An American Germaphobe Returns to India, Part 4: Too Hungry to be Scared
By: Scott Hamilton
Tags: Travel, India, Hotel, Humor, Restuarants

For those just joining us, this is an ongoing true story of a work trip to India by a spoiled, frightened, American germaphobe, who to maintain some semblance of sanity must find humor in the fear. In our last episode, I had detailed the fungal wonders of my room at the hotel, and I now tell tale of my brave explorations outside the safe confines of my mildewed nest.

THE QUEST FOR THE RESTAURANT

After some work and then a nap, I decided I’d get some dinner. It’s a little after 5pm but since I haven’t eaten anything since probably midnight (on the plane), I was ready to brave what this world has to offer.

According to the room service menu, there are cheeseburgers. I will hold that expectation in reserve, though. I recall the last time I was India (waaaay back in 2006) and we visited a McDonalds unsuspiciously located next to a field of hard-working oil rigs. The “cheeseburger” I had then was definitely not one recognizable by any American definition.

Certain claims notwithstanding. Image Source: Huffington Post

As with any good hotel journey, this one begins with the elevators. There are two in the building, one of which seems irrevocably stuck at floor “-1” according to the elevator status panels. I’ve written that one off as the one which tragically failed and along with its cargo of unfortunate but brave souls, crashed through the bottom floor of this hotel and into a permanent grave, leaving us only the epitaph of “-1” for us to remember it by. Of course, what this means is that the other elevator is in demand, which means I have a wait, and is now a single-point-of-failure increasingly strained by overuse, which means I have a worry.

So I wait. And I worry.

Once the elevator doors finally do open, I find an energetic conversation in progress between two Indian women and an older Indian gentleman. The gentleman is trying to get off the elevator and the women are trying to get him to see reason that “3” does not equal “lobby.” He looks doubtful, but is eventually coaxed back inside. At this point I enter too, the doors close, and the elevator residents suddenly switch to another language so as to hide the true intent of their scheming. Language barriers aside, there are some definitely-easy-to-read hints in the tone, volume and body language of these three which peak my curiosity and interest. I am inclined to eavesdrop as best as my passive senses will allow, and so I initiate stealth mode and stand in the furthest corner, careful to avoid making eye contact with anyone, not even myself in the hazy reflection of the mirrored interior lest I get entangled in an inconvenient and awkward staring contest with myself. I’m pretty good at staring contests, with only the sun and Chuck Norris being better than I, and so I don’t have the time for such an epic battle of wits with myself right now.

Incidentally, there are actually two famous Americans known to have engaged in the ultimate staring contest against the sun.

Chuck Norris made the sun blink. Trump claims that the sun cheated and is therefore contesting his “defeat.”

But I digress.

I stealthily note that the gentleman has strategically positioned himself in a spot near the buttons. He is apparently still unconvinced about the science behind floor numerology. Although I cannot understand the conversation, this one is relatively easy to figure out: he moves his finger toward the “2” button at which point the ladies raise a ruckus which escalates in volume inversely proportional to the decreasing distance between said finger and said button. An argument ensues, the details obscured by their refusal to use English, but I do understand the letter “L” from the ladies as it is inserted with increasing urgency and energy into the conversation at several points. There is a final bark from one of the ladies that very much carries the tone of command, and the gentleman removes his offending finger from the vicinity of the buttons, successfully de-escalating the situation.

With the squabble now over, I can again hear the exotic zither-backed elevator music resuming its due place in the order of things. I begin to relax.

But the elevator is slow. Very slow. Time may heal wounds, tear down mountains, and make the odd sock disappear, but it is also known to let smoldering fires re-ignite. And at this speed, we’ve got a long ride ahead of us before we get to “L.”

So, not unsurprisingly, it is not long before the gentleman points to another button, this one labeled with the letter “C.” With a nervous glance toward the ladies, he begins to threaten a poke at it. The ladies once again engage in spirited debate as to the existential truths of lobby locations, floors labelled with indicators other than “L” and what I can only presume is anything but a respectful proposal to agree to disagree. The man relents again, but now with a persistent severe doubt inscribed upon his face.

Finally the doors open at the lobby. The man gets out with his comrades and I do as well. They loiter near the elevators, presumably to debrief and conduct a retrospective in order to improve future elevator operational performance. I am on a mission with no time for post-mortem analyses, however, and so walk confidently up to the desk and respectfully demand to know (i.e. ask politely) where the cheeseburgers may be found.

I choose my role models carefully and thoughtfully. Can you say the same?

I am told that the restaurant is on “C” level. “C” for Chow, I suppose. Alrighty then, back to the elevator.

Standing nearby is the same guy from the trip down, looking lost and confused. I have decided to name him “Elevator Ernie.” A character of his achievements demands no less than a superhero-like moniker. Elevator Ernie takes a keen but thankfully silent interest in my technique as I push the button to summon transport to the land of “C.” One elevator being still stuck in its untimely negative demise, the other is conveniently still available and opens its doors to me.

I enter.

And so does Elevator Ernie who can’t resist another elevator challenge. I expect that he is full of and ready to try out new ideas learned in his recent post-trip retrospective but I dare not take the chance and let him drive. I press “C” and some other new folks who entered with us press some buttons farther up the stack. Since “C” is immediately above “L” (as is appropriate according to alphabetic and numeric random-order sorting) my floor comes first.

The doors begin to open and I am ready for action, having strategically positioned myself to be nose-up to the door. However, being new to this land, I underestimate my opponents yet again. As soon as the doors are about 6 inches apart, some folks behind me decide they need to get out and will brook no opposition from the hesitant American. They squeeze around me and out the door before I even take a step forward.

Point: India.

I shrug off this apparent affront to my American white privilege and step out, followed by Elevator Ernie. He looks around, establishes a much-needed contextual awareness, then turns to me and asks “2?”

I respect the fact that his mastery of the English spoken language allows us to connect in ways that non-humans will probably never achieve. However, his grasp of “lift science” is obviously below average. Several folks, including me, say “C” which, had we been in Spain or Mexico would likely have only exacerbated the situation. For better or worse we are NOT in either of those places, but luckily Ernie seems to get that while “C” in quantum physics must be in the superposition state of being both an affirmative and a floor until an measurement is made, it is most definitely not “2” and so he returns to the elevator. Years from this day, I expect reports of the ghost of Ernie to start appearing in hotel reviews as a spectral, sad and frustrated haunt in this hotel, still dedicated to his impossible mission to achieve “2.”