Two nights in a row of all-night classical Indian concerts. Some really tremendous music. Heather and I, for reasons neither of us can understand, are designated "Honored Guests" and so have access to the golden eating tent and the golden sleeping tent and the golden tent where my guruji sits surrounded by fawning disciples and bags of spent paan (the man eats betelnuts at an astounding rate).
Both nights the MC calls me up on stage and has me light a 5-part candle the religious significance of which I haven't a clue. The second night, they put a garland of marigolds around me neck and say, "We welcome our honored guest Mr. John. Mr. John is a famous drumist from America." In this case "famous" must mean you play free shows to your friends at little cafes. Cheers. The dying flowers kept my neck surprisingly cool for the entire night.
