Mumbai: The Gateway to disco

If I owned a car dealership, I would only hire Indians. An eight-year-old that hawks postcards over here could teach the marketing course at Harvard Business School. The “Assume the Sale” approach in India has been so perfected, you find yourself thinking, “Maybe I do need a plastic Shiva snow globe” or “You’re right! I would look fabulous in those purple genie-pants”. We thought we had experienced every type of vendor by the time we reached Mumbai, but we were mistaken. In addition to the jewelry, t-shirts and pashmina hawkers, there is a contingency that sells extremely large, oblong balloons. Oddly, people actually buy them and tour the city while schlepping around a gargantuan, polka-dotted, pink souvenir.

Mumbai used to be Bombay. Sort of like “Istanbul used to be Constantinople” but nobody wrote a fun song about the name change in this case. We arrived in the morning after a 14-hour train ride, which wasn’t nearly as terrible as we feared. The only real issue was figuring out train protocol. We bumbled around in the aisle for a bit until our fellow passengers taught us the basics, like where to get tea and how to pull down the sleeper bed without decapitating the person in the next bunk. Most of you have actually seen Mumbai Train Station on the silver screen. It is the spot in Slumdog Millionaire where Jamal and Latika finally reunite at the end of the movie and are suddenly surrounded by a Broadway-like dance ensemble. We rolled onto the platform, fully expecting to be greeted by boys professing their undying love and a dance troupe, but alas, we were sorely disappointed.

Our hotel was near Covala, in the southern, more historic, part of the city. The first day we ventured to the Gateway of India, an Arc de Triomphe-looking structure, on Mumbai Harbor built to commemorate the landing of King Edward V when India was still under British rule. The Gateway is now a patriotic symbol, because it was also the point where the last regiment of British troops marched before their return home after India gained its independence.

We then walked through the lobby of the lovely Taj Mahal Palace Hotel, one of the top hotels in the world, and sadly one of the sites targeted in the 2008 Mumbai bombings. The hotel has recovered fully, and is so spectacular it makes the Ritz in DC look like a Holiday Inn Express. Although we couldn’t afford to check in, we did walk through the magnificent lobby, pretending to be important, and stopped by one of their posh restaurants to have a cocktail and clean them out of their complimentary bar snacks. The Taj’s past-guest roster is impressive and they have a little photo gallery to make sure everybody knows it that features VIP’s like the Clintons, John and Yoko, the last Shah of Iran, and Roger Moore.

That night, we met up with a friend from DC, Pranav, who was in Mumbai on business for his company, Hugh and Crye. Pranav makes fabulous and reasonably priced men’s shirts, so if you are wearing an ill-fitting, ugly shirt (you know who you are) click on this link immediately: http://hughandcrye.com/.

Our first stop that evening was at a disco (disco=club/bar) that had a weird French DJ and steep cover charge, so we headed instead to the nearby Hard Rock Café. As we sipped the local beer and chatted, we noticed that we had somehow slipped down a wormhole that shot us back to 1991. The wait staff wore baggy t-shirts and blue eye-shadow, every single person in the bar knew the words to the Bon Jovi songs (including us of course), and the patrons held up lighters when the DJ played a slow song. Since we had forgotten our high top Reeboks and banana-clips, we headed to the disco next door to dance. Movie soundtracks are very popular over here-lots of “Mama Mia” and “Eye of the Tiger”. Pranav tried to request Jay-Z and was admonished that the DJ did not “play the hip-hops”.

The next day I walked around the gardens of Mumbai University and got a pedicure (very cultural of me) while Kristen and Erin took a ferry to Elephanta Island. The island has a maze of caves that feature impressive, ancient carvings of Shiva and other religious figures. The island is so named because, legend has it, the Portuguese tried to steal a large elephant statue from one of the caves and the ropes serendipitously broke as they were attempting to hoist the statue onto their ship. The elephant sank to the bottom of the sea, was later recovered, and is now safe and sound in a Mumbai museum.

After big city living we are headed to south Goa to have quiet beach time. Unfortunately, we are taking a bus, not a train, because of a snafu within our travel agency. If there is a Hindu travel god, we probably need to make him an offering.