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When I told people I was going to India for a month, the reaction was unanimous.

“Be afraid. Be very afraid.” I got this admonition from everyone—even people who had never set foot there.

“I grew up there and carried a knife with me wherever I went,” came one well-intended warning.

“The men travel in packs,” a young woman said. “My dad was afraid he would not be able to fight them off.”

Yet another person told me, “My ex and I had bodyguards with us at all times.”

“Whatever you do, don’t trust the street food,” another friend said. (That was perhaps the only legitimate advice I got. The street food can be almost lethal. I learned the hard way.)

Someone else sent me an article recounting two unfortunate tourists who were raped at a river.

Despite my efforts to ignore their warnings, I borded that plane with a sense of dread, wondering what I was getting myself into and if I would make it back home unscathed—or at all.

When the plane touched down in Mumbai, I was full of trepidation. Traveling alone to India—maybe wasn’t the best idea. It was the middle of the night, and I about to set foot in Mumbai. Now what?

I had booked a hotel close to the airport for the night. Talk about proximity. The hotel was inside the terminal next to baggage claim. I checked-in without having to leave the security of the airport. Safe—I thought. The problem came when I laid down. Three am in Mumbai is seven pm back home. Sleep was not an option.

Dare I set foot outside the hotel room door? Nina, my hairdresser had warned me that the hallways of Indian hotels were known for their ambushes. She saw it in a YouTube video—a tourist had all her luggage stolen. Nina couldn’t remember if the theft had occurred in a hotel or a train, but she assured me both places were essentially lawless. Still, I didn’t come here to sit in a hotel room. So, I unlocked—chain, deadbolt, and handle, cracked the room door the width of a credit card, and peered outside. The hallway was still. It looked pleasant, well-lit, and inviting. Maybe—just maybe—I could duck out and sneak down to the restaurant—see some people and drink a coffee.

I darted down the hallway, keeping an eye on my six. Opting for the stairs, rather risking an elevator ride because God know who might be lying in wait inside, I bounded down to the first floor, where the night staff welcomed me with the customary namastes, and pointed me toward the café. To my delight, it was open.

Should I drink the coffee? It was made from tap water. I had been warned about the food. And I already knew the water was lethal. Best case—I spend a good portion of my trip flat on my back. Worst case—the most unglamourous death ever.

I threw caution to the wind. Drank a coffee. Drank two. I ventured outside to the street food vendors and the crowds. Thus began my month-long journey in India, choosing adventure over fear.

Day One

My first impression of India is you don't have to hide under your bed or barricade yourself in the hotel room, although they do. They check the trunk and under the hood when you arrive; they pat you down and scan you for metal. And they do all this with their hands folded in prayer and their heads bowed, muttering Namaste.

These fancy hotels are all the same - ten ingratiating and very friendly employees surround each guest, squeezing every Rupee they can out of the guest's pocket.

And yet... somehow, I know this is how it has has to be. This is the rhythm.

If you do venture out of the towering hotel fortress, be advised that the roads here are chaotic. They're like an hourglass with everyone trying to squeeze through at once.

And taking the tuk-tuks is not for the faint of heart - not in Bombay. I’m not entirely sure the drivers are aware that they’re supposed to avoid oncoming traffic We had several near misses earlier. The driver appeared unfazed.

When you are out on the mean streets, bring lots of small bills, unless you want to give away large ones. It's a full-on assault. It's a full-on assault everywhere here - on the streets and in the hotels. Rupees are flying out of my pockets. Perhaps I should go ahead and hide under the bed.

I’ve seen poverty before. And Howard is right--the magnitude of it here is overwhelming. But the degree of it?  I’ve seen worse on the streets of LA.

I disappointed the Lord when I refused to give that child money yesterday. He had burn scars all over his visible body. Le pauvre! I was reluctant because I was told, if you give them money, they follow you like a stray dog. That was on me. Next time, I will throw him some Rupees and let him follow me. The Lord would want that.

Namaste.

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