The first thing to happen in Jaipur (or on the way) was that we met a beautiful French family on the train with one Indian daughter, two African sons and a Cambodian son. Meeting these people restored my faith in France and made me a little more likely to enjoy Jaipur.

As in Agra, there was a prepaid rickshaw stand, but like everywhere else, as soon as the train arrived, rickshaw dudes were everywhere. One immediately found us and started talking, telling us that he could get a good rate and we really wanted to drive with him. I liked him; he looked like our friend Naz. Unfortunately, when we got to the pre-paid stand, his friend leapfrogged and stole the fare from him. The friend was not as likable. His name was Jimmy and he and another dude took us to the hotel in a real car, forcing us to look at Jimmy’s book of comments from tourists the whole way. When we got to the hotel, they jumped out of the car and asked if we wanted them to drive us around the next day. We politely said no and tried to walk away and Jimmy immediately got in our faces and started yelling about how we were suspicious. WHY WERE WE SO SUSPICIOUS? Yo, Jimmy. We’re suspicious because you are dodgy as hell and hey, here’s a hint: this is not the way to get customers, you obnoxious prick.

Despite our unfortunate introduction, we were still so relieved to be out of Agra that everything seemed nicer in Jaipur. And we were certainly right about our hotel. As our first hotel on the no-crab-blankets plan, the Karni Niwas was also probably our Nicest Hotel Ever, or at least since the Relax in Phnom Penh. We had an immaculate room and a BATHTUB and a human-sized bathroom with two showers. Needless to say, we slept like babies there and then awoke very late and had a lovely brunch on our veranda, basking in the sunshine and listening to the thump-squeak of the shoes of the little girl wandering the hotel, calling for her papa.

When we emerged from the hotel, we were happily walking down the road when a rickshaw driver suddenly sprung out at the end of our road. I am Jimmy’s friend, he said. Do you need rickshaw? What the FRIG?! What is Jimmy, the frickin’ CIA? No! We don’t want your stinking rickshaw, and even if we did, we certainly don’t want it now, you creepy spying freak!

Our book had said that Jaipur was a little crazy, with all kinds of people and honking cars. Sure, this is true, but this meant two things: Jaipur was not Agra; and also, Jaipur had restaurants we had heard of, like McDonald’s and Pizza Hut. Never in our lives have we been so excited to see a Pizza Hut.

But first, we walked into town. We walked down the main street, which was indeed full of honking cars and people, most of whom were staring at me, especially when I was carrying T’s camera. Apparently, the only thing more riveting than a Slutty Western Woman is a Slutty Western Woman With A Camera! Had I only exposed a little more skin, their heads would surely have EXPLODED. That would have been fun.

The walled city of Jaipur is crammed full of tiny shops, with the names of the stores painted outside, because no neon lights are allowed inside the Pink City. It is called the Pink City because the outer walls are painted a rose color, as are most of the buildings inside. Old Jaipur was another city with slowly decaying architecture that, with a little bit of restoration, could be a glorious sight.

On our first day in the city, we decided to go to the Palace. We walked through the city, where people were popping up out of every nook and cranny wanting to talk to us. One kid came to ask us about the Western world, and then spent about five minutes telling us how in the Western world, people date openly, but in India this isn’t the way. Thanks, kid! We had no idea!

The palace in Jaipur was somewhat disappointing, to be honest. After the Baby Taj and all the forts, it didn’t seem quite as majestic as the others. As soon as we walked in, there was a tiny man in a Rajput uniform who asked me to take his picture. Not wanting to be rude, I did, and then he wanted money, OF COURSE. Duh, when am I going to learn? Perhaps a better question is, when will I just be rude and save ourselves some damn rupees?

Though much of the palace seemed a little bland, parts of it were stunning. There was one building housing the textile exhibit that was as delicate as a wedding cake inside. And there was an arcade, oh God, that was just lovely. There were breathtaking paintings over every door, of peacocks and flowers and all kinds of beauty. After walking through the museum, we decided to have a snack and a drink before walking home. In the courtyard, there was a man and his son, dressed in traditional costume, playing music and dancing. We ordered Limcas and an Indian sweet which was delicious until my last bite, in which I found a hair. A short, black, kinky hair. I do not wish to discuss it further lest I retch in my mouth.

For dinner, we had Pizza Hut. I know, I know, but it had been months since we had Western food and sometimes you JUST NEED SOME PEPPERONI. It was delicious, so get over it.

I awoke for the second time to the sounds of a funeral marching through town. I ran out to our tiny porch and walked the women walking past our hotel. I have never seen such a glorious collection of color in my life. If God created color for India, then Rajasthan is the reason he created it. The women were all clad in brilliant pinks and reds and greens and yellows and purples and golds and I thanked God for letting me see this kind of vibrance, even if it is only in India.

Our second day was spent shopping. Joy had told us that Jaipur had the best shopping, so we decided to check it out. And so, we walked back and forth along the shopfronts, with people running after us, calling PASHMINAS?! BLANKETS?! SHOES?! and occasionally, to me, We have BIG SIZE! BIG SIZE! Um, thanks. You would think I was some kind of giant. Two noteworthy things happened when we were shopping; first, even more people told me I looked Punjabi. I was tremendously excited about this until I read a book that described Punjabis as “bothersome, tasteless, showy, nouveau riche, pushy people.” Oh. Perhaps not such a compliment, then. Now I am both enormous and tacky! Second, the staring continued in a highly obvious manner until I made a realization. If I walked along, not looking at the offenders, I didn’t notice the slack-jawed, bug-eyed starers, and it was like they didn’t even exist! Of course, you can hardly blame them, given that I am such a gargantuan, shameless hussy of a cheesy Punjabi.

We cracked on our third day and decided to hire the hotel’s designated rickshaw driver to take us around. We had a number of errands we had to do, and we had only one day to do it. Abdul, a round-faced, smiley man, came to fetch us and he brought us to the train station. We needed tickets from Ahmedajad to Bombay and we couldn’t get them online. So we waited, in the queue for freedom fighters, journalists and foreign tourists. Sometimes India really does crack me up.

After the train station, we needed to go to the post office (I mean, really, where else would you have the tourist rickshaw take you?). We thought the post office would be a piece of cake—get in, get some boxes for our packages, and get out. We forgot we were in India. In India, one does not buy boxes for packages. One gives one’s package to a man who wraps it in newspaper, rips off a piece of a sheet and SEWS the package inside the sheet. We had four packages (one of which was pretty big), so it took quite a while. However, watching the man sew them up was riveting. I’ve never seen someone sew so effortlessly or quickly, and our trip to the post office ended up being one of our favorite experiences in India.

Finally, Abdul could take us to do some real tourist stuff. First, he took us to see the royal cenotaphs. The tombs were made of Indian and Italian marble, and though the Italian marble structures were under construction, they were still beautiful, with local kids crawling all over and following us around, asking ten rupees? In the end, we bought them some chips and called it a day.

On the way to Amber Fort, Abdul took us for a quick stop at a palace surrounded by water. We also passed elephants with their faces painted in bright yellows and greens and pinks, returning from their days work at the Fort. They were beautiful, but there seemed something humiliating about having their faces painted that way, and it hurt my heart to think of such magnificent animals being reduced to carrying lazy tourists up a hill all day long.

The fort was lovely. We got there in late afternoon, when the sun was starting to sink beneath the nearby hills, and everything was bathed in golden light.

Perhaps because we were there so late, there weren’t too many tourists and we had the place nearly to ourselves. All to ourselves and a big gang of kids who were crazy for pictures and who would approach us shyly, asking to have their pictures taken, before running away, shrieking like banshees once the deed was done.

After the fort, Abdul took us shopping, much to T’s chagrin. First, we went to a textile factory where I bought a pashmina and some blankets. The factory, which billed itself as not being tourist-oriented despite the string of Westerners walking through, made lovely rugs as well as blankets and pashminas, and if we were rich, we would have left with a lot more.

Then he took us to a jeweler. We stopped on a side street, walked through a pitch-black courtyard and down a darkened alley to get there, with T whispering to me, We would never do this with a driver we found on the street. The jeweler was all charm, telling us his name was Chili Chocolate, and desperately trying to get me to buy more! I should buy from him, because everything in Udaipur is fake! In the end, I got some earrings and bracelets and ole Chili Chocolate made out quite well (as did Abdul, who would have got a fat commission from both places).

To ease T’s pain about our rapidly dwindling wallet, I distracted him with food. Because Abdul had to leave us at the train station and the textile factory to pray, we had him for a few extra hours, and at 8, he dropped us at Handi for dinner. Oh my GOD. It was so super delicious, I wondered why we had eaten anywhere else ever in our lives. We had our favorites, dal makhani and kadhai paneer, and we tried not to drool on the table. After dinner, we happily returned to the train station, where we boarded a second-class train with two very nice men, and I fell into a deep, deep sleep, full of dal and color and happiness.