Ajmer was awesome, Pushkar was pretty lame

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I definitely need a massage.  My bags are getting heavier and my back is killing me.  The other day I had a great idea: half-day at the spa the day after Christmas.  Oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gosh yes please.  I have a massage appointment in March in Chicago already, too.  Oh yeah. 

In a rare showing of punctuality, the train gets to Ajmer right on schedule…at 3:30 frickin’ AM.  Again, if there weren’t someone else in my cabin getting off at my stop I probably would have totally missed it.  I think there’s a little guardian conductor looking out for me, because when before I went to sleep I was talking to the other couple in my cabin about how to know when to get off the train and when I woke up it was a totally new person who said they were going to Ajmer, too.  Anyway, I decided to sleep a bit in the ladies’ waiting room (in an impressively painful metal chair) before getting chai and toast and putting bag in the station’s cloakroom  The cloakroom is a seriously awesome idea from the IRCTC: you pay Rs10 per bag per day and they lock it up for you while you go around the city or even leave town for a few days.  Cheap, secure, practical and profitable; too bad only the latter describes the IRCTC at large, as well.

My touk-touk takes me to my further destinations first, the gardens Subash Bagh and Dault Bagh along lake Ana Sagar.  I’m pleasantly surprised to find that not only are they in great shape—landscaped, clean and well-maintained—but that they also have several interesting things to look at.  The lake itself is beautiful and stretches over hundreds of acres.  There are fountains out about 100m from the shore and boats strung along a rope leading out to a small island.  Fishermen cast their nets into the water, looking for all the world like they’re going to flip their boat and topple in to join their gear.  There’s a large walkway with white marble pavilions overlooking the lake and as I stroll along I get the urge to call home and talk to mom.  Anytime I’m near the water like this I think of Higgins Lake which makes me think of mom which makes me want to call home…you know how it goes.

After a quick chat to let her know that all is well, I let mom go and continue to explore the gardens.  I come across only the second kids’ play area I’ve seen in India, and even though it’s shabbier and smaller than the one in Udaipur, it looks like at one point there were attempts to make it very appealing: decaying, duck-shaped paddle boats; fountains painted with cartoonish figures; rusty swings and slides; etc.  It’s when I wander into a small greenhouse that a thought races from my subconscious to the front of my mind: I’ve only seen three women, the ones here stretching and doing yoga, along all of these gardens and walkways.  I’m not sure if the exclusion is self-imposed, but I wouldn't be surprised by any answer.  Women don't seem to be in a huge hurry to mix with men in general and if the guys are willing to stare me, a complete stranger, down the way they do then I'm sure they make even more clear to their own ladies when their presence isn't appreciated.

I take a quick walk down the road to a large red Jain temple built in the 1500s that takes up its own triangular block.  It’s in this temple that you can find a gigantic diorama made entirely of gold.  It depicts the Jain view of the ancient world, complete with 13 continents and oceans, flying boats, soldiers being led by commanders on elephants and the city of Ajodhya, where a holy city in this religion.  This whole thing must weigh hundreds and hundreds of pounds, because it’s about eight feet tall at a few points and fills the space of a living room in someone’s home.  You can walk upstairs and view it from above, and while I’m up there I notice that the room itself is intricately painted with bright colors and gold filigree.  The whole thing screams spoiled royalty, which admittedly gives it a pretty exciting panache.

I waste about ten minutes checking out Akbar’s Palace then turn right and walk along the infinitely more interesting bazaars that will lead me to an important Muslim site, the saint Khwaja Muin-ud-din-Chishti’s dargah (tomb).  These markets are where all the action is: flower stalls selling baskets of pungent petals; sweet shops that display their goods vertically in glass cases; fishmongers gutting what they’ve received from the fishermen on the lake only a few hours ago; vendors selling prayer beads in a rainbow of colors and others selling caps for the mosque as well as the ubiquitous shawls and fabric; groups of men standing in the street to watch a movie playing behind a shop counter; beggars and lepers rolling (literally) down the street banging tin cups to attract donations.  A few people look at me in confusion; they don’t get many foreigners in this city and I’m sure very few of the ones that do come are ever that interested in the bazaar. 

All roads lead to the dargah, though, in the heart of the market, and you couldn’t miss it if you tried.  Pastel blue with bright green accents, it draws you in from the street by tempting you with the smell of roses and splashes of color.  When you walk in, you pass two gigantic iron cauldrons easily weighing 300 pounds each (they’re meant for people to put donations for the poor into).  You can buy fragrant plates of fuschia roses and white carnations in concentric rings to place as offerings to Allah and leave notes to the saint to intercede on your behalf.  The flowers are a very Indian take on Islamic tradition, as is the fact that no woman is fully covered as she walks around, let alone wearing plain black.

Past the cauldrons and up some steps to the right is a large, 20’ square pool with a fountain and marble seats for people to sit and wash their feet or drink at.  On the left is a large open space with some cushions under a tree growing through the tile; here imams give counsel, teach about Islam and lead music lessons.  Vendors are pretty much everywhere in the mosque, and winding from room to room you see them along with a Muslim version of a barbershop quartet, men sleeping, the actual tomb of the saint in a gold-painted sanctum, worshipers touching their heads to the ground and children either playing with each other or helping their parents make a sale.

Just up the road is another ancient mosque that is now a protected monument.  At this point, I decide to take a bus to the nearby town of Pushkar rather than a touk-touk to Ajmer’s palace up in the hills.  Pushkar is famous for its small lake, which is almost entirely surrounded by ghats.  The town also has 500 temples and, being an oasis in the desert, an extremely large camel festival in November.  Walking along the street, though, means repeating the following scenario about fifteen times:
Rickshaw-wallah: “Auto-rickshaw madam?”
Me: “No.”
R-w: “Where are you going?”  (start to follow me)
Me: “I’m okay thanks.”
R-w: “I am hotel dropping or also go to train station.”
Me: “I’m not going there.  I’m fine just walking.”
R-w: “What is your good name?  Which your country?”
Me: “Leave me the hell alone, okay?  I’m fine.”
R-w: (grumbling to himself) “Why so angry?  Tourists  all so angry…”
It’s annoying as hell and I rarely tell them my real name or real hotel when they ask me about it, but at least it’s good practice for my teacher look before the school year starts.

I find the bus to Pushkar easily enough, but it leaves 30 minutes late and the conductor charges me double until I point out the disparity between my fare and everyone else’s.  You know, it really does get tiring to have to make sure you aren’t being scammed every other minute and I’m looking forward to the relative ease of getting answers from people in Singapore.  At least the ride is relaxing, winding up and back down the mountain that separates Ajmer and Pushkar. 

Unfortunately, though, due to the late departure, I now have less than an hour to see the lake, ghats and as many temples as I can.  Thinking I have an accurate map of the city in my head, I set out, promptly walk past the sign pointing where I want to go and get myself turned around.  I try to ask a few people if I’m headed the right way, but I don’t see any tourists and very few of the people here seem to speak English.  I’m on the outskirts of a very small town, walking up and down small sand dunes that make me think the lake has to be around here somewhere.  These and the dirt roads and camels go a long way towards reminding you that you passed into the Rajasthan desert sometime during the train ride.

I can’t complain that much, though, because the buildings and temples are all decorated in that gorgeous, colorful Rajasthani style that I first encountered in Udaipur.  What’s most impressive is that they’ve kept everything up in such great shape: the paint is fresh and touched up, there’s almost no construction going on and there’s relatively little garbage marring the colorful of the streetscape.  I’m mostly left alone by the vendors and I start to wind my way through the maze of alleys that make up the bazaar.  Between waving at children, looking at toys hung up for sale and I almost miss my chance to see the lake!  But then, through an arch in a temple on the street, I can see the steps of a ghat—the cow ghat as it would turn out—and I make my way down to the water.

THAT’S IT?!?!  That murky little puddle that I could swim across in a couple of minutes is supposed to be some great sight that you just can’t miss?  True, it’s ringed by a very quaint crescent of ghats and temples, but with the smog being what it is in this country you can’t really make out any details.  I would really enjoy a chance to explore the alleys of the bazaar more, but of course now it’s time to head back to the bus (the state bus, this time, which of course leaves on time, costs less and makes the trip ten minutes faster).  I’ve got just enough time to snap a couple of photos and shoot down a few offers for a rickshaw before I retrace my steps back to the main road.

I get to the station with plenty of time to pick up my bag and freshen up, but two girls about my age openly stare as I brush put on deoderant, wash my face with toner and rinse with mouth wash (Okay, so maybe doing this on the platform asks for a little attention…).  It’s only a few hours to Jodhpur and in an attempt to stay awake and type up everything that’s happened this week I start to jam to my running playlist.  It surprises me how badly I want to go out running; for the last couple of days I’ve really been missing Chicago’s lakeshore trail.  My legs are itching for a good 13-mile run. 

The rest of me is in no shape to do anything overly physical, though; I’ve developed a whopper of a headache and it feels hella hot on this train.  My face is burning, I can’t stop coughing, I’m about to blow my nose into a piece of paper if I can’t find some Kleenex soon…  Ohhh, please don’t let me be getting sicker…  Well, I guess it’s a good thing I’ve got this plan to make tomorrow a “sick day” and relax as much as possible in an attempt to knock this cold down a few notches.  I’m going to spend one less day in Jaipur and add to my time in Jodhpur instead so maybe at the very least my voice will sound like it’s supposed to.  Maybe I can use all the free time to finally upload some pictures…

All this just to get to Udaipur?!

Today is going to be a long day and consist of several trips on India’s various methods of transportation. Doesn’t that just sound uber-appealing.

I get up at 4:45 because I need to be out the door walking to the bus station by 5. Since it’s only a kilometer or so away from my hotel, I arrive quickly and am soon dragging myself and my bags up the steps of the bus. At the moment, there are only about 5 people on it, but it definitely won’t stay that way. The bus driver goes slowly for the first part of the trip so that someone can lean out the door and shout our destination at people. If anyone wants to get on, the driver will come to a full stop just long enough for them to step off the road before moving on to find more customers.

Half an hour later the bus is pretty well full, and I’m sharing a 3’ wide bench with two guys in their twenties. I’m a little worried about whether they’ll “accidentally” lean/brush against me or that they’ll want to talk to me the whole way, but it turns out my fears are unfounded and we all just kind of slump over and sleep as best as we can in such cramped quarters. I have the window seat, so I have a great view of the sunrise, which you can actually see quite clearly through the clear country air. Unfortunately, when we stop for gas I’m able to see 3 little girls and a little boy run off of our bus and pee on the sidewalk equally clearly. What I don’t see but most definitely feel, are the trillion potholes our bus goes through. My teeth chatter for some parts of the trip, and I hit my head against the window a couple dozen times as the bus rocks from side to side. I’ve heard legends of these potholes and their fame is well deserved.

Otherwise, it’s an uneventful bus ride to Jhansi, followed by a rickshaw ride that I’m easily able to negotiate down to a good price. At the station I find my train in just a few minutes despite the signs being in Hindi; I’m actually happy to find that I have the cabin to myself for the short ride from Jhansi to Gwalior because I want to read and for the first time I will be able to find my station on my own. It’s a short trip and Gwalior is the only large station on this route, so I’m sure I can manage.

But it turns out it won’t even be that difficult because during an extremely long stop at a tiny little station I start chatting with a guy sitting on the other side of the aisle. He’s going to Gwalior, too, and since I mentioned I was tired, he said I should take a nap and he’ll wake me when we get there. Since my bags are all locked and secure, it’s bright daylight, and there’s a family just a couple seats down, I feel safe taking him up on his offer. Sure enough, he keeps his word and suddenly I’m right where I need to be to catch my next train.

I’ve got time for dinner, too, so he escorts me out of the station, past the annoying rickshaw drivers swarming the exit and to the doors of a café before heading his own way. I have plenty of time to eat a vegetarian thali (a tray with several small bowls of different dishes and chipati and rice in the middle) and a sweet lassi (basically vanilla yogurt) before I go back to the station and get on my train to Udaipiur.

Here’s the coolest part of the day: I’m traveling with a family in my cabin, but I’m pretty tired so I secure my bag and get into my upper berth so they can have the seats down below to themselves. They’ve got a 7 year-old boy and a 12 year-old girl with them, and I know exactly where this is going to go. Sure enough, about 20 minutes into the train ride the girl crawls up into the other upper berth and tentatively says hello. After a few harmless questions (Where are you from? Where are you going? How long have you been here?), she’s warmed up and ready to have a nice, long conversation, as all 12 year-old girls are.

At first I didn’t really want to talk; I was tired, not feeling great and trying to read about Udaipur. But after about ten minutes I found I was really enjoying myself. Aishani speaks excellent English and is super cute! Some things I learn about her: she’s traveling home from her cousin’s wedding; she has an older brother at university; she goes to a Christian school called Sofia, but she’s a Hindu; she’s on holiday but is bored and wants to go back to school; her favorite subjects are science and maths; she has 3 email addresses and likes to chat on Facebook; she likes going to Delhi; she has exams coming up in January.

Her family sees us chatting and asks her questions about what she’s learned about me (I may not speak Hindi, but I know when someone is talking about me). They send up boxes of snacks that they’ve brought and Aishani says I can have some, as well. You couldn’t pay me to decline, so I get to try a few sweet desserts: one is simply baked dough with spices and has a very mild flavor, the other is sweeter but I have no idea if it was baked, fried, or what (it’s a ball of large granules of something orange and falls apart in my hand). They’re delicious and I really appreciate that her family doesn’t mind us chatting.

Unfortunately, I’ve been feeling sicker as Aishani and I have been talking. My voice is going from alto to tenor, I’m coughing more frequently and a headache is building. After an hour or so I decide I should take a nap in order to have the energy to keep this up, so I apologize to Aishani, tell her I need to rest a little bit and roll over to go to sleep. I wake up at midnight and realize that I’ve completely missed her; she’s either asleep in one of the berths below or has gone to sit with her family in another cabin. I’m really upset that I’ve disappointed her; I’m sure she wanted to chat more and I’m not sure if she’ll have time in the morning since she’ll probably wake up right before she gets off the train. Maybe we can be friends on Facebook?

Lying back down, I continue to be surprised by exactly how uncomfortable it can be to sit/lay on these buses and trains. My butt is killing me!!! When I roll onto my side to relieve the pressure I wake up an hour later because now my hip hurts. Roll to the other side. An hour later roll onto my back. Repeat several times throughout the night so I never get any decent sleep.

So other than the usual physical discomfort that comes from sleeping on a bus/train and carrying around 50 pounds of gear all day, I’ve finally come to the conclusion that I’m sicker, not better, than I was yesterday. This shouldn’t really surprise me, though, because everyone in this country clears their throat, coughs, sniffles and/or hacks up sputem on a near-constant basis. I’m sure about 20 different people today have sent some gross kind of germ into the enclosed air of a vehicle I was riding in. If it weren’t so nasally I’d say my voice has developed a sexy, low tone, but it is so it’s not.

Up until now, I’ve been blowing my nose a lot, but it was regular, clear snot. Also, my coughs have been really dry and just annoying to deal with. Of course there was some sinus pressure and fatigue, but I could push through it. But something happened today—on the bus, at the station, maybe it happened last night—that turned it into a full-on sinus/chest infection. Now when I blow my nose thick, sticky green globs the color of bad 70s shag carpeting come out. My coughs sound like they’re coming from underwater now, and bring up small clumps of phlegm that I can’t quite bring myself to spit on the ground like everyone else. My head is pounding and I’ve already slept for 10 hours. My ears are constantly plugged with that pressure that builds up when a plane takes off. I look so hot right now.

When we get to the station I’m buying 3 gigantic bottles of water; I can’t remember the last time I’ve been this thirsty. But other than that I’m not sure what to do. Should I go buy some regular cough/cold medicine? Do I need antibiotics? Can I get those without a prescription and how do I know which kind to buy? How do I find a trustworthy pharmacy? I’m going to have to rely on my hotel a lot on this one. One thing I can say for sure is I’m going to take it fairly easy tomorrow, get lots of sleep, eat good food, drinks lots of water and buy a big pack of Kleenex.

Ugh. Can’t stay awake anymore. Back to bed. Just one last thought: there are 11 days to go and since that’s my lucky number, I’m sure they’re going to be awesome. I go to sleep hopeful…

This was a VERY long, difficult day. I cried and I’m not ashamed. I promise no other post will be this long.

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Urgh.  Did not want to get up this morning.  So so tired.  But I’ve got a full day ahead and need to get crack-a-lacking.  So I set out for my first day in India, into the dust, noise, pollution, cram of people and bad smells.  First on my list is Qutb Minar, which I am told is an easy walk, and I guess 5km is an easy walk, but a bit longer than I’d like.  So I get my first auto-rickshaw ride and arrive about an hour after sunrise.  Perfect timing.  The light touches the ruins of the mosques, minarets, tombs and courtyards in a very romantic manner, and I’m immediately glad this is the first thing I got to see in India.

But along with this the craziness has begun.  Two Sikh men are taking pictures of each other with a camera phone and approach me and say, “Please, ma’am, photo?”  I immediately agree, thinking they want a picture with both of them in it, but one promptly hands the phone to the other and puts his arm around my shoulders.  Oh dear god.  The men switch places for another picture then thank me and giggle as they walk away.  Later on, I’m walking down a long path and see a gigantic gaggle of ten-year-old schoolgirls in match braids and jumpers headed my way.  They’re adorable, but I’m not totally comfortable taking a photo of them.  They however, are totally comfortable waving and saying “Hi aunty!  Good morning!”  I wave and smile and say good morning back a hundred times and can say that this alone has made the whole trip worth it.  The rest of the trip can suck for all I care, I’ll still be happy with it.

Next I hop onto a bus (literally, they don’t really seem to totally stop) and manage to snag a window seat.  We head east, gathering more and more people until the bus is overflowing (again, literally).  Southern Delhi is more rural than I was expecting, given its proximity to the center of the city.  We drive past miles of what I would call slums, although I’m sure in India they aren’t the bottom of the barrel (later I find out that a large number of people live on a patch of sidewalk, so this is definitely not the worst it can be). 

I leap from the bus at my next destination, Tughluqabad, the ruins of an old city and fortress built in the 1400s.  I buy my ticket and go left first, towards the part of the city overgrown with scrubland.  I walk for a little ways, following a couple Indian women past several ruins of minarets and gigantic wells, until I come to a field where some teenage boys are playing cricket.  I’m watching some women chopping down trees with machetes, but I can see the boys coming towards me out of the corner of my eye.  One gets the moxie to say, “Hello, madam.  Country you from?”  I answer, they giggle, then he says “Folk”.  I’m obviously confused because he says it again.  Then I notice his friends are hiding their laughter and realize he’s saying “Fuck”.  I walk off fighting the urge to slap him and to a chorus of “Kiss please!”  “I love you!”  “Kiss, pretty lady, kiss kiss!”  Oh dear god.

I then walk to the right side of the ruins where I’m chastised for inadvertently walking onto a movie set.  That’s right, I got to see them film a scene for a Bollywood movie (no, they weren’t dancing)!  A man ushers me across the set but doesn’t go back after walking with me for a while.  Then he starts telling me about the ruins and I realize he’s trying to be a guide for me.  He tells me how there were underground shops and a lake around the king’s tomb (which is now across a street and surrounded by scrubland) and battlements and a women’s mosque and gardens and more.  He’s very nice and quite knowledgeable, and I’m happy to give him Rs20 bakshish (like gratuity or a tip) for the quick tour.

Walking down the road to the taxi stand I pass women carrying two columns of six bricks on their head, a family of rhesus monkeys (which I give an extremely wide berth), another man saying “Kiss pretty lady!”, men peeing in public (oh, if I had a nickel for every time I ended up seeing this in India), an absolute mob of school children (“Hello aunty!  Hello!”), horse- and oxen-drawn carts and several military bases.  The smell makes me want to vomit: urine, feces (from animals and people), rotting garbage, cattle, putrid standing water and other things I’m sure I can’t imagine.  I find a touk-touk and ask to go to the Bahai Lotus Temple.  The man at the ticket stand at Tugh. said it should cost about 40 rupees, but my touk-touk man is saying 150.  I say 40, he says 100, and eventually we settle on 50 or 60 (still a bit more than it should be).  I feel pretty good about myself until I realize that I’m basically saving $1.20 and that’s what this guy probably makes in a day.

Near the end of my time in Tughluqabad and definitely as I’m walking down the street is when I start to feel sick.  Not nauseas, but rather worn down and like I’m breathing smoke.  My lungs are having a hard time with the pollution and dust levels, despite the fact that I keep my scarf wrapped around my face most of the time.  I’m glad to be sitting down for a while, even if it means bouncing through potholes bigger than a basketball and nearly colliding with a hundred other cars, touk-touks, bikes, carts, animals and pedestrians.

The Lotus Temple is, in a word, beautiful.  White marble “petals” open above nine milky blue pools and stand in the center of an expanse of well-landscaped gardens.  Inside you can see all the way to the top of the lotus where they have stained glass in the shape of the Bahai sign for peace.  It’s completely silent inside and you’re welcome to meditate as long as you would like.  I sit for a while and think about my day, my expectations for India that have already both been met and blown out of the water, but I’m not feeling particularly prayerful.  I’m still not feeling 100% and these marble benches are uncomfortable so I’m ready to go after fifteen minutes.  On my way out I remember there’s an enormous Bahai temple in Chicago, which I saw on my first day living there (a nice parallel, I think) and am excited to go back to see it in March.

Walking on the temple grounds is very peaceful and I appreciate a chance to collect my thoughts and take my time.  It’s only 1, but it’s India’s winter and the sun will set at 5 so it feels quite late in the day already.  I decide to skip Ashoka’s Rock Edict, a rock with 10 lines of ancient Sanskrit on it, and head off down the hill looking for my next bus.  PS: In India, every bus stop is required to have a minimum amount of flies, so bring a scarf to cover your head.  The 500 takes me up to the neighborhood of Nizamuddin, which the guide book describes as “like stepping back into the Middle Ages”.  This sounds terribly romantic to me, until we get closer and the smell reminds me that the Middle Ages were a pretty shitty time to be alive for most people.

I have found the real India.  This is NOT a touristy part of town.  I am actually a bit nervous of what I’m breathing in (through my scarf, of course) walking through here, of being pick-pocketed, harassed, or even yelled at for being a Western woman in what is most definitely an orthodox Muslim area.  This is where I see the REAL poverty: people missing limbs and using crutches or a rolling cart, families living on the sidewalks, mothers holding out their half-conscious babies asking me for money for milk, a mentally disabled woman running around babbling in Hindi and yelling at people, children caked in dirt and blind old men leaning on canes with their hands out.  I don’t have any small change and I’m scared to start giving anything out because others who see me might come up, as well, and these dark, narrow alleys are not where I want to be in the middle of a crowd. 

I’m here to see the dargah (tomb) of Nizamuddin and his daughter, Princess Jahanara. Her grave only has grass growing on it, according to her wishes, which sounds so serene.  I won’t be able to see it, though, because it is closed for cleaning or maintenance or something like that.  Not that I’m complaining; this is my first day and I’m not sure I’m ready to spend too long in this type of neighborhood, yet.  I ask a nearby policeman how far it is to my final destination, Lodi Gardens, and he says a rickshaw can get me there for about 20-30 rupees.  After heavy negotiations with several drivers wanting 80 rupees, I get a cycle rickshaw for 50.  I guess cops get discounts.

The end of this ride was the first time I wanted to cry.  The driver stops at a gigantic intersection with hundreds of cars and says Lodi is on the other side.  I thought he might not want to risk going through it because crossing on foot actually is easier.  So I pay him his inflated Rs50, cross the street and see NOTHING.  I find a couple of women who say it’s another kilometer down the street and that my driver probably just took advantage of me.  As I walk, I start thinking about all the scams I had been so careful to avoid and the haggling I had done and how few people you can really trust here.  I’m tired and sad and I kind of melt down a little.

The second time I want to cry is when I enter the gardens.  Like the rest of India, it’s covered in trash.  Not the mounds and piles that people here sweep from one spot to another, but just general rubbish sprinkled around what is supposed to be a national treasure.  There are signs pleading for responsible ownership of the park that might as well have been written in Dutch.  The beautiful tombs are surrounded by rolling, grassy hills and joggers and families are enjoying the sunset.  Everywhere there are groups of people and I start to feel very lonely watching the sun go down thousands of miles away from my family and friends. Maybe I’m just tired and tomorrow will be better.  Or maybe I should have gone home for Christmas, after all. I don’t even fight my emotions this time, just try to hide my tears as best I can from the Indians.  They stare at me enough as it is.

I catch another bus and spend an hour and a half getting back to my hostel (another bumpy, dusty bus and overpriced touk-touk ride with a lost driver).  I’m actually quite glad the days end so early here.  I’m so tired and I’m sure other days will be more of the same, so at least I’ll always get home with plenty of time to recuperate.  I have dinner, put up with some more come-ons from Francesco and David (which is really just unprofessional in my opinion—I told them I was engaged and they backed off) and pass out in bed before I can even get out my travel guide to think about tomorrow.