Before Takeoff, A Bad Sign
I took a Jet Airways flight from Delhi to Kolkata (JA is a private airline based in India). Before takeoff, I situated myself in my comfortable seat, leaned my head back and closed my eyes. Delhi and the Palace on Wheels had been quite an experience; an overload of sights, sounds and smells. Now I was heading to embrace the main portion of my journey, in Kolkata (Calcutta). Musak was playing softly on through the speakers, and the song's skipping beat percussion and chord progression was familiar to me. It was not a native Indian song. After a few seconds, it came to me: "Hotel California" by the Eagles. I thought to myself, "This doesn't bode well." I can just see it now: thinking I was checking into a nice hotel in Kolkata, I was really checking into Hell. Great, not only will I get to know Jesus better in Kolkata, I'll get to know Satan better too. You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.

Who Are The People In Your Neighborhood, Part 2
While I came to volunteer with the Missionaries of Charity, and had connections with friends of friends from Word Made Flesh group, I expected to spend most of my time alone. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that I almost instantly developed a handful of friends. All are interesting, intelligent, varying degrees of funny; all desiring to serve the poor and all searching for something.

I rarely find myself bored without something to do or without someone to do it with: the challenge here is not slipping into old habits of over-programming, busyness and feeling rushed as I often feel back in the U.S. I will write more later about what daily life is like here; suffice it to say that days are flexible and people live pretty much moment-by-moment. Life is simple, allowing people to develop relationships with each other very quickly.

I have been so grateful to the folks from Word Made Flesh, who not only picked me up from the airport in Kolkata, but helped me find a place to stay, showed me around the 'hood and gave me a lot of good advice. They've truly welcomed me into their community as one of the gang, and I see them almost every day. Trever is from Michigan, is one of the genuinely nicest guys I've ever met, and has introduced me to the concept of littering (which everyone here does; I guess they missed the anti-littering commercial with the crying Native American Indian in the '70's). Josh is from Nebraska, has an enormous heart, has a sad and incredible childhood story that inspires, and wants to get a tattoo across his stomach (editorial note: bad idea). Kristin is from Florida, is a lot of fun and loves watching American Idol. Michelle and Kyle Cullum met here in Kolkata and were married seven months ago: Kyle, also from Florida, has a gift for helping people and says "dude" a lot. Michelle is a Wisconsin native, has a refreshingly matter-of-fact personality and recently got her nose pierced. Rounding out the bunch is Courtney who hails from Cincinnati, is always smiling and had her hair accidentally dyed purple. They spend their afternoons on "The Gotch," which is Sonnagacchi Street in the red-light district. They pair off to walk up and down the streets, talking to the working girls and also to the men who employ or sometimes own them.

While WMF is a faith-based organization, the Kolkata staff are not unusually gifted or reverend-like; they are not always deep and spiritual, or breathe some rareified Godly air. They're totally normal. They budget their money, they love electronic gadgets, they crack jokes, tease each other and have disagreements, like you and me. What is different from us perhaps is that they showed up to serve. Armed simply with hearts for God and for the poor, they stepped out in faith to move halfway around the world to just love on those people that society has utterly forgotten. Michelle feels that WMF acts as a connector for other groups: a jute factory that needs workers, non-profit justice missions who work to get girls out of the sex trade, groups who provide free education. WMF knows the women; they have the relationships and can make those connections. They're praying for guidance and vision for what's next.

Apparently I'm the only one in the group who has a hot-water shower, cable TV and air conditioning (all three are fairly unusual for most residents of Kolkata, and are very rarely enjoyed by the thousands of volunteers that reside here), so we often spend time in my hotel room, with me hosting enjoyable company. I'm not above buying my popularity.

Outside my hotel on Sudder Street, the main drag of the Chowringhee area of town (the popular location for volunteers), I often see Protima and her baby girl Shopna. Protima's husband lives back in their village and has been suffering from tuberculosis. Protima comes to the city, stays on the streets for a few weeks at a time and begs for money. The WMF folks look out for her; Trever is putting Protima's two sons through boarding school, ensuring they get an education rather than falling into child labor, begging or something else. Protima is probably my age or slightly younger. She has a beautiful smile and bright, expressive eyes. Shopna is the most adorable baby you've ever seen, with a pigtail right on top of her head. Shopna rarely wears pants, so holding Shopna often means holding a naked hiney.

Toona is another person who lives on the street; he too is a favorite of the WMF team, and he asks Josh or others to buy him ice cream on a daily basis. We don't know much about him, other than at one time he may have had money and a wife. Something went down, and now he's in the streets and seems a bit disoriented, and has about 6 or 7 teeth.

Mr. Mohiuddin is a Muslim who owns a convenience shack on the way from my hotel to the Missionaries of Charity "Mother House" (the MOC headquarters). He is my daily chewing-gum supplier, strawberry gum that he sometimes gives me for free. One day I saw him walking down the street with his three-year old son; he greeted me warmly and loudly, "Dennis! You meet my son, !" "Son, she is American!" His son just grinned and reached out in interest to grab my face.

G.C. is the security guard who faithfully stands watch outside the Hotel Lytton where I stay. He's sharp-dressed in a blue uniform and hat. He says he's "a fan of America." Each evening I ask him how many people he's beaten up that day, and he just smiles. I hope it's a large number.

The cleaning staff of the Hotel Lytton can best be described as eager and a little creepy. Within ten minutes of my checking into my room, two employees knocked on the door, spoke to me in Bengali, pointed at the bed and came on in. One took off the bedspread and folded it up; the other had a squirt bottle of some liquid and began spraying the foot of the bed, the floor and the bathroom. Either they were spraying for bugs or marking their territory. And then they left . . . too bad those years of Bengali I took in high school in Oklahoma City failed me; Bengalis flock to Oklahoma, don't you know. Anyway, when I had to change rooms a few days later, who showed up again but the Bedspread Police. They also have a habit of knocking on my door within about 10 minutes after I enter my room, "Towels, madame?" "Water, madame?" I have taken to hanging the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door handle whenever I am not there.

The next dispatch will include descriptions of the volunteers I work with at the Home for the Dying and Destitute, and of the most beautiful women I've ever seen: the sisters of the Missionaries of Charity.