It's a Cafe Coffee Day!

The past few days have been exemplary of my time here as a whole. I spent Thursday in a state of malaise, wondering what I'm doing here, surfing the internet, and cursing Delhi's dirtiness and boringness. Then Friday, work picked up and I went out to an excellent dinner with a cool group of people. It really helps when I have something to do. My coworker has been overworked and we finally realized that teamwork was the answer for both of us.

This weekend, the weather has gotten a bit nicer (it's a constant haze nowadays) and life just looks grand. I've also discovered the coffee shops of Delhi, the most common of which are called Cafe Coffee Day and Barista Creme. I guess the trend has really caught on with the Indian middle class. I'm currently in a CCD in the semi-fancy shopping center (centre), Khan Market--and they have wireless! Not only that, but it is common practice for muffins to be heated up. Ancient mysteries of the Orient.

Oh, right, so my health definitely played a role in the ebb and flow of the malaise. On Friday, ENT Man and I went through the same song and dance--the accusatory, "You're a mouth-breather! You can't breathe! You can't do exercise!" I said, "I can do exercise." He said, "Not at a high level! When you get to a high level, it becomes too hard." Touche', ENT Man. The piece de resistance was, "I normally wouldn't recommend a tonsillectomy for someone your age, but you have EVERY INDICATION." He cleaned out my ears and said with glee, "100% Swiss chocolate." Gross.

This was all fine and good, but what about my tongue, ENT Man? I liked his passion for my E, N, and T, but that wasn't actually the purpose of my visit. He said my tongue looked better and to keep doing what I was doing, but has also instructed me to gargle something resembling iodine (must remember to brush teeth after I do this or will scare children). I didn't tell him that a pharmacist many weeks ago had recommended an antibiotic when I told him my symptoms, that I started taking said antibiotic last week when I became convinced the tongue condition was growing and choking me, and that the improvement seemed to correspond with this. He offered to arrange my tonsillectomy in India, but I think the motherland will be more appropriate.

Dinner Friday was at a restaurant serving South Indian food. It's reputed to be a bit lighter than the more oily fare around here. That didn't stop me from getting deep-fried lentil cakes. I also had some interesting steamed couscous cakes. The walls had beautiful murals, and I also had an amazing pomegranate juice, yet somehow this was one of the cheapest places we’ve eaten.

The people gathered were British, Canadian, Irish, German, French, and American, all connected somehow through workplaces and roommate situations. Whenever I'm in such a group here, it seems that genocide, dictators, and international responses to genocide are a main topic of conversation. Which, I imagine, is the common interest that has gotten us all gathered in a random part of the world.

One fellow intern, Alan, an American, worked at the UN criminal tribunal in Phnom Penh last summer. He said that the killing fields are still strewn with bones and that most people still don’t want to talk about what happened in the 70’s. Around half of Cambodia’s population were killed, and now middle-aged people are really scarce. I remember reading something, too, about how no Cambodian textbooks include anything about the regime, so a lot of young people don’t believe it happened. But, Alan also said that busloads of people came in from the countryside to watch the trials. He talked about the testimony of one man--one of seven people, of 20,000, to survive after time in a particular prison. His nipples and toenails had been ripped off, and he couldn’t stop crying during his testimony. Apparently the judge scolded him for holding up the trial.

I’ve learned a little about Cambodia, yet still found a lot of this shocking. I just recall a series of three days where, every day, I heard a new, independent piece on NPR about the Holocaust. I suppose it is more directly related to the US, but a lot of other places could use some attention.

Anyway, back to ME, everyone. Last night I stayed in with a giant Kingfisher beer and a book on my balcony, and it was splendid. Takeout and delivery, to my surprise, are huge here. People will deliver anything to your house. I’m generally too impatient for that, so I’ve taken to getting takeout at this little place by my apartment called “Mughal Restaurant.” Chicken tikka is just grilled chicken, yet somehow, grilled chicken which makes you weep with joy.