In praise of things that go wrong.

When it comes to our annual trips to India, there are a few questions people tend to ask me and/or Janine and Jaya, my travel companions and former roommates back at University of Chicago.

• “Could I come with you next time?” (Answer: “We only allow people who saw us in our underwear 50 years ago.”)
• “Aren’t you worried about _____ ?”[Fill in the blank with germs/ dirt/ sickness/ theft/ injury/ drinking the water/ eating the food/ death] (Answer: I took three dips in the Ganges River and all that happened is my bum knee has mysteriously gotten much better.)
• “Why do you go during the dead of winter?” (Answer:
  

  If you don’t mind that green alien spaceship clearly about to land in the Arabian Sea, the coast of India has some of the warmest, most stunning beaches in the world.

The truth is that what keeps us going back (or at least what we remember most about our trips) are not the things that go right. It’s the things that go spectacularly, gloriously wrong that make the best stories and most lasting memories.

Take this year’s trip. Janine’s plane took off just as the USA was plunging into record-breaking deep freeze. Just days before takeoff, I noticed that my own tickets had mysteriously been issued in my maiden name (which I haven’t used in over 45 years). I threw myself on the mercy of the travel booking site, explaining that it was a matter of life or death (mostly because Jaya would probably kill me if I screwed up her meticulous travel plans). I had to resurrect my marriage certificate but somehow they managed to reissue the tickets in the nick of time.

At Mumbai Airport at 2AM, security flagged a little package containing the three tiny bottles of marmalade I was bringing to Jaya as a gift. Each one was clearly labeled as 100ml, the limit for air travel. Ignoring the other passengers piling their jugs of water, soft drinks, coffee, and IDK automatic weapons onto the x-ray belt, the guard unwrapped each little jar of marmalade, holding it to the light and squinting at it.

“Marmalade,” I explained.

He shot me a suspicious look.

I tried again. “For toast?”

He started to unscrew the jar.

“It’s like jam! Yum!” At this point, I was willing to abandon Jaya’s gift, but the bag also held my winter coat. Which, sadly, I would probably need for my return journey to the frozen northlands.

The guard held it out to his colleague. “Jam?”

The other guard shrugged and gave one of those yes/no headshakes at which Indian men excel. They handed over my bag, and we ran to meet up with Jaya and board our flight to Goa and paradise.

Even though it was just before dawn, our taxi ride to the hotel seemed odd. In India, car horns are usually a cheerful sonar system, announcing each vehicle’s presence and direction at all times. Colorfully painted trucks even include signs reminding other drivers to “sound horn”. But these highways were crazy silent. Cars obeyed traffic rules, and stayed on their assigned sides of the road. We passed imposing Catholic churches and other reminders of almost 500 years of Portuguese occupation. The loud, boisterous India we were used to had been replaced by sedate drivers and churches that would have been at home anywhere in Europe.

“Jaya,” I whispered. “Where are we really?”

At our hotel, we collapsed into jetlag comas following almost two full days of travel. When we regained consciousness, we lost no time in heading over to the beach and standing, stunned, in the warm waves as the sun set.

Our driver suggested that we would not want to miss an “art museum” of special interest. Even though we were pretty sure the special interest was whatever cut the driver got from bringing customers there, it was the first morning of our trip and we were willing to take a chance. And that’s when things started to go wrong.

Do you ever wonder who buys all those old broken tools and appliances you see in garage sales and junk shops? In Goa, at least, it’s the Victor Hugo Gomes Chitra Goa Museum. Our museum-assigned guide walked us through the artifacts collected and loosely arranged (a bunch of old typewriters she described as “typewriters”). This went on for several rooms, with no particular reasoning (although there were, randomly, some well-done exhibits with photos and explanations). Other museum visitors joined our little group, including an older lady who attached herself to me, although we couldn’t tell if she thought I was pathetic or just hilarious. At one point, when the guide was pointing to old kitchen equipment, the lady confided, “I have a lot of these things in my kitchen. Does that mean I belong in a museum?” I had to agree with her, and admit that many of the artifacts on display were younger than I was.

But the real problem was that with each passing minute, we risked missing the real objective of the morning’s trip because we knew the temple we wanted to visit would be closing mid-day. Finally released by our friendly guide, we were on the way to the Shantadurga Temple in Goa. The original temple was destroyed during the Portuguese occupation, rebuilt during the early 1700s, and dedicated to Shantadurga, goddess of peace.

We were surprised to see crowds of people dressed in their festive best. Not sure where to go, we followed one group through a doorway, and found ourselves in the front of the sanctum. We realized we had somehow bypassed a huge queue of people waiting to enter. We were about to leave when a kind man in a beautiful green silk kurta murmured to me that it was a special moment. He pointed to the golden chariot, and said that the deity would make an appearance which hadn’t occurred for a hundred years. Our late arrival and backdoor entrance had positioned us with front row views of this rare event.

Photos were not allowed, so I ask you to picture a happy crowd dressed in bright silk and embroidered traditional dress, singing and praying. Priests carried dishes of open flames among them, and people waved their hands through the flames, wafting the smoke to themselves. Musicians were playing, drums and bells sounding. The idol, gorgeously draped in fresh flowers, was carried out and installed in her famous gold chariot, which was then lifted by those chosen for this special honor.

And we were right there. If we hadn’t made the two wrong decisions to stop at the museum and then to go in the wrong door, we would have missed a once in a lifetime experience.

And we still have the marmalade.