To India.

I’m staying with my friend and former housemate Sapan.  This is Sapan standing in front of his front door. 


Today I slept in with jetlag, but Sapan took me out for lunch a place, “famous for serving street food that won’t make you sick.” 


The mode of transport we’ve been using is the auto-rickshaw.  You can see the back of another from the inside of this one.  It is basically an enclosed, three-wheeled, motorbike with a bench in the backseat.


The meters are sort of beautiful.




I don’t know if drivers needed encouragement or not.  If they did, it’s working.

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The flight to Frankfort was mostly uneventful except for the heart stopping terror.  Perhaps I overstate the case, but the turbulence that we experienced at cruising altitude was certainly enough to give me a few moments to contemplate my own mortality in the something less than completely abstract.  Usually I ride these things out with a bit more detached amusement than I could muster this time around.

Drink service was hurriedly ended and the stewardesses rushed to strap themselves into their chairs.  The plane dipped randomly, and out the window the plane’s wings resembled more those of a flapping bird than those of the giant aluminum beast they belonged to.  There came a point when I had to look away, like I do when I’m getting a shot.

It wasn’t so bad really.  No one was crying.

Thanks to Quade for the ride to the airport.  Sorry I couldn’t fit you into my bag.  At least I fit you into my blog.

Love from India,

Ryan.