The Linen Club

Signing Off

2009-07-02T09:53:00.000-07:00

Well friends, this is going to be the last post on the The Linen Club. We were supposed to leave for the Bangalore Airport 5 minutes ago so I have to be quick.

Thank you for keeping abreast of our adventures. Now that you've finally learned how to live without us, we're coming back. Pretend to be excited. At least a little. For us.

In less than 24 hours, we'll be back in a garbagey Toronto. At first I was angry (about the garbage strike) but then I realized it will help ease our culture shock, since India has been on garbage strike since forever.

Seriously though, go to India. Though it mostly smells like poo, sometimes it smells really good, like garam masala. That brings me to the first, and last, Linen Club Contest! The first person to reply to this final message will receive a stainless steel container of garam masala that we ground from whole Indian spices today.

Hope to see you all on the other side of the pond.

Love,
The Linen Club

Warren Miller Eat Your Heart Out

2009-07-02T09:41:00.001-07:00

Manali has the headiest concentration of one-piece snow apparel in the world. It is no coincedence that you can spell "a Milan" out of "Manali". It is truly "a Milan" of skiing fashions in the mountains of Himachal Pradesh.

Haute couture yay, but unaffordable nay. A "snow dress" can be hired out for the reasonable price of 300 Rs a day. The suits are popular with domestic tourists who have never seen snow. They rent a one-piece and skis from one of many rental shops, drive up the Rohtang pass, find a patch of snow and pose for amazing pictures. Then they tell everyone back in Delhi or Punjab that they went skiing over the holidays.

They totally have the right idea. Who likes actually skiing anyway? It's really just an excuse to eat fondue and wear fluorescent. Enjoy these rare glimpses of a real jewel of a ski town. These photos are just a taste...I plan to put on a proper show of Indian Ski Fashion at Steven Bulger gallery if I can ever afford to develop the film.

How It Takes 33 Hours to Drive 485 Kms

2009-07-02T05:15:00.000-07:00

Acording to the guidebooks and fellow backpackers, the drive between Leh and Manali is a must-do. While we were warned that the high altitudes and bumpy roads could induce nausea and even vomiting, apparently the amazing views and photo opps make it all worth it. As I was particularly reluctant to spend 16-18 hours trapped in a mini bus on death-defying roads, we opted to do the journey only one-way.

The drivers who do this route are of a special breed. Their schedule is to leave one location at 2am, arrive at the other end in the early evening, sleep for a few hours, and then depart at 2am again traveling back to Point A with a new group of passengers. They have one day off a week.

The roads are in terrible shape. The passes are covered in snow about ten months of the year, so the potholes are enormous, and the roads are often flooded by rivers of snow melt. Our driver, Honey, was a champ. He drove through the many obstacles with ease and, to my great relief, was a relatively cautious driver in terms of not passing other vehicles on blind corners and avoiding getting too close to the edge of the road/cliff.

Our troubles began at the first passport check. When we left Leh we were in a convoy of three mini buses. Apparently, these guys look out for one another - therefore, one bus' problems become our problems. At this stop, one of the passengers in the bus ahead of us refused to show her passport, so the army would not let her pass through the checkpoint. Nobody knew why she wouldn't show her passport because she doesn't speak. It's not that she couldn't speak, it's that she chooses not to. This young lady is very much a typical "hippie" India backpacker. She floats around with a smile plastered on her face, shoeless, hugging everyone in sight, while playing a thumb piano. We had first spotted her the week before at a temple festival where she fell asleep on stage amidst dozens of dancing monks. Eventually, her driver gave up and threw her bag off the roof of her bus. An hour later, and we were back on the move.

Susie is mad

The next obstacle occurred about an hour later when a bus in our convoy broke down. We all had to stop on the side of the road while the drivers tried to figure out the problem - this mostly involved a lot of standing around and shrugging of shoulders. Honey stood there with a wrench in his hand looking particularly useless. We tried to convince him that he didn't know how to help so we should leave anyway, but he insisted that his services were of value. Two hours later, after some tinkering and kicking of tires, the bus miraculously started.

We stopped for lunch mid-afternoon three hours off schedule. A fellow passenger on our bus insisted that we needed a treat and bought a couple of rounds of rum and mango juice. The following six hours went by relatively smoothly, aided by our boozy haze.

By 10pm, we were just 30 kms away from Manali. Having just crossed over our final and highest pass, Rhotang, we anticipated that the rest of our journey would be a breeze. How wrong we were. We were suddenly stopped behind a lineup of trucks. Honey went out to investigate and came back with some bad news: two trucks had simultaneously broken down on the same curve and were blocking traffic in both directions. A group of drivers got together and tried to push the trucks out of the way, but they weren't going anywhere. We were forced to spend another night sleeping in the mini bus. The water supply was limited, and we hadn't eaten since our late lunch. Also, the gas fumes from all the idling trucks were making us all dizzy. Morale was, to say the very least, extremely low.

The next morning we woke up around 5am and the two trucks were as stuck as ever. We made a group decision to jump ship, and the six of us set out on foot, leaving Honey behind. It took us over five kms to walk to the end of the blocked traffic, and even then more and more cars kept arriving and getting stuck. We assumed it would be no problem to hitchhike to Manali, but the stubborn drivers refused to turn around, even when we explained to them that the road was blocked and would be for hours.

A couple of hours later Andrew and I managed to catch a ride with a family from Delhi. It took us another four hours from there to work our way through all the cars headed up to the Rhotang pass, despite warnings about the two broken down trucks. As we soon learned, Rhotang is a major attraction for Indian tourists who have never seen snow before. Apparently, no traffic jam is going to stand in the way of this once in a lifetime photo opportunity.

We made it to Manali at 11am, 17 hours late. We were filthy, hungry, and belligerent. From now on, I think we'll take the plane.

Zero Footprint

2009-07-02T03:35:00.000-07:00

In these difficult global environmental times, we should look no further than the traditional Ladakhi way of life. We spent three nights hiking through the Shan valley and stayed with Ladhaki families. Many of these homes are located in extremely remote areas, far from road access. Here are some innovative environmental solutions developed by Ladakhis:

- All homes are outfitted with a few solar panels as electricity is scarce.

- Everyone has a "kitchen garden" full of herbs and vegetables. Yaks do the ploughing.

- Ladakhi toilets are basically holes in the floor. You poop through the hole, and cover it with sand. A few weeks later, the turds are dried and used as fertilizer and fuel!

- Sheep are kept for wool. These guys are future sweaters.

- Booze is homemade. It is made from barley, which is grown by all families. The fermentation process uses kitchen scraps. Here is grandpa's personal supply of chang.

Four Eyes

2009-07-01T23:06:00.000-07:00

Our last of countless overnight bus trips in India was among our more eventful journeys. During this trip we had a mother and two small children sitting behind us, with the husband seated across the aisle. This man was particularly protective of his family and was determined that they receive every comfort possible. For one, he demanded that Andrew and I would not recline our chairs. After a heated exchange, we held our ground and maintained a semi-recline so that we could get some sleep.

Furthermore, our seats were in the unfortunate position where the windows in front and behind us met, so we were shielded from any breeze. As such, I thought it was only fair that the little ceiling fan be pointed on us. But, as soon as I would fall asleep, the father would reach over my head and move the fan back on his wife and children. This went on for hours, until eventually I fell into a sweaty sleep, having conceded the fight over the fan.

When I woke up in the morning I noticed that my glasses had fallen onto the floor, right by the feet of the protective father, and the left lens was completely cracked. Whether he stepped on my glasses on purpose or by accident I will never know, but regardless he had ultimately reigned triumphant in ruining my 16 hour journey.

Upon our arrival in Delhi I rushed off to get a new pair of glasses made. We visited our favourite vintage sunglasses salesman who happens to run a little optometrist clinic in the back of his store. My eye exam was pretty hack, but the promise of new glasses within 24 hours was too good to pass up.

The resulting specs aren't perfect. The lenses are about half an inch thick, and I see double for the first five minutes of wearing them. But, I can't really complain... they cost me the lesser part of $13.

coke bottles

Vote For Me (And My Four Chins)

2009-07-01T22:57:00.000-07:00

You may have seen news about India's latest federal election, which took place between April 16 and May 13th. The voting occurred over five stages, due to the immense size of the electorate (714 million) and number of polling stations (828,804). The end result saw the reelection of the Congress Party in a minority government.

Busing people to the polls

Leading up to the vote, we tried to engage many Indians in political dialogue, including taxi drivers, waiters, transit passengers, youth, etc. but nobody really wanted to talk about it. With dozens of federal parties and a confusing network of coalitions between the different groups, it seems that most people are weary of the country's political happenings. Furthermore, there is widespread doubt as to the legitimacy of the voting process. We surmised that it is generally accepted that many votes are bought with Rupees, or a meal, or even a couple of bottles of beer. Also, almost a third of the elected MPs currently face criminal charges, including murder!

Still, there is much trumpeting in the press of the exercising of of "The World's Largest Democracy" going to the polls, which, really, is an impressive ordeal, and despite its many flaws, surely the best choice of many imperfect options.

However, on the ground, I believe what is most impressive is that India has to have to the world's worst campaign posters. My favourite campaign photo of all is of the candidate in the bottom right corner of this poster. Believe me, his quadruple chin is not an optical allusion. His scrunched up face was plastered all over the state of Himachal Pradesh. The worst part is, I have seen other pictures of him in BJP party campaign posters, and he is actually a jolly looking guy with a big smile. How this photo was approved as as his official campaign shot is a mystery.

Ladakh Road Signs

2009-06-23T22:33:00.000-07:00

"Be Mr. Late, Not Late Mr."

"Too Fast You Won't Last"

"Darling I Like You, But Not So Fast"

"Slow Your Speed, Make It Home For Tea"

"I Am Curvaceous, But Be Slow"

"After Whisky, Driving Risky"

Re-Digitized

2009-06-10T23:10:00.000-07:00

Last weekend, we had exactly 20 hours in Delhi between arriving from Dharamsala and departing for Leh. In that time, we had only a sliver of hope that we might get our digital camera fixed. We had assumed that the only realistic option would be to ship it off to a Panasonic service centre for a couple of weeks, which would do us no good as we had a flight to catch at 5am the next morning. But, as we were headed to one of the most photogenic places in the world, we figured it was worth a shot.

We started our day by checking out a camera shop in Connaught Place, an upscale shopping district in New Delhi. They took one look at our camera and insisted that one day was not enough time for the necessary repairs. We begged for any advice they may have and they half-heartedly suggested we check out Chandhi Chowk market in Old Delhi.

Old Delhi is filled with markets that offer specific goods and services. For example, on the way to Chandhi Chowk we drove through a market comprised of only wedding invitation shops. Next to that was a market of over two dozen stores all selling various forms of chains - new ones, old ones, dirty ones, etc.

In Chandhi Chowk, our autorickshaw driver pulled up to one of the many camera repair stands and suggested we give them a try. The guy behind the counter turned our camera on and off a couple of times with his ear pressed against it. After a couple of seconds of consideration he said he could have it fixed in two hours for 2500 Rupees (about $60). We must have looked a little skeptical, because he brought out a box from under the counter and proclaimed: "Look, this man send me his camera all the way from the Netherlands. He knows I am the best repairman."

Nothing in India is too broken to be fixed. Around every corner you can find someone to glue your flip flops back together, or rewire your alarm clock. In Canada, when I have tried to have various items repaired - shoes, cell phones, ipods, printers, even a paper shredder - I have been given the same response every time: "Even if we can fix it, it will cost you more than just buying a new one." So the old one gets thrown out and sent to some wasteland, most likely in India or China.

We headed back to Chandhi Chowk after a couple hours of sight-seeing and, true to his word, the camera was running perfectly. When we asked for a detailed receipt so that we might claim the repairs on our insurance the guy just laughed. After we insisted, he took out one of his business cards and wrote "Panasonic, 2500 Rupees" on the back. He passed it to me and muttered, "Insurance... must be nice."

"The best repairman"

Side Project

2009-05-31T05:13:00.000-07:00

Sorry we have been neglectful bloggers.

We've settled in a little tourist enclave, Bhagsu, 2km from the Dalai Lama's home and the Tibetan government in exile. Bhagsu is packed with Israeli backpackers and, as a result, its many restaurants offer some of the best hummus east of the Middle East.

There is an amazing Tibetan organization that we have fallen in love with here. It's called Rogpa, and you will soon know all about it as we are going to plan a big fundraiser for them in Toronto. In the mean time, we have been keeping ourselves very busy editing and designing their upcoming newsletter. Also, we sometimes get to hold adorable babies at their daycare centre.

Many more posts to come when we get our films developed and scanned in Delhi. Life was so much easier when it was digital.

Back to Analog

2009-05-24T04:28:00.000-07:00

Both our digital cameras have broken. This makes presenting compelling visual content on The Linen Club difficult, but not impossible. We have two film cameras left (A Kyocera T4 and a Holga), so we can get our photos developed and scanned. This will delay things somewhat, but we will forge onward.

Here are some photos in the meantime.

Shoe Shopping

2009-05-24T04:08:00.000-07:00

I'm no trendsetter, but I'm banking on Rajasthani footwear being the next big thing on Queen West West West. So I bought two pair- one casual, one a little more fancy.

Hot Springs

2009-05-14T06:25:00.000-07:00

In the town of Vashisht, 3km from Manali, there is a natural hot spring that feeds several public baths. For locals, the baths are part of their daily washing of bodies, clothes, linens, and pots and dishes. For the many Indian domestic tourists, the baths and the adjacent temple are an attraction, in front of which you pose stiffly for family photographs.

At first, Andrew and I saved our own cleaning routines for the privacy of our bathroom. This was a big mistake. Once we eventually joined in the hot springs fun, there was no turning back.

My first attempt at a group bath was a minor failure. Seeing as Indian women swim in the ocean fully clothed in saris, I figured I should cover up so as not to offend anyone. That first morning, I entered the ladies' bath and quickly stripped down to bikini, with tank top and shorts over top. While submerging myself in the shockingly hot water, straining to avert my eyes, I quickly realized that for the first time in three months, I was the most overdressed woman in the room.

Within these four concrete walls (just tall enough so you can't peek in from the road), several generations of Indian women were splashing around, completely naked! I hadn't seen so much as bare knee in months, and suddenly it was the full monty. There were definitely a few giggles about my outfit, but otherwise I was able to slip right into the action, throwing a few elbows for a spot under a spout.

From then on, I look forward to the morning bath, and baring all for my fellow sisters. It is the one place in this conservative country that I really feel that I can connect with the Indian women. Without men and clothes to hide behind, my fellow bathers are comfortable, confident and playful.

Men's bath - surrounding walls just low enough for a sneaky photo

This afternoon, our tightening budget inspired me to queue up for one of the spouts outside the baths to do some self-laundering. A few ladies took an interest and scolded me for my poor scrubbing technique. It was all good fun until I realized the repercussions of having chosen the last spout downstream. A pile of soapy laundry ended up covered in peanut butter chunks when unbeknownst to me a woman started cleaning out PB containers two spouts above me.

Elbow grease

Bonus Footage

2009-05-14T06:09:00.000-07:00

Here I am landing my first trout on a fly I tied. A real beauty. My landing technique is still a work in progress, as you can see. Hear Deepak say "Give me" halfway through.

Tight Lines

2009-05-14T01:48:00.000-07:00

My new favorite thing (again) is fly fishing. It was my favourite thing for a time when I was a a young lad, 8 or so. But I didn't ever really go fly fishing, I just collected the equipment and read Field and Stream and took a fly-tying course in a Peterborough strip mall with some old men.

So actually going fishing for three days on the Tirthan River in Himachal Pradesh was a real thrill. The weather was a little ugly but the valley was beautiful and the fishing was great fun, but also serious. There is something very serious about fly fishing.

The Tirthan, and other rivers across appropriate terrain in India, contain salmo trutta, Brown Trout. They're not a native species, but they've lived in the mountain streams and rivers for a hundred years or more- they were stocked by the British. "Wherever the British army went, there are trout," our host Christopher told us. (Such an aquacultural feat amazes me - how did they manage to transport the fry, keep them at the appropriate temperature, etc...?) Over two thousand years earlier, Alexander the Great's army inhabited these valleys as well.

Day One saw us rent one fly rod, and start off at an easy spot to cast, where I hooked a decent sized fish (10 inches is a keeper) but lost it on behalf of a poor landing effort. As the afternoon progressed, I noticed Mel getting a little frostier. Not cold, but bored. I realized I hadn't been sharing the rod very well. Maybe at all. We decided to rent two rods the next day, and hire a guide, in hopes of more fish. I read Way of the Trout at night, voraciously.

Losing a fish

The next morning we were still very much "finding our rhythm" with the line which accounted for many lost flies. After we had lost 10 or so, I asked our faithful guide Deepak how much the flies cost. Maybe wondering if the bill would come through to us. He said they were 200 Rs - $5 each. This could get expensive, we thought. I did manage to hook into a keeper male, which we decided to have for dinner, smoked.

All Thumbs

Handiwork

At lunch I decided to tie a few flies, mostly to save us the expense of losing them. My skills were rusty since my Ptbo days - I broke the vice - but I managed to produce a few passable weighted nymph imitations. In the afternoon, I managed to hook a nice little trout on one of my flies. I can't believe it actually worked. Who knew. It was a handsome feeling.

Happy

Day three was two rods and no guide. Still going through many flies but I was starting to feel the whole thing out. I only caught a tiny trout, but Mel caught the fish of the day (on another one of my flies) as the sun was going behind the mountains. I was glad for her.

All Smiles

If you're ever in the neighbourhood, I highly reccomend a stay at the Himalayan Trout House. Great food, atmosphere, and fun in a remote mountain village setting. We were only charged 150 Rs for all the lost flies.

All in all, a magical three days for me and another obscure and expensive hobby, refound.

Fish On

Nice Spot

Johnny Appleseed, Amen

The Road Home

Himalayan Trout Expedition

2009-05-09T00:53:00.000-07:00

We're going here today. I'm so excited.

Rajasthani Moustaches

2009-05-08T02:48:00.000-07:00

Four out of five Indian men have moustaches. Usually, they're unassuming, neatly trimmed, nice black 'staches. But in Rajasthan, the moustache culture is out-of-control amazing. Pride in the 'stache runs generations deep. Rajasthanis are generally super nice to begin with, but the men really light up when I ask to take a picture of their moustache. These guys know how awesome their facial hair is, but not in an unbecoming way. They're like, "I know, right?" They're always whipping out little moustache combs and styling, probably with coconut oil. Again, not in a creepy, lugubrious wannabe-suave way (like some Indian bachelors publically preen their bangs), but rather in a passing-the-time, may as well do some work on the ol 'soup strainer kind-of-way. Add in the psychedelic neon turbans, and the outrageously awesome footwear and you have some of the most stylish, poised, quietly-confident gentlemen I have ever had the pleasure to be around.

Honorable Mention

Food of Late

2009-05-08T02:35:00.000-07:00

Crazy declicious saffron, cardamom and lemon lassi in Udaipur. So rich.

Somewhat underwhelming butter chicken at the supposed "Mecca" of butter chicken, Moti Mahal in Delhi.

Really good trail-mix snack in Udaipur- peanuts, golden raisins, sugar, salt.

The ubiquitous chicken lollipop.

Good authentic Japanese vegetarian in Dharamshala.

Vintage Car Corner

2009-05-08T02:25:00.000-07:00

The maharana of Udaipur has a fine vintage car collection. All left hand drive. Unfortunately, we were unable to see the crown jewel of the collection- the custom Rolls Royce James Bond used in some Octopussy scenes. It was under wraps for no reason we could understand- too precious to display, or something. We tried to get our money back, to no avail.

I liked the hood ornaments.

This is the car he takes to polo.

We're Back

2009-05-08T02:22:00.000-07:00

Apologies, loyal readers (Mom) for the lengthy hiatus. We were occupied with some visitors.

We promise to attempt to provide slightly less sporadic updates from here onwards.

Some Things

2009-04-20T05:58:00.001-07:00

Rounding the backstretch of our time in India, I have come to the saddening realization that things that once seemed exciting, exotic, and different from life at home now seem commonplace. So before I forget them all, let me list a few endearing facets of day-to-day Indian life:

-things that would be thrown away at home are repaired here; today I got my falling-apart knock-off Birkenstocks repaired for an extended life; shoes, watches, clothes, and appliances can be fixed anywhere for cheap

-vendors of fruit, vegetables and metal cooking vessels use analog balance scales (Libra-style) to price their goods

-shoe polishes and ironing services are widely available at reasonable prices

-use of carbon paper is widespread; everything is recorded in triplicate paper copy

-almost all rope and cord is made of natural fibres

-male cousins are called "cousin-brother" and female cousins are called "cousin-sister"

-and this, from "Maximum City":

"Asad, of all people, has seen humanity at its worst. I asked him if he feels pessimistic about the human race.

'Not at all,' he responded. ' Look at the hands from the trains.'

If you are late for work in the morning in Bombay, and you can reach the station just as the train is leaving the platform, you can run up to the packed compartments and find many hands stretching out to grab you on board, unfolding outwards from the train like petals. As you run alongside the train, you will be picked up and some tiny space will be made for your feet on the edge of the open doorway. The rest is up to you. You will probably have to hang on to the door frame with your fingertips, being careful not to lean out too far lest you get decapitated by a pole placed too close to the tracks. But consider what has happened. Your fellow passengers, already packed tighter than cattle are legally allowed to be, their shirts already drenched in sweat in the badly ventilated compartment, having stood like this for hours, retain an empathy for you, know that your boss might yell at you or cut your pay if you miss this train, and will make space where none exists to take one more person with them. At at the moment of contact, they do not know if the hand that is reaching for theirs belongs to a Hindu or Muslim or Christian or Brahmin or untouchable or whether you were born in this city or arrived only this morning or whether you're from Malabar Hill or New York or Jogeshwari. All they know is that you're trying to get to the city of gold, and that's enough. Come on board, they say. We'll adjust."

Chor Bazaar

2009-04-20T05:38:00.000-07:00

If you're in need of old camera gear, vintage toys, collector lithograph Bollywood posters, or monkey wrenches, I highly recommend Chor Bazaar in Bombay. Chor means "thief" apparently, so all the stuff may or not be stolen, which is sort of fun.

Bombay Cleaners

2009-04-20T04:51:00.000-07:00

We were literally taken to the cleaners in Colaba, Bombay by what should prove to be our most expensive laundry bill in India. But it was ok, given the pricey real estate the shop occupied, and because it was, start to finish, an efficient, professional, and highly satisfactory laundering experience. Everything was carefully machine washed according to colour and fabric, beautifully ironed (even our sleeping sacks, which we insisted need not be pressed) and each article came back with a strangely touching hand-sewn tag indicating our particular batch of laundry.

Later in the day we visited dhobi ghats, where most of Bombay gets their laundry done. Shirts for 2 Rs instead of 30 Rs. A "12 or 13" year old girl served as an impromptu tour guide (exact birthdates not such a big deal here)- the white laundry is from the hotels, the red from the hospital, the blue from somewhere else, she told us. We should have come earlier in the morning, to see more action, she also told us. We offered her a 10 Rs note as a nominal fee for her helpful information. She refused the money and wanted a Pepsi instead. No fool, she went for the 60 Rs 2 Litre 7-Up that came with a free 7-Up can. I hope she shared.

Note wrapping of laundry into parcels.

Laundry tag.

Yes, that's a genuine ShamWow.

Dhobi Ghats

Schmollywood

2009-04-15T00:42:00.000-07:00

Walking along Colaba Causeway, foreigners are in high demand, and for a change, they want to give us money. The Bollywood film industry in Mumbai is booming, with half a dozen features being filmed around the city on any given day. White faces are sought out for background work, and it is considered de rigueur on the backpacker circuit to work as an extra.

As it was a starred item on our cliched-but-still-valuable experiences of India checklist, we were excited to be cast by a background talent agent within our first hour in Mumbai. Extras were needed for a fancy restaurant scene (set in Bangkok) for the movie Blue, which stars Katrina Kaif, a young up-and-comer, and Akshay Kumer, a "big-time superstar". Andrew, who had already familiarized himself with the top Indian film stars by reading two Bollywood gossip mags on the train, was impressed with the star power, and so we accepted the offer.

Unfortunately, our Bollywood experience was far from glamorous. Thirty of us were packed into a non-AC bus in the middle of Bombay rush-hour. Two hours later, we arrived in the service entrance of the Renaissance Hotel and we "hurried up and waited", as they say, to be handed out tacky outfits with far too much lace and polyester. The girls then lined up for makeup and hair, with disastrous results.

Six hours after our bus departed downtown Bombay, the restless extras were hoarded through the hotel and onto our set. The mise-en-scene was tasteful and quite high-budget (unfortunately, the same can't be said about our outfits). The producers picked through the women extras and chose their favourites. Those with long blonde hair were positioned in the centre of the shot, and those of us with shorter and/or darker hair were placed around the peripheries. While I sulked behind a pillar in the back left, Andrew was centre-stage, playing the doting boyfriend of a young girl from England with Barbie-doll features. Ouch.

The frenetic energy on set died down after a couple of hours, as the two stars still hadn't shown. Rumours began to circulate: Katrina was filming another movie, and was caught on set across the city. Gasp!

Eventually, a man came running into the room and made the universal sign of a hand cutting his throat: Shoot's over! The disgruntled extras started collecting our things, but then a vision in red appeared. It was Katrina Kaif, walking with purpose onto set... Four hours late, but she is gorgeous, and immediately forgiven.

But, thirty minutes later (now 11:30pm), the male star had not yet appeared, and this time the shoot was cancelled for good. And so, we headed back downtown tired, cranky, and some of us with a bruised ego.

fugly outfits

Appendix:

The next day, it was front page news: AKSHAY KUMAR EMBARRASSES INDIA. While modeling in an Indian Fashion Week show earlier in the day of our shoot for the Levi's "Un-zipped" campaign, Akshay had his wife unzip his jeans. Apparently, some members of the audience were outraged and marched straight to the police office. An official police complaint has been issued against Kumar for public indecency. He was last seen on a flight with his wife to South Africa.

Bombay Taxicabs

2009-04-13T03:43:00.000-07:00

The cabs in Bombay are a trip. Black and yellow beauties based on an old Fiat body design, manufactured up until 2000 in Bombay by Premier Automobiles. They're supposed to use the meters but if they smell fresh tourist meat (eg., us) they will try to refuse to. Since 2 of every 3 cars in Bombay is a cab, you can just go to the next one. And then the next one.

The meters themselves are unique. They are very analog and mounted outside the car where the passenger side mirror should be. The left hand "100s" digit counts in Rupees. The two right hand digits (10s and 1s) count in Paise. Since Paise are practically obselete as a monetary unit, each cab has a "conversion chart" whereby the fare shown on the meter is multiplied by 13 1/3, or 17 between midnight and 6 am. This makes it practically impossible to determine the correct fare since the majority of drivers either don't carry the conversion chart or refuse to produce it. This leads to much back and forth over mangled mental arithmetic and negotiation of a reasonable, rounded-off fare.

Like anywhere, some cabbies are great, some are jerks. One guy refused to name a price for the trip, saying we were guests in his country. We paid the fare shown on the meter (times approximately fourteen) and gave him an unreasonably large tip.

Good NY Times Wheels blog post about them here. Apparently they're on their way out, but you wouldn't know it. The last one was produced in 2000, and over 25-year old cabs are illegal, so I would say you still have another 10 solid years to visit Bombay and appreciate these beaters in good numbers.

Stop looking at me, man.

Mango Amras

2009-04-13T03:34:00.001-07:00

Right by Chowpatty Beach (a real beach in the heart of Bombay), we had Mango Amras. I'm not really sure what it is but it tastes amazing. It's like a cold puree of mango, but it probably has some milk in it.

It was from this place.

"I wouldn't swim in there if I were you."
Marine Drive and Churchgate area in background. Oberoi Hotel on far right.

Posh Malabar Hill in background.

Hair Saloon

2009-04-13T03:20:00.000-07:00

We have been amused for the last few months by the fact that places where men get hair cuts in India are called, almost invariably, "saloons". How the extra 'o' was added is anybody's guess. I've seen one place called "sallon", but no salons. Every town has at least one saloon.

I like hair saloons a lot better than salons. They are places where men can be men, and also get a head massage. Like a barbershop, but with some mild manly perks.

We arrived in Bombay and it was time for a haircut. I settled on a place called Paris Saloon on Colaba Causeway, mostly because of the unselfconscious man-pride of its sign - "Gents Only". No girls allowed! -a true saloon. (Mel came in anyway.) The decor was not as lurid as others I had seen on our travels, but it was full of dacoits with sharp haircuts, which I took to be a good sign, as gangsters (east and west) tend to take pride in their rugs.

I took the chair and a boy in the agonizing early stages of puberty wrapped me in nylon. I thought he was just the cape boy, but then he picked up the clippers. I was alarmed at first, but then relaxed, remembering that they do things differently here. He's probably been giving trims since he could reach the scissors. A sort of Doogie Howser of barbers. I settled into the chair and asked for a number 6, all the way around. But they never have number 6, east or west. Usually 4 is the longest available. All right, I said, I'll take a 4. (I find something comforting about the universality of hair clipper units. No metric/imperial conversions, no exchange rates. Bombay to Burlington to Buenos Aires, a 4 is a 4 is a 4.)

While I settled into my chair, I really wanted to grab the clippers and shave my young barber's wispy teenstache off. But then I remembered the riddle about the small town with two barbers- you go to the one with the worse haircut, assuming he gave the other guy the better haircut, and he got the bad haircut from the other guy. Despite the many logical gaps inherent in this (couldn't he go to the next town? cut his own hair? shave off his own moustache?), it always gives me comfort whilst getting a haircut from a man with a bad haircut. Or teenstache.

My faith in teenwolf barber was not ill-placed. The straight razor was like an extension of his hand and he did a very nice job cleaning up around my ears and neck. I noticed the fellow beside me getting a head massage, so I asked for one too. Coconut oil? Yes, please. The boy had a gifted touch with his hands. Then he brought out what looked like an early electrical bondage device, strapped it to his hand, and applied it to my balding pate. It was an enormous vibrator, and it felt great. I decided that it must be good for follicle stimulation and hair growth. Total damage was 70 Rs, or $1.75. Breakdown was: haircut, 20 Rs; 15 min scalp, neck and shoulder massage, 50 Rs.

Good vibrations.

IPL

2009-04-13T02:31:00.000-07:00

Last year was the premiere season of Indian Premier League of cricket. IPL:Cricket::NHL:Hockey- it gathers the best players from Australia, NZ, England, South Africa, West Indies, Sri Lanka, Pakistan, Bangladesh and India (pretty much the sum total of the cricketing world) for a 2-month round robin and playoff of 8 teams from cities across India. I was very disappointed with the news from a few weeks ago that IPL Season 2 will be relocated to South Africa due to a supposed lack of security personnel in India. With the national elections set to take place at the same time as the scheduled April-May IPL season, and in light of the recent attack on the Sri Lankan cricket team in Lahore, it was decided that there would not be enough bodies to ensure the security of the players and spectators. Thus, the entire season has been moved to South Africa.

I'm pretty bummed out because apparently the games are a total riot with in-game entertainment, cheerleaders, etc... (the Bangalore team hired the Washington Redskins girls for a the opener last season, and to mentor Indian cheerleaders- with the expected backlash) and mostly because I've been trying to replace the chasm left by lack of N. American sporting news with a somewhat-manufactured interest cricket. Cricket is more or less the only sport that gets any play in India, and the only one that Indians are any good at (with few exceptions). A country of over 1 billion managed only 3 medals in the Beijing olympics, but the Indian cricket team is currently looking like the most deadly side in the world. So without much else to follow in Indian sport, I've almost memorized the starting 11 of the Indian Twenty20, ODI and Test teams, while the papers give minor play to a what is an over-abundant time in the calendar year of sport (NHL playoff race, NBA playoff race, MLB season openers, Final Four, Masters, World Curling Championships).

The IPL format is Twenty20- which basically means it takes 2 hours to play a game instead of 5 days. So people with jobs and normal lives can actually attend the matches, which are held at night. Considering the enormous amount of money in the league ( Indian Cricket's governing body, the Board of Cricket Control of India is filthy rich), I'm not sure why they weren't able to sort it out and hire or train more security. Sometimes it's better not to try to understand the machinations of Indian sporting politics.

Crawford Market

2009-04-05T06:29:00.001-07:00

It's mango season in India, and wherever you look someone is trying to sell you a juicy Alphonso. I read in yesterday's paper that the mango crop was down 25% this year due to global warming, but that's hard to imagine when walking through the rows upon rows of mango sellers in Crawford Market.

Most of the other markets and bazaars in Mumbai specialize in specific products - antiques, saris, meat, etc - but, it seems like you can buy just about anything at Crawford. We looked around on a Sunday, and thus it was only running at half its capacity. Even so, there were a myriad of goods on offer.

In one end of the market you can buy an African Grey Parrot for $500. Around the corner from there are cases of mangoes for 600 rupees. And just beyond that I found my favourite brand of shampoo and conditioner for only a couple hundred rupees, (the very same products are only available at home in posh salons, at a price that I can't actually afford.) Apparently, we will have to return on a weekday if we want to buy a goat's head.

School Uniforms

2009-04-05T05:03:00.000-07:00

Read this article in Globe and Mail about two Canadian designers who's upcoming season has been inspired by Indian School uniforms.

The uniforms here are quite amazing. Each school's is slightly different than the one down the road. Except for the the light blue/dark blue ones, which are ubiquitous. I think those are government issue, and the schools with more money have their own unique patterns. But I could be mistaken.

I wish we had more pictures. You could do an entire coffee table book on them. By Phaidon or Taschen or one of them guys.

Blair Waldorf

Fishing in Goa - an Impression Piece

2009-04-04T14:40:00.000-07:00

Past the Euros in camper vans and the Goans playing sand cricket, at the south end of the beach, we saw a guy with a fishing pole. He was standing on a rock in the water catching fish at will. They were only 2-3 inches long, but he said they were a fine dinner, and it looked like good sport, so I inquired after his methods: tiny, #14 hook, small chunk of prawn as bait.

The next day, the appropriate materials were tracked down in the village. Hook, line, sinker from the shop at the junction. Small prawns from the ladies in the market, 2 Rs for a handful. Two young saplings to serve as poles, snipped from a vacant lot. We set out late afternoon and found the rock where I had the conversation with the fisherman. Mel caught a little one immediately. It looked about the same size as the ones the fisherman pulled out but we put it back, thinking there would be more. There would be no more. I caught a tiny crab; when I put it on the rock, it figured out it could just release the prawn from its grasp, it let go and walked back into the water.

Another rock, at the very end of the point, looked promising for sure. It turned out to be harder to get to then I thought and I sliced both my feet open on razor clams. It was a bloody mess and I didn't catch anything.

The next day we went to the river and got to talking with the ferry-man, who paddles people across the river in his single-outrigger mango wood canoe. Turns out he is also a fine fisherman– makes sense, with all that time on the water. He tells me my method is all wrong, and fashions me a makeshift spinning reel out of an old plastic Sprite bottle repurposed from a previous life as a buoy. The green plastic is by now opaque like sea glass- sea plastic.

A pebble serves as weight, expertly lashed and tied onto the line by the ferry-man. He discards my pole; the method is now hand line. The "reel" is cast by swinging the weight and hook around like a lariat and letting go, the line peeling off the end of the bottle after the weight of the pebble. It works surprisingly well, easily cast 20-30 feet.

Half an hour before sunset, at the very north end of the beach, there was a line of 20 people pulling in a huge net. Fifty yards down another 20 people pulled in a net. I set up in between, waded in, and cast. Then I realized both lines were pulling in the same net, it was a huge "U", and I had just cast right into the middle of their haul. I reeled in quickly, apologized to the 40 people staring at me, and got out of the way. Nobody seemed too fussed.

After a large communal effort the contents of the huge net arrived on shore. Mostly small fish, well under 6 inches. (Side note: the Indian gesture to show size of a fish with hands is to hold out one hand and touch the other index finger somewhere along the forearm to indicate length- nearer wrist, smaller fish, nearer elbow, bigger fish.) A grandma scrambles to catch the flopping escapees, stuffing them in her plastic baggie.

There was one beautiful fish, much larger than the rest. About 3 feet long and 2 feet high. Maybe a mahi mahi? Tuna family? It flopped around on the beach for a few minutes, then drowned in air. I wondered how much it would cost. 1000 Rs, max? ($25) Probably a few thousand dollars worth of sushi at home. This one will be consumed in India, and thus very likely grossly overcooked. A sad end. I want it raw, but barely run over with the blowtorch, like at JapanGo.

This story is supposed to end with me catching a big fish on my hand line, but, it doesn't. I tried for a few more days- from a kayak, from a pier, wading into the ocean. Then I was supposed to go out with the fisherman (for a relatively tall fee of 300 Rs) but I slept in. Probably just as well; I didn't really want to have to deal with killing anything anyway.

Not Mine

Trophy Catch

Crime & Detective

2009-04-02T21:11:00.000-07:00

The security guard at our collection of beach bungalows in Goa took a real shining to us. Upon meeting Matthew on our first night, he tells us that he has not always been a night watchman. He has been a football (soccer) coach, and disco dancer. But, his one true passion is crime. He reads all sorts of books on the subject, and especially loves crime magazines. Thus, his new job is a natural fit.

The next morning we wake up and open the door to see Matthew making a bee-line to our bungalow. It's 9am and he last saw us to our door at 11pm the previous night. He pronounces: A ha! I figured you must have been sleeping. Nice deduction, Sherlock.

Matthew's crush on us continued to develop from then on. A few days later he eagerly presented us with a copy of Crime & Detective, "The premier magazine on true crime stories". Inside, crimes that have supposedly taken place across India are described in gory detail, with reenactment photographs. Many are borderline pornographic.

A sample of some of the headlines:

"'Driving' Master's Wife Cost Driver his Life" (Note the double entendre)

"Sex Crazy Woman Shunned Husband Butchered by Paramour"

Weird stuff.

Did you read the magazine, he asks us the next morning? Did you like the stories?

We tell him they're a bit scary. Why scary, Matthew asks? They are interesting! All the details! All true! He insists. He proclaims that Westerners are not "habituated" to such realities, that our media focuses too much on "love".

Every night Matthew gives us the same rundown. Store your fishing rods inside, (they could be used as weapons). Lock the door. Don't answer to anyone that claims to be "police" or "security", (which puts us in a confusing situation when he knocks on our door a few minutes later, with some new excuse to talk to us). Matthew, we ask, is there a history of such problems on Agonda beach? Oh no, he ensures, but always better take precaution. Security is very important in tourist matters, says Matthew.

All this has the effect of making us feel less, rather than more, secure. But, in the end, Matthew's intentions are good. He even begged for our mailing address so he can send us a Christmas card. I considered giving him a fake address, but ultimately the prospect of what he might write us was too good to resist. And, hopefully he'll throw in the latest copy of Crime and Detective.

Lessons Learned #2

2009-03-28T06:06:00.001-07:00

On laundry: When using an Indian brand of stain-remover, be sure to read the fine print. Otherwise, you might find yourself pouring bleach on your boyfriend's beloved linen suit pants. (A new pair has been commissioned.)

Snapshot Corner

2009-03-25T05:55:00.000-07:00

Like a Glove

2009-03-24T05:41:00.000-07:00

The linen suit has proven adequate in the following situations:

Riding a white stallion

Riding a mechanical bull

Walkin'

Drivin'

Kaycee Spice Emporium

2009-03-17T00:21:00.001-07:00

Wholesale spice warehouse in Fort Cochin, Kerala.

Ginger drying.

Biryani

2009-03-16T23:59:00.000-07:00

We didn't really get the fuss about biryani until we had this one in Kochi. It's known more as a northern/western Muslim specialty, but this family in Kerala has been making biryani for hundreds and hundreds of years. Apparently they are often flown to Dubai, Kuwait, etc... to make biryani at the weddings and feasts of the many Keralites who work in the Gulf.

42 Rs for chicken biryani, 47 Rs for mutton. At first it looks like there's no meat, but it's buried inside the mound of yellow rice. Not a huge piece of meat, but tender that it falls apart when you look at it.

We tried to figure out the ingredients. Definitely small basmati rice, cashews, raisins, pineapple, turmeric, mace, cloves, cardamom. Probably lots more.

You dab your finger in the small watery plate of lemon pickle for a piquant flavor contrast. The red onions are lightly pickled in vinegar.

We back the next day and also ordered fish curry and chicken chili fry. Both really good too.

CCT

2009-03-16T23:42:00.000-07:00

I am coming to believe that Chili Cheese Toast (abbreviated to "CCT" on some menus) is one of the world's great snackfoods. It summons the "cheese-on-toast" of my youth, with the bonus addition of chili heat. It is made with a mild cheese slice laced with ringlets of fresh green chili, all melty on top of a unwholesome tranche of sweet white sandwich loaf.

This CCT interpretation from our hotel in Madurai was slightly unorthodox; more baked cheese spread than pure cheese. Somewhat like a thick cheesy bechamel laced with turmeric, and broiled until a thin crust formed on top of the gooey mustard-yellow viscosity of the filling. I approved.

This one from the Carlton Hotel in Kodaikanal was a more straight-laced rendition. Somewhat uninspired but still well snackable.

I'm thinking Chili Cheese Toast could be jazzed up into a more modern fingerfood as a crispy layer of parmesan or beemster or Thunder Oak gouda, on a superthin slice of crusty baguette, with green chili and/or some nice chili powder on top. Or maybe do away with the baguette all together, just go for a cheese basket with a little chili treat inside.

Lessons Learned #1

2009-03-16T23:30:00.001-07:00

We have a little motto that helps us through our day to day learning process here in India - "live and learn". Here is a sample of some of our lessons learned to date:

On trains: Avoid mentioning your cell phone number or the name of your hotel. Otherwise, you might find yourself hiding out in your room from overbearing new "friends" who insist you join them for church and Sunday dinner.

On packing: Pack what you think you need, and then take half the clothes and twice the money. We read this on the internet somewhere and have come to believe that it is a wise piece of advice.

On transportation: Don't take treacherous mountain passes at night with drivers who think they are Michael Schumacher.

On health: Buy all your meds in India, not in Canada (especially when you don't have a health plan). There is an abundance of all types of pills, at 1/20th of the price, and you don't need any of those pesky prescriptions.

In general: If they ain't got the goods, don't give them any cash.

Value Meals

2009-03-10T05:27:00.000-07:00

"Meals" (thalis) are a sort of workingman's lunch. Usually well under $2, served on an aluminum tray or banana leaf, and best eaten by hand. Can be "limited" (all you can eat rice) or "unlimited" (all you can eat everything). Contents vary day-to-day, eatery-to-eatery, and region-to-region. So far in South India meals seem to require the presence of rice, a papad, plain curd (yogurt), mango or lemon pickle, a dal, sambar, and rasam. Usually also a dry veg and veg in "gravy" and sometimes a sweet, eg. cardamom-saffron rice pudding. Every item is unfailingly delicious. Some thalis can reach semi-divine heights.

Toronto readers can get a decent one from Moti Mahal on Gerrard St. in Little India.

New Ananda Bhavan, Fort Kochi

Hotel Astoria, Kodaikanal

Lalit Mahal, Mysore

Indian Wine

2009-03-10T05:03:00.000-07:00

Sampled a flight of Indian white wines at Malabar House. Detected notes of asparagus, capsicum, and fermented horse urine.

Enjoyed them all thoroughly in spite of their taste.

http://www.sulawines.com/
http://www.chateauindage.com/
http://grovervineyards.in/

Railfan Corner

2009-03-10T04:50:00.000-07:00

Know Your Bible

2009-03-10T04:41:00.001-07:00

Pregnant Goat, Dead Frog

2009-03-10T04:36:00.000-07:00

Brangelina

2009-03-01T05:46:00.000-08:00

Being a (white) foreigner in India is what I imagine it's like to be somewhere between a D to C-list celebrity. While the mobs don't exactly chase you down the street, you still get your fair share of attention by the average Jayaprakash six-pack. Children wave and cheer as you walk by, adults stare and point, and I don't even want to think of how many Indian teenage boys have my sweaty face stored on their camera phone.

Our favourite moment so far has been on a beach somewhere north of Pondicherry when a young couple begged us for a photo. We obliged happily and before we knew what was going on, they threw their defenseless child in my arms, and declared: "Here, take our baby... and SMILE!"

Paste Bucket

2009-03-01T05:28:00.000-08:00

I liked the hue and civility of this communal paste bucket outside the main Pondicherry post office. Nobody likes the acrid taste of envelope or stamp glue.

Indian post offices are great places. The stacks of dusty, dog eared ledgers betray a strained but resilient bureaucracy, and the lack of decorum in queues rewards those with sharp elbows.

Good Coffee

2009-03-01T05:24:00.001-08:00

Good coffee from Le Cafe in Pondicherry. Craving a cold coffee drink, I was unsure what the menu's "Coffee on the Rocks" would yield, but I was highly satisfied with the strong south Indian organic espresso poured over cinnamon bark and a lemon wedge onto large ice cubes that awaited their melty fate with nobility.

Pondichéry

2009-03-01T05:11:00.001-08:00

J'adore Pondicherry, a lovely town of 200,000 on the Bay of Bengal.

This little enclave was colonized by France in the 18th century. Like another former French colony that I know and love, Pondi has hung on tightly to its French roots. The coffee shops are cafés and the restaurants serve passable coq au vin. Furthermore, Pondi has extremely low liquor taxes, so you can purchase a 600 ml bottle of Kingfisher froide from your local dépanneur for a mere 40 rupees. (Half what one would pay in the rest of the conservative state of Tamil Nadu.)

As a haven for tourists, ex-pats, and ashramites from France and Switzerland, Pondi doesn't need Bill 101 to preserve its French culture. Guesthouse owners, waiters, autorickshaw drivers, and yoga instructors speak a more refined French than most Anglo Quebecers. Present company included...

Vive le Pondi libre!

Indian Railways

2009-02-25T22:19:00.000-08:00

Because everyone likes a nice railway network schematic.

The Bangalore Club

2009-02-24T01:45:00.001-08:00

The Bangalore Club is a very old and venerable institution. We have been told that the "Britishers" did manage to leave a few welcome legacies in India, such as railroads, cricket, and clubs.

The club's claim to fame is that Winston Churchill remains on the Defaulter's List for eternity, owing a sum of 13 Rupees.

We weren't supposed to take pictures but we managed to snap a few before the "bearers" (waiters) found us out.

Snapshot Corner

2009-02-24T01:41:00.001-08:00

Tasty Jones

2009-02-24T01:26:00.000-08:00

Can you come up with a better restaurant name than Tasty Jones? Didn't think so.

The jingle pretty much writes itself. "Meet me for a burger at Tasty Jones!"

Iron Maiden

2009-02-24T00:44:00.000-08:00

I was warned many times before the Iron Maiden show that it was strictly prohibited to bring a camera into the concert grounds. I believe some rules are meant to be broken.

As we entered to concert grounds, males and females were streamed into separate aluminum chutes. The guys went through quickly after indifferent pat-downs by the male staff. But, as I approached the female entrance, a lump grew in my throat as I saw the hungry look in the eyes of my lady friskers. They were out for blood.

Every bit of flesh of my body was tugged at and squeezed. My pockets were emptied and I even had to show the insides of my shoes. But there was only one place that they didn't dare go, which was shrewdly just the place where I had lodged the Fuji.

Monkey Drinking Fanta

2009-02-21T19:46:00.000-08:00

How It's Made

2009-02-16T01:45:00.001-08:00

How It's Made is a favourite show of ours on the Discovery Channel. True to the name, it shows shows viewers how a thing (it) gets made. Various products realize their form after going through different stages of production along miles of assembly lines. You've probably seen it.

So last Wednesday we were delighted to be invited to the factories of two of Ram's companies. (Ram is my godfather, and our gracious host.) We would see, from start to finish, the production of many of their state-of-the-art products.

Seed filter

Oil filter

Dirty --> clean oil

At John Fowler, we were toured through the various production stages of car filters, aircraft filters, and HEPA filters - running our fingers over the vast sheets fibrous paper which is folded thousands of times, accordion-like, before being placed into their metal housing.

All in all, an illuminating tour of all things filter.

Linen

2009-02-16T01:14:00.000-08:00

I think I once saw in an old issue of GQ that a linen suit was one of a stylish gentleman's 10 Summer Fashion Essentials. And that it could (or even should) be scrunched into a ball for travel and then worn wrinkled. Since this is how I treat all my clothes, such care instructions appealed to me.

Naturally, then, the first order of business upon arrival in Bangalore was acquiring as much linen as possible, and commissioning a bespoke linen suit. (In my mind, India and linen are closely tied, for reasons that are likely grounded in nothing but my own ill-informed assumptions of the global textile trade. But when I pictured myself romping around this subcontinent, I could imagine myself wearing nothing except a linen suit. It is my strong feeling that one must pay heed to such fanciful thoughts, or risk a dangerous accumulation of a lifetime of unfulfilled longings and broken dreams.)

Luckily, linen does exist in south India. On our third day here, we shopped at a store called Cotton World (a sort of south Indian "Gap"), which, despite the name, carries a good selection of linen. I was able to acquire two pair of linen pants (one khaki green, one pure white) and two shirts (one light blue long sleeve, one white short sleeve). (The white top and bottom together will serve nicely as my ashram outfit.)

But two pants and two shirts does not a suit make. The next day, we visited a large tailors called Raymond's, where we were told we might find some linen material for a suit. Their selection of 100% linen was meagre. The salesman was pushing a 40/30/30 poly-linen-wool blend that, of course, would not do. However, the salesman was nice enough to direct us to a shop called Linen Club. I was excited, because the name sounded very promising.

The next day we managed to find Linen Club. A good assortment of linen, though not the cornucopia I was dreaming of in my restless night's sleep. I settled on a pure, 100%, unbleached, untreated linen, in a colour that can only be described as "linen". The salesman tried to convince me to have the tailoring done there, but I did not like the look of the garments in his catalog, and I appreciated the honesty of the man at Raymond's who was good enough to direct me to his competitor. When the salesman pressed us as to who would be doing the tailoring, we made up a lie that it was being done by a tailor "private to the family." It sounded good but I'm not sure if he was fooled.

3.5 yards of the material cost about 2000 rupees Ð around 50 Canadian beans. I asked the cashier if it was made in India. He said the raw flax pulp was imported from France and Belgium, and the weaving was done in India. Good enough for me. He handed me a brochure outlining what can only be described as the Linen Club "philosophy", which I have typed verbatim:

"Technology yields to nature. Yarns and fabrics recapture their origin. Nature is synonymous with truth, authenticity, and also imperfection. As a beautiful face bears wrinkles, a beautiful fabric does even more so when it doesn't hide its imperfection. The best materials should have the appearance of being hand-crafted. Ecological luxury. The authentic replacing the technical."

While the copy is a bit overwrought, I have to say I agree wholeheartedly. (Also, I think this would have got an 'A+' in my King's Philosophy of Technology class).

On the car from the Linen Club back to Raymond's, I became anxious that the material I bought was too thick and scratchy for the comfortable, flowy, summer suit I was envisioning. I asked the chap at Raymond's, and he agreed that it was a bit on the thick side, but said if I didn't like the finished piece, I could just get another one made. I liked his logic. He asked a lot of questions: Center slit? Side Slit? No Slit? Lined? Unlined? Half-lined? I just kept telling him casual, Miami Vice, and summery. Together we decided on no slit, half-lined. I would be coming back for a fitting (they kept calling it "trial", which made me nervous- would I be found guilty if the suit didn't fit?) in a mere 48 hours. There is no shortage of labour here.

The trial went moderately well. I came early, and only the pants were ready. They fit nicely and the colour didn't wash out my skin tone, which was another worry. After some beverages, we came back an hour later and the jacket was pieced together. I asked for the lapels to be narrowed and deepened and the length to be shortened. I have to say it was not very comfortable. Kind of scratchy and stiff - more like a linen tablecloth than anything. I am hopeful that a few cold water washes and some wear time will relax the fibres. But I have to say, it looks pretty sharp at the trial stage, and style trumps comfort any day. Guilty, of looking good.