When traveling, I plan as much as a walrus balances his checkbook.
I decided to go to Mumbai, but somehow ended up in Ahmedabad for two nights. Ahmedabad was once the capital of Gujarat and is two hundred and eighty-one miles from Mumbai. I contemplated walking but realized that was as plausible as a future career as a rocket scientist.
I arrived at eleven o'clock at night. Rickshaw drivers circled me like tigers stalking prey. White girl, or gora, equates dollar sign. I located the one who spoke pigeon English and instructed him to take me to cheap accommodation.
First, he took me to a whore house.
Then he dropped me off at his "friend's" guesthouse. It was midnight and I would have been grateful for a cave infested with rabid flies.
The hallway I trudged down looked like an Indian prison, and my room resembled that of a hooker.
The blue sheets boasted burn marks, the mattress was as soft as bones, the pillows resembled Goodwill rejections, and the walls and ceiling were stained with what suspiciously looked like ejaculation.
A dead rat stench issued from the bathroom.
This was worse than finding blood-streaked sheets in a Peruvian guesthouse.
After raking through my bag, I located a water bottle of rum and one cigarette belonging to the German girl. I had never smoked before, but felt the circumstances required self-medication of rum and a cigarette.
After coughing like a horse with whooping cough, i threw it in the trash. It landed on pubic hair and the trash can erupted in fire. I dying-hamster-screamed, snatched the can, and doused it with water.
The next morning, while showering under a water stream as powerful as a man's urine, I noticed a box of used condoms called "Man Love" in an alcove above the door.
In the two days I was there, I didn't see any other tourists. I felt as comfortable as the time I flashed a roomful of strangers while playing Drunk Jenga.