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Shopping sucks. Doubly so when it involves a gaggle of wide, but bleary, eyed Americans getting ripped off at every possible chance.

Allow me to explain, I know it’s been a while since we’ve last talked. Saturday evening (well, ok, technically Sunday Morning), the rest of the support crew flew in from Tucson and Albuquerque to assist in the job I’ve been assigned to do. We’re talking eight of the (save for a couple) most white-bread, Mickey-D’s stuffed, USA! USA! USA! people you could round up. Now, I don’t really mean to judge my fellow co-workers, but some of these folks teeter on the edge of being ugly Americans (I mean, one guy always wears a tilted baseball cap. Who still DOES that?).

So I’m standing at some shop/home full of leather goods, cheap crap, and stupid shirts with a flock of fellow pale-faces as they’re getting fleeced over a couple nick-knacks. It’s crowded, it’s hot, and a few poorly-made purses hang directly in front of my face. I’m wondering if the beam they’re dangling on could support my weight, and if anyone would notice if I hung my self from the leather straps. Probably not, the stitching doesn’t look like it could hold. Maybe if I used two. Anyway, our herd moves on to an indoor shop where the ceiling is a luxurious two feet tall. I watch as the largest (and sweatiest) of the group pays well over 1200 rupees for a shawl, one that is thicker and of less quality than the 350 rupee shawl I bargained for a few weeks ago. Sigh

More shops are visited, some smelly, some fragrant, some small, none large. We have a translator with us, who is eyeing me, signaling me with the look of “Let’s ditch these rubes and go for a pint and some pappadoms”. Oddly enough, his name is Zach. It must be in the name.

I’ve always had this theory about males and shopping. Built into every male is a special energy source. I refer to it as Male Shopping Calories. Each male has this organ, and like other male organs, it varies in size. I believe I have about 200 of these MSC’s in me at any given, non-shopping, time. When I do find myself in the unfortunate position of shopping (when it’s not for computers, gadgets, or power-tools), I expend my MSC’s. If I’m with a group, or if there are a lot of women around, I burn through these calories at an alarming rate. If I am depleted, I turn into a gelatinous puddle of goo, unable to be transported anywhere without recharging my resources (This is normally done with beer, sleep, or food).

At this moment in time, I burned all of my calories upon arrival to the shopping district, and my insides were already beginning to eat themselves for either energy or to just end it all.

If I sound a little bit jaded, it’s because I am. I am by no means Anti-American. But it was around this time in my life when I realized that I was not a part of this crowd I was thrust upon. I felt more of an Indian than an American as I watched the people in front of me starting getting raped-through-the-pants on wood carvings and
being engrossed by a sea of small beggar children, stick-like mothers with their babies, and legless 90-year old men. I could have been witnessing a pig being consumed by piranas, and not been able to tell the difference. “I just hope that I never become that much of a tourist in my life”, I thought. A brief moment of kindness washed over me and I stepped in to clear the crowd of street beggars away with a few hindi phrases and hand motions. The team was safe…for now.

Alright. Now on the food.

Saturday: Ate at Iron Chef Masaharu Morimoto’s Wasabi. Holy god, what a meal. Me and my fellow American co-worker/partner-in-crime were told that the Iron Chef had just left a few days ago. Damn! Nonetheless, the food was perfect. We both ordered various types of sushi, soups, and yakitoris. The highlight of the meal was consuming a piece of heaven also known as otoro. Otoro is the most perfect part of the tuna. It’s the fattiest, most tender, most sought after, and most expensive. And it was delicious. 2 hours later we waddled out of the place, stuffed but motivated, ready to to the insipid Mumbai airport to pick up our travel-weary support crew.

Sunday: After the magnificent 8 landed early in the morning (why do all the international flights some into Mumbai at 2 in the morning?), my co-worker and I decided to have another big meal at Souk, the arabic restaurant on the top of the Taj Mahal hotel. Once again, the food was excellent. This time, I ordered the Moroccan Lobster tails. Yes, tails. Two of the largest lobsert tails I’ve ever laid eyes on, covered in a delicately spiced sauce. Words cannot describe the decadence of this meal. So I’ll express it in the ancient art of the camera-phone:

What could be possible more decadent? How about rose-petal ice cream? Yep. Roses. In ice cream. I tried to take a picture, but the camera in my phone blew up due to an opulence overload.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some work to do.