Days 6-7: Colaba

After the hour-plus cab ride from Bandra to Colaba, I check in to the Taj President and immediately move to the pool deck for some sun. After I've seen more than enough middle-aged European men in Speedos (three), I go back to the room for the afternoon siesta followed by hours of e-mail catch-up. I complete this familiar ritual in boxers and a fluffy bathrobe, three-day stubble, and the window open to a sweeping view of the bay separating Mumbai from the mainland. I feel so worldly in a Graham Greene kind of way. If only I had Havana Club on the rocks. Though I do celebrate with a couple of Kingfishers from the mini once I'm done. Then it's reading in bed until the second shift kicks in.

So I wake up and I'm obviously sick. Again. Seems like just yesterday this happened in Oman. Luckily this time it isn't as bad (knock, knock). I don't feel that under, but my nose is dripping steadily. Why has this happened to someone who usually prides himself on being quite healthy? Well let's see:
1) 36 hours of transportation and sitting in airports.
2) A messed up sleep cycle that isn't allowing a good consecutive 8 hours nightly.
3) Two days stuffed in the Education Boutique for ten hours with the masses.
4) Constant temperature changes, going from A/C to non-A/C areas.
5) The generally polluted atmosphere that is Mumbai.
6) There is no six because, no, I have not had any nights out on the town. So much for being good. Next time I'll keep myself pickled.

So this puts me in a great mood for dealing with the oppressive amount of service that one is often beset with in India. I've gotten used to most of this, but when I'm going through the breakfast buffet and a server hops in front of me and starts opening each dome of edibles one by one as I move along, that's too much. This is not the French Court, and my name is not Louis followed by Roman numerals. I swat him off. And get your damn hands off my decanter of juice. I can pour it myself. Coffee? Black. Just leave it.

I spend most of my day at the offices of our agents - meeting with interested students, perusing information gleaned from visitors at our weekend booth, and wiping my nose. Feeling miserable (more psychologically than physically, for wiping your nose all day just makes you feel like a disgusting specimen of humanity), I leave a bit early and go to the pharmacy on the first level of the building. I find some cold medicine and go to ring out. The clerk says "One Five." I take this to mean 150 rupees, or about $3.50 US. Not bad for 10 pills. But no, he meant 15 rupees. Thirty-five cents, folks. Yeah, US pharmaceutical companies ARE screwing us. Reading the back of the box, and calculating in my head that an Indian child is to an Indian adult is as an Indian adult is to me, I can probably pop half this box at once. Give me ten more. If no more posts follow, I probably passed out in the tub and drowned.