We get into Bombay (yes, Collette, I know it’s called Mumbai now, but I like to be contrary) at night on another Shatabdi train, one that had TV screens but no food (those cries you hear are our sobs at having no delicious Shatabdi food). Since there are no rickshaws in central Bombay, we end up taking one of the Ambassador taxis to our hotel, cruising along with the windows down, feeling as though we are in a 1950s movie. Just when I start to think that the drivers in Bombay aren’t too bad, we careen through a six-way intersection and barely miss crashing into an oncoming truck.

Our hotel is a business hotel and is an endless maze of weird and narrow hallways, leading to a tiny but clean room with really soft sheets and comfortable beds. The next morning, it is a real effort to get up.

T wants to go to the local market and the old Victoria Station (now called CST or something), so in the morning we eat the hotel breakfast (some dry toast with jam, egg and weird Indian breakfast pastries) and hit the road. As we approach the market, a one-armed Muslim man offers his services as a guide. We refuse until we get inside the market and see a sign that says visitors must have guides. A man tells us to use the guide, and sure enough, we see the man about five minutes later at the spice shop our guide recommends. The market is interesting enough, but it’s no Victoria Market in Melbourne, and we start to feel a little voyeuristic, just wandering around. So we head outside and are immediately face-to-face with a little boy with his hand out. He keeps making signs for food as he follows us down the road, so eventually I tell T I am buying some bananas for him. I give the kid two bananas and he gives me a look that says, Are you kidding me? Where’s my friggin’ money? I turn away and take two bananas to the old woman, begging on the street. As I bend down to give them to her, she takes my hand and squeezes it gratefully before kissing the bananas. Now, that’s the kind of response I like!

After the market, we walk over to Victoria Station, mainly because T is a nerd and wants to see it. The roads are wide and leafy, and we pass all kinds of ornate Victorian buildings before arriving at the station, which is bigger and more ornate than any of the others. We walk inside briefly, but most of the time we stand outside, staring at the giant clock.

Were a little worried about getting actual taxis as opposed to the cheap-o rickshaws that were used to, but since we have no choice, we pop in one going to India Gate. We are pleasantly surprised to see that the fee is 30 rupees—less than a dollar. Suddenly, we decide that Bombay might be better than we thought.

We’re standing at India Gate, a giant Arc de Triomphe-looking structure, looking at the boats in the harbor, when a man comes over to me. He starts telling me how nice my face is, how friendly I am, and how I have such a nice smile. T sees this dude talking to me and veers straight over, just in time to hear the man ask if I want a friend in Bombay. In my head, I am thinking, Sure, as long as it’s not you, freak! But I say, Um…sure, instead. In no time, I am giving him my email address and promising to recommend him to any friends I have going to Bombay. As we walk away, T starts mumbling about how he can’t believe I gave him the right address, and I try to explain that I’m not good under pressure and I couldn’t think of fake one fast enough. What should I have put instead? youaresupercreepypleaseneveremailme@yahoo.com?

We spend most of the afternoon in a restaurant called Leopold’s, where I befriend some nice guys from Singapore, who are in town on business. One is Indian, and he starts the conversation by looking at my Lonely Planet and asking in that charming Anglo-Indian way, Does this restaurant feature in that book?

We take a walk around the area, going from India Gate past the University, and then past the Supreme Court and into a giant field where everyone is playing cricket. Bombay seems to be like the love child of New York and somewhere more tropical, like LA or Miami. There are swaying palm trees and beaches, but also tall, cosmopolitan-looking buildings that T say make it look like a real city, unlike Delhi.

After watching the cricket in the park, I decide to go to Chowpatty Beach and get some ice cream. We get in another 30-rupee taxi and cruise along the coast up to the long, sandy stretch of beach. The beach looked nice enough, but our guidebook warned that the water was toxic, which made the empty waters make sense. We get some ice cream and started walking along the sidewalk by the water when a bunch of kids appear out of nowhere and started grabbing at my ice cream. T tries to shoo them away and I immediately revert back to being 10 years old, trying to keep food away from my siblings. In my most mature act in ages, I take the cone and try to shove it all into my mouth. Meanwhile, T is trying to be stern with the jumping kids and ends up making them all burst out laughing and run away, as I stand, horrified by the fact that I just tried to consume an entire ice cream cone so that beggar kids wouldn’t. It is not the highlight of my life.

After I begin to recover from the shame, we get in another taxi to go back to Victoria Station. We have seen a movie theater in our book that shows American movies, and since I am not sure if Bollywood movies have subtitles, and I am not in the mood for music, we stupidly decide to go see Jumper, the worst movie ever made. The only redeeming features about Jumper are the fact that the entire theater stands for the national anthem at the beginning, everyone goes out for a smoke break at the intermission in the middle, and the back row is the most popular by far.

After the movie, we go downstairs and get sandwiches and chips at the Subway stand inside the theater, and start to walk home. Dumb, dumb, dumb. Obviously, as soon as we get outside, we are surrounded by another bunch of jumping kids, trying to snatch the food from our hands. We eventually get the food crammed into T’s backpack and walk back to the hotel, but their desperation has killed our desire for food.