Too Hungry to be Scared
One does not simply “go” to the restaurant in Bangalore’s Royal Orchid Hotel.
American Germaphobe in India (part 4)
This is an ongoing true story of a work trip to India where I, a spoiled, frightened, American germaphobe, desperately cling to my waning sanity by finding humor in the fear.
Having somehow survived the reckless decision to fall asleep betwixt bedsheets of questionable histories in the fungal wilderness that is my hotel room, I am now faced with my next Fear-Factor-worthy challenge of survival: I need to eat.
That means I must leave the relatively “safe” confines of my mildewed nest.
THE QUEST
After a valiant attempt at some work at the hotel room’s ancient desk (its many drawers distracting me with the suggestion that they are excellent places from which Bangalore’s many insectile vectors could stage a sneak attack), and then an unavoidable nap as my jet lag overpowers my desire to maintain a safe distance from the stained bed, I can no longer ignore a growing need to get some food. It’s a little after 5pm but since I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday, I’m compelled to brave what this strange new land has to offer, so long as I don’t have to leave the hotel to do it.
According to the room service menu, there are cheeseburgers.
I am intrigued.
I am also suspicious: India can boast of many things, but cheeseburgers are not exactly at the top of that list. The last time I was in India (back in 2006) we visited a McDonalds conveniently located in the middle of nowhere with only a field of hard-working oil rigs nearby, the workforce for which was presumably the main source of the restaurant’s patronage. Anyone familiar with Texas knows that people who love oil also love beef, so one can understand planting a McDonalds here. However, this is India, a land where the majority of people have a decidedly different viewpoint on the topic, and alas, the “cheeseburger” I had there back in ’06 most definitely did not measure up to America’s high standard.
Skepticism aside, the dubious promise of a cheeseburger is sufficient motivation to overcome my fears and commit to finding the hotel restaurant.
THE QUARREL
No quest worth its promised reward is without its unique set of challenges, and, sure enough, the first of these challenges begins with the elevators. There are two in the building, one of which seems irrevocably stuck at floor “-1” according to the elevator status panels. The most likely explanation for this is that, after decades of attack by the hotel’s mold, mildew and fungus, its safety mechanisms tragically failed, sending its cargo of unfortunate but brave souls crashing through the hotel’s bottom floor and into a permanent grave, leaving only the epitaph of “-1” for the bereft to remember them by. This has two relevant consequences for me: first, the only remaining elevator is in demand, which means I have a wait, and, second, this sole working elevator is now a single point of failure whose already strained components must now carry the extra load, which means I have a worry.
So I wait.
And I worry.
Once the elevator doors finally do open, I find an energetic conversation in progress between two Indian women and an older Indian gentleman. The gentleman is trying to get off the elevator and the women are trying to get him to comprehend that “3” does not equal “lobby.” He looks doubtful, but is eventually coaxed back inside. At this point I enter too, the doors close, and the elevator residents suddenly switch to another language so as to hide the true intent of their scheming. Language barriers aside, there are some definitely easy-to-read hints in the tone, volume and body language of these three which peak my curiosity and interest. I am inclined to eavesdrop as best as my passive senses will allow, and so I initiate stealth mode and stand in the furthest corner, careful to avoid making eye contact with anyone, not even myself in the hazy reflection of the mirrored interior lest I get entangled in an inconvenient and awkward staring contest with myself. This is important because I’m pretty good at staring contests, with only the sun and Chuck Norris being better than I, and so I don’t have the time for such an epic battle of wits with myself right now.
Incidentally, there are actually two famous Americans known to have engaged in the ultimate staring contest against the sun. Chuck Norris made the sun blink. Donald Trump claims that the sun cheated and is still contesting his defeat.
But I digress.
I stealthily note that the gentleman has strategically positioned himself in a spot near the buttons. He is apparently still unconvinced about the science behind floor numerology. Although I cannot understand the conversation, this one is relatively easy to figure out: he moves his finger toward the “2” button at which point the ladies raise a ruckus which escalates in volume inversely proportional to the decreasing distance between said finger and said button. An argument ensues, the details obscured by their refusal to use English, but I do understand the letter “L” from the ladies as it is inserted with increasing urgency and energy into the conversation at several points. There is a final bark from one of the ladies that very much carries the tone of command, and the gentleman removes his offending finger from the vicinity of the buttons, successfully de-escalating the situation.
With the squabble now over, I can again hear the exotic zither-backed elevator music resuming its due place in the order of things. An atmosphere of peaceful serenity envelops us. I begin to relax.
But the elevator is slow.
Too slow.
Time may heal wounds, tear down mountains, and make the odd sock disappear, but it is also known to let smoldering fires re-ignite. And at this speed, we’ve got a long ride ahead of us before we get to “L.”
So, not unsurprisingly, it is not long before the gentleman points to another button, this one labeled with the letter “C.” With a nervous glance toward the ladies, he begins to threaten a poke at it. The ladies once again engage in spirited debate as to the existential truths of lobby locations, floors labelled with indicators other than “L” and what I can only presume is anything but a respectful proposal to agree to disagree. The man relents again, but now with a persistent severe doubt inscribed upon his face.
THE QUERY
Finally the doors open at the lobby. The man gets out with his comrades and I do as well. They loiter near the elevators, presumably to debrief and conduct a retrospective in order to improve the team’s future elevator operational performance. I am on a mission with no time for post-mortem analyses, however, and so I walk confidently up to the desk and respectfully demand to know where the cheeseburgers may be found.
In truth, it may have been more of a humble and polite inquiry than a demand, but it nevertheless got results: I am told that the restaurant is on “C” level. “C” for Chow, I suppose.
THE QUIRK
Alrighty then, back to the elevator.
Standing nearby is the same guy from the elevator trip down, looking lost and confused. Since a character of his achievements demands no less than a superhero-like moniker, I have decided to name him “Elevator Ernie.” Elevator Ernie takes a keen but thankfully silent interest in my technique as I push the button to summon transport to the land of “C.” One elevator being still stuck in its untimely negative demise, the other is conveniently still available and opens its doors to me.
I enter.
And so does Elevator Ernie who can’t resist another elevator challenge. I expect he is now full of new resolve and ready to try out new ideas learned in his recent post-trip retrospective but I dare not take the chance and let him drive. I press “C” and some other new folks who entered with us press some buttons farther up the stack. Since “C” is immediately above “L” (as is appropriate according to alphabetic and numeric random-order sorting) my floor comes first on the elevator’s new journey.
The doors begin to open and I am ready for action, having strategically positioned myself to be nose-up to the door. However, being new to this land, I underestimate my opponents yet again. As soon as the doors are about 6 inches apart, some folks behind me decide they need to get out and will brook no opposition from the hesitant American. They squeeze around me and out the door before I even take a step forward.
Point: India.
I shrug off this apparent affront to my American white privilege and step out, followed by Elevator Ernie. He looks around, establishes a much-needed contextual awareness, then turns to me and asks “2?”
I respect the fact that his mastery of the English spoken language allows us to connect in ways that non-humans will probably never achieve. However, his grasp of “lift science” is obviously below average. Several folks, including me, say “C” which, had we been in Spain or Mexico would likely have only exacerbated the situation. For better or worse we are NOT in either of those places, but luckily Ernie’s intuitive grasp of quantum mechanics allows him to understand that while the meaning of “C” must remain in the superposition state of being both a Spanish affirmative and a floor designation until an measurement is made, it is most definitely not “2,” and so he returns to the elevator. Years from this day, I expect reports of the ghost of Ernie to start appearing in hotel reviews as a spectral, sad and frustrated haunt in this hotel, still dedicated to his impossible mission to achieve “2.”
So, while I have achieved a key objective in my quest for cheeseburgers, having found floor “C” in spite of Ernie’s existential challenges, there still remains the task of getting to the restaurant itself, and ascertaining the veracity of the cheeseburger report. If there’s one thing I can count on: Bangalore, The Royal Orchid, and the universe are likely to make this task harder than it needs to be. Indeed, not only will I face directional challenges, but an assault on several sensory fronts awaits me there.
