An American Germaphobe Returns to India, Part 3: Livin’ Large at the Royal Orchid
By: Scott Hamilton
Tags: Travel, India, Hotel, Humor, Germaphobe

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 just described the harrowing journey TO the hotel, and having hinted at the wonderous surprises therein, I will now proceed to reveal these mysteries.

THE ROOM

Did I mention the smell? Now, I know I mentioned the smell outside the hotel, but now, oh wandering seeker of olfactory sensations, let me bring you into the hotel room itself. Unlike the smells outside the hotel which I’ll discuss later, this scent doesn’t surprise you like a late-night dark-alley mugging, rather it sneaks up on you like a lion stalking a gazelle. I think it comes from the so-called air conditioner.

Bangalore this time of year is hot. I, myself, this time of year, am also perpetually hot. Put me in Bangalore and we’re talking a potential Chernobyl situation. So of course one of the first things I did upon entering the room (after taking care of the even-higher priorities I explained in the last episode) was to identify the thermostatic situation and ascertain the quickest way to prevent myself from melting down. So I’ve got that sucker cranked into Siberia mode and even after running for hours on end it still won’t really cool the room. It is trying, to be sure, as indicated by the whining machinery I can hear behind the wall and through the vent. Aside from the age and questionable engineering which went into the device, I think its failure to cool may be all of the dust, hair, mold, mildew and only God knows what else that is stuck in the vent and ducts. I took a picture of it but it’s dark and scary inside the grill and as such the camera didn’t capture any of the detail.

You’ll just have to trust me on this. The dark areas are not just absence of light, but various dark, gooey, evil presences of life.

There is mold and mildew on the ceiling in the shower, too.

That’s not dust up there.

Such findings demand a more thorough inspection, so in the light of the dawning new day I take another tour of my room. The furniture is dated, stained, dented, scratched and otherwise quite functional. The pictures on the wall are crooked — an offense to a borderline OCD’er like myself but I am loathe to touch them lest I find something else to worry about. My body has that fear-borne sensation that bugs are constantly landing on it and doing nefarious things to my epidermis and defiling the purity of my bloodstream, but every time I try and catch one in the act, there is nothing there. I’m sure that’s just my mind playing tricks on me. Stupid mind.

My inspection of the bed for critters and other nasties revealed several suspicious stains that made me wary, but it was obvious these had been washed and the stains looked years (decades?) old, and my weariness combined with desperate hopefulness made me feel safe enough.

I know… shut up…

Let’s be fair, though. It is shelter and it does seem to be keeping the big bugs out. And while the room isn’t as cold as I’d like, it isn’t as hot as it is outside, and that’s good too. “Count your blessings” is wisdom that has been handed down generation by generation, and who am I to question it? (Ok, one legitimate question I’ve still yet to find an answer to is whether the originator of this pithy saying actually knew how to count?)

One more blessing I’ll complain about: the buzzer.

I’m tired, jetlagged, and had been sleeping peacefully this morning until there is a buzz. A Big Buzz. It’s quick — maybe a quarter second? — but it’s loud, and I have no idea what it means. When it strikes (←no better word to describe it) I sit bolt upright in bed with no other thought than that I could be in trouble. Hell, I’m in India. I AM in trouble. But, just like the original Red Dawn movie taught us, a single gunshot is almost impossible to trace to its source, but when followed by another, it is easier to establish a directional vector toward its position. Educated so well as I am in the art of survival, I summon my inner Patrick Swayze, and just like him but far less cool, I sit still, wait, and listen.

A minute slowly drifts along with what I am desperately believing are only dust particles through the ray of sunlight leaking thru the crack in the window curtains. I’m loathe to breathe both in fear of the dust and because I want my senses finely-tuned to hear every nuance of…

BIZZZZT!

Ok, it came from something on the wall. Maybe a door buzzer? I get up and look out the peephole but see no one. I am not about to open the door and show folks my tighty-not-so-whiteys-after-that-buzz so I figure I’ll invoke survival-tactic #832: ignore it. But, now sufficiently stimulated with adrenalin, I surrender to the inevitable and get up and get the day started. Later on I will hear it again and, having mentally prepared with a plan (not just a hope!) I RUN to the peephole.

Yep — it is a doorbell. Of sorts.

Only it is so loud that each time it happens my heart goes into palpitations and I have to climb down from the ceiling where I am clinging like a scared kitten.