During our first six month assignment in India, we lived at the Taj Palace Hotel, which is in the heart of the Diplomat Enclave in New Delhi. When world leaders visit India's capital, they often stay either at that hotel or the nearby ITC Maurya Sheraton.
One Friday after work we made a quick stop by the hotel to drop our drycleaning so we could subsequently take a cab home from dinner (during our 2004-2005 assignment, we didn't have the luxury of our trusty drivers Kailash and Ashok). I noticed the portico of the hotel was eerily empty but that didn't stop me from calling over a bellhop to fulfill my request. Expat entitlement was in full effect. As he nervously stepped over, I noticed the few people that stood around were all equipped with machine guns. Well, except myself and the bellhop. Not thirty seconds later, a luxury vehicle stopped, the door opened, and then-Senator Hillary Clinton quickly hopped out of the car in a stylish red pantsuit (I'm not being sexist here in that I noticed what she was wearing, but when an important person wears something so distinctive, you tend to take note), and quickly ascended the steps to the hotel. The entire scene happened so quickly that Lindsay, who was still seated in the car, had no idea what had taken place.
At that time, we were living a life that made this experience somewhat notable and slightly more exciting than "just a normal Friday night." But not by a lot.
Shortly after the Clinton visit, we went to the Mauyra Sheraton for dinner. I'm guessing it was less about dinner and more about India's premiere Irish pub, Dublin's. Regardless, as we approached the front entrance to the hotel, it was obvious that there was beefed up security via both extra guards and metal detectors. I asked one of the friendly mustachioed bellhops in traditional Rajasthani garb who was visiting. He responded, "Chavez."
For some reason, and I have no idea why, I decided I'd test the security. Now please understand, and this is no excuse, but I was in my twenties and at the height of my obnoxious "I'm a westerner that does no wrong" phase where I thought I knew exactly how to navigate the Indian culture when the reality was more that I sort of knew how to navigate the Indian culture of luxury hotels. I decided it would be a good idea simply to walk around the metal detector at the front door. For all I know, I could have been shot - and probably would have deserved it. But guess what happened? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I simply walked around the metal detector and into the hotel.
Granted, in the eight years (nearly to the day, if my slight research is any indication) since this event, security at Indian hotels has increased but it's still less than meets the eye. We were told by Indian colleagues that the security checks at blockades to enter hotel grounds are far more thorough when there's a westerner in the car than when there's not. And as you might expect, when we stayed at the Taj Mahal Palace in Mumbai, security was tight to enter the hotel (it was one of the hotels attacked in 2008) and access floors via guest elevators but there were obvious gaps to access the floors via service entrances.
So what did I learn from Hugo Chavez? I basically learned the placebo effect of Indian hotel security and that it's far more show than substance.
Special note: I'm not sure what it says about my life or priorities that 16 days after I became a father (we welcomed a healthy and beautiful daughter on February 18) it was the death of Hugo Chavez that made me come out of writing hibernation (I'm certain I will hear about this from the wife). But no worries, the labor, delivery, and early fatherhood posts are coming (including one where I try to compare labor to visiting India for the first time - which seemed easy in concept but is proving harder to actually execute).
One Friday after work we made a quick stop by the hotel to drop our drycleaning so we could subsequently take a cab home from dinner (during our 2004-2005 assignment, we didn't have the luxury of our trusty drivers Kailash and Ashok). I noticed the portico of the hotel was eerily empty but that didn't stop me from calling over a bellhop to fulfill my request. Expat entitlement was in full effect. As he nervously stepped over, I noticed the few people that stood around were all equipped with machine guns. Well, except myself and the bellhop. Not thirty seconds later, a luxury vehicle stopped, the door opened, and then-Senator Hillary Clinton quickly hopped out of the car in a stylish red pantsuit (I'm not being sexist here in that I noticed what she was wearing, but when an important person wears something so distinctive, you tend to take note), and quickly ascended the steps to the hotel. The entire scene happened so quickly that Lindsay, who was still seated in the car, had no idea what had taken place.
At that time, we were living a life that made this experience somewhat notable and slightly more exciting than "just a normal Friday night." But not by a lot.
Shortly after the Clinton visit, we went to the Mauyra Sheraton for dinner. I'm guessing it was less about dinner and more about India's premiere Irish pub, Dublin's. Regardless, as we approached the front entrance to the hotel, it was obvious that there was beefed up security via both extra guards and metal detectors. I asked one of the friendly mustachioed bellhops in traditional Rajasthani garb who was visiting. He responded, "Chavez."
For some reason, and I have no idea why, I decided I'd test the security. Now please understand, and this is no excuse, but I was in my twenties and at the height of my obnoxious "I'm a westerner that does no wrong" phase where I thought I knew exactly how to navigate the Indian culture when the reality was more that I sort of knew how to navigate the Indian culture of luxury hotels. I decided it would be a good idea simply to walk around the metal detector at the front door. For all I know, I could have been shot - and probably would have deserved it. But guess what happened? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I simply walked around the metal detector and into the hotel.
Granted, in the eight years (nearly to the day, if my slight research is any indication) since this event, security at Indian hotels has increased but it's still less than meets the eye. We were told by Indian colleagues that the security checks at blockades to enter hotel grounds are far more thorough when there's a westerner in the car than when there's not. And as you might expect, when we stayed at the Taj Mahal Palace in Mumbai, security was tight to enter the hotel (it was one of the hotels attacked in 2008) and access floors via guest elevators but there were obvious gaps to access the floors via service entrances.
So what did I learn from Hugo Chavez? I basically learned the placebo effect of Indian hotel security and that it's far more show than substance.
Special note: I'm not sure what it says about my life or priorities that 16 days after I became a father (we welcomed a healthy and beautiful daughter on February 18) it was the death of Hugo Chavez that made me come out of writing hibernation (I'm certain I will hear about this from the wife). But no worries, the labor, delivery, and early fatherhood posts are coming (including one where I try to compare labor to visiting India for the first time - which seemed easy in concept but is proving harder to actually execute).
Liked your world leaders story!! Thanks
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