Delhi, India

Delhi has lots of fast food joints. I disagree that it’s bad to eat in these places in a foreign country. Sure, I get the point, it’s tacky, but if you don’t you miss out on a certain experience. By going to McDonalds in different countries you experience the subtle differences between the US and the rest of the world. For example, the fact that McDonalds in South America is more like a Baskin Robbins with all kinds of ice cream creations, or that most McDonalds outside of North America also double as an imitation Starbucks (McCafe). And in India, there is no Big Mac, but there is the Maharaja Mac. I’m not fucking kidding, it’s called a Maharaja Mac. And it’s chicken – not beef of course. If you were too snobby to go into a McDonalds in India you would never eat a Maharaja Mac. I think a fun documentary could be titled “Round the World via McDonalds” or something. Kingfisher, India’s #1 beer, is excellent, but then again I haven’t had a beer since a Corona in the Beirut airport. Plus, Delhi is the last place left on Earth where I can still experience the thrill of underage drinking. That’s right, the drinking age here is a whopping 25. Everything seems to be pretty Bangkok style in the tourist ghetto of Paharganj, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it were different elsewhere. As I was sitting in a bar enjoying my Kingfisher, there were two young Indian guys sitting at a table near me conversing in Not English. Suddenly, they switched to English, which Indians do often to sound hip and cool. One criticized the other for his poor English, and his comment made me laugh. After that they invited me to join them. They were from what they described as “poor India” though they wouldn’t specify which part. They said they were working in Delhi. Naturally I inquired as to the nature of their work here. They worked in a call center! Oh my God! I was actually sitting down and having a beer with the guys that answer the phone when I can’t get my internet porn. It’s moments like that that people travel for. This morning I found the Kazakh Embassy, located in a relatively calm and affluent suburb of New Delhi. But no matter how affluent the neighborhood, there are still cows. And lots of them. I saw at least 30 just waiting for the embassy to open. It’s easy to imagine a city overrun with stray cats and dogs (ok, they have that too), but a cow, seriously? Cows are big animals. I can only imagine how the average person living in the OC would react if they looked out their window in the morning and saw a cow on their front lawn. But here, nobody looks twice. It would be stranger if there were no cows. Also, although they are very large, the cows look just a little smaller than American cows. Bovine growth hormone? As I suspected, there was no need to get to the embassy early. Just me and one Indian guy in line. The sign said they opened at 9:30 AM, but around 9:50 AM the Indian guard finally led us through the gate, through an unmanned metal detector and onto Kazakh soil, woah woah wee woah! Inside I found myself face to face with a very bitchy female consul (do you believe a woman should be educate?). Once she was satisfied with my paperwork she disappeared and returned a few minutes later with a paper full of Cyrillic that of course I didn’t understand. She put it in front of me and said “can you sign?” I signed, then she said “1000 rupees.” This was an official fee, not a bribe. She carefully counterfeit checked the two 500 rupee notes I gave her. She disappeared again and finally returned with a receipt and told me “you can pick up this time.” I didn’t understand what she meant by this, and was really nervous about how long it would take. I asked “what time can I pick it up?” “Until 12:30.” “Today?” Then obviously realizing I wasn’t getting it she yelled at me “WEDNESDAY!!” Of course later when I looked at the slip she gave me it did say “Collection Date: 4-3.” So all I can do now is nervously keep my fingers crossed until Wednesday.