One stop was the town of Mathura, which we lovingly nicknamed “Manura” because the whole town smelled like manure and was swarming with small flies. Every time you stopped moving, these little flies would land on you. You could wiggle and they would fly off, but as soon as you were still again, you were covered. There wasn’t much to do or see in this town. It was a dump. But it happened to be the closest town to a beautiful temple marking the birthplace of the god Krishna.
We arrived in mid January, the off-season. The town has times of year where it swarms with tourists as well as flies, but this was not one of them. Our teacher had selected a hotel for us head of time. And when we arrived we were delighted to find out that it would cost us only 6 Rupies a night, about $0.18. Indians are fanatical about their paperwork, something they picked up from the British during their occupation of India. Everything must be filled out, by hand, in triplicate: Your name, your passport number, your home address, your address in India, what you intend to do while you’re here, how long you’re staying, your pants inseam and eyeglass prescription, and so on. So there was quite a back log at the front desk when 18 students plus a family of 5 arrived. The friends I intended to share a room with—Keri, Rachelle, Nicole, Angie, Candace, and I—decided to go set our stuff in our room first and then come back to fill out the paperwork once things had died down. 
We left the mob of people at the front desk, which was just a few feet inside the front door, and took the hallway to the left (an identical hallway went off to the right). The hallway was marble-floored, as everything in India is. Open windows let in a nice warm breeze. Our room was down about 5 doors. When we opened it, we were disappointed. It was pretty bare bones. Six wooden-framed cots lined up in the center of the room. They were dusty and covered with rat droppings. A small table and chairs in one corner was the only other furniture. Two doors led off the sleeping area; one to the bathroom and another, locked, to the back ally. 
The bathroom was pretty typical of India. A porcelain squat pot took up the space in the center of the 4x3 room. A water tap about 10 inches off the ground was on the side wall with a small plastic pitcher underneath. Indians—those of all classes but the very rich—don’t use toilet paper. It’s too expensive. Instead most bathrooms have a water tap and a pitcher next to the squat pot to wash off with after one has squatted, and if necessary one can use the left hand to help things along. (Indians never touch food or each other with the left hand. Only the right hand is used for dining and shaking hands and everything else. You know, just in case.)
Later that evening, the whole group decided to go out for some dinner. We found a shabby little restaurant that served the traditional Indian thali meal. It was just average. And very spicy. But it was food, and we were hungry. 
Afterward, we all went shopping at a fantastic local market. It was full of wonderful handmade trinkets and crafts from the surrounding villages, as well as stickers and posters and statues of Krishna and Rama and the other forms of Vishnu, and some of the other favorite Hindu gods. And everything was so cheap we filled up bags full of souvenirs.
Om is the sound of the universe: Heaven, earth, hell and silence all in one word. It represents the omniscience, omnipotence, and omnipresence of God. Om is a syllable of meditation and grounding. It is also a tattoo on my lower back.
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