Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
broken rubble of its streets. And perhaps this was no more true than in Delhi, where the
modern world sat right on top of the ancient one, the old roots of Hinduism and Islam rising
through the billboard ads for cell phones and Coca-Cola.
As I had anticipated, it was difficult to find people to give me things they did not have.
I spent nearly an entire day sitting at a gas station waiting for someone to give me gas.
Apparently (like the sport of cricket), waiting was a national pastime in India, and I was be-
coming quite accomplished in it. But what I received in place of gas or water or even food
were the stories of a nation. People were always willing to stop and talk, despite the lan-
guage barriers and my awkward explanation of how I, a white man in India, had no money.
Finally, I met someone who was able to help, offering me a tank of gas and my first
meal of the day before I got on the road again, off to the Taj Mahal. The Taj Mahal was
famously built by the Shah Jahan in the 1600s in honor of his wife, who died in childbirth.
It is a testament to their love, and the loss that only such a love can bring. It took twenty
years and over twenty thousand workers to build it. It is rumored that when it was done, the
Shah had the main architect killed so that no copy of it could be completed elsewhere. And
when you stand before it, you can't help but understand, just a little bit, why.
Two young Dutch girls had taken pity on me and paid for my entrance to the site. While
walking the marble halls, I looked around, and it seemed like the entire site was filled with
couples holding hands. Suddenly I felt terribly alone, as though I had no one else to talk to,
and never would again. I had no one to share this with. I remembered Lina's face on my
computer, and suddenly Los Angeles seemed a long, long way away. Antarctica felt closer.
But that's probably because it was!
I left the Taj with a heavy heart, which may or may not have been the cause of the fol-
lowing incident. Now when I took my driving test in London, which I passed on the sixth
attempt, one of the things I was taught was to stay
on
the road. I swear, I was never told by
any driving instructor, ever, that I should drive
off
the road and into a wall. But what can
I say? I'm a rule breaker. And apparently, a wall breaker, because only half a mile away
from the Shah's testament to the eternity of love, I rode my motorbike right into a wall. A
hard wall. A freshly painted hard wall. The only one in India I believe.
Once I shook off the shock of the collision—where did that wall come from, any-
way?—I realized a few things: one, that I wasn't hurt; two, that no one else was involved;
three, that the wall had taken a big chunk out of my precious yellow bike; and four, that
Kindness One wouldn't start.
