Getting to Mysore from Delhi today was a bit of a nightmare. There are no direct flights to Mysore, so I had booked a flight to Bangalore and a train from there. Somehow it seemed logical to me that a 6:45 flight arriving at 8:30 would give me plenty of time to catch a 11am train from the Bangalore station.
Wrong. My plane was delayed an hour and a half. I asked the man next to me if he thought I would make my 11am train. "I think you should hope the train is late too," he replied. By the time I got my bags, it was after 10:30. I also failed to remember that between the time I left Bangalore after my meetings for Google and today, they opened a shiny new airport, a whopping hour and a half's drive from the city. I contemplated just hiring a car. I know it seems mad to hire a car for a four hour drive, but it's quite normal in India. The next train to my knowledge didn't leave until 2:15, and even though the train was faster by a full hour and a half, I'd probably get there earlier by car. But if there was one thing I had, it was time. I didn't have to be in Mysore until 5:30 at the latest, and I just couldn't bring myself to pay 4000 rupees ($100) vs. the 250 rupee train ticket. Happy with my frugality, I took a taxi to the train station. I arrived there at noon, already six and a half hours into my journey, well after my original train had left the station.
That's when the real fun began. It took me a full hour and a half to sort things out and get a ticket for the next train out. First I went to the inquiry window, too intimidated by the crowd of ten or so Indian men swarming around the little opening to try to shove my way in there. I walked over to the row of ticket windows, many with very long lines. There were little electronic signs with the train numbers and destination on them, so I got into the line that said Mysore. After fighting my way in, gritting my teeth as a half dozen people cut in front of me, I reached the counter only to be told to go to the next one.
They were painting the station. Specifically, the ceiling. Right above my head. So I stood there in the new line, once again gritting my teeth as people cut in front of me, GETTING RAINED ON WITH WHITE PAINT. I mean, really? At that point, even I had to laugh. Then I reached the front, pushed my hands out to either side of me to get the men to stop shoving their way in, and was told: "You have to go to the reservation counter, outside." Fantastic. 30 minutes down.
By then I was fighting back tears of frustration, inches away from having some sort of breakdown. What would people do if suddenly I started yelling "ARGH!!!" at the top of my lungs? I decided against it.
Fully outside the train station was the reservation office. "Wow, looks civilized," I thought to myself. Sort of. There were once again long lines. I stood for a moment in the one marked for "Women and Credit Cards" before I saw another for "Elderly, Disabled, and Foreign Tourists." I decided I was more foreign tourist than female and got in the second line behind a good twenty other people, mostly white haired men.
An hour later, I had my ticket in hand. No refund for the train I'd missed, but it was only a $15 ticket. I looked at the clock, 1:30. My train left at 2:15. I felt a bit triumphant, I'd saved myself $75. The necessary frugality of being a student again, slowly but surely, is sinking in.
Wrong. My plane was delayed an hour and a half. I asked the man next to me if he thought I would make my 11am train. "I think you should hope the train is late too," he replied. By the time I got my bags, it was after 10:30. I also failed to remember that between the time I left Bangalore after my meetings for Google and today, they opened a shiny new airport, a whopping hour and a half's drive from the city. I contemplated just hiring a car. I know it seems mad to hire a car for a four hour drive, but it's quite normal in India. The next train to my knowledge didn't leave until 2:15, and even though the train was faster by a full hour and a half, I'd probably get there earlier by car. But if there was one thing I had, it was time. I didn't have to be in Mysore until 5:30 at the latest, and I just couldn't bring myself to pay 4000 rupees ($100) vs. the 250 rupee train ticket. Happy with my frugality, I took a taxi to the train station. I arrived there at noon, already six and a half hours into my journey, well after my original train had left the station.
That's when the real fun began. It took me a full hour and a half to sort things out and get a ticket for the next train out. First I went to the inquiry window, too intimidated by the crowd of ten or so Indian men swarming around the little opening to try to shove my way in there. I walked over to the row of ticket windows, many with very long lines. There were little electronic signs with the train numbers and destination on them, so I got into the line that said Mysore. After fighting my way in, gritting my teeth as a half dozen people cut in front of me, I reached the counter only to be told to go to the next one.
They were painting the station. Specifically, the ceiling. Right above my head. So I stood there in the new line, once again gritting my teeth as people cut in front of me, GETTING RAINED ON WITH WHITE PAINT. I mean, really? At that point, even I had to laugh. Then I reached the front, pushed my hands out to either side of me to get the men to stop shoving their way in, and was told: "You have to go to the reservation counter, outside." Fantastic. 30 minutes down.
By then I was fighting back tears of frustration, inches away from having some sort of breakdown. What would people do if suddenly I started yelling "ARGH!!!" at the top of my lungs? I decided against it.
Fully outside the train station was the reservation office. "Wow, looks civilized," I thought to myself. Sort of. There were once again long lines. I stood for a moment in the one marked for "Women and Credit Cards" before I saw another for "Elderly, Disabled, and Foreign Tourists." I decided I was more foreign tourist than female and got in the second line behind a good twenty other people, mostly white haired men.
An hour later, I had my ticket in hand. No refund for the train I'd missed, but it was only a $15 ticket. I looked at the clock, 1:30. My train left at 2:15. I felt a bit triumphant, I'd saved myself $75. The necessary frugality of being a student again, slowly but surely, is sinking in.
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