"What your country, madam?" 

I hesitated, gaping at the magnificent Red Fort as we passed it. These days, being an American citizen abroad is one of those secrets I keep close to the heart, like favoring the Jackson Five over Franz Ferdinand.

Repeating myself ad nauseum, I had discovered, was almost as important as establishing India as my place of residence. Otherwise, locals would completely misunderstand me, cheat me outrageously, or totally ignore me- all with a gracious bow.

I thought back on my arrival, one month earlier, at Indira Gandhi International airport. Although it was the day before Thanksgiving, the thermometer oozed over 85.

In my black pants and leather boots, I might has well have been arriving from another planet. In fact, I can't think of a more appropriate analogy. Cacophony reigned supreme - a frantic jumble of horns, fiercely melodious voices raised in anger or supplication, threats and prayers overlapping in a mad overture of tones and dialects. Battered cars, tenacious mopeds, plodding mules, and fearless cyclists wove in and out and over each other like a colony of furious ants, moving in some unfathomable but intricate pattern. 

While any self-respecting woman of the 21st century would have focused on finding a job and a Pilates studio, I had a more immediate concern.

I had much to learn - the timeless art of price-haggling with the rickshaws, the small talk that necessarily precedes any request, the importance of wearing a beautiful scarf to cover the chest. Taking taxis alone at night is discouraged, as rape is common, and shaking hands with men can be inappropriate. Having a prepared response regarding your "husband" is also expedient. The fact that I am unmarried, at the practically geriatric age of 28, causes appalled Indian acquaintances to assume that either I can't make a decent veg curry, or that my parents were too miserly to hire a competent matchmaker. 

Being a WASP of the female persuasion does, however, guarantee you unsolicited attention in cars, bars, and the dubious discos of greater Delhi. Awaking one morning, I discovered chicken tikka masala in my ear and several unfamiliar numbers in my newly purchased phone (which, after only 4 visits to the dealer, worked at least 10% of the time). My spelling of the new "contacts," however, was not to be vouched for.

"Deva," my friend Shibani giggled. "He plays polo and he's dated every whitish girl within a 200 kilometer radius." 

How endearing, I thought. He had been able to identify my skin color, even under the undulating purple strobe lights.

But I was jolted back to reality by the Delhi sun, shimmying suddenly under the roof of my rickshaw like a brazen Hindu God. 
It glinted teasingly off my 50-rupee ring, which had started to shed suspicious flakes of a lovely olive hue. Despite the questionable state of my wedding jewels, however, mangy dogs, stray children, and ambitious beggars clamored for my attention. "Hey Miss America!" yelled out a a passing fertility-herb salesman. "50 rupees for a son!"