Starter Marriage Hell 101 - Part 6: No, a Trip Won’t Save Your Relationship (Even Before Marriage)
We Could’ve Gone Anywhere. I Chose India.
India, Winter 1997.
Previously, in the desperate search for clarity...
(Okay, let’s be real—it wasn’t entirely about clarity. It was about boredom.)
Ibiza was gorgeous, sure, but off-season, I was stir-crazy. And the relationship?
It wasn’t unfolding the way I’d fantasized.
The magic we’d had in Miami? Gone.
So, India became the escape plan.
The spiritual Hail Mary.
An attempt to bring back the spark—
or at least distract us from the fact that it was fading.
I’d already searched alone.
Jerusalem, Europe, the Middle East—
lighting candles, chasing signs, hoping for that divine lightning bolt.
But this time, I wasn’t alone.
This time, I had something to lose.
So surely India, the place people go to find themselves, had to be it.
It wasn’t.
Even before we landed in Mumbai, the drama had already started.
We were crammed in economy, stuck right across from the bathroom, when an American man completely lost it.
He came barreling out—red-faced, yelling. Loud enough to turn heads.
Flight attendants rushed over, stepping between him and a tiny, elderly Indian woman in a bright sari.
No one knew what was happening at first.
Then came the whispers. The pointing.
Turns out, a few passengers had been squatting on the seats instead of sitting—feet up, shoes and all.
Black footprints smeared across the white cushions.
Some even missed the seat entirely.
I saw it myself when I went to the bathroom.
Then came the announcement—crackly and tense—maybe the pilot, maybe a panicked flight attendant.
It didn’t matter.
It didn’t help.
Tensions flared.
Voices rose.
The argument dragged on.
Tense. Awkward. Ugly.
And just like that, the culture clash began.
Western discomfort slamming headfirst into Eastern norms.
No one said it outright, but the judgment was thick. Hanging in the air.
And me?
I sat there thinking—
Didn’t they know how to use a toilet?
Sure, squatting’s supposed to be better for digestion (hello, Squatty Potty)—
but on an airplane?
Which, I’ll admit, wasn’t my proudest thought.
Especially since at 26, I’d traveled enough to know holes in the ground were a thing. Bring your own TP.
But most of the Westerners on that flight? Probably hadn’t.
Different continent. Different rules. Different expectations.
And we hadn’t even landed yet—
and already, I was rattled.
Then we touched down in Mumbai—
and things unraveled fast.
I thought I was a seasoned traveler.
But this? This was a whole different level.
The airport felt frozen in time.
No AC. Dim lighting. Sweat clinging to everything.
I could barely breathe.
It was 4 a.m. when we finally stepped outside.
The city was mostly quiet—just a few rickshaws buzzing past, the soft glow of food carts lighting up the street.
And then came the real shock:
The wall of heat.
Thick. Heavy. Laced with exhaust.
The stench—part smoke, part sewage, part... something else.
And the sidewalks—lined with people.
Families. Kids. Grandparents.
Whole generations curled under scraps of cloth.
Trash piled high, spilling into the street.
It overwhelmed me.
It broke my heart.
It knocked me off whatever center I thought I had.
My very first thought?
Uh oh. What have I done?
We could’ve gone anywhere—and this is where I insisted on coming?
Victor hadn’t even wanted to go. I’d pushed for this.
(Now I was the one who wanted out.)
The next day, we took a ferry to Elephanta Island, chasing something—anything—spiritual.
Instead, we got monkeys.
Everywhere.
One literally snatched food right out of my hand.
They were circling us in the trees, watching, waiting.
I was afraid I was going to be attacked.
I was shaky for the rest of the day.
I should’ve known better than to snack. Rookie mistake.
Later, our guide took us walking through what I now realize was near Dharavi—one of Mumbai’s largest slums, close to Mahim Creek.
At the time, I had no idea where we were.
Just that we were near the water, in a part of Mumbai I wouldn’t understand until much later.
Why were we there?
Honestly, I think it was just… on the itinerary.
To open our minds? Maybe.
Shock value? Probably.
Huts lined a narrow dirt road.
There was a sharp, chemical stench in the air—coming from somewhere we didn’t want to identify.
One family invited us into their home.
Warm. Welcoming. Wide smiles.
The entire space was the size of our kitchen back in Ibiza—
dirt floors, a blackened pot simmering over a fire in the corner.
Mats were neatly stacked against one wall, waiting to be unrolled for bed.
The kids, barefoot and wide-eyed, stared at us like we were aliens.
And Victor? With his blond hair and blue eyes?
He may as well have been a god.
They reached out to touch him—almost reverently.
And somehow, in the middle of all that poverty and smoke and raw humanity, their mother beamed.
Her front tooth was missing, her clothes worn thin—
but her joy? Radiant.
Like we were old friends dropping by.
I stood there, completely overwhelmed.
By their generosity.
By their grace.
By the fact that people with so little could still offer so much.
I wanted to leave. Politely. Quietly. Quickly.
I was way out of my comfort zone.
But our guide whispered, “It would be rude. Sit. Take the tea.”
So we sat—Victor, me, and Susana, an 18-year-old with wide green eyes from my yoga class.
It was her first time leaving Spain.
And the mother smiled proudly as we gathered in a circle. But Victor and Susana?
Were not handling it the same way.
Victor looked at me like I’d dragged him into a disaster. And maybe I had.
They didn’t exactly share my Indiana Jones spirit—
or my childhood fantasies of magic carpet rides to far-off lands like India.
They looked shell-shocked. Tense.
Holding their breath until we could go.
And honestly? I got it.
Because the moment we stepped back onto the road, we found ourselves in an open field—
and directly in the middle of it: a row of women in faded saris.
Squatting.
Only their heads visible above the tall grass.
No walls. No stalls. Just nature, doing what it does.
We were in the middle of someone’s bathroom.
An open-air toilet.
I froze.
Wandering through what was basically a public latrine wasn’t anyone’s idea of a spiritual awakening.
Definitely not mine.
We walked back to the hotel in silence.
And in that moment, somewhere between the poverty, the tea, and the open-air toilet, one thought kept looping in my head:
Was I really supposed to find enlightenment here?
Coming up next:
Turns out, wild dogs were just the beginning.
The trip—the group, the “spiritual journey,” the illusion of control—was about to implode.
Stay tuned.