The Darjeeling Diaries Day 1

For a change, I decided to “take tea” at Glenarry’s this morning: a steaming metal pot of Assam loose leaf, delivered in the provincial relic of British India (but with a French flair for pastries, and a touch of local flavour). I nestle in amongst the other foreigners, and a few wealthy local families – tourists all of us.

I delight in an overpriced bowl of oats and banana (chastised in tax for my hankering for Western foods). I finish up just in time to join Ravi for second breakfast, and – imagining myself a hobbit – enjoy a meal with him at The Park Thai Restaurant, an incongruously upmarket eatery reclining behind a shabby façade in the main road. It’s run by an aging Nepali rocker with long glossy hair and Ringo Star sunglasses. As we walk into the restaurant foyer, a towering reclaimed metal sculpture of Alien (from Alien vs. Predator) looms over us. He bought it in Japan, he tells us from behind the counter, dismissing it with a wave of the hand.

We shop around a bit, and Ravi shows me around town. One thing which makes navigating the pulsating, twining, alley-riddled core of Darjeeling a slightly easier task than its other West Bengali counterparts, is that everything is either uphill, or down. I feel like I’m ferrying about on a massive, mangrove-matted river, oaring my way hither and thither between deep-rooted high rises and lillypadesque stalls. But no matter how far you wander and stray, the human current – coughing and constant – will waft you (impersonally, unspecifically, and miraculously) in the general direction which you desire – provided you point your facebough in that direction.