Two old Indian couples with faux British accents, discussing the incestuous sexual escapades of the Rajahs of Mewar, in a restaurant overlooking the Pichola Lake.
Three old-men deep in conversation about the best (and least controversial) way to divide property amongst their children.
Twenty-something boys in tight jeans and white Puma shoes blaring out strangely-accented French, Spanish, Portuguese to red-faced European tourists at the maginificent City Palace.
A visibly too-young-to-drive motorcyclist, speeds past dressed in his Eid whites, while his friend calls out 'Eid Mubarak, Bhaijaan'.
This is Udaipur.
Travelling on my own, I hear so many conversations. Some accidentally, some not so. It's been quite a while since I decided to travel alone, and possibly the first time in India- my own country. But I really had to get away, and Rajasthan had always been on my list. So I took off to Udaipur- a city I had heard so much about.
Everyone had to double check. I make no sense: Alone. Indian. Woman.
'Are you Alone?'
'Ticket? Just for you?'
'One glass or two?'
'Welcome? Namaste? Hindi? English?'
Confusion aside, I satisfied all my appetites in those three days- from the tourist with audio guide, to the Lonely Planet Cafe customer, to the pilgrim at the 18th Century temple. I milled around (fairly) unnoticed at Udaipur's local Bada Bazaar, bought Fairtrade cushion covers, drank awful and then amazing coffee, spent three hours at a friend's organic, health food cafe, and took a seventeen rupee bus-ride out into the Arravallis. Safe to say that Udaipur has me sold.
My favourite part (as always) were the stories- those that I read on the peeling walls of the 'restored' havelis that are now museums, those that I heard at the sound and light extravaganza at Bagore ki Haveli, and of course, those that I conjured up about 17th and 18th century women and men, their opulence and their excesses.
And as I left this magical city further and further behind, and the skies opened up and let down the rain, the reality of the world woke me up and I landed not so softly back in Dilli.
Three old-men deep in conversation about the best (and least controversial) way to divide property amongst their children.
Twenty-something boys in tight jeans and white Puma shoes blaring out strangely-accented French, Spanish, Portuguese to red-faced European tourists at the maginificent City Palace.
A visibly too-young-to-drive motorcyclist, speeds past dressed in his Eid whites, while his friend calls out 'Eid Mubarak, Bhaijaan'.
This is Udaipur.
Travelling on my own, I hear so many conversations. Some accidentally, some not so. It's been quite a while since I decided to travel alone, and possibly the first time in India- my own country. But I really had to get away, and Rajasthan had always been on my list. So I took off to Udaipur- a city I had heard so much about.
Everyone had to double check. I make no sense: Alone. Indian. Woman.
'Are you Alone?'
'Ticket? Just for you?'
'One glass or two?'
'Welcome? Namaste? Hindi? English?'
Confusion aside, I satisfied all my appetites in those three days- from the tourist with audio guide, to the Lonely Planet Cafe customer, to the pilgrim at the 18th Century temple. I milled around (fairly) unnoticed at Udaipur's local Bada Bazaar, bought Fairtrade cushion covers, drank awful and then amazing coffee, spent three hours at a friend's organic, health food cafe, and took a seventeen rupee bus-ride out into the Arravallis. Safe to say that Udaipur has me sold.
My favourite part (as always) were the stories- those that I read on the peeling walls of the 'restored' havelis that are now museums, those that I heard at the sound and light extravaganza at Bagore ki Haveli, and of course, those that I conjured up about 17th and 18th century women and men, their opulence and their excesses.
And as I left this magical city further and further behind, and the skies opened up and let down the rain, the reality of the world woke me up and I landed not so softly back in Dilli.
