Terry Blanchard

Total props go to Ben Christensen for this little gem that had me slamming my head against the wall. If you’re trying to perform a Subversion checkout and getting some meaningless error such as:

or

The simple answer is to delete your known_hosts file in your .ssh folder:

Written by Terry Blanchard \\ tags: Development, Subversion, svn, svn+ssh, Versions

I hate my furnace.

I really, really, can’t stand it. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever disliked anything as much as my furnace. Ever. What is it about my furnace that evokes such strong emotion and contempt for something that simply pushes air around my home?

Functionally, the furnace does everything it is suppose to:

• When heat is requested from my thermostat, it fires up the natural gas burners, warms up and pushes warm air through my ducts
• When cooler air is requested from my thermostat, it doesn’t fire up the natural gas burners and pushes the cool air from the central air conditioner through my ducts

All of these interactions have taken place with the thermostat. There is only one interaction that I actually have with the furnace, and they blew it. Big time.

Changing the filters.

While on paper this sounds incredibly easy, this is how engineering only to requirements instead of also engineering to usage scenario cause this type of frustration.

First, let’s talk about good furnace design. This was the type of furnace I had in my previous home. By the way, that’s not me in the hot-pink sweater. Had I known how good I had it with my old furnace, I might have taken a few pictures of this process. But I didn’t so I borrowed this one. Let’s review. No tools required, no disassembly of the furnace, you don’t even have to turn it off. You can “hot-plug” the filters. When you start to pull the filter out, it automatically switches off. It won’t turn back on until you install another filter. This also prevents people from running their furnace without a filter, which my previous owner did for his entire 8 year occupancy. That’s a whole different post. With this design, you can replace an old filter with a brand new one in less than 10 seconds.
Now let’s talk about the Frankenstein that is my current furnace. For starters, my furnace requires two filters, not just one. So my “filter budget” has just doubled. Let’s talk about that. Unlike the nice 90 degree angle filter in the good design above, both of mine sit at 45 degree angles to the air flow to create a “V” inside the plenum. Yup, I said plenum, not furnace. That’s the yellow part at the top of the furnace picture to the left. It’s where the air is brought into the furnace. It’s also where there are no access points to the filters except from the bottom up. Remember, there are two filters that need to placed in there. If you had x-ray vision, and I’m not saying that you don’t, you could look through the plenum in this picture and see the two filters sitting in a “V” position.

The picture on your right is looking up to one of the filters. This is where the fun begins. First off, you’ve got the return duct right there in the middle. Since that wasn’t enough pain to put me through, the brilliant minds behind this beast of a creation decide to mount the electronics on the right-hand side and the furnace and the pièce de résistance, the furnace motor behind the return duct.

Now that we’ve talked about all obstacles, let’s walk through my misery.

1. Remove the first filter. I’m not a big guy and I’ve got long, lanky arms. However, even with my long reach and fairly thin arms, I need to reach through that little gap on the left-hand side of the return duct, over the furnace motor, and try to pull down the first filter. To do this, I need to lift it up, pull the bottom of the filter towards the small gap between the left-hand side of the furnace wall and the motor. The gap is about the same size as the thickness of the filter.
2. Remove the second filter. This one is more difficult because it’s on the other side of the furnace. The side I can’t get to because of the electronics box. Similar process through. Reach long, lanky arm through the little gap on the left-hand side of the furnace, over the motor, across the bar that holds the bottom of the filters in place, carefully maneuver filter through small gap on left-hand side of furnace wall and motor.
3. Install first new filter. This is just the reverse of the first two instructions. Only it’s worse. Removing the old furnace filters I can be careless and rip them out, cut them on sides of the furnace motor, or better yet all the little nail/screw endings that marry the furnace outlet to the plenum. I can’t do this when I’m installing them.

Needless to say, after 5 or 6 fantastic, rust-filled, scratches all over my arms and hands, and an average of 15 minutes of my life spent fighting with this horrible furnace, I’m ready to strangle a kitten. Nothing puts me in such a pissy mood than that one, and only, interaction I have with my furnace.

This post was brought to you by the letter “D”, the number “7″, and how not to design a furnace.

Written by Terry Blanchard \\ tags: Furnace, Industrial Design, Interaction Design, Usage Scenarios

You’ve gotten this far. This is my last chapter of this saga. I last left you as I boarded my American Airlines flight leaving from Dehli to Chicago. If you haven’t been reading this from the beginning, I suggest you do.

I slink on board and find my seat. I don’t have an aisle or a window, but I’m in the middle section and only one seat away from the aisle. I have one gentleman on my left, and about 5 others to my right. I’m just so happy to not be staying in Delhi that I wish I had a window seat just so I could give it the finger.

The guy sitting in the aisle seat beside me sits down, places his carry-on luggage underneath the seat in front of him, folds his arms across his chest, puts his head down and instantly falls asleep. I mean instantly! The snoring commenced in milliseconds and the drool wasn’t far behind. This guy shutdown quicker than Lt. Data from Star Trek. I was in awe.

Once we reach cruising altitude, the flight attendants start offering drinks.

“Sir, can I get you a drink or cocktail?”

“You most certainly can. I’ll take a Heineken please.”

“That will be five dollars sir”

“Excuse me? Isn’t this a 15 hour international flight? Cathay Pacific doesn’t charge for drinks on international flights. I also blew all of my money at that shit hole airport we just left so I could make this flight. Can I give you my credit card?”

“I’m sorry sir. We only accept cash. Would you like a soda?”

“No, I’d like a beer. Here’s the deal, I’ll buy you and your entire crew on this 747 breakfast when we land in Chicago. What do you say?”

“I say, 7-Up or Pepsi?”

“Fine. Pepsi. But I want the whole frickin can, not just what this cup can hold.”

In 15 hours I will be touching down on American soil, at an American airport that understands what a connecting flight is and there will Starbuck’s and McDonald’s. Ah, when I land I am sooo having an Egg McMuffin, Hash Brown, and a Grande Vanilla Latte. This thought keeps my spirits up.

5 hours into the trip and Lt. Data hasn’t moved. I’m still in utter amazement of this guy. I know he’s not dead because I’ve heard that snore of his for the past 5 hours. I need to pee. All that Pepsi finally got to me. Lt. Data on my left is the only thing blocking me getting to the aisle. On my right, there’s a family of 5 people, many sleeping as well. I tap Lt. Data on the shoulder. Nothing. I tap a littler hard and say, “Excuse me sir, I need to get out.”

Nothing.

I try this a few more times with no luck. Alright then, I’ll just walk over him. On my Cathay flight from San Francisco to Hong Kong I had enough ass in my face, it was time for me to return the favor. Besides, this guys wasn’t going to wake up. And he didn’t.

8 hours into the flight, Lt. Data wakes up. But just as graceful as when he went to sleep. He just stopped snoring, raised his head, stood up and went to the bathroom. No grogginess, no stiff neck, he was completely fine. I follow him to the bathroom since it’s an opportunity for me get out of my seat and walk around for a bit. He exits the bathroom sits down in his seat just like he did when he boarded, and fell sound asleep again! This guy just slept for 8 hours and he instantly falls back to sleep again! I have got to know how he does this.

15 hours have passed by, I haven’t slept and we touch down in Chicago. Right on cue, Lt. Data wakes up completely refreshed. I’m staring at him and he returns my stare,

“What?”

“How do you do that? You just … switched off.”

“A very clear conscious I suppose.”

“Bullshit. After 8 hours of sleep, you get up and pee, and sleep for another 7 hours. What did you take in the bathroom?”

A large, broad smile appears.

“Benadryl, my friend. It’s the only way I’ll fly.”

Nice. I’ll pack that away in my little travel toolbox from now on. I get off the plane in the International terminal, hop on a tram and arrive in the domestic terminal in a few minutes. Ah, the modern world. I will never, ever again complain about modern airports and the system we have here in North America. Another modern marvel, I am greeting with the site of the automatic check-in kiosk. I type in my flight number, almost giddy about being back to civilization and the connected world.

“United flight XXX has been cancelled. Would you like to take the next flight, departing at 10:45am?”

Okay, it’s an hour later than my original flight, and I did this all through the kiosk. Sure, book me on the flight. Hello, America. How I missed you.

I scarf down my Egg McMuffin, Hashbrown and two Vanilla Latte’s. Hey, I couldn’t drink myself to sleep on that 15 hour flight, and I’ve been up for almost 36 hours.

I board myself onto to the 10:45am flight. The one thing I really like about United airlines, is Channel 9. You can listen in on the pilots and air traffic controllers through your headset. Being a pilot, I love this. As the luggage is being loaded up on the plane, the first officer makes an announcement that we’ll be pushing back from the gate in about 10 minutes, we’re just waiting for some USPS mail to be loaded below. What’s another 10 minutes, right? As we push back, I hear the first officer inquiring about the weight of the new USPS cargo. The response was, “standby, United XXX. We’ll get you those numbers.”

Why was the first officer needing to know the weight of the new cargo. A variety of reasons. First, she needs to know the weight of the aircraft before they can legally take off. Second, with big iron like the 767 we were flying on, they have to also put in the weight of the aircraft so they can put this value into the FMS (Flight Management System) which calculates their take-off roll distances and speeds.

This being O’Hare International Airport, one of the busiest airports in the world we were something like 51st in line before we could take off. The first officer kept asking the ground crew for those numbers. They still didn’t have them. By the time we were next in line for take-off, she told the tower we couldn’t.

“O’Hare tower, United XXX is unable to take active runway, New cargo was added just before we pushed back and we’re waiting on the final numbers from Cargo. Requesting to wait in the holding area on the opposite side of the runway until we receive these numbers.”

“United XXX, O’Hare tower. Request approved. Please inform us when you’re ready and we’ll get you airborne.”

So we waited. And waited. 45 minutes passed as we watched every other aircraft but ours take off into the blue sky. Finally, the Captain came on over the intercom and said we had to taxi back to the terminal because they had to weigh the new cargo as this wasn’t done prior to loading it onto our plane. We taxied back, they unloaded the USPS cargo, took it away for 15 minutes, brought it back and loaded it back into the belly of the plane. We taxied back on the opposite side of the runway so we didn’t have to wait in line again and got into the air fairly quickly.

The flight was pleasant and I enjoyed listening to the professionals on the radios. All airlines should have Channel 9. I’m really glad that United does this, and I hope they never take it away. As we started our descent, I started to worry about that 45 minute drive home. I was physically exhausted, mentally spent, and really not sure if I should drive. As I got off the aircraft, headed towards the luggage carousel, there waiting for me was my beautiful wife and my two very excited boys racing down the hall to give me a hug. They drove up to San Francisco to drive me home. We had to pick up the car another day, but I’ve never been so glad to see them as I was after this mess of a trip.

Written by Terry Blanchard \\ tags: India, Rants, Travel

This is chapter 7 of my travel experience to Pune, India. This is where I begin my trip home. You should probably start reading this from Chapter 1.

I’ve just spent 5 days in Pune, India. I’m ready to go home. My itinerary is:

• Pune to Delhi
• Delhi to Chicago
• Chicago to San Francisco

One cool aspect of this trip is that I actually flew a complete revolution around the entire planet. All 25,000 miles of it. I left San Francisco going westbound to Pune. On my way home I flew eastbound and completed my circumference around the globe.

My flight departed Pune at 6:20pm and was scheduled to land in Delhi at 8:35pm. My connecting flight is on American Airlines and it departs at 12:10am. 3.5 hour layover. Plenty of time for a connecting flight, right? If you’ve been following along, you know better. My flight to Delhi was pretty uneventful. I know better than to let a positive thought cross my head, so I anticipate the worst. However, we land without incident and on time. Okay, now India’s just toying with me.

Anywhere else in the world, transferring from a domestic flight to an international flight is a very easy process for the traveler. You get off your plane and walk, or take the tram, to the International terminal and wait for your plane to board. Your bags magically get transferred to the correct airplanes, and it might take you at most 10 minutes to get to the other terminal. Probably less time. Not so in India.

As I hop off the plane and load up onto our bus, we’re driven to the terminal where we need to pickup out bags, before we can be shuttled over to the international terminal. Your bags don’t just auto-magically get transferred to you new plane. You need to make that happen. I ask myself, what about security? Then it dawns on me. If I can access my bag that has been through the security at the Pune airport, I’m pretty sure I’ll have to run through security again here in Delhi.

The carousel starts up about 9:05pm and my bag is one of the first off. Yee-haw. I am looking for a sign such as “Tram to International Terminal” or “International Gates” but I find nothing. I ask the guy at the information booth how I get to the International terminal.

“You will have to take the International terminal bus. It departs here every hour, on the hour.”

I look down at my watch. 9:15pm.

“So I just missed the bus? I need to wait here for another 45 minutes before the next bus comes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m sure I’m not the first to say this, but that sucks. Certainly there is another way for me to get to the International terminal?”

“No, sir. This is it. If you want to catch some sleep, you can rest on the chairs over here. I will be sure to wake you when the bus arrives.”

“You know what I’d like to catch more than sleep? My flight. I’m guessing that since I have my luggage in hand again, there will be another security lineup, correct?”

“Yes, sir. But don’t worry, you still have plenty of time. You will make your flight.”

My Spidey-sense is tingling. I have the impression that he’s just saying this since he’ll never see me ever again once I hop on that bus. Since I don’t have any choices here, I find a seat and wait for the bus to arrive at 10pm. It promptly arrives and I see people making their way over to the door to get onto the bus. The bus was probably built in 1950 … 1960 at the latest. There’s only a limited amount of room beneath the bus for luggage so once that fills up, they just start piling it inside the bus with the passengers. I’m still way at the back of the line and start wondering if there will still be room for myself and my luggage. There’s that awful feeling again.

As I’m wondering if I’m going to make it onto this bus, I see a bald Australian man being escorted to the front of the line and immediately put on the bus. Hmmm. Must have a connector that he’s going to miss. Wait a minute. We’re all going on the same bus. What difference does it make what order you load yourself onto it? Uhh, none.

Note to self: He’s done this many times before and knows how to work the system. Keep an eye on baldy.

I manage to make it on the bus. There’s no room under the bus so I walk up the stairs into the cabin area. There’s a pile, yes, a pile, of luggage as tall as me that people are crawling over to get to a seat. Of course, since we’re at the end of the line, there are no more seats left. I struggle and pull my luggage over the pile and let it flop over onto the other side. I just leave it there and it fits right in with the rest of the bags. The bus pulls away at 10:30. It takes 30 minutes for the entire loading process. Then, it’s a 15 minute bus ride, a very bumpy bus ride, to the International terminal. Now I know why this bus only comes once an hour.

Normally, in any other part of the civilized world, when you are transfered to a connecting flight you just pickup and go to the next gate. Not so in India. Nope. The bus is trying to drive up to the passenger drop-off area in front of the International terminal. No different than somebody who drove to the airport and wanted to go directly to the International terminal. It’s almost 11pm and there are thousands of people outside the terminal all trying to get in through one of the seven doors. Thousands of people. The bus can’t get very close to the terminal because the street is covered with people, their luggage, and all the push carts. So our bus just stops on the road and starts unloading us.

“Excuse, me. I have a connecting flight. Do I stay on the bus so you can drop me off somewhere inside the airport?”, I ask.

“Do you not have a flight?”

“Yes, I do. It’s a connecting flight.”

“Then, yes. You need to go through these doors. Any one will be fine.”

That’s when it dawned on me that there is no such thing as a connecting flight here in India. To them, it’s just another flight starting from scratch. You grab your own bags, they just shuttle you between buildings.

“It’s going to take forever to get through these doors. Is there a priority line, or special entrance for connecting passengers?” I already knew the answer, but had to ask.

“Any one of these doors will be fine, sir.”

“You guys have a lot to learn about air travel, friend. This is outrageous. I arrive a little after 9pm for a connecting flight that departs at 1am, and I’m probably not going to make it. You could stand to learn a lesson or two in the art of efficiency.”

As I’m standing there in disbelief trying to devise a plan of entry, I see my bald Aussie friend being whisked through the crowd up to the entrance, which is guarded by a military man holding an AK-47 assault rifle. Seconds later, he’s in the airport. I keep my eye on his escort now heading back into the crowd. I approach him and before I can say anything to him, he smiles and points to me.

“American Airlines?”

“Yes. Departing at 12:55.” An even larger smile crosses his face.

“You are not going to make your flight.”

“How did my bald friend make his flight?”

“50.” He states without hesitation.

50 rupees is only $1 USD. I whip out a 50 rupee bill.

“No, no. 50 English.”

“I don’t think so. Here’s $10 USD, make it happen.”

I only had $25 USD on me, and I was down to about 70 rupees since I was leaving India. He nods, and asks me to follow him which is not an easy task with how crowded this place is. Also, I’m trying to haul around my laptop and pull-luggage. He’s literally crawling over people and their push carts. He sees me struggling so he calls for a helper by snapping his fingers and whistling. This tiny, thin man who couldn’t have been more than 90 pounds emerges from the crowd, lifts my bag and starts working his way through the crowd. Without my bags, I’m still having a hard time keeping up. Now I’m concerned that this is a scam and these guys are going to disappear into the crowd and make off with my $10 and luggage. Screw it. I start stepping over push carts and over luggage so I can keep up. They were true to their word though. We approach the military guard. No money exchanges hands, but some sort of deal transpired. The military guard parts a hole in the crowd with his AK-47 and allows me to pass. I’m in. And I’ve learned how the system works here here in Delhi.

First thing I have to do is have all the bags I want to check scanned. Of course, there are lines for this. I walk up to the front of the line, inform the security agent that I need to get through quickly because I’m going to miss my flight.

“Nothing I can do.” He says.

I pull out $5 USD, and the next thing I know my bags are being scanned and I’m through. Excellent. They way they secure your bags, is comical. After your checked luggage goes through the scanner the put a single strand of fiberglass tape around your luggage. The kind of tape they might use at Home Depot if you bought 4-5 2×4′s and they wanted to hold them together. You can still easily unzip your luggage, get stuff from your bag and also put stuff in it.

It’s after 11pm and I’ve got two hours until my flight departs. I approach the American Airlines booth and it’s closed. I ask when it will be open for the 12:55 flight.

“We just closed, sir.”

“How can you close, there’s still 2 hours until the flight?”

“Yes, but there is immigration, customs, and security that you still need to go through. You won’t be able to do all of that in only 2 hours.”

“You have got to be kidding me? How long ago did you close?”

“Only 5 minutes ago, sir.”

Haunting memories of my hotel stay in Delhi are still fresh in my mind. I am not spending another night here. No way. The gate agent is female, has a wedding ring, and might have children. I don’t know, but she seems to be a kid person. All week Nancy had been sending me photos of her and the boys on my cell phone which I loved. I open my phone to the last picture Nancy sent me of Alex and Max hugging on the couch.

“I have been away from my family for a long time. See these two boys? They’re waiting for me at home. They are expecting me to walk off this airplane when it lands. I miss them dearly. How do I get on this flight tonight?” She ponders for a few seconds while holding my phone and looking at the picture.

“Do you just have the one bag to check?”

“Yes, just the one. If you can check my bag, I will take care of the rest. I will make it to the plane before they close the doors. I just need you to check my bags. I’ll take care of the rest. Please.”

“I can’t promise that they’ll wait for you, so you must hurry. Okay, let me have your bag.” Hot damn!! I could have kissed her when I heard those words. Having adorable kids pays off.

Customs has an area for you to fill out the forms. Yes, you fill out a customs form when you leave this country as well as entering it! The form asks what you are taking out, etc. They have a single long line that then breaks out into 8 smaller lines for each of the agents. I approach the security guard, slip him $5 USD and I just bypassed the long line. I still have to wait in the short lines though.

Immigration is next and has 8 desks all with lines of 200 or more people in them. I can’t pay the immigration agents because they’re behind their little desks and not accessible. However, I go to the front of the line and offer $5 USD to a family and they let me go next. Nice. Next, it’s off to security. At this rate I should have no problem making my flight. Dammit, a positive thought. That’s going to cost me.

There are 4 security lines. All long. Once you get through the first long line, you can choose between 6 different lines to go through the metal detectors and have them scan you carry-on baggage. As I’m walking up to the military guard, not security guard, I see my bald Aussie friend in the other line. Weird, he’s waiting in line and not bribing his way through. Odd. I’m down to my last $5 and I have it in my hand. I approach the military guard and ask,

“Good evening. I am about to miss my flight. Is there anyway you could let me through?”

“No.” I pull out my wallet and make it visible to him to show him my intentions.

“Nothing at all?”, I hint.

“No.” Uh, oh. Now what.

If my well-seasoned Aussie traveler is waiting in line, and this guard isn’t going to budge, I guess it’s to the back of the line for me. Crap. As I make my way toward the end of the line I see a man and his wife being escorted to the front of the line. I observe carefully. A short conversation between the military man and the escort ensues. Within a minute, they pass through. Their escort turns around and heads back in my direction. Does he work with one of the airlines? How did he swing that?

“Excuse me, sir. I couldn’t help but notice you helping that couple through this line. I’m on the verge of missing my flight and would like to know…”

“American Airlines?”, He asks. I’m pretty sure I saw a slight smile too.

“Yes. I’m down to my last $5 USD, and 70 rupees. It’s all yours if you can get me past that guard. Deal?”

“Come with me.”

I give my new friend the money and follow him to the front of the line again. He asks me to wait about 10 paces back as he approaches the guard and has a private conversation. God knows what they talked about. Personally, I didn’t care. I was just waiting for the hand gesture to allow me to pass through.

“Okay, sir. Please, quickly!”

Through I went. It still took some time to go through security. In North America, when you walk through the metal detector, you are only pulled aside and scanned if the detector goes off. Not in India. Everyone goes through the detector, and stands on a crate while the security not only scans you, but … uh, pats you down. Pronounce the next line with the voice of Mickey Mouse.

“Hi, Pluto!!” Yikes.

I can see my gate as I’m being patted down. There at the gate is the American Airlines agent that cut me some slack and checked my bags. I can see her scanning the crowd. The security guard should have bought me breakfast they way he man-handled me, but I am focused on my goal. I sprint through the crowds and race to my gate. The gate agent spots me, smiles and cheers me on.

“I knew you would make it! Come on!”

I give her the boarding pass she printed out for me, smile and say thanks.

“You’re children should be most excited to see you.”, she says as she hands me back my boarding pass.

“And I shall let them know you helped make that happen. Again, thank you.” After all, she is the only one that I didn’t have to offer any money too.

Check out the next chapter to see how the rest of this journey goes. The fun just never ends for me on this adventure!

Written by Terry Blanchard \\ tags: India, Rants, Travel

I am shopping around for a publisher to this novel about my travel experience to and from India. It really is an incredible story. How I managed to not end my life during this escapade is beyond me. Start reading from the beginning at Part 1.

Chapter 5 left off with me finally touching down and getting off the plane in Pune, India. I mentioned just how small the Pune airport is. As soon as you walk out the front door, there is only one door, you are surrounded by drivers all holding their signs. There’s easily over 100 of them and trying to find your sign isn’t an easy task. I don’t see any signs with my name or company logo. Great. I eventually see an NVIDIA sign with my name on it and meet my driver Ayyaz. As we leave the airport, the poverty is right in your face. It’s heart-breaking to see people and their families living on the side of the roads in little tin shacks. It’s one thing to see this in National Geographic, quite another to be driving through it first-hand.

Driving in India is a brand new experience. It’s now clear to me why a driver has been assigned to me instead of my renting a car and driving myself. The concept of lanes, and direction don’t exist here. It’s a free-for-all. It’s chaos. Yet somehow, they make it work.

The horn in North America is used as a warning, or an alert. In India, they use it to let other drivers know where they are. On our 20 minute trip from the airport to the office, Ayyaz used his horn more times then I have ever used a horn in my entire life. Not 5 seconds goes by without him tapping on the horn, either passing another vehicle, when another vehicle merges onto our road. Note I didn’t say merge into our lane. Remember, those don’t exist here. We all share a common piece of pavement or dirt.

I arrive at the office and meet a bunch of people. I’m tired, unshaven, stinky, and barely functional. I call it a day and leave around 4pm. Ayyaz is waiting for me as I leave the building. Off to the hotel. I check into the Quality Inn Centurion. Much nicer than the hole I stayed at in Delhi. No visible holes in any walls and the marble floors provide me with comfort. I enter my room, crawl right into bed and sleep for 14 hours straight.

One little tidbit I’ve been holding back from through this epic tale, is that neither my cell phone or Blackberry are working outside of the USA. They are picking up the local carriers, I just can’t receive or make any outgoing calls. Cingular, my cell phone carrier, tells me that I was suppose to call before leaving the US so they could activate my International capabilities. They flip some magical switch, tell me to remove the battery and SIM card, put them back in and I should be good to go. All very intuitive … not. My Blackberry starts working after a similar procedure. Oh, yeah. The Internet connection in my room doesn’t work and the hotel is completely booked so I can’t change rooms. I’m really not digging India. Not at all.

The actual visit is very productive and I’m really happy with my new team. They’re a good bunch. I tell them that I am taking them out for lunch every day at places they recommend. I’m buying. I love Indian food and they took me to some great places. “Veg, or no Veg?” is how every discussion starts off when deciding where to eat. Vegetarian only, or places that also serve meat. You won’t find a Morton’s Steak House here, but there’s lot’s of chicken and lamb. Plenty of Asian restaurants too. I know not to drink any water other than bottled water, which they must bring un-opened to your table. The food was fantastic

Wednesday morning I wake up in my hotel room and go the bathroom to brush my teeth. I flip on the tap to rinse my brush. Nothing happens. Just this gurgling sound. A very unpleasant gurgling sound. 5 seconds later this brown sludge comes spewing out. Nothing brown from a tap can be good for you. I think to myself, I’ve been…

• Rinsing my toothbrush all week from this sink
• Rinsing my mouth with the water from this tap after brushing my teeth
• Rinsing my retainer in this sink

I think this is where I got sick. All day Wednesday, and for the following two weeks, I couldn’t stray further than a 30 second sprint from a restroom. My stomach felt like I swallowed military-grade plutonium, or that I had a bleeding ulcer. I can’t wait to go home.

Oh, no. There it is again. That sounds like something Terry really wants. I will be punished for this again. Read about my flight back to the States starting in Part 7.

Written by Terry Blanchard \\ tags: India, Rants, Travel