Bangalore take two

After my first visit to Bangalore I didn’t want to return. The first visit, a one night stopover in the middle of December before my flight to Sri Lanka, was a disaster. I arrived early in the morning straight off the sleeper bus from Hampi and went directly to the guesthouse I’d booked online, hoping that they’d have a room ready for me at the crazy hour of 6:15am. Happily for me they did, and I settled in, watching Australian Masterchef reruns on cable (an absolute luxury!) for an hour or so before getting some much-needed rest.

I knew almost nothing about Bangalore, the city that most travellers only go through on the way to somewhere else, and to be honest I didn’t really care. After a few sleepless nights in the summer-camp atmosphere of the guesthouse in Hampi, all I wanted to do in Bangalore was to catch up on some sleep and recharge my batteries before heading off to what I knew would be a busy few weeks in Sri Lanka. Sadly for me, the sleep catch-up that I desperately needed didn’t happen, as I got violently sick that night and, the next morning, after almost being evicted from my room at 6.15am due to a previously undisclosed 24-hour room policy, I ended stumbling into the lobby of the Hyatt hotel, which was just down the road, almost collapsing at reception. The incredible staff at the Hyatt called me a doctor, and I spent the rest of the day passed out on the couches upstairs until the taxi came to take me to the airport.

Needless to say I was hesitant about returning to the city I’d had such a bad experience in, but I had no choice, as my return flight from Sri Lanka was to Bangalore. Refusing to write-off an entire city based on illness and one inconsiderate guesthouse owner, I was determined to make my second stay different, a do-over of sorts. I’d done the same thing with Agra and Delhi, two places I’d visited for work in August 2013, and both experiences had been positive, so I was hoping for the best from this one, although I was still apprehensive. With this apprehension in mind, I dithered over choosing a place to stay for my return visit, as I had nightmares of a place in a run-down area, run by a disfigured man who barely spoke English and who couldn’t direct me to the nearest hospital (true story).

I ummed for days, booking and cancelling accommodation types ranging from five star hotels to budget hostels, hopelessly confused about where to stay in a place I knew almost nothing about. As I was arriving late Thursday night, and my flight to Trivandrum in Kerala was only on Saturday night, I contacted Chabad in Bangalore to try to locate them, and see if I could join them for Shabbat meals, thinking that seeing friendly faces, and having a proper Shabbat atmosphere for the first time since leaving home, might be just the thing to help make the Bangalore do-over a success. Finally, frustrated with myself and determined to get my procrastination over with, I gave myself a deadline for making (and not cancelling) a booking. I invoked the advice that was so vital at the beginning of my trip when I was debating my arrival in Kathmandu, the advice given to me by my wise friend Viv, “be kind to yourself”. Knowing that I was arriving back to India alone, properly alone for the first time since that very first day of my trip, a few days before my birthday, to a slightly hostile city, I decided that my budget, already way out of control in expensive-compared-to-India Sri Lanka, would have to take a further beating, and I checked myself into a place described as “a haven in the middle of a bustling city”. Coincidentally, a few minutes after I made my booking, I received a reply from Chabad Bangalore and discovered that the Chabad house was only a ten minute walk away from the place I’d just booked, a happy coincidence in India’s third largest city.

Bangalore the second time around exceeded all expectations, and then some. My accommodation (at Casa Piccola Cottage) was great, the owners and their son were really helpful and friendly, and the South Indian breakfast options offered in the morning, idli and Masala , were a dream, as I’d been craving them the entire time I was in Sir Lanka. I spent Friday morning touring the city’s main attractions in a tuk-tuk, and crashed in the afternoon for a much-needed rest before heading to Chabad for Friday night dinner.

Chabad Bangalore is different to most of the Chabad houses in India in that it caters mainly to business people, as most travellers don’t find themselves in Bangalore for more than a few hours, if at all. After taking my life into my hands trying to cross the crazy Richmond Rd, I arrived at Chabad and found myself in company of Rabbi Tzvi and Rebbetzin Noa Rivkin, their three sons, fur Israeli olim (immigrants) in suits and ties, a true Sabra (Israeli-born) from Psagot, and a retired professor from Melbourne called Sydney, something that caused a lot of confusion throughout the meal. The meal, an intimate family meal, unlike the mass, noisy traveller meals found in most Chabad or Bayit Yehudi places in India, was served in true Israeli style, and with the exception of the two Indian women helping out in the kitchen, I could actually have imagined that I was sitting at Shabbat dinner in a home in Israel. I was in salad heaven, and the eggplant dip was incredible. Of course, Jewish geography came into play and it turned out that my uncle had taught Noa in high school, and that one of the guys was the brother in law of a friend of mine from Melbourne currently living in Israel.

After a whiskey-filled meal in line with the high standards of Chabad alcohol intake, I said goodbye and was invited to come for lunch the next day. The next morning I debated the idea, not entirely sure I wanted to head there again. I’d exhausted my Shabbat-appropriate outfits and, keeping the men in suits in mind, wasn’t sure that my informal traveller attire would be appropriate. I also had to check out from the hotel at a time which clashed with the timing for lunch. Way after the last minute, an hour after the time called for lunch, and still unsure, I picked myself up and headed over there. It was the best thing I could have done for myself that day. I was welcomed so warmly, the food and company were excellent, and I enjoyed a delicious cholent for the first time in forever. After lunch, while Noa was resting, we took the kids to the Lalbagh Botanical Gardens, a place I’d visited the day before on my tuk-tuk tour, had considered coming back to on Saturday, and had decided against, in favour of Shabbat lunch. I can tell you that the sight of five white-skinned, suit-clad men with tzitzit wandering through the gardens, with two small boys, and a white-skinned western woman in bright pink hippie-pants, turned many heads that afternoon, and we became the topic of many a conversation as we wandered through the park.

It was with a bit of reluctance that I said goodbye later that afternoon, and headed back to Casa Cottages to collect my backpack in preparation for my flight that evening. While my life at home no longer consists of Shabbat preparations every Friday, and I don’t necessarily find myself at formal Shabbat meals every weekend, it’s always nice to find something unexpectedly familiar in unfamiliar places, especially in the city that had felt so intimidating to me just a few days before, and which now feels so welcoming.