Kindness of Strangers

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

There’s no doubt that northern India has been our toughest travel destination yet. At our trip’s inception, we felt Portugal was a bit tough, though manageable, for the independent traveler who speaks a bit of a Romance language. But as we’ve snaked our way through Christian, Islamic, Buddhist, and, finally, Hindu regions of the world, crescendoing in India, Portugal now looks like a cakewalk.

Upon arriving in Delhi from Bhutan, our first order of business was the procurement of train tickets to travel around the “Golden Triangle” cities of Delhi, Agra, and Jaipur. Our trusty Lonely Planet guide warns that trains fill days and sometimes weeks in advance, but that the International Tourist Office, located in the New Delhi train station, offers special seats, set aside by the Indian government, that can only be purchased by tourists. Elizabeth was in the throes of a nasty cold, so I set off on my own.

I hired an auto-rickshaw, a three-wheeled scooter that has a golf cart-like appearance, to take me to the train station. We set off, but after a few blocks, the grandfatherly driver pulled over on the side of the road and explained that the International Tourist Office had moved locations to a different part of town and produced an official city map to prove it. Our Lonely Planet guide had made me aware of the existence of scams where auto-rickshaw drivers work with travel agents, hotels, and restaurants, and will lie, misdirect, and confuse in order to get you there, but the map looked legitimate. He graciously offered to take me to the correct location for the same price, as “I reminded him of his son.” The driver was nothing if not charming as we weaved through narrow alleys in who- knows-what direction. We soon pulled up to a narrow store front, with the words “Government of India Tourist Office” printed on the tinted glass windows.

I entered the office, and was soon seated opposite a plain-clothes government worker. After explaining my requirements, he dialed the train station and asked me to speak to the official, who regretfully informed me, in exceedingly good English, that all trains were full for at least the next four days. My heart sunk and a bead of sweat formed on my brow, as our plans for the next week hinged on getting these tickets. Elizabeth was not around to offer her opinion; I felt alone. Before I knew it, the government worker had produced an alternate itinerary for us, including a private car with driver and all accommodations, all for a price of slightly under $700 USD. I felt a pang of uneasiness in my gut, that something was not quite right. Not willing to commit, the government worker became defensive, asking how I could afford my “expensive” Delhi hotel, but not his package deal. Miffed, I shot back with the strong insinuation that his “government” office was bogus. Accompanying me outside, he said something to my rickshaw driver in Hindi, and I began to wonder what their relationship was.

I entered the rickshaw, insisting that the driver now take me to the New Delhi train station. He repeated that the office is closed, but would take me there to prove it. I was deposited in another strange location, but several signs promised the station was nearby. As I walked around, another helpful stranger directed me to the International Tourist Bureau. With much the same feel as the “Government of India Tourist Office,” I immediately felt uneasy, as I was seated across from two tall men who immediately serve up chai. With formulaic delivery, they explained that some of my desired routes were unavailable (though some of the routes from the previous office are now, magically, available). The conversation quickly devolved into the predictable upselling tactics I had encountered in the last location.

My guardian angels came in the form of two English guys who happened into the office around the same time I did. We met outside and they explained that they had spent the entire day looking for the International Tourist Office, being misdirected to strange offices all over Delhi. They were about to give up, but I suggested we form an alliance, much like on Survivor, and look a bit longer. After a half hour, we finally stumbled upon the International Tourist Office, and the sense of relief I felt was probably much akin to what a sailor feels after crossing an ocean and spying that first speck of land. The real office was brimming with nervous-looking tourists deciphering the insane Indian Railway schedule. Otherwise, the office had a laid-back, no pressure feel, a welcome respite from the outside world. In the end, I was able to purchase all of my tickets for us both for under $50 USD. I explained my tale of woe to the real Indian Railways official, who shook his head, but offered a possible explanation. “Those men were just trying to run a business. It will be a long time before the system can change.”

Unfortunately, things didn’t change much upon our arrival in Jaipur. We were led to the wrong auto-rickshaw at the train station’s prepaid stand, which is supposed to be the most scam-free way to gain transportation. Other times, prices tripled upon arrival at our location. Sometimes tour operators appeared out of nowhere when we reached our final destination. And once, when requesting that we wanted to be taken to the movie theatre, we were driven 15 minutes out of the way to “go shopping,” despite our repeated protests. What makes the cities of the Golden Triangle so exhausting is the level of sophistication and pervasiveness of these scams; one must always be on guard. There’s even a Hindi word, dabbabazi, which refers to “the business of scamming tourists.” The difficulty is that these scams are born out of desperate poverty and fierce competition, a way to scrape out a meager existence. (And please don’t get me wrong — not everyone is crooked, and we met some truly wonderful people during our travels which, unfortunately, was often overshadowed by a few rotten apples in the transportation industry, our major interface.) I thought I was prepared to deal with the scams, but I realized that it’s one thing to read about it, and another to live it.

When I returned to our hotel, exhausted and soaked with sweat, I felt triumphant, as if I had just passed a test of biblical proportions. Elizabeth burst in to tears. “I thought something terrible had happened,” she cried. I asked how long I had been gone. “Four hours.”

Thursday, September 11, 2008

 I’ll be honest:  the idea of coming to India – especially Delhi — scares the bejezus out of me.  Sure, it sounded fine and dandy from the air conditioned comfort of my Albuquerque living room.  But as our departure date grew nearer, the mere thought sent chills of panic down my spine.  What’s so scary about India? 

1. You can’t talk to anyone who’s been here without eliciting wildly varying reactions. “You will either love it or hate it,” everyone says.  Which camp would I fall into?
2. The crush of humanity, the sheer volume of people, freaks me out.  “If you thought Istanbul crowds were bad, just wait until you get to Delhi,” said a friend of mine. 
3. I fear getting sick.  Everyone I know who has traveled to or lived in India has been violently ill. Even the flight attendant on our plane, who was Indian, said she gets sick when she comes to Delhi.
4. We are in the tail end of monsoon season, and I am convinced that every day will bring 90+ degree weather with 90% humidity, and that I will be perpetually cranky. 
5. This is an overwhelming place to come without plans.  We have no plans. 

 I think the biggest reason, though, is that India represents the final frontier of independent travel.  Just like New York, “if I can make it here I can make it anywhere.” Many RTW travelers skip India because it seems like too much to tackle.  I can’t help but wonder what “qualifies” me to be here.  I constantly feel like I’m not cut out for this type of travel, that I don’t have the skills and demeanor required to be successful on the road.  A place like India makes me feel all the less secure; if any place tests my limits, this will be it.  “Maybe we should have gone to Thailand instead?” I asked Maikael, weakly, this morning.  

 Regardless of what I should or shouldn’t have done, we find ourselves in Delhi today. In the last 24 hours, the following has occurred: 

• We were deloused on an airplane
• Maikael made best friends with the gentleman who we refused to change seats with on the plane
• We discovered at 5 am, as we were driving down the wrong side of the street through the darkened streets of Delhi in an ancient cab, that our hotel had moved to an undisclosed location. The phone number we used a week ago didn’t work.
• We saw three cows lounging on the side of a busy road, and one peacock perched on an apartment balcony
• We ate a large lunch for two at the cost of $4
• Our hotel room was briefly invaded by crickets
• Maikael was led to (yet another) ATM machine by an Indian man
• I was stared at continuously while walking down the street

 The highlight of my day was reading The Hindustan Times which, as far as I can tell, is India’s answer to USA Today.  Such informative headlines read, “Don’t worry, we are safe,” and the ever-reassuring, “Injured Indians in Lanka:  These things happen.”  I flipped to the weather forecast, which was as delightfully mystical as I would have expected.  “The morning may be pleasant, with an uneasy afternoon.  There are chances of thundery development.”  I’m also up-to-date on all the latest Bollywood gossip.  And if I’m bored this evening, I can watch “Ruby Duby Hub Dub” on television. 

 I’m not sure what I’m in for. 

Monday, September 1, 2008

We have updated our itinerary with our new locations and dates. We were (finally) able to get our tickets reissued today, and I’m pretty sure we danced a jig out of the American Airlines office this afternoon. In our continued quest to visit sites of Indian Jones significance, we celebrated our victory with a trip to an historic Turkish hamam that was featured in one of the films. We sat on a great stone slab, basking under a magnificent domed ceiling punched with stars, reveling in the solitude. It was the calmest we had felt in days. We returned home, however, to discover that our flight to Jordan, booked for tomorrow, was “unconfirmed” (despite the fact that we have a ticket stating otherwise?!), so we may or may not leave tomorrow. I am beginning to wonder if Istanbul will ever release us from its grip, or if the fates are trying to tell us something.  In any event, we’re going to show up to the airport and play dumb and see what happens.

Monday, September 1, 2008

We were supposed to fly to Rome on Saturday. However, we have recently made some dramatic changes to our itinerary – for better or worse – and have decided to leave directly to Jordan from Istanbul. The earliest available flight to Jordan is September 2, three days after our scheduled flight to Rome.

Our first order of business upon returning to Istanbul from Cirali was to have our tickets reissued. Although we have reservations for our next flight segments, we have no actual tickets; further, because we have paper tickets, some poor sap has to physically pen our new ones. In order to do so, we had to pay a visit to American Airlines’ sole, inconveniently-located office in Istanbul – the only such office in the whole country.

We took a one-hour metro ride to Kabatas, a part of the city I had never been to. We trudged up the hill, holding a crumpled piece of paper in our hands with the office’s address. Passing number 33 once, we hiked back down the hill. A small brass sign, barely detectable, read, “American Airlines, first floor,” and pointed upward. We squinted at the poky staircase that disappeared into the dark. “This is it?” I asked, incredulously.

Once inside, the agency assured us that our tickets could be easily reissued within a few hours. Meanwhile, we spent a leisurely afternoon exploring Taksim, the city already emptying of tourists in late August We ducked in and out of bookstores, buying Lonely Planet guides for our next legs, and spent a long time chatting with the director of the Sufi museum, who was eager to practice his English.

When we returned to the office later that afternoon, we learned that, not only had the tickets not been reissued, but there were “problems.” However, because the office was only an agent of American Airlines, they couldn’t place a call to the airlines in London without charging us 30 Euros (about $45) per person. “Come back Monday and we’ll get it sorted out,” she said, confidently. Our flight is scheduled to leave Tuesday.

I was beside myself. I’ve never faced the unknown very well, and this trip has only confirmed that. I spent a sleepless night wondering how and if we were ever going to get out of Istanbul. If I have learned anything thus far, it’s that I place my expectations in all the wrong places: I expect situations to work out perfectly most times, and when they don’t (and they rarely do), I panic. But I expect very little from people, tending to be leery and untrusting.

The next morning we called Dunya and Diler, a couple about our age who we met at our hotel in Cirali. They both live in Istanbul and lived in New York City for three years, where they attended graduate school. They were eager to show us Istanbul, and encouraged us to contact them when we got back to the city. We decided now would be the perfect time: we needed to have some fun and distract ourselves from the situation at hand.

We met them back in Kabatas (was there a vortex in this neighborhood?), where we boarded a boat for a tour of the Bosphorous. As the ticket collector came around, we were once again surprised when they offered to pay. “You are our guests,” they insisted. We spent a lovely hour taking in the scenery and chatting. It was Victory Day, celebrating the Turk’s triumph over their many invaders throughout the course of history, and every building was draped with gigantic Turkish flags. Huge swaths of the cherry fabric, festooned with the iconic white crescent moon and star, flapped in the breeze. Some flags bore an image of Ataturk, their beloved national hero, who I think is quite dashing.

I shared with Dunya (whose name, interestingly, means “world”) and Diler our ticket woes. Having lived in both American and Turkish cultures, they were able to offer a helpful perspective. “In America there is a system, and the people are bound to it. When something goes wrong, there is always a responsible party,” said Dunya. While none of our lives are ultimately in our control, I think there is a pervasive sense in the US that most things can be manipulated to our satisfaction if we just try hard enough. In most of the world, this isn’t the case; and while I know this on an intellectual level, I am finding it nearly impossible to surrender that sense of control. I am fighting a losing battle with myself.

After the boat cruise, they drove us around the more modern parts of Istanbul, which we had never seen. We zoomed past the towering skyscrapers that they both work in, and lunched in a chic area of town, which, again, was their treat. As a thoroughly modern Turkish couple, it was interesting to hear their perspective on politics, world affairs, social mores, and cultural norms. We walked around Nisantasi, the Beverly Hills of Turkey, and found the streets to be blessedly tourist-free, nothing like the buzzing chaos of Sultanahmet. We popped into a store that I can only describe as the Crate and Barrel of Turkey, where, instead of a plethora of pillows and plates, one can choose from a dizzying array of raki glasses and tea cups.

We said our goodbyes, wishing that we could repay the favor someday if they ever travel to New Mexico. But tit for tat wasn’t the point. I shared with Diler that I was amazed that, in traveling throughout Turkey, no one seems particularly concerned with “keeping tabs.” There was one day in Goreme where we owed four people money. It wasn’t much – a couple of lira here and there – but each vendor always said, “Next time.” When we returned less than an hour later with the money, people looked surprised. “You didn’t have to make a special trip back here!” they seemed to say. Diler translated. “The attitude is that if you have something to give, you give it. They trust that if you are a good person, you will be back. If not, then you’ll get that money back in your life in some other way. The important thing is to do it if you can.” This was the embodiment of karma and trust in your fellow man, an example of placing your expectations in all the right places. It was as nice of a philosophy as I had ever heard.

Today we began our journey into wine country. Our rental car was being delivered to our hotel. We held our breath at the undoubted complexity of conducting this transaction with our limited language skills, but were relieved to learn that the owner had spent eight years living in the US. We were on our way! We zoomed out of the city, making our way towards Pinhao. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a toll booth appeared, as if it had materialized out of thin air. In fact, it came up so suddenly that at first we weren’t sure it was even a toll booth. We had been traveling in the lane furthest to the left and had no time to veer right, forcing us to go through the lane. Maikael slowed down to read the sign, but the car behind us blasted his horn: we realized we were in the fast lane, the lane for people who have an electronic pass that allows them to race through the toll without stopping and grabbing a ticket.The booth was gone in a flash. There was no turning back. We’ll deal with it when we get to the other side, we thought. The worst they’ll do is charge us the fare from the beginning of the toll road.

A number of miles down the road, we saw the next toll booth looming in the distance. “Here we go,” we said. As we rolled into the station, the woman in the booth extended her arm. “Bilhete,” she said. Maikael tried to explain as best he could, in Portuguese, that we had just come from Porto, but that we had made a mistake and not gotten a ticket. As they were talking I looked at the lane next to mine. People seemed to be paying about 1.50 Euros for the toll. Then, a number flashed across our screen: 23.60 Euros. Our jaws dropped open and I’m pretty sure my eyes bugged out of my head like a cartoon. The woman explained that we were being fined for not taking a ticket at the previous booth.

Now I know where the term “highway robbery” comes from.

In my time in Portugal, I have noticed that things tend to be rule-oriented. There is a way that things are done, and trying to bend the rules doesn’t usually yield great results. We tried to enter a grocery store a few weeks ago – you know when you go in the out door? — and were clearly told to go through the correct door. When we were at Sintra I tried to move backwards a bit through the line to snap a few photos, and was met with a polite but firm, “Can I help you with something?” While it was obvious that we were foreigners who had no idea what we were doing and had made an honest mistake, talking this woman out of a 23.60 Euro fine was next to impossible. We begrudgingly paid the money. “Bom viagem!” she said. Have a nice trip!

Things weren’t off to a great start. By the time we reached Lamego for lunch at 3:00 pm, we were tired and cranky and bickering at one another. Everything was the other person’s fault. Why had we rented this car in the first place? I hate wine country!

After lunch, things began to look up. We walked up the swerving steps of the Ingreja de Nossa Senhora dos Remedios, one of Portugal’s most important pilgrimage sites on the Caminho de Santiago. The stairs weave back and forth up a steep incline, as blue and white azulejos flank each landing. The cathedral is perched high on the hill, and the view from below looks like something out of a fairytale. Huge metal boxes, overflowing with white candles, abutted one side of the church; so many candles had melted that the stone had grown waxy over time.

As we drove deeper into wine country, our car crept over hills and plunged into deep valleys. We got out of the car to take in the view but it was a smell that arrested my senses; the air was heavy with curry and sage. I’ve never sensed a countryside so fragrant. Verdant vineyards stretched as far as the eye could see, creating weaving patterns on the hillsides. The Douro River, a swath of cobalt blue ribbon, cut through the landscape. We were officially off the beaten path.

We arrived in Pinhao around 7pm, population 310. As we drove down the one street in town, I spotted our pension. A man stood outside and waved to us; it was as if he knew who we were. We have a riverfront view, with towering vineyards serving as a bookend to the whole scene. Tomorrow we get to move to the room next door, which has a balcony. One shown to our room, we about collapsed from exhaustion, but, after a short rest, decided to take a walk. There is a restaurant on the bottom floor and Senhor Vieria, our proprietor, asked us if we’d like to have dinner. Declining dinner, he said, “Here, porto,” and poured us each a glass from a small, unmarked square jar on the counter, turning a silver spigot. It was a command, not a question, but we were happy to oblige. After a glass, he asked if we’d like another. “Porque no?” we said, not sure if we were speaking Spanish, Portuguese, or both. In any event, we got another glass.

Nothing turns out like we expect it to. The things we think will be hard – renting a car in Portuguese – turns out to be simple, and the things we think will be easy – driving down the highway – turn out to be the most trying experiences. These are hard lessons to learn and hard pills to swallow. We try to take things as they come and to enjoy the scenery along the way. What better place than the Alto Douro.

It started out simply enough: we wanted to see the new Batman movie. We missed its US release by just a few days, and by the time we made it to Lisbon, but movie hadn’t. The other towns we’ve been in since have been too small to house movie theatres, so we vowed we’d make seeing it our first order of business upon arriving to Porto.We approached the receptionist at the front desk of our hotel. “Can you help us find a cinema nearby?” “Yes.,” the woman said. “What you want to see?” “Batman.” She twirled around in her chair and grabbed the local newspaper, humming the theme song from the old TV show. She flipped to the movie section. “Batman Batman Batman,” she said to herself. “Okay, let’s see. She quickly listed a bunch of Portuguese movie titles, including Panda do Kung Fu, none of which sounded like “Batman.” “No, I guess not here yet.” She scanned over the titles again, and one caught our ear; something that sounded like “caballeros.” “Wait, what is that one called?” we asked. “O Cavaleiro das Trevas, like ‘Man of the Night.’” “That has to be it,” we said. “Man of night. Darkman. Batman. I think the subtitle is ‘The Dark Night.’” “Yes, I think that is it,” she said. “The next one start at 9:10.” I glanced at my watch: 8:00 pm. We had plenty of time!

She wrote out a series of detailed directions on taking the metro to the shopping center where the movie theatre was located. She told us to get off at the Sete Bicas stop. “When you get out, follow the people. You see it.”

We made our way to the metro station, not more than a block from our hotel. We approached the ticket machine, always a menacing affair, and read the instructions for purchasing a ticket, which made approximately zero sense to us. Finally, a man, sensing our distress, asked, in English, “Do you need help?” He showed us how the machine operated, but it didn’t accept bills, only coins. We finally wrestled with the machine long enough to produce two 24-hour passes.

When we arrived at Sete Bicas, we expected to emerge from the tunnel in the middle of a shopping center, not a residential neighborhood. There was no line of people streaming in any particular direction. We asked for directions, something that is becoming less scary by the day, and were pointed in a not-obvious direction.

Once at the mall, we made our way to the top floor cinema, looking for a ticket booth. But the only thing we saw was a long row of concession stands. “Maybe they sell tickets at the concession stand?” I said. We studied the flat panel monitor that was rotating through a variety of messages. Finally, one said “Bilheteria,” showing an icon of two movie-looking tickets. But which line? we wondered. Seeing no apparent difference, we chose one at random.

When we got to the front, Maikael asked the woman if this was the line for tickets. Miraculously, it was. “Okay,” Maikael said in Portuguese, “Two tickets for O Cavaleiro Das Trevas.” She whipped out a seating chart, as if we were at a Ticketmaster office. She pointed at a few seats. Apparently, this was all that was available for the 9:10 showing. But we didn’t know which way the screen was oriented – were the seats she was pointing to at the very front or the very back of the theatre? “How are these seats?” Maikael asked. She scrunched up her face. “Mal.” Then, in English, she said, “But there is one at 10 o’clock.” By now it was 9 o’clock and we hadn’t had dinner, so we looked at each other and said, “Sure, why not? We’ll eat and then see the movie.” We nodded enthusiastically at her and she printed out our tickets.

As we walked away from the line, elated by our triumph, I glanced down at the tickets. “22:40,” it said. “Maikael, this says the movie starts at 10:40, not 10,” I said. “Did you hear her say the movie started at 10?” We both had. Then, I suddenly remembered that the metro stopped running around midnight. Or was it 1 am? By now the line had tripled in length, and it was nearly 9:10. Should we try to exchange the tickets? And, if so, how would we communicate that? Our phrase book doesn’t cover these types of complicated transactions. Determining that exchanging our tickets would only muddle matters, we decided to take our chances with the later showing.

Tensions were running high. We were both starving. I was worried about how we would get back to the hotel. I began second-guessing myself, wondering if we should have exchanged the tickets after all. But worst of all, I felt completely deflated. We approach different cultural situations from our worldview, expecting things – as small as procuring a movie ticket – to work in the same way, even though we know intellectually that it won’t. In the world of psychology we’d call it “cognitive dissonance,” but psychobabble aside, I am tired of feeling stupid all of the time. Just when I feel like I’ve done something right or am finally grasping the way things operate, something happens to knock me off my pedestal. All of this is a bit like boot camp: the experiences break you down before you can be built back up again. I am still fighting myself, still being broken down. Eventually, I suppose, I’ll simply be so tired of the struggle that I’ll be forced to accept things for how they are, not how I think or hope they will be.

In the meantime, we ate Chu Min (chow mein?) at a Chinese restaurant in a Portuguese mall. I don’t often eat in malls – heck, I rarely go to malls – but this is the third time I’ve eaten a meal in a Portuguese shopping center.

Feeling a little more fortified, we decided to ask at the mall’s information desk when the metro stopped running. “At 1:20. Twenty past 12.” Maikael and I looked at each other, a look that could only say, “Does he mean 1:20 or 12:20?” “What time does your movie start?” he asked. “Ten forty.” “The movie, it have only two hours, so you be fine.” In my limited time visiting this culture, I have noticed that the Portuguese are exceedingly polite people who don’t wish to disappoint you. There is an overwhelming sense of optimism; this is by no means a bad thing. It can, however, be difficult to get clear answers sometimes. Being here, I realize how cynical, negative, and direct I can be, and how little faith I have in what people do or say. Part of this journey, for me, is living the kindness of strangers approach – to choose to see the good in people. I wanted desperately to trust what this man was saying – to go to the movie with the most positive intentions.

But I didn’t. We ran back to the metro station to check the times for ourselves. The board listed three different times that the metro could stop running, anywhere between 12;36 and 1:36. So which time was it? We asked someone for help, but it was as foreign to them as to us. We walked back to the movie theatre, discussing our plan of action. “We’ll ask the running time at the theatre, and if it lasts pasts 12:36, then we’ll just bag it and go home,” Maikael said.

The man at the theatre said it lasted “uma e meia,” an hour and a half. We’ll be fine! We made our way into the large theatre, which had letters marked at the end of the rows. We were in row N. But once we made it to row N, there were no numbers marked on the chairs. How did everyone know where to sit? We finally made it to our seats, plush, red leather chairs, and breathed a sigh of relief. I looked around; our row was the only row in the theatre with these special chairs. What did this mean?

Soon, the previews started. Sandwiched between advertisements for Get Smart and Wall-E were public service announcements for recycling and AIDS awareness, as well as condom and Super Bock commercials, the national beer.

The movie started in English. Christian Bale was on the screen. For once, we were in the right place, doing the right thing.

An hour into the film, the movie screeched to a halt. “What’s going on?” I asked Maikael, convinced the projector had broken. It was an intermission. For an hour and a half movie?

By 1 am, the movie was still going, and at 1:30 it was over. I had been duped. A big theme in Batman is about faith in humanity: do we choose to see the potential for good or the potential for bad in people? In that moment, I could only feel deceived.

We took a taxi home. I was convinced we’d be overcharged. We weren’t; in fact, the fare was less than we were quoted. I felt guilty about the way I had behaved, and more importantly for assuming the worst in people. When I got up today, I was still thinking about everything that had transpired the night before, and what lesson I was meant to learn from the experience. As Maikael and I talked over the events of the evening, we suddenly realized that the man had said that the movie ended at uma e meia, not that it lasted uma e meia.

Talk about getting lost in translation. It had nothing to do with deception and everything to do with my lack of faith, frame of mind, and limited Portuguese language skills. I vowed to turn over a new leaf. In the end, our big night out on the town cost us around $50. But the lesson was priceless.