The End of the Road. . . For Now

Girl I’m here for you

All those times of night when you just hurt me

And just run out with that other fella

Baby I knew about it, I just didnt care….

“Boyz to Men “End of the Road”

Yes this is the end of the road. (The above lyrics have pretty much nothing to do with this trip. I guess I could make them into some sort of tangental metaphor but really it’s just the coolest part of the song…in the video the member who never actually sang anything, speaks to the camera while walking around the beach with a cane…odd but cool nonetheless)

I just said goodbye to the skyline of Pune, finishing the Cuban I started at the beginning of the trip, and taking in the last bit of 91 degree weather.

I will miss that.

Watching a little of the Red Sox game last night, I realized New England is about 50 degrees and rainy a stark contrast from the hot as hell days here, and the smoky nights. (I’m not even kidding if you go to weather.com and check Pune, India the forecast is usually “Smoke.” This couldn’t be any more literal, for nights here have the aura of a campfire, except that feeling is everywhere.)

This trip has done a lot for me. I’ve eaten almost twice as much as I usually do (two meals a day instead of my usual healthy lunch consisting of some sort of fast-food delicacy.) I’ve read a bunch of magazines cover to cover. Good thought provoking ones though like The Economist…and the absurdly disgusting (but intriguing as well) smut rag my roommate Tom snuck in my bag before I left.

The workout game sort of waned mid trip, there’s something about spending a weekend mostly sleeping that crushes any motivation I once had. I still logged about three hours in total, and was going to go today. I figured it would be better to write this though. Also there was an article in The Economist about a study showing that excess worrying about females, leads to a drastically reduced life expectancy in males. This was bad news any male who hits the gym regularly, consistently worries about their hair, attire, accent, smile, etcetera … Let’s just say if the article’s premise is correct I have about another good year (month?) or two left.

We have a pretty long day ahead of us. We’re actually going to stop at the fantastic northern Indian restaurant on the roof level before work. We’ll then check out, hop in the cab to work (the drive takes about an hour), work for about eight hours (tying up any loose ends), and then to the airport in Mumbai (another 3 ½ hour trip). From Mumbai it’s a ten hour flight to London, a two hour layover, and an eight hour trip to Boston. We’ll touch down sometime before 10:00 pm, go through customs, and then for me, a cab ride back to the Renaissance City.

I’ve decided to get dropped off at Trinity Brewhouse (http://www.trinitybrewhouse.com/ for those who would like to join me), rather than my own house. This will serve as a fitting exclamation point for the two week theatre that was my trip.

So I’m pretty psyched to get home.

Just some of the things I’ve missed since I’ve left… (in no real order)

Two Patriots games
Two BC Football games (I actually just saw the highlights of last night’s game, unbelievable)
Two Episodes of Brotherhood and Tell Me you Love Me (my new guilty pleasure…whatever)
Two Catholic Masses (not my fault…whatever that’s why there’s confession)
The Colbert Report
Narragansett Beer
Any sort of beef product (mostly the fast-food kind…)
Daylight
“Normal” hours
Talking to people
And of course my family, friends, and even people I don’t like

Things I never got to do

Poach an elephant and bring its tusks to hang at work
Colonize
Pick up a few Indian girls

Oh well, there’s always next time

I’ll probably write something more coherent and cleverly written Sunday or Monday to really recap this adventure…I’ve got to go take a shower and get the hell out of here right now.

Well I believe Jay-Z said it best in “Can’t Knock the Hustle (Remix)”

When I get home, then it’s on

Peace

"If You're Offended, Can't Take it Back"

If you're offended…can't take it back"


So here it is. This is the completely unabridged and unedited version of the India blog. Removed from the distribution list, my boss's boss, my mother, and a few others that I used to actually care what they thought, but in light of the fact that none of them have even said "hi," since I've been here, they are clearly too serious (see boring, short sighted, and any other adjective for "not as smart as they appear to be…") for this blog, especially what I'm about to write.

Welcome to the weekend…let's start on a high note.

Scream – the night club.

Earlier in the week I didn't think I would be able to get into Scream, because it was for couples only and clearly I'm single…especially over here. Well, after talking to Chetan (my hierarchical equivalent at Syntel), it was explained to me that this rule was only for outsiders. So at 11:15 pm last night, I went clubbing. Originally I was wearing a "large logo" (from 2005 Wimbledon) Polo Rugby over another "large logo" Polo Polo shirt. (Those of you in the Quincy High English department, are familiar with such a shirt…Chris wore the one I bought him for Christmas (unfortunately I actually paid $98 for it…oops) in the "give the Math Department the finger" picture.) Needless to say the outfit was sick, and India wasn't really for it. I actually took off the Rugby before I went down. This was very wise because the club literally was at least 85 degrees plus.

What is an Indian club like you ask…? Well very similar to a European club…or something like Vertigo (I don't even know if it's still open) in Boston; very trendy, very "house," and very much like an American club. It happened in Italy too. The clubs there are so American it's somewhat laughable. For instance songs played last night: every Sean Kingston, Sean Paul, and (yes) Daddy Yankee song available. Also "house" versions of "Summer of '69," "Ice Ice Baby" (I couldn't make that up if I tried…), and even C + C Music Factory's "Sweat."

The DJ, (very much like the ultra cool Italian DJ who yelled at me in Florence) was completely full of himself; emulating every DJ you've ever heard of. I requested Jay-Z earlier in the night. All he had was Rhianna and Jay-Z…to which I smirked and said "OK." He played it cool and regained stride with such cool lines as … "I've got some bad news…The bar is closed!" Oh no…

All in all though, the club was awesome. It was filled with nothing but people (attempting to be) super awesome; all smoking, all hyper stylized, all looking to have a good time. It was a welcome (although ridiculous) break from the staunch atmosphere I have encountered thus far.

The major problem with the whole night was the complete lack of "wingman." How the hell was I supposed to accomplish anything there without a wingman? The crazy thing is that I almost did. Early on I was just scoping the scene, when two eastern European looking girls started "eye-fucking the shit out of me." So hard actually, that it caught me off guard. About ten minutes later, I thought about opening the set, when four guys came and swooped them away. This happened a few times. How the hell could I hold my own 10,000 miles away completely by myself?

About five minutes later I was in line at the bar when two girls approached me.

Would you like to dance with my friend?"

"Ummm Yeah, let me just grab a Kingfisher first" (Big mistake!)"


By the time I finally got my beer, four guys came over with drinks and stole them from me. This I could care less about. If you need to buy four drinks to get a girl to dance with you, then go right ahead.

There about four or five other scenarios like this. At one point I was about to leave, and a girl stuck here hand out to grab mine. I was already about five feet in front of her when I realized what she was asking. (What a moron.)

All in all, it was an awesome club and a good time. Those of us who have no clue how to interpret signals from other cultures are left alone, but I guess that's a good thing. What could really happen (and I could still respect myself) out here anyway?

After the club, I hit the 24 hour restaurant and grabbed a chicken burger. This was a major mistake. I woke up at 6:30 am to watch the Red Sox game, sick as a dog. I'm guessing it was the combination of curry lobster and a chicken burger that did me in. I haven't felt this bad in a long time, but in addition to my usual over tiredness and headache that I have had every day this trip, this Sunday morning I also had the Indian equivalent of the stomach flu…\

I slept it off. So much so, that when I woke at 6:00 pm tonight, I had slept 27 out of the last 32 hours of my life. Ridiculous I know, but this third shift thing was killing me. I have never been so exhausted and out of it.

I went down to the lobby and grabbed an espresso with a side of coffee to wake up. Then I spent the next two hours reading Esquire. A few thoughts…

Chuck Klosterman's America - Harry Potter (http://www.esquire.com/features/chuck-klostermans-america/klosterman1107)

I usually don't read Chuck K's America because it seems like the ranting of a complete asshole, who thinks he's more interesting and a better writer than he is. (Sound familiar?)

His whole premise was that he never got involved in the Harry Potter phenomenon and how his unfamiliarity would affect him in the long term when the children who are reading it currently, control mass media in the future.

Initially I was with him, but early on I broke from his logic, later to think he was a complete tool.
First of all, it is interesting to hypothesize how this generation of ADHD, text messaging, in car DVD watching, Harry Potter reading kids will affect us all when they grow up. My contention is that they will never grow up, always be boring, and will never actualize into anything worthwhile. I mean we all had Care-bears, gimp, slap bracelets, and Smurfs, growing up…but how many of us paint our faces blue and wear white pants? Today's kids, are exactly what their parents wanted them to be, medicated and out of their (the parents) way, and as a result I'm feeling confident that my 13 year old cousin (who I still believe doesn't know my name…) will remain a stuttering thoughtless imp the rest of her life.

Getting back to Chuck, who within his "piece" if you will, acknowledged/bragged that Esquire pays him a good deal to write about (useless) topics.

You know what?

Fuck you Chuck and Esquire for actually paying you.

Chuck continues the article theorizing that Harry is an orphan, goes to wizard school, battles good and evil, and eventually wins…or in other words exactly what happens. I too haven't read Harry Potter or have seen any movies, but the other day at the gym in the hotel one of the movies was on. Playing was one of the final scenes, and Harry and the good teacher were battling another pupil and the bad teacher (coincidentally Michael Caffee from "Brotherhood.") In this scene Harry eventually turns a Cobra shot at him through a wand, back at the other pupil (who shot it) and wins the "battle."

Who gives a shit? The point is, why the fuck Esquire is paying some fuck-stick goateed black-sweater-wearing prick to write about Harry Potter is beyond me.

You mean, a bunch of people are reading it, you're not, and you might be left out of the loop? "Oh my God!"

Or, you fucking tool, Harry Potter is not exactly the Magna Carta and I wouldn't really worry about it.

Some people in this world have to go to soup kitchens to eat, worry about leaks in their roofs, have kids with diseases, or family members that are terminally ill.

The last thing we need in this world is another detached overly intellectual dick writing about crap that anyone with a 9th grade reading level or above couldn't give shit about.

Just because when you were an alter boy, Fr. Shamrock wouldn't play sock puppet Chuck, don't take it out on me.

I guess the rest of Sunday can wait at this point…

Beer in the Morning and Brits suck

Greetings from Pune, India

I’ll start this entry on a high note because it’d be pretty easy to send it in another direction given the way the work week has played out, but who would want to read anything like that?

Today I finally got up before 5 PM…quite an accomplishment because I hadn’t physically been able to in almost four days. (During those four days I never saw the sun…kind of weird.)

Anyways, sometime during inning three of the Red Sox game last night I instructed the front desk to call me every half hour between 2 pm – 4:30 pm.

I have watched the last three Sox games at the breakfast buffet each morning when we get home from work. (They refuse to bring me beer by the way. I’ve tried to explain how it’s 8:30 pm for me, but that hasn’t worked.) Initially I thought their little losing streak was my fault, but they won last night, so I’m in the clear.

So, the third call this morning worked. I threw in my contacts, grabbed my hat, a magazine and some shorts and headed to the top floor. Bear in mind that the pool was supposed to be open yesterday, but they are still currently working on it. It’s part of the “deadline” thing in India; they’re not good with them….

Today it was 95 degrees and sunny, so sitting on a lounge chair reading was pretty much exactly what I wanted to do. Add to that the Cuban cigar I smoked the entire time, and you definitely have a recipe for success. I’m glad I did it. (No sun block by the way. There are people reading this, who are now very angry with me…wait until I get to the “no seatbelt part” you’ll love it.) I read for about an hour. For the first time this trip I tried to have my picture taken. In my head it was going to be the greatest picture ever taken in India, but unfortunately I’m still getting used to the whole “smiling thing” (just kidding) and I didn’t exactly have Ansel Adams shooting it. I’ve attached it anyway.

After the rooftop session I ducked into the gym for a brief but intense workout, and then the shower. I’m now here typing and trying to figure out how to get pictures off of this camera. I think I need an attachment that’s back in the room…

So how’s the week go you ask? We’ll let’s put it this way, the awesomeness of the trip was incredibly reduced by this little thing called work. To start the week on Monday, Syndel yet again didn’t have anyone to pick us up. So we waited for over an hour while Belynda worked with (and by worked with I mean tore a new one) Atul (pretty sure I spelling his name wrong, but I could care less because he’s very high on my shit list) to get us a driver.

So something I haven’t really mentioned yet, is the driving in Inida, and especially to work.

Drivers come to the hotel (sometimes two hours early…I have no idea why. We explain to them every night that we don’t need to be picked up that early the next day, but each day I get a call at 5:30 pm, “ Mr. Nataalaa….dead silence for three seconds…ummmm your car is here sir.” I think they arrive so early, so they can just sleep in their cars, but it does make me feel guilty knowing they’re out there.

Brian and I sit in the back of a Chevrolet mini van/suv that I have never heard of. It also boasts one of the worst diesel engines I have ever had the pleasure of listening to. The ticking is amazing.

For anyone who’s ever seen “The Godfather Part II” the drive to work is analogous to Michael’s ride from the embassy during the Cuban revolution. The only difference is in India there’s no revolution going on that I am currently aware of.

It’s that bad. There are no lines in the street and the ratio of motorcycles to cars is like 5:1. Motorcycles go wherever they want. So in a street that’s 5 meters wide, there are two cars traveling and four bikes in between them. Stoplights are worse. (If you actually stop, most of the time we don’t. Which was pretty awesome yesterday, when we came about four inches from rear ending a vehicle that read “Highly Explosive” on the back end.) Vehicles are all over the place, and with no lines the only way someone knows if a vehicle is behind them is through honking.

Yes, Honking. That’s all they do. I think our driver beeps the horn at least 25-30 times a minute in traffic. (The highway it’s probably only ten.)

I’m really not too bothered by it, because usually we aren’t going that fast. We got a new driver a few nights ago though, and when he’s driving I actually put on my seatbelt. His route involves a new highway with a speed limit of 40. When I glanced at the speedometer the other night, only to read 120, I figured it was about time to grow the hell up and buckle up. Normally our trip to work takes about an hour. When he drives home, we make it back in about 33 minutes. You do the math.

One of my favorite features in the hotel is the café in the lobby. We usually sit down there fifteen minutes before work. I usually order (and now they just have it ready…) a double espresso with a side of regular coffee black. The café attendant is kind enough to give me about two-three refills before we leave, so I’m usually very productive when I get to the office.

It’s funny sitting in a hotel lobby though, especially here. There are a bunch of locals. I guess hanging out in a hotel is the “cool” thing to do, or there’s not much else out there. There is a ton of businessmen as well. I’m really pissed about my shoe situation because they all dress better than I do right now.

…Except for the British.

If Kid Rock could smell a pig from a mile away, well I can tell a Brit in about half a second, usually by their shoes. They wear the worst shoes. Shirt, tie, dress slacks, and like… moccasins…I don’t know… it’s insane. For a culture with such history, pomp, and circumstance they’re really pathetic looking.

It should be noted that there’s nothing more pathetic than an American males’ shoes. I find it unconscionable that some men can actually walk into a store, stare at every pair of shoes they have, and walk out with white New Balances. I would cut my feet off before you caught me in those. I have seen a few around here, and so far I’ve let it slide.

While I’m on it the worst offender (I just saw an add like twenty minutes ago) is CROCS. CROCS are the biggest joke on America since “The Michael Richards Show.” I haven’t done the research but I guarantee there are two French guys (who started CROCS) sitting in a Starbucks in San Francisco or Boston laughing their asses off, in back of the Soy Frappacino line, at the trendy dad, the doctors, the nurses, the soccer moms, and anyone else who’s given up on life (or at least their appearance) and decided that wearing bright green (or pink) rubber shoes was a good idea.

It’s not. I could go on but I think my sister owns a pair, and I don’t want to make her cry.

Anyways it’s about time to drink more coffee in twenty minutes than any human should in a week.

I’ve attached some panoramic photos of Pune, via the top floor. Enjoy!

First Entry

This is a tad long but like all those Elton fans know…It’s lonely out in space

(If anyone actually gets through this and feels compelled to shoot me a line use my work address)

For anyone who has ever seen “Lost in Translation” it seems like that movie will be emblematic of my life for the next two weeks on, except there’s no Scarlet Johansson (bummer.) I’m currently watching cricket on ESPN International, but I was watching Rugby earlier (England beat France 14-9 I believe.) I actually started reading the Rugby pullout in “The (London) Times” earlier, which when offered to me on the plane, I mistakenly took as the New York Times.

In a complete display of ridiculousness I have absolutely no chance of watching the Patriots / Cowboys game tonight, but at 12:08 am (Monday morning) WWE wrestling is on “Ten Sports.”
Before I get ahead of myself let’s recap the last two days… (some of you who only want to know about India may want to skip this (I’ve colored it in blue) … your loss though)

So Thursday was one of the worst days of my life. It took over an hour and a half just to log into my computer at work and I remained stressed/frazzled in a way I really never have, for the remainder of the day. Stories about work are boring, so fast forward to lovely Pawtucket: 9:30 pm when I finally pulled into Meredith’s wedding rehearsal dinner. I arrived there basically just in time to say, “Hi,” have a glass of Portuguese wine, and eat some not-rare steak.

Oddly enough the bartender at the restaurant (somehow recognizing that I was a twin…go figure) ludicrously proclaimed that my brother was nicer than I. I had only been at the restaurant about a minute and a half, and asked her how she could make such a claim. She replied that although I was polite, my brother made conversation and engaged her before even ordering a drink. I tried to excuse my acts with the “log day” routine, but she wasn’t buying it and said that she too had a long day too. This bothered me for the rest of the night, and frankly I’m getting sick of everyone saying that my brother is nicer than I am.

Chris and I then went to the Temple restaurant in the newly opened Renaissance Hotel in Downtown Providence, for a Send-off drink. It was a great time and since he’s gotten engaged I (rightly or wrongly) feel like we haven’t spent as much time together. Oh well
Friday was the second worst day in a while. From the moment I awoke I pretty much knew there was no way I was going to get everything I wanted accomplished for the wedding and India trip…this intuition turned out to be more than prophetic. (See later)

In the morning I ran around doing chores, going to Target to buy items I should have already had, and ducking in “quickly” to Mr. Tux in the Providence Place Mall.

I’m am not high maintenance by any stretch of the word, but I can not fathom what happened at Mr. Tux on Friday. They had called me and Chris Wednesday to say that there was an issue, and again on Thursday. They assured us everything would be all set for Friday, but let’s put it this way. I ended up with a plaid tuxedo coat and Chris’s straight black coat didn’t match his stiped pants. Eventually we ended up in straight black tuxes, with two buttons instead of three, and both not matching the wedding party. Oh and all this took over an hour, which was perfect because I had plenty of time.

We left Mr Tux a little past 12:00 pm and had made previous arrangements to meet up with my brother-in-law Burt on the other side of the city for 12:30. I still needed to go to Abercrombie and get flip flops for the trip and get a card for Meredith’s wedding. (Last minute = dick move…I know…worse is I never gave it to her) Got them both and raced to the East Side. The three of us met at LG’s Barbecue, a restaurant that had won Best “fill in whatever here” of Rhode Island. Chris and I had the meatloaf and Narragansett’s while Burt had a pull pork sandwich and a Flying Dog IPA. (For those of you unaware Flying Dog is a micro brew out of Denver. I’m offending some middle managers with their ties undone at lunch in the Mile High City right now…but it’s only “OK”)

We all reflected how this would be my last decent meal in the states and Burt picked up the tab. (Thanks!)

I was then supposed to swing by the doctor’s office and grab a garment bag from my sister.
Long story short. A half hour in traffic. Well wishes good bye. No garment bag.
For those keeping track I was leaving for India in less than 24 hours, had a wedding in about an hour, and had not packed a thing or had a bag for that matter.

Welcome to the life of a real bachelor.

Raced home, got ready, and arrived at the church 45 minutes before the Wedding started. I actually had a “scripture” passage to read in front of the congregation and needing to read it over a few times before the wedding. I also was walking her sister down the aisle and needed to see where I was supposed to walk/stand.

During the wedding, the walking down the aisle was a piece of cake, as was taking the runner to the back of the church. The reading was another story. When we were practicing earlier, we noticed that the microphone wasn’t on, but the wedding planner scolded us, told us not to touch it, and it would be on for the wedding. So imagine my surprise when my brother stepped up to read the first reading and…nothing. He rolled with it because he’s a teacher and they’re good at this sort of thing. Those of us, who scowl all day, alone, in cubes, aren’t so prepared. So yeah I read a bible passage without a microphone in front of a whole Baptist church filled with people who have the whole thing memorized. No problem…

After the wedding I dropped by my house to actually start packing. God started smiling at me around this time, because I walked into my basement took a look around and found a Samsonite garment bag and suitcase. I opened the garment bag and threw half my closet in it. The suitcase was filled with three bags from Target and fifteen Polo and rugby shirts. (Definitely over packed …Notice how I didn’t really mention shoes…one of these would fall out of my carry on bag en route to the airport. Currently I have one black Johnson and Murphy lace-up in my hotel room, the other is back in Providence.)

When I had nearly completed packing, I went to the wedding reception (stag.) All in all a good time.

After the wedding I raced home to finish packing, and drove to my parent’s house where I was being picked up by a car service. The driver must of have had GPS because he was in Scituate before I was. I told him I’d be out in a bit and went inside to tell my parents “good bye.” When I got outside he opened the back door, I gave him a look, opened the front door, and got inside. I’m not the kind of person who’d sit in the back of a cab alone (or limo for that matter) while someone else is driving.

It was a cool ride and he was a cool guy. He was currently from Rockland but had lived in Florida for the last ten years. We talked about Boston sports and the Yankees the whole time and the ride flew by. I think he was shocked that I talked to him the whole trip. (Apparently most people just pretend the driver isn’t there.) We both agreed that Torre didn’t deserve to loose his job and the Patriots probably wouldn’t loose any games this year. He wasn’t as impressed as I was though, that I’d be rooting for the Red Sox in India.

So when I got to Logan at 2:00am I finally realized why everyone thought that I was nuts for leaving the wedding and going straight to the airport. The British Airways terminal doesn’t open until 5:30 am. Oops!
There were about four people in Terminal D when I got there, and only one idiot was actually waiting for plane. (That was me if you couldn’t figure it out…The whole experience was eerily similar to the movie where Tom Hanks lived in the airport…that was a really stupid movie…I’m glad I never saw it.)

I lugged my bags to the second floor and hit up Dunkin Donuts. I ordered my usual medium hazelnut (black) and a sausage egg and cheese sandwich. Then I got another. (This would be the start of some very impressive eating on this trip.) I think it was around this time I realize I had lost my I pod…

Earlier I worked feverishly in between dinners, weddings and packing to upload the new Jay-Z and Nas I had acquired. Now it was all gone.

I spent the next 45 minutes retracing my steps trying to find it, which included walking up and down the stairs four times with three bags. Of course there was no luck. (There never is with retracing your steps…)

I got bored, which was surprising seeing as I was all alone in an airport at 2:30 am, so I went to the magazine/book store and bought Esquire the Sexiest Woman (she’s not) Alive, and Oct and November Men’s Health. October had Jason Statham on the cover and November had Lebron.
I didn’t even get a chance to read them though, because I feel asleep in a chair outside the shop. Very safe I know.

I woke up an hour later (my bags were still there) and talked to Chris Melfi who had just dropped Rogerson off at Green Airport. I brought up that it was a little weird that he drove from Warwick to Mansfield to pick Mike up, but I had to take a car service. This argument fell on deaf ears, because Mike had poker at his house. I couldn’t counter with a decent offer.

I believe I fell back asleep because the time period of 4 am – 5am is a little hazy. I do know that I spent 5 am to 5:30 am staring at the clock… That 30 minutes took forever
…or exactly thirty minutes

At 5:30 am I went to the first floor to check in, only to find that for some strange reason I had to wait another half hour…

I finally checked in at 6 am, and was at the British Airways lounge at 6:10. There were more than a few stares when I pulled Esquire out of my bag and cracked a complementary Heineken. Apparently 6:10 is a little early for this sort of behavior, or apparently I was about to fly 20 hours. People who fail to grasp my superior perspective are the same morons complaining they can’t sleep on planes. It’s not organic chemistry. If you’d like to sleep on a plane have a few drinks.

Esquire’s choice of Charlize Theron for “Sexist Woman Alive” puzzles me. First of all I didn’t even know she was alive…I mean what’s the last movie she’s made “The Italian Job?” Besides for her complete irrelevancy, I can think of furniture in the Ikea catalog that is more appealing than she is. To top it off though, the article itself is seems like it was ripped out of a freshman at Brown’s man-purse. I’m not sure what angle the author was going for, boring or derivative. Either way you’ve all read this article fifty times.

Dweebish left-of-center writer, “Oh my God I can’t believe I’m interviewing Charlize Theron!”

Charlize, “I’m sooo interesting….”

Dweebish left-of-center writer, “Yes, you so are. Let me sit next to you and be seen for a while, and I will write the most fascinating piece ever written about you. Of course I’ll mention how you like to smoke and drink beer (not like all those prissy women) and how you’re really South African. I’ve got the best idea, I’ll model it after an article I read in Seventeen. The writer was such a visionary.

Complete crap. You writers out there (Chris and Aldo) need to come up with better. If I was writing it would go like this…

John, “So did Anna Nicole dying have anything to do with you winning…? No seriously though I know a girl in Boston who deserves it way more than you…How do you feel about that? Oh never mind you’re boring. I’ll just model this after some article I read in Esquire last year.”

So Brian showed up an hour later and we were on the plane about a half hour later.
I don’t understand how anyone can complain about “Business Class” flights.

Champagne sir? Um…Yeah

Would you like to try the salmon? Why not?

It’s almost weird how much they pamper you. The only thing that is ridiculously scary is how some passengers actually expect that level of service. (I’m more of a “give me a bottle of Night-train and a blanket.”) I don’t know at what income level or social status in society, but I don’t really ever picture myself saying yes to the, “Hot towel?” question.

The flight to London was great. Shortly after the salmon I fell asleep. When I awoke we had only 45 minutes to go, and they were serving some more food. I ate more on that plane…
I really liked the London airport, and the British Airways Lounge was spectacular. Rugby was on. I always love when soccer or rugby is on in Europe. In the lounge there were about twenty blokes sitting around the telly watching England vs. France. I grabbed a Carlsberg and wanted to join them, but I don’t think Brian was feeling it so we sat away from them. In London, my green track jacket with Ireland written on the back, and a “Hey Neighbor, Have a ‘Gansett” pin did get quite a few stares. I told myself it would definitely be “go time” if any of them got fresh. Luckily for jolly old England and her majesty, it never reached that level.

The flight to Mumbai was equally as peaceful. The stewardess was very free with the Shiraz, and I slept most of the trip.

The Mumbai Airport was not a bad as everyone made it out to be. While hot in some places, I found the stench tolerable. My luggage made it there to boot. So I was a happy camper.
It was only when we left the airport that things got difficult. Out of the fifty signs that were supposed to say “Brian Bedard” none of them actually did. Yes we were stuck at the airport: three hours from our hotel. (I guess it’s good for the company things worked out. I can only imagine if we got into the wrong cab and were transported to some underground lair held for ransom. But really, who am I kidding, neither they or my folks would pony up the ransom…) We eventually got in contact with a Le Meridien associate from Mumbai who supposedly arrange a ride to Pune which they would put on the hotel room so we didn’t have to pay cash. (We were on a reasonably strict cash budget and could afford to loose that liquidity.) This was the first of many “yes” means “no” incidents, and sure enough we emptied our wallets when we got to Pune. (Syntel the joint venture out here, actually told Belynda they picked us up at the airport. I won’t even start.)

After Brian and I showered and got ready, we dined at the Indian restaurant on the roof. It was pretty fantastic. Later we were bored and went to the lounge in the lobby. This was a ridiculous scene because the entertainment for the night was a blonde duo with a keyboard taking requests. Think the Will Farrell teacher-couple-signing-skits meets the evil ice dancing couple from “Blades of Glory.” Yes it was that awesome.

It was at the lounge that I found out that I wouldn’t be able to go to the club in the Hotel later that weekend. In India only couples (male and female…I already thought of that) can go to clubs. I’ve explained to many people here how ridiculous that is. Of course if you were them, would you really want that kind of competition?

Monday I overslept. I was trying to get up for 8 am, and woke at 12. I grabbed diner at La Braziere in the form of an Indian buffet. I then headed straight to the roof to hang out on a lounge and read my Men’s Health’s. On the roof it was only me and an older woman who I pegged to be around 60. Ten years younger and…just kidding. Of course I’m pretty sure I made her week just by being there. (Who says I’m not charitable?)

I sat out for well over an hour. Finally inspired by the Jason Statham (Loose 17 lbs in six weeks) workout I hit the gym (I had gone the night before for those keeping track.)

This was probably one of my best gym sessions ever. The gym’s free weights only go up to 35 lbs and for a heavy lifter like I am, that just doesn’t cut it. I incorporated Swiss ball exercises with the free weights and took the whole thing to the next level. (Included also were, weighted crunches, Swiss ball crunches, shoulder presses, bench presses, inclined bench presses, push ups, and a couple other exercises.) Jason’s workout is 35 minutes. I won’t tell you how long mine is, but what a wimp.

We went to work after this, and I guess I’ll pick up there tomorrow.