Dictionary Definition of Culture Shock: Flying From Monaco to India

If there’s a little European city more neatly trimmed, buttoned up, and flaunting affluence than Monte Carlo, I haven’t found it. Well, maybe in Switzerland, but generally speaking nothing beats Monte Carlo for polish as well as the number of Bentleys and Ferraris parked outside the principality’s flagship hotel, the Hotel de Paris.

Then there’s Delhi, India, whose old downtown market is a chaotic collection of tiny shops selling just about every product known to the world amidst a swirl of dust, a parade of goats, monkeys flitting from roof to roof, jostling pedicabs (called “rickshaws” by Delhites), donkey-drawn carts, bicycles overloaded with cargo, and any other manner of transport you can imagine. The fanciest car is sight is a Honda Accord.

I jumped between those two destinations for work with just brief stops in my hometown of Saint Paul, MN, and Los Angeles; I think I established a new personal best in the category of culture shock.

I ’ve spent a lot of time on the French Riviera, so the cavalcade of luxury cars, the glittering hotels and restaurants, and the well-groomed couples taking $150 lunches outside at the Café de Paris came as no surprise.  (That's the famous casino on the left--the Hotel de Paris is adjacent to it.)  And I’ve also done Delhi a couple of times before this trip, so I’m not completely overwhelmed by the impossibly crowded streets, the press of the crowds, and the omnipresent evidence of poverty. But it was the rapid juxtaposition between the two that made me marvel at the disparity between two of the world’s great destinations.

Each, I think, offers travelers reasons to visit; each is fascinating in its own way.

Monte Carlo is a kind of Disneyland for the wealthy, a place to gawk at Belle Epoque architecture, the gorgeous Mediterranean, the super-sized yachts, and the manicured landscaping--not a bougainvillea blossom is out of place. Delhi is thrilling for its press of humanity, the ingenuity of man (just check the electrical wiring in Old Delhi), the brilliant colors of saris that pop out of the dusty cityscapes, and the jumble of religions with their various temples and traditions.

I find Americans are divided into two groups on a couple of subjects. The first is beets. Either you hate them or you love them. The second is India. Half of Americans love the country or can’t wait to visit; the other half dislike it or would never consider visiting. I love beets, and I love India, where, by the way, there’s beet juice available in street stalls everywhere. I tell friends that you can take a movie camera, set it up on almost any city street in India, turn it on, walk away, and return in two hours and you’ll have an Indiana Jones movie.

For three weeks in December, my television crew and I have been shooting our first episodes on India; now I know I was right in that description of India’s cities. In Delhi, Agra, and Jaipur (our first three destinations), we’ve barely had to move the tripod when shooting downtown. All of it comes to us if we just stay in one place—the cows, the elephants, the camels, the monkeys, and the panoply of bicycles and motorized vehicles with two, three, four and more wheels. Oh, and the people. Indians are famously friendly, and they love to come right up to our camera and are content to stand there and quietly watch as I botch my lines. When we shot in Monte Carlo a few years ago, no one gave us a second glance.

More on the French Riviera and India in upcoming blogs.