The Taste Bud Boogie
Sandra
We had a different experience the other night. We decided to go to the Taste Bud for supper, since Bill is still celebrating being able to eat real food again. Three and a half of the four tables were packed with Iranian students, but we managed to squeeze into the free space, under the TV.
Bill
Shortly after we ordered, the youths paid, and made their way out, each one clutching their cell phone. The owner turned the volume of the TV back down to a bearable level, and we had the place to ourselves.
We moved to a more comfortable table and, knowing the owners were from Mangalore, told the wife about our plans to go to Goa, via her hometown. We would stop for the night in Mangalore to break up the trip, and could she recommend a hotel? She mentioned one very nice place that would run about 2000 rupees (about $55).
“Too much. Do you know of one for 500 or less?” Next thing we know she is on her cell phone.
“I am calling my sister in Mangalore,” she explained. “She will know.”
Sure enough, she gave the name of a new one close to the train station, that would be convenient for catching the Konkan Railway to Goa the next morning.
The owner wrote down the details, including her sister’s phone number. “Be sure to phone her when you get there if you have any problems or questions,” as she passed the paper to us.
Sandra
Then 3 Iranian girls (students) came in and sat down to eat. We were marveling at how students manage to survive on such junk-food diets (they ordered fake-salami burgers in white buns, with processed cheese on top, potato chips, on which they dumped liberal amounts of ketchup, each drank TWO Cokes, and then they ordered french fries). I smiled at one of them who looked familiar, and she asked us if we lived in Uttam Sagar Apts. — turns out she lives right under us in II-C. They were laughing and having a great time, playing their little cell phones/MP3 players, which sounded like tinny transistor radios, and singing along with the Iranian pop tunes.
We said goodnight to them and left just ahead of them, and went down to try and hail an auto-rickshaw — rare at that time of night; almost 11 pm. As we were about to step into one, the 3 girls came running down the stairs of the restaurant, shouting for us to wait. They asked us if we’d mind if they rode with us, since one of them lives in our building and it’s hard to get a rickshaw late at night. We turned to the driver questioningly, but he wanted no part of it. Rickshaws are made for carrying 2 people in the back, and there were 5 of us, plus the driver. But the girls cajoled and begged and pleaded, and finally talked the driver into taking all of us.
Bill
They said it was “no problem!” This expression may be the only English a non-English speaker has, but no matter what the native tongue, it universally means, “I haven’t a clue, but we will give it a shot, anyhow.” This is most often the response when a cab driver is asked, “Do you know how to get to . . . ?”
Two of the girls jammed themselves into one end of the seat, leaving almost enough room for two more. I didn’t think it proper for the girl who volunteered to ride shotgun to have to be wrapped around the driver, hanging on for dear life. So, with boyish enthusiasm, I volunteered (with the driver cursing me under his breath, I am sure). Besides, my arm was long enough to grab one of the roof braces for support.
The auto waddled off, the back full of giggling females and me in front, pressed up against the driver, simultaneously trying to give him room to drive while endeavoring to remain on board. I had always wanted to ride in front, so I had a great time. (Now, I wonder how I can get to drive one of these things. Maybe if I offered enough rupees and it was a slow night. . .)
Sandra
That poor rickshaw really got a workout that night! The girls chattered a mile a minute, and before we knew it, we were home.
Bill and I and the first girl jumped out, and started to dig out our share of the fare, but the other 2 girls wouldn’t hear of it. They were continuing on to their apartment building, and insisted that they pay the driver when they reached home. Before we could argue with them, they were gone in a cloud of exhaust. With nothing settled in advance, they must have had an interesting discussion with the driver when they got home.
We took the elevator up with Ishe, and said goodnight again at her floor. All in all, an exhilarating way to end the evening. Iranian students are nothing if not exuberant, noisy, enthusiastic, well-educated, and lots of fun. Some of them are here for 5 years to get their education in dentistry…a long time to be away from home, friends and family. Fortunately, they seem to network here, and hang together.
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