blackberry prose in udaipur

Udaipur is my favorite city in India thus far. Its classic Indian architecture wraps around two lakes that give the whole place a serene atmosphere. At night, the lake glimmers with lights from the adorned window frames and music echoes from various destinations, creating a jumbled hum somewhere in the middle of the water. The area is touristy enough that most people speak English (and there is coffee and diet coke!) But it's still full of uniformed children walking to and from school, small temples tucked among the vendors and locals riding recklessly on mopeds through the narrow roads.

That last bit of consistency gave us a scare yesterday when we exited an auto rickshaw right across from our hotel. Prati's four-year-old nephew darted into the street and was struck and thrown by a motorbike rushing down the hill. He was only scraped but he was quite frightened, and the incident cast a pall over the evening, which ended with Prati and me getting buzzed at a fancypants heritage hotel, the first time since arriving in India I had alcohol that wasn't nasty beer. Exorbitant Indian prices are still cheap in dollars.

We walked back to our hotel, giggling, after 11, and stopped in the lobby to speak with its kindly owner. I ended up telling him, in unnecessary detail, about the afternoon I was wrestled by a lady in Beawar on a mission to hand-feed me a second bite of food after I made the mistake of politely deeming the first bite "very good." American manners are a liability when navigating Indian culture, more often than not.