"oh hello! I've just slipped a note under your door, but it is much better to run into you!"

I'm walking up the steep stone road and come across Joan, our favorite elderly British lady who tells scandalous stories to the women on the trains. She's squatted down next to a small Nepali boy playing cars with him.

"I have to tell you, I have just so enjoyed meeting you two young ladies. You're simply wonderful and look at you, so sparkly! And anyways, I've given you my email and I'd love to keep in touch, but if you don't feel like it, don't bother at all," and she continues on, "and I have to tell you, I've just gotten into the most wonderful fight. I was buying tickets and this man cuts right in front of me! So I say, 'excuse me sir, but I was here, and you're just going to have to wait.' and he says, 'but I'm rich!' so I say to him, 'I don't care if you're god, you're going to have to wait because I was here first and I'm not finished.' and he replies, 'you British don't own India anymore and you never should have been here in the first place,' so I say, 'you're perfectly right about that, but good manners are universal and I was here first.' and then he says, 'but you're a woman.' and I say, 'I don't care what I am, I was here first!' It really was a fantastic fight, but I'm keeping you and you have to go.

So she hugs me and runs off down the hill.

One more plate of momo's, twenty-five deep breaths (to last me through calcutta), and away we go. Last train ride. Through the night, back to Calcutta. With, hopefully, no boob grabs or exploding light bulbs. But one can only hope.

It's strange. But once again, I've found myself missing Calcutta. Oh how I hate it. Oh how I love it.