I was walking back home after an auto-rickshaw driver with his grey uniform had cheated as usual on the price of the run, spicing it up to the double. Bits of light a bit everywhere, bulbs of any size, any different white and yellow and intensity, cables as well hanging all over, stones, big scary holes maybe reaching the utmost depths (and probably only the place you really do not want to fall into), goods, food (raw and cooked, and cooking), people most of all. I was also looking for a mobile phone place, I thought I had recognised that narrow street on the right near my place (hilarious illusion!). Then, whilst my eyes were wandering and my memory not helping much at it, I got all of a sudden back to my body: I felt something strong and powerful punshing with force on my stomach. Oh yes indeed, holy force. The holy caw was there, absolutely non-caring of her round horn hitting my empty stomach and stubbornly pointing at a stall of juicy fruits. Did I put my hands up as to say “long live to the holy cow”? Maybe not, at lest not in my intentions, but still I moved just enough to make everyone around smile to me - everyone apart from the stall owner who run shouting his worries and praises to the unmovable animal and save his apples.


A friend of a friend of a friend.

This Indian guy I had just met asked me caringly what vaccines I had done before travelling here. He was relieved to hear that I had not done the hepatitis C one. He looked serious, full of wisdom and concern. Then he explained me that what I need for hepatitis C were three moths of...Indian spices: “then, he said, you get immune for lifetime. Spices change your DNA you know”. Well, I did not know. What I neither knew, not at least at that point, was that he is a fashion designer.
We were (me and few other interns form the embassy) in a rather anonymous restaurant this guy had brought us to, yet very famous among wealthy and gourmet people in Delhi: here in Khan Market you can eat Italian cuisine, English blueberries cheesecake and some mysterious and I guess overabundant “banofeee cake” with three “e”s. The last two “e” were added on the label behind the desert’s counter in a different colour, as to correct the great unforgivable one-“e” mistake. Inside it was like an american ranch, and the walls covered with images of european movies.
Back home my flatmate form Bangalore assured me that, against all of my impressions, that place was exciting. I should have tried the Belgian chocolate milkshake, an absolute must.
Here many people seem to believe going to McDonalds is a pleasurable and socially praised habit, so with anything European and American. Maybe I’ll get sick of Indian food by the end of the month, but for now I still crave to feel my mouth in flames and having nothing to do but to sweat and wait to go over it.

On my second day I saw a Delhi which is easy, posh, expensive, shining and perfumed. Mirrors and big buildings for shopping centres, polished marble and hotdogs. Deadly boring to me, thirsty of things I don't know, nor imagine. The same is true for the diplomatic circles, little paradises in the middle of a reality which I believe doesn't find anything interersting in dimplomacy, at all. Different world. It is for me an incredible luxury to work here. I deepen my intellectual interests, well dressed and tidy, but I feel a bit out of place.
More photos to come...