This morning I got up early to get some milk down the street at our little neighborhood dairy, "Mother Dairy", where you can buy raw milk and fill your own can.  It's also the local hangout for the lower working class in the area - the dairy bar. The stuff is pretty delicious, though most of the expat community wouldn't know that because they steer clear.  But I had breakfast with Sagar, my landlord, who provided samosas grilled like a croque monsieur, a bowl of oatmeal with fresh papaya alongwith several other fruits, a cup of delectable tea, and of course a big glass of creamy unpasteurized milk. And all this when I had just dropped in. He later took me and his house guest Kojima-san, the Japanese professor, to his favorite fresh produce vendor, and schooled us in what fair prices ought to resemble. Three mango for 35 rupees, about 25 cents each.  One kilo of tomatoes, about a dollar.  It's understood that foreigners should pay a premium, but not 'get fleeced' as Sagar contends. 

I've eaten irresistible street food and am brushing my teeth with tap water.  Hence I'm considered to be living in a high risk zone.  But I also rub shoulders with locals who twitter at the expats' precautions.  Their glowing skin and hair seems affirmation that whatever is in the water is okay by them.  I've also come to learn that these instructional assistants, one for every teacher, are often just as well-educated as the foreign hires, but get a fraction of the pay and benefits. They are mostly grateful, as am I, to be working in such a wonderful facility, but they gracefully acknowledge the inequity. 

Below are a couple of shots of my neighborhood, one of the poshest in Delhi, with typical rents for a two bedroom in excess of $3000/month, and several tony restaurants just a block away from us. My apartment as seen from the park across the lane - ours is on the second floor, or 'first floor' here. It's a lovely leafy green place, yet there is garbage strewn at every crossroad, and broken concrete piles, meandering dogs and cats and barefoot children.  The exhortation to USE ME written on garbage cans in the diplomatic core seem petulant and hopeless, when more garbage surrounds the can than has actually found its way in. But just as often flower petals strewn my path, and scents of jasmine are still more common than putrid ones. 

We're easing into the place more and more.