the room to watch Slumdog Millionaire. And I can say this after finally seeing the movie, yes, India is like that, almost exactly like that, but also a lot more.