All in all we feel terribly safe here with the exception of the risk of traveling by car from one place to another. Our host has supplied us with a car and driver wherever we want to go, but going and coming is a life-threatening experience. There are no driving rules in India. There are no lanes, there are no lights, there is no respect of the other vehicles on the roads, which include cars, trucks, buses, motorcycles, bikes, rickshaws, horses and yes, even camels. They drive fast, they drive slow, they pull into traffic without looking. 

The drivers incessantly honk their horns to warn the other drivers they exist. I call it the Delhi “symphony.” Erica calls it the Delhi “cacophony.” The sound of the horn is as natural a music as is the singing. It might take me a lifetime to be accustomed to it – but for the Indians, it is a lullaby.

One night our driver was completely drunk from the Vodka at the party – so drunk that I took the wheel in hand from the back seat. He was fired for his behavior, although we weren’t the ones to rat on him. I felt bad for him, but not for having lived another day. 

Two weddings over four days began to feel like living in a time warp like the movie Ground Hog Day where the newscaster wakes every day at the same time to the same day. Each day plays out just a little differently and each day we learn something new about life and ourselves. The rituals were the same, but the players were slightly shifted, as a new bride and groom entered the scene along with a new set of visiting relatives and friends.

With each event, the parade of beautifully colorful and elaborately decorated women in their saris and gold jewelry was a feast for the eyes. The men were only one lap behind them, in embroidered Nehru style shirts and silk slippers. We met holy men and fortune tellers, the descendents of the doctor of the royal family, the wealthy of the highest classes from the state of Gujarat, other parts of North India and areas in the south, particularly around Mumbai. We met the man famous for India’s packaged spices whose face framed in a turban and wearing a western suit, adorn the spice packages, of which I bought several to take home.

The spread of food, entertainment, service and opulence was impressive. One guest who had traveled from Mumbai with his wife, child and mother-in-law, remarked while sampling some of the dozens of freshly prepared dishes, “. . .and you thought India was poor. As you can see, it is very rich indeed.” Yet again another contrast to tease us and question. 

When parting, we vowed to see many of them again – they had become fast friends. I cried when hugging our host goodbye and said, “I know it’s not polite to say thank you. . .but I’m going to say it anyway.” He understood. We Westerners are taught to say thank you at every turn, particularly a habit from years of living in France where you say merci virtually before and after every sentence. Here, it’s impolite to show appreciation for what is considered deserved or rightfully yours and I wondered if that has to do with the caste or class system and distinctive difference between those who serve and those who are served.

In some ways we had become numb to the chaos. In other ways, we were still dumbfounded by it and the never-ending contrasts of both ancient and modern India. Outside the contemporary shopping malls, the rickshaws awaited passengers who were laden with packages from the western chain stores such as Guess, Foot Locker, Benetton and Levis. Almost everyone was dressed in western clothing, a shock from having just left the wedding celebration where the women were in their finest golden embroidered and beaded saris.

The guesthouse had become home for six days where we took several meals and became a bit friendly with the workers. One young man said that he would really miss us. The Indians are enamored by us, for what reason we cannot yet discern, but wherever we go, we are asked if a photo can be taken with us centered among them. My daughter had been a Pied Piper, followed wherever we went, particularly by children, who asked her name and want their photos taken. Perhaps it’s the big camera, her big smile or independent demeanor that seduce them, but she’s enjoyed every minute and doesn’t at all mind showing them the photos she’s taken on the tiny screen.

Women are less seen on the streets than men. This is clearly a male-driven society. We were told that women who have sex before marriage are considered equivalent to prostitutes, so they marry early, mostly in arranged marriages. In fact, the daily newspaper reported that 45% of the marriages involve women less than 18 years old, particularly in the rural areas. The family unit is strong and highly regarded. Families stay and live together, celebrate together, take care of one another during hard times. The friends made at the weddings questioned our own lack of a family unit – a single divorced woman (very rare in India) with only one daughter, who at the age of 21 was not only not married, but not betrothed, either. It was so strange for them that we were happy with our situation, one living in New York, the other living in Paris. They were surprised and saddened when I reported that not only had the family unit become very fragmented in the U.S., but that in France, fewer couples were even marrying before having children! 

After four days of non-stop events surrounding two traditional Hindu weddings, we moved on to visit the rest of the Golden Triangle with friends of our host family who assumed the role of guides, caretakers and hosts. By car was 4.5 hours to Jaipur in the state of Rajasthan, the “Pink City,” named as such for the color of the stucco buildings in the old walled city. Along the way, we passed hundreds of pilgrims carrying yellow and orange flags, both men and women, some of whom were barefoot walking for miles along the dusty roads. Camels and donkeys towing carts of goods were alongside the trucks. The landscape became a bit more tranquil as we passed fields of growing beets and occasional farmhouses and small villages.

In Jaipur our new hosts had many activities planned. They are also of the Brahmin caste; are diamond merchants and live in a posh part of outer Jaipur. The father of the matriarch was once Minister of Culture and was responsible for many of the important buildings in the city. In spite of their status, they live very modestly and once again we discovered inexplicable incongruities. 

When asking for towels for our showers, there was one to be shared between us. Luckily we carried our own supply of toilet paper, as they don’t use it (like most Indians who use a water-washing method with their left hand for personal hygiene) and the drapes on some of the windows are simply unfinished pieces of fabric strung up on stretched wire. 

Nonetheless, their son slept in the living room (alongside a servant boy who sleeps on a mat on the floor) to allow us his bedroom, they very generously took us in and escorted us to see Jaipur and the environs without hesitation. . .and these are people to whom we were just introduced.

These were the most sincerely warm-hearted, hospitable and loving people I have ever come across – and this has been true for everyone we had met. They went out of their way to please us, including surprising us with brand new towels for our showers and providing an Internet connection in the apartment so we wouldn’t have to visit the Cyber Café down the street. Nothing seems too much to have done for us.

Friday night they escorted us shopping on the main street of Jaipur. With our host’s skillful negotiating talents, we purchased an array of souvenirs, including shoes made with camel skin, silk pashminas, trinkets, spices and chai tea to take home. They drove all over the city to show off this city that is surely the Jewel of India.

Saturday was a full day on a bus tour they had organized for us of Jaipur and all its most important monuments that began at the Tourist Hotel: The City Palace and Museum, The Amber, Nahargarh and Jaigarh Forts, the Lakshmi Narayan Temple and other sights of importance. The vinyl seats of the ancient bus were so stained and dirty that touching anything meant taking out yet another handy wipe. It was a full bus with a few young Westerners including two Aussie guys, two Belgian women, one Czech fellow, two American women, two Asians and the rest Indians.

The guide, over a microphone set too loud to be comfortable, described what we saw as we drove along, just as any guide might do, but his dialog was so amusing, unintentionally, that we found ourselves crying tears in hysterics. Among them, he pointed out the Holiday Inn, an international hotel, as if it were the Taj Mahal and when passing the “SMS” sports stadium (built by our hostess’s father), he remarked that it was “a very popular word thanks to the mobile.” At first, we thought to drop off early and head to the city on our own, until we got a taste of what was to come.

There was an immediate camaraderie and one of two Aussie guys kept us laughing throughout the entire day. Miraculously, we bumped into the American fellow who had attended the weddings and stayed at the same guesthouse with his hosts who were visiting the same monuments by sheer coincidence. Along the route, elephants decoratively painted lumbered along, herds of goats bleated by, monkeys perched on the fort walls stared us down and wild boar snorted at the side of the road. From high on the hill we had a view of sprawling Jaipur, a checkerboard of the pink and blue houses.

At the end of the long day, we were pleased to have stayed for the journey, climbed up every stair, ventured into every room of every temple and museum, shunned every hawking merchant and dined on mediocre food at the restaurant designed to profit from the tourists. . .with new found friends. 

Late that night we boarded a sleeper car on a train headed for the ancient town of Sawai Modhopur. Not an extra seat was to be had. Our hostess stretched out pieces of fabrics to act as sheets on our berths so we could sleep the 1.5 hour ride. A friend of our host’s son traveled with us – a native of the city -- whose family met us at the station (a beautiful long narrow building in peach and pink colors) at midnight to provide a car to drive to the edge of the 155 square mile Ranthambhore National Park. There we stayed in a cottage at a beautiful garden style inn till a 6 a.m. pick up by the safari jeep. 

I awoke to a cold shower thanks to my own negligence to have failed to flip the water tank switch in advance. It is common that each bathroom has its own small tank, but it’s rarely kept on until needed. (Where was an old-fashioned It down poured overnight and continuous hot water chaudière when you needed one?!) I’ve come to learn to shower by using a two-bucket method of filling a large one with hot water and using the small one to pour water on my head and body. The floor fills with water and a large squeegee is used to scrape it down to a drain in the floor. I remember when first arriving in France, it seemed so strange that the French didn’t use shower curtains or a hook for the hand-held shower so one needed to learn how to scrub down with one hand while showering with the other trying desperately not to flood the whole room. This is yet more primitive and I’d now be thankful for the French method! Nonetheless, the people are clean and so I have been, too. In fact, we haven’t noticed hardly any bad body odor – much less than you might experience in France.

It down poured overnight and the jeep was open-roofed, so we suffered the light rain before dawn to trek into the lush forest hunting for sightings of tigers and other native creatures. The tiger population in India is suffering, but thanks to the 27 reserves of Project Tiger, the number has substantially grown. It was doubtful to spot them in this weather, nor did we, disappointedly, but we came across monkeys, crocodiles, parrots, owls, deer, reindeer, and a variety of other wildlife indigenous to the reserve as well as India’s second-largest Banyan tree, with spreading branches supported by its massive roots.

The sun came out upon our return later in the morning, we warmed and dried to take a breakfast in the garden at the inn before an excursion and hike up the hundreds of stone steps to the 10th-century Ranthambhore Fort and 8th-century Ganesha Temple. Hundreds of monkeys awaited us, climbing the ancient crumbling buildings, hanging from the Banyan trees and congregating over bunches of bananas (from whose feeding, we don’t know). One large male attacked our hostess for the candies she had purchased at the Temple, to which she gladly relinquished. At the temple, we left our shoes behind and waited in line to receive a blessing, a spot of color smudged on our foreheads, called a bindi, as is the tradition. 

Before heading back to the train and Jaipur, we made a quick stop at the home of our host’s son’s friend, a large old sprawling house with a beautiful view of the city from the rooftops. The entire family lives in the one house, traditional for most Indian families. A feast was placed before us of by the mother and daughters who cooked the fresh home-made dishes then we were quickly sent on our way with gifts of bangle bracelets and cotton tops embroidered with flowers and little round mirrors. This is the norm – to be their guests and treated like royalty. We aren’t of the habit, to be waited on, adored and adorned, so we overly thanked them and took great pleasure in being so fortunate. As we maneuvered down the narrow main street of Sawai Modhupur, a spot few Westerners ever visit, we concluded that we could never have had the same experience if we had taken the typical tour and stayed in impersonal hotels. 

Eating in India is as much a pleasurable diversity as is its people. The variety of foods is never-ending and the quality seems to be good everywhere we have been. Of course, the best meals have been in the homes, cooked in their own kitchens, where they can control the amount of oil used and ensure the freshest of ingredients. The high standard we’ve become accustomed to will make it difficult now to return to the restaurants at Passage Brady in Paris, which are mostly owned by Pakistanis, and likely a poor copy of the real thing right here in the Golden Triangle.

We trained back to Jaipur and rested the next morning before heading out on what our hosts said would be a big plan for the day. Little did we know what was in store for us. One stop was to the matriarch of a cousin's gem stone manufacturing office where we watched them polish the stones and string beads. There was no leaving without gifts of almost twelve strands of amethyst, yellow opal, aquamarine and a host of other semi-precious stone necklaces. It was embarrassing for us, but we graciously accepted and vowed to visit their New York relatives in the same business.

Leaving Jaipur for the countryside, the chaotic city streets turned to lazy country lanes lined by farms and small market stalls. We visited another part of the family at their well-irrigated farm, drank chai tea under the shade of striped canvas awnings lounging on hemp woven beds. The matriarch of the family had a full head of long white hair, brown soft skin and light sparkling eyes. She gifted me with a red shawl of a Rajasthani print in red to match my eyeglasses. Again we felt embarrassed by their generosity and desire to welcome us.

They showed us the old house our hostess grew up in -- only its old stone and brick walls left to imagine how it might have once been. Across the road was a field of marigolds, another of wheat, cows and goats. We visited more of their beautiful farm lands and introduced us to the tiny village where all their farm hands live. There, like the Pied Piper, Erica's broad smile and imposing camera drew the entire village of old and young alike to see the Westerners and have their photos taken. Suddenly we were surrounded by dozens of people with smiling faces. She snapped many photos, and had to be torn away as they wouldn't let her say goodbye too readily.

Returning to Jaipur, one last stop before heading home took us into the old city to our hostess's father's primary home and office. This is the man who was once Minister of Sports and other important posts. He had a funny sense of humor and was surrounded by his closest friends and associates in the old house, which houses the entire family. We met a son, a wife and several children. They would not let us leave without endowing even more gifts upon us and made us promise to return to India very soon.

Early in the morning we set off early by train to what would be a monumental day visiting Agra and the Taj Mahal. We vowed not to leave India without seeing this on of the 7 Wonders of the World, although it meant about 8 total hours on train to Agra and then from Agra to Delhi in one day. . .”no problem.” “No problem” is a phrase the Indians say continuously, meaning more “yes” than anything else. Nothing seems to be a problem, either. . .nothing too much hassle, nothing impossible to provide or do for you. 

Not to be alone on our journey, our host, who has seen the Taj more times than he can count, wouldn’t have let us go without him. He has more family in Agra, where we could store our luggage, take meals and rest. 

Agra is India’s worst example of a modern metropolis one you realize immediately as the train pulls into the station. The roads are lined in garbage, the odor is pungent and everything is dirty and poor. What a shame for all the arriving tourists to see Agra first before witnessing the beauty of this monument to a woman who died in childbirth of her 14th. Our host’s brother and his family live in a very old house there, above a plastics factory. Across the street sculptors were carving religious icons and tiles. Once again, we couldn’t leave without their gifts – one was a plastic replica of the Taj Mahal that lights up red!

A motorized rickshaw took us to the gate, then we walked in dodging the many beggars and sellers of trinkets. Entry is very inexpensive for the locals – about 50 cents, but for foreigners, about $17. For 20 rupees, about 50 cents, our host insisted on hiring a guide to give us the history and point out some details. When you first enter though one of the main gates and see the structure for the first time, you cannot help but be totally awestruck. It was a perfectly sunny warm day with blue skies and the white marble perfectly symmetrical mausoleum with its jeweled inlaid stone is clearly India’s grand jewel. 

The Taj Mahal is a mere 350 years old. Funny to compare it with my 17th-century apartment of the same age and how much more important that seemed. The guide was filled with facts and anecdotes. . .a funny overbearing fellow who couldn’t wait to show Erica the best photographic spots and take some of the photos himself. Along the way, Erica was lightly harassed by a number of groups of men wanting photos taken with her! They showed off their official army I.D.’s and spoke of their importance. She was so good-natured about it, joking with them and having fun, that hundreds of photos must have been taken. We will never understand their fascination with Westerners, or why she drew such attention, but it was added fun all throughout our 12 days in India.

I write now from the Delhi office of our host, where we stayed overnight on a trundle bed and met more of the family. . .there is no end to the brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, and cousins who we have come to know. It’s our last day before boarding our 1 a.m. Air France flight back to Paris. . .our last chance to shop in the bazaars and take a taste of India. We agree -- now more than ready to return to our warm beds, hot long showers and esthetically beautiful Paris, but not without being changed in many ways.

India really is incredible as their tourist board promotes. . .in every way. We have come to appreciate the adage “money doesn’t buy happiness” as witnesses to an impoverished society who are generally so happy, loving and generous in spirit. It is a sharp contrast to the French who are stressed about being perfect in every way, a perfection they know they can never really achieve, but spend their lives striving for it. Here, there is no such thing as perfection or esthetics – something so frivolous in a world where so many don’t have even the most basic of needs. Even the very rich don’t live in what we know to be a very high standard, but they give what they have without reserve.

It is impossible not to compare, though, how a social democracy such as France, has provided so well for so many – how the quality of life and standard of living is so high for such a large percentage of its population. . .health care, housing, education. . .how the need to achieve that perfection has allowed for so much prosperity. 

Will we view home in Paris in the same way as always when we step off the plane at Charles de Gaulle? Or will we appreciate it even more? I think so.

Footnote: My daughter never took her fingers of the camera trigger, attracting would-be models wherever we went. She downloaded about 500 images every day over the course of the 12 days in India. To see a glimpse of some of Erica’s best photos, click here to visit her site. 

About the Author Adrian Leeds grew up in New Orleans, Louisiana, attended the Fashion Institute of Technology in New York City, spent a year on a kibbutz in Israel before settling into a career and family life, first in Knoxville, Tennessee then in Los Angeles, California. In 1994, she brought with her to Paris more than 21 years of experience in marketing and public relations, first with Levi Strauss & Company, then with television station promotion, broadcast advertising sales, media purchasing and advertising agency account management for her own firm, opening in 1981, as well as for others, not to mention a daughter. She is author and editor of the Parler Paris Newsletter, editor of the French Property Insider, producer and editor of Insider Paris Guides electronic guides to Paris and the author of The Insider Paris Guide to Good Value Restaurants. She and her French Property Consultation team provides complete property consultation services and produces several conferences and seminars each year in both the U.S. and France under the name of Living and Investing in France. Her site, Parler Paris Apartments, provides reservations and booking services for a select group of property owners in Paris and France. She also co-hosts her own brainchild, the popular Parler Parlor French/English Conversation Group in Paris where members from 50 different countries meet to practice speaking French and English. Adrian Leeds Group, LLC, her U.S. based and her France-based company, Parler-France EURL, provides Web-based relationship marketing, public relations consultation and event coordination targeting to "francophiles" living in North America and France. Adrian Leeds® is a registered trademark in France. INPI : March 10, 2006, #063416238.