Meet Darjeeling, captured on analogue in the shrouding mid-morning mist.
Another leg of my post-grad trip, this accompanied by a Polish coyear and pots of Ladakhi apricot jam, this was definitely one of my favourite places in India. Admittedly very backpacker-friendly (we ran into several batches of travelers at our hotel, breakfast cafe and odd British pub) and a little bit of a slop to get to (a rather uncomfortable overnight bus and a shared jeep up the writhing and well-used mountain paths), the hill-station was charm itself, a series of buildings climbing the Himalayan foothills and fading into acres of tea-plantations.
We spent our handful of days there visiting the zoo, where we ran into a strange man, dressed in a horrendous checkered shirt, pointy green shoes and with a following of demure women and a film camera, wandering around the temples in the nearby town after stocking up on an amazing Indian sweet at the local bakery, and attempting to get to Tiger Hill, where the view of Kanchengjunga, the third highest Himalayan mountain, is allegedly the best. Sadly, the last activity involved a four o'clock rise, which we just about missed, and jeepless, we walked the deserted streets and peered into the horizon from the miniature train station instead.
One night, we chanced upon an adorable/amazing restaurant-cum-creative studio, run by a couple interested in design (architecture and clothing), and spent many hours there, watching Oprah, eating brilliance on plates and discussing Le Corbusier's Chandigarh. High teas in sumptuous hotels with gardens filled with white dogs and tea-shopping alongside Indian tourists followed this, and then we were off again, back to Calcutta (this time by train, luckily), where I would be told I looked like I was a Darjeeling local.
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