Hotel

Tucker and I are planted on platform number 9 waiting where the porter has deposited us for the 3 p.m. Tippu Express to Mysore. It is 1:30 p.m. and Tuck has settled in for the long wait, putting his backpack down on the dirty cement platform and perching atop it with easy adaptability. I am standing at parade rest, one hand gripping my matched luggage. It is hot, but not oppressive, and the hundred or two other passengers have made themselves as comfortable as possible, chatting, rearranging belongings, trying to position themselves on the platform to be located properly for their car when it arrives, or staring at us. I am trying not to stare back, but with little success. Oddly, there are no flies despite the fecund air and abundant garbage. ...

Soon we had our luggage and were clear of customs and the dozen or so passport checks that followed. It was time to discuss the hotel situation. At this point I believe both dad and I were panicked. Tired and overwhelmed we now had to find a place in this sprawling crawling city to rest ourselves. Dad had reviewed our guide book and highlighted a few good candidates. All of them, the guide suggested, “should be booked well in advance.” After dodging scam number one of the evening, we made our way to a “pay phone” and called the first hotel. You can imagine my shock when they told us that they had a vacancy for us. ...