The air is filled with a smokey haze as the passengers deboard the airplane. The New Dehli airport is much like any other, little to distinguish it, which is probably a good thing. Whether it’s the late hour of arrival or just the typical flow of traffic, the airport itself isn’t too hectic. Exiting customs was a peculiar experience nonetheless. The gated aisle is lined on each side with rows of drivers and welcome signs, each face looking intently into yours for some sign of recognition. I had to walk it’s length twice before discerning mine- a “MR MIHAE MUKAIDA.”

We head to the car, a small indescript four door and I almost enter the driver side forgetting the English driving orientation and the fact that this tiny toy car is still a taxi.

It’s 12:30 by the time we hit the highway. I fight to keep y eyes open despite the excitement of having just landed. The traffic is a mix between compact, almost toy like cars and large transport trucks.

The driver, who calls himself Mr Khan, speaks very little English and aside from a polite introduction the ride is pleasantly silent…which is one word I would never use to describe the city. To say that New Dehli is an assault on one’s senses would be to downplay the experience. The dusty air is filled with the constant honks of car horns, while your vision is bombarded with too many images to focus – bicycle rickshaws whirl by as autorickshaws honk and swerve; shops are overflowing with wares and people are everywhere.

We were staying in PAHARGANJ at the Hotel Lal’s Haveli, not exactly the most hospitable of areas, it is however jam packed with budget hotels. Each block seems to be a repetition of the one before it. In fact, I took a walk to the train station, casually noting the plywood store at the corner only to realize on return that every block had in fact a plywood store…I can thank Parson’s for having given me an appreciation for typography, without which I may very well have never found the hotel again, despite having only made one turn.

To say one should be prepared for the touts, cannot prepare you for what awaits at any major city train station in India. You want so very badly to put your trust in someone who calls this foreign place home, but unfortunately you simply can’t. No one will, out of nowhere, assist you to find the correct office, ticket window or track. I’d gone to the station wanting to locate the ticket counter before Emele’s arrival, in the brief 10 minutes I spent meandering the building I was approached no less than 4 times. In fact, if you are approached it is undoubtedly to cart you off to another office where they will tell you your ticket is not valid. Being pressed for time and knowing there was a ticket counter at the airport I left, but not without one last tout, trying to lure me to there “travel agency.”