Accidental VD

Tafara and I are decidedly opposed to observing Valentine's Day in any way. The concept is so far removed from our thoughts, in fact, that at no time in the planning of--or leaving for--our trip to Agra last weekend did we realize the significance of its timing. We were in the city itself, surrounded on all sides by towering trucks, stopped for ten minutes or so between every few feet of forward movement when we heard Kamal (the young man who stays with us) remark "ट्रैफिक Valentine's Day प्रोबब्ल्य रासों" none of which we understood except the English, of course.

When we arrived, some seven hours after leaving for the four hour drive, we walked in from the gate (whence the camel pictures in the latest batch of pics) and began our attempts to enter the attraction. Wiser (or so we thought) from an earlier experience at a touristy place, we had brought with us the following:

1. Our passports, complete with one year visas that proved we were here to stay
2. Our company ID cards, fresh off the presses, that proved we were making Indian wages
3. Not one, not two, but three whole people who speak both Hindi and Hinglish
4. Confidence that we were entitled to the resident rate (2oRs) and not the foreigner rate (800Rs), which for us meant the difference between paying $0.80 and $31.00.
   

We waited patiently in the Indian line, politely thanking all the helpful people who directed us to the "foreigner" window (for which there was no line), until it was at last our turn to speak with the man behind bars.

"Hah, doh resident tickets." I proclaimed in perfect Hinglish, indicating my desire for two tickets.
"What nationality are you?" Said the man, who was neither young nor impressed.
"Originally, US. Living here now." I replied, procuring my supporting documentation.
"Doesn't matter, only nationality matter." The man spoke in creaking but rapidly paced tones devoid of empathy.
"Sir," I had to speak up at this point, as he had turned away "sir, we are making Indian wages."
"Foreigner passport, foreigner ticket." The man spat back, and, to further indicate the departure of his patience, turned and departed himself.

I reported my failure to Tafara, who immediately agreed in the matter's similarity to bovine excrement. We resolved to have Kamal (the same observant fellow mentioned above) purchase our tickets, and gave him the requisite sum. As we waited in the entry line, however, we remembered our last adventure as tourists and how even when we had managed to secure "local" tickets for the dramatically lower price we were later denied entry after waiting in the second line and had to wait in both again. This current entry line was three times as long as the one before, and the security at its end seemed more officious, so as we waited for that very long time we devised a plan: We would purchase foreigner tickets and have them with us, but present the local tickets to the guard. If he accepted these, we would later return the unused foreigner tickets for refunds. If he did not accept the local tickets, we would be ready to present the foreigner passes without getting out of line. As it happened, Tafara was whisked off to the women's line without a local ticket, and I was not asked for a ticket at all. As it also happened, however, the foreigner tickets could not be returned. This was clearly printed on the back of our tickets (which were quite lovely I might add) and later confirmed when we tried to return mine at the end.

Once inside, we resolved to put all the stress of travel and ticketing nonsense behind us and enjoy the Taj Majal. It is extraordinarily beautiful, after all, and we were there in time to see the sunset. We also saw a man propose (and got pictures, two of which are included in the latest slide show) which was pretty cool also. We talked to them after giving them a chance to revel in their moment a little bit and have sent all the pictures we took to the email address they provided.

Once we left the grounds, we had to try to find the rest of our group (whom we had broken from to explore on our own). They were nowhere around our meeting spot, and when I finally reached one of them by phone, I learned that they had gone for the car. We set off in the direction of the parking lot, looking for a pedal rickshaw to hasten the trip. We found one immediately. It is more accurate to say that he found us, because he pedaled towards us excitedly ringing his bell from the moment he caught sight of our bright, pale skin. He wanted several times what we were advised by our friends to pay, so we walked away with our ears turned back in case he decided to be more reasonable. He had no such change of heart, so we walked the equivalent of a city block or so before we found another man, leaning on his rig. He was agreeable to our offer of 10Rs and nearby destination, so we hopped on and set out towards the car. We came upon a hill almost as soon as we set out, and the old, bony man did his best to tow our well-fed selves up it, but was soon beside himself and his bike, pushing the latter up the incline. We felt very bad for him and resolved to pay him more than we had originally settled on, but it soon became too much to bear anyway. Tafara (as you may already have seen in the pictures) hopped onto the seat and began the workout she claimed to be glad for. I busied myself taking pictures and buying a trinket from the boy that can be seen in them, and then relaxed and laughed at all the attention Tafara was getting. The rickshaw driver was now sitting between the bicycle seat and the passenger seat and everyone we passed was vocal in their amusement.

Having worked up quite an appetite, we asked to stop for food as soon as we got moving in the car. After rejecting the first few places we stopped, we settled on the "Sheesh Majal" which I'm sure means something sensible to local folk, but struck us as quite humorous. As we waited for the Indian feast we had ordered to arrive, the power went out. We are accustomed to this happening by now, so we continued to wait contentedly. The manager, unaware of our familiarity with sitting around in the dark, came rushing out of the back to assure us that everything would be fine, that the generators would come on soon, etc. The generators did not come on soon, however, and we were given a candle (held by its own wax to an overturned plate) before being served our food. Dinner was absolutely delicious, and consisted of daal (lentils), naan (bread), biryani (rice), and murg tikka (grilled chicken). We wished each other a Happy Valentine's Day and laughed.

It was the most romantic Valentine's Day either of us had ever experienced, and it was all completely by accident.