It was a bit of a risk to post what I felt about our trip to Delhi.  I felt a bit like an ugly American.  I felt guilty.  It was compounded by our first evening in Jaipur, unfortunately.

After resting from our uneventful trip from Delhi on Air India — only 50 minutes — our driver took us to a textile emporium and I found out that Emma channels my mother in more ways than in looks and passion for helping people.  She really, really, really loves textiles.  What an entertaining day it was as a young man from Jodphur with a deep American accent told us about how sindhi cloth is made, the time it takes a woman to make the intricate cut work in appliqué, the number of months it takes to make this type of quilt. We leave the warehouse with Emma’s Junior year college dorm room blinged out with an elephant tapestry for the wall and a blue bedspread embroidered in gold.

Emma is obsessed with elephants.  She’s already bought four small ones — the last a tiny one in marble from Agra.  One major goal for her trip to India was to ride an elephant.  I asked and was told that Chowkidani is a restaurant where you can ride an elephant.  Off we set.

If I’m being kind, I would say that Chowkidani is the Indian equivalent of the Folklife Festival in Washington, DC every summer.  There in a tired, dusty and completely concrete side-of-the-road resort, you can see what is touted as authentic Jaipur culture.  Or about as authentic as the Epcot Center is to French culture at Disney World.

We rode the sad elephant.  It was an odd combination of disappointing and mortifying for both of us. As a consolation, Emma got more mendhi, this time on the tops of her hands, and once again was the subject of many a family portrait with people who are curious about this tall blonde girl.  She is a trooper, most likely because it gives her a chance to introduce herself and ask where the children go to school and what their names are.

On the ride home, we dissected our feelings.  We long for connection and authenticity.  “I could have stayed at the girl’s center all day,” Emma said about her time in Bangladesh.

The monkeys in the hotel garden brought us a fresh new day the next morning, playing on the canopy over the windows at the hotel.  I was up, as usual, at 4:30 am, welcoming the cool morning and the time to think and write.  Chai at 6:30 outside and after a hearty breakfast with a German family at the pool, we joined our driver for the day of touring.  The first stop:  the Monkey temple and Surya temple, where we experienced redemption.

The long, winding road to the monkey temple gave us an amazing vista of the city.  Cows and pigs, small children and boys on scooters greeted us warmly at the first temple, in honor of Hanuman, where the monkeys lazed in the early morning sunshine.  Then, climbing more, we reached Surya temple, where a priest said prayers while his 9 year old boy sat with him.

“Come, come!” he shouted to us as we respectfully perambulated the exterior of the temple until the ritual was completed.  And it was love at first sight:  Aditya Sharma, a 6th generation Brahmin priest in-training spoke almost perfect English, and explained (as his father chanted mantra) what was happening. He and his father live on top of this mountain, caring for the temple, built 3 centuries ago by a courtier of Jai Singh II.  His mother and his sister, who is six, live in town.  She had been bitten by a monkey. The prayers finished, his father joined in the conversation.  I wanted to take down his son’s name on my phone and lamented about my 50 year old eyes.  The priest said to wake at 3 am and do Suryanamaskar, “This way, the power comes to your eyes.”

It was a long way down the hill, but we had distractions as Emma was asked for a photo with a motor scooter guy.  Then on to the Amber Fort.

You don’t need a tour guide at the Fort – the signage is enough to understand and there are audio tours if you want more.  The place is simply amazingly beautiful.  Emma and I agreed that it was actually much more interesting than the Taj Mahal.  From there, to Hawa Mahal and then to a funny little city museum, north of town called Albert Hall, built by Sir Swinton Jacob.  There, amidst the dusty rugs and eighteenth century swords and Victoriana, Emma was once again asked about 5 times for photos with the kids in a family. Each time we learned the names of the children, their ages, told them our names.

The driver took us to a hole in the wall for masala dosa, where we ate in the ladies and children’s room.  Then on to the very best sweet shop in Jaipur for jellabas, samosas, and chanachur for snacks.  Finally, home for a swim and a nap. A great day. Connection to the history, the people, the faith of this beautiful city.  Redemption.

Tomorrow, after a small jaunt to a few more sites in Jaipur, on to Mumbai.  Will the same hold true there? I know one thing:  there won’t be monkeys using the hotel’s window shades as a trampoline: