My three weeks in Delhi, Bombay, Bangalore, and Lucknow went by in a flash. While my husband was working for the World Bank in India, I went exploring in motorcycle rickshaws. My mantra soon became "Where O where am I?"
Street signs and building numbers are a rarity in most places. I was often told that my destination was "near" a 12 syllable-named park or other landmark, difficult to comprehend, especially under the influence of the driver's incense burner.
Traffic is unconstrained anarchy. A two-lane street, for example, will always have at least five or six rows of vehicles abreast jockeying for the smallest opening. At the occasional red light, some cars, bikes, and bullock carts will go, while others wait. I gave up trying to make sense of it.
Ditto for trying to understand the dialect of the English-speaking rickshaw drivers. Some of them disregarded my wishes entirely, delivering me to a tourist-type store dispensing rewards to drivers.
All of this goes to explain why I didn't get to as many libraries as I planned, but the unexpected is what turns a trip into an adventure. You haven't lived until you've …