Honeymoon.

Depending on who you ask, the expat adjustment cycle has 5 or 6 phases: Preparation, Honeymoon, Culture Shock, Adaption and (sometimes) Repatriation.

I think it’s fair to say that Delhi has had me caught up in the honeymoon for a good long while.

From the moment Joe got the assignment last February, I felt like Delhi would be a city that I would love even if the relationship had been arranged by the powers that be in the form of a bid committee.

I haven’t been wrong. Despite the shock (assault?) on the senses from the moment we landed, I have found new things that I love about it almost every day.

Getting around relatively easily with cheap rickshaw and taxi rides at the tap of an app. Naan khatai baked on a charcoal grill in a crowded alley. A playschool that keeps my kid happy for a fraction of the tuition prices we’d pay in the States. Papdi chaat harmoniously and simultaneously crunching and melting in my mouth. The colors and textures of kurtas and saaris that pay both all the deference and none at all to what Pantone says is on trend for the year. Pilau rice simmering on the stove when I walk in from my morning errands. UNESCO world heritage sites as close as twenty minutes away (if traffic isn’t hellish). Masala chai waiting for me on the kitchen counter every day at 3pm. A delightful all-rounder who keeps our household ticking. Mango lassi. A fair number of warm, welcoming locals who are willing to share their culture and insider knowledge (and help a mom figure out the preschool’s “oh by the ways…”)…

But that honeymoon? It’s been waning.

Just over 100 days since we got here, I’m finding that the novelty and newness of it all no longer makes up for all the little and not-so-little things that make living in Delhi a sometimes grind.

{Yes, I am willing to call it a grind: even with all the extraordinary privileges I am afforded, living here has its things. First class problems are still problems, after all.}

I think the shininess started to wear off when the A.C. techs came out to the house for the 8th time. It wasn’t that they hadn’t fixed the issue on the first 7 visits. And it wasn’t that the 22-year-old techs standing in front of me were clearly not the senior tech promised when the service call was made. And it wasn’t that they turned the system down to 22 degrees and watched the panel in my foyer for 45 minutes in the hopes that the intermittent error would magically replicate itself. It’s that it wasn’t enough for me to tell them that error message #4 would show up maybe in 20 minutes or maybe 7 hours. It was that it took me nearly yelling (or at least speaking in my sternest I-know-what’s-up voice) while invoking my husband’s understanding of the issue for them to take me seriously enough to consider doing any real work. (Which mostly consisted of them banging on all the interior units with a screwdriver before telling me their supervisor would come by in the afternoon.)

The shininess was ground down even further by the gritty air of the hazardous AQI that started shortly after Diwali. As a smokey smell and the whirr of the air purifiers woke me up at 3am, I knew we had officially entered pollution season. And while I’ve been told it’s been better this year than previous years, it’s still at least 3x worse than a bad day in a major city in the U.S. The particles hang heavy in the air and sore throats seem to be the new norm even though we’re relatively good about throwing on N95s (or similar for Nicolas) when we’re outside.

But I think it took a friend visiting over the past weekend for me to fully realize that while I’m still loving Delhi, it will be a relationship of loving the city in spite of its faults.

It was a great weekend. We hit a surprising number of must-do’s even though we only had between Friday at 5am and Monday at 3pm. Humayun’s Tomb, Lodi Garden, Chandni Chowk, the Gurudwara Shri Bangla Sahib, Connaught Place, the Red Fort, and the Qutub Minar all made the list.

But her visit also highlighted some of the things that infuriate me here.

I’ve grown a bit used to the attention here and the unfiltered gazes. I’ve also learned that there is a sharp distinction between curiosity about my Western-ness and objectification. And that I’m willing to tolerate one even though it gets old but the other quickly moves from annoyance to making my blood boil.

I’d seen it before. And had even discussed it with an Indian friend who couldn’t get over just how overt the staring and photo-taking can be when young (or even middle-aged) men find themselves in the presence of our predominantly female, expat tour group this semester. But traveling around town this past weekend with my friend brought my awareness to a whole new level.

There’s a part of me that says “oh, you were warned,” but there’s also a part of me that thinks it’s absolutely ridiculous that we were photographed and filmed by men who either tried to hide what they were doing or just did it blatantly. My absolute favorite? Having to explain to a group of mid-40s/mid-50s men that I wouldn’t be posing with them for photos. WHY WOULD THEY THINK I’D WANT TO??!!

I think the photo shenanigans over the weekend had me close to hitting my limit by mid-Monday. (To be fair, it may have had to do with my own mistake in not realizing that there are three Dilli Haat markets and only one is the government-run arts & crafts showcase.)

It didn’t get better from there.

After a long run-around that involved asking not less than three people if they could point us in the right direction and having those same three people give three non-answers, I suggested we give up and make our way via Uber to Khan Market where there’d at least be a good lunch and a little upmarket shopping.

I’m convinced it was the right call. We were less of an anomaly and even kind of boring compared to some of our fellow shoppers. Certainly not enough to attract any attention. And the vibe there is much more sedate — not a lot of “200 rupees only ma’am,” to be heard.

I had all but relaxed, figuring the rest of the afternoon would be smooth.

My mistake.

I pulled out my phone to hail a rickshaw home. It took about 3 minutes for the one with the plates that matched to show up. But as I started to give him the ride’s PIN as I stepped in, he tried to argue with me to cancel the ride in the app and pay with cash or a cash app that I’m not even eligible for as a foreigner. “No OTP, no ride,” I explained and gave him a last chance at the choice. “PayTM only, Ma’am,” he replied so I stepped out knowing that I really didn’t want to play that game.

I canceled the ride and he zipped off.

BUT THEN THE SAME IDIOT KEPT PICKING UP THE FARE, CIRCLING BACK TO WHERE WE WERE WAITING, AND ARGUING WITH ME WHEN I TRIED TO BOOK US ANOTHER RICKSHAW HOME.

It took me 3x before I finally gave up and hailed a car instead.

We got home eventually and I put my friend into her pre-booked ride to the airport before telling my all-rounder about our day. “Oh yes, Ma’am,” she replied with a knowing look in her eyes, “it’s even the same way for us. That’s why I’m so tired sometimes after I go out. I’m always having to argue unless my husband is with me.” I sighed and we both chuckled at the ridiculousness of it all.

And that’s the thing. I think I’ll keep falling in love with this city despite the fact that sometimes it makes me want to scream/cry/laugh hysterically all at the same time. But maybe loving something even after the honeymoon is over means that it’s a love that has a chance to last.

Maybe.

Ask me again in a year.

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