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We left Perth at 3am to start our journey into the rest of our lives together.  Four bags, travelling light, yeah.  Not.  Very heartsore to leave my baby granddaughter who has just started walking, and shouting.  When we return, she'll be talking.  I feel like Marco Polo taking off on his long adventures.  The Mama who sails away, dabbing tears with her disposable hanky.  The Mama who makes up the stories, lives on the edge, now has a Witness, ready to rock and roll with her.

Reno honed in on the food at the Silver Kris lounge.  It was five am and the baggage  handlers were wiping sleep from their eyes, but Business Class never sleeps. My new husband  loaded up with sausages, hash browns, toast, coffee, bagels, donuts, eggs, salmon, orange juice.  I nibbled on the fruits.  Then we had a business class breakfast on the plane; my ew husband ate pancakes, honey, cream, blueberries, coffee, yoghurt and a chocolate, accompanied by glasses of Bollinger, as we told everyone we were on honeymoon, just to get the Bollinger.  

During our six hour Singapore layover, surrounded by orchids and Gucci handbags, we tucked into the tikka, tofu, sushi, which Reno chased with grilled fish, assorted breads, spring rolls, muffins, tomato soup, sushi, and an attempt at the cinnamon decorations.  I reminded him there is food in India.  By the time we took off for Mumbai, he was complaining of being too full for the chewing gum I offered, and looked aghast at the grilled sea bass with mashed potato on a jus that was specially cooked by the chef, and served with a wine of his choice. Reno drank water.

We were met at the airport  and whisked out into the bath-warm air into a river of cars, peacock feather fan and strawberry sellers, mobile phone charger vendors, and tiffin wallahs.  Reno was less interested in the avalanche of new impressions that screamed and hooted and leapt in front of us, his entry in the gateway of India, as he was about finding some Zantac in my emergency kit. 

It was wedding season in India.  Families spent years saving for these noisy, hysterical, drum beating, taxi hooting, Mercedes festooned celebrations.  Rose petals littered the lobby and the Mumbai night sky lit up with fireworks. 

Bypassing hotel registration and passport inspections as we too were newly weds (though not eighteen, virginal and terrified), we were garlanded and tikka-ed, blessed and escorted to our upgraded honeymoon room in the oldest part of the Taj, which was knee deep in red heart shaped balloons, heart shaped flower posies, bouquets of red gerberas, and towels tortured into shapes of kissing swans and hearts, strewn with rose petals. A giant bed with frothy sheets awaited our jet lagged bodies.  A hot rose petal strewn bubble bath also awaited, scented with lavender and ylang ylang.  Enormous knitted gowns that dragged on the floor waited to envelop us.  Candles flickered from Indian mirrored lamps.  Marigold petals littered the floor, in little mandalas.

It was our first official honeymoon night. Reno took my hand, and led me to the bedroom.  We were in India, land of Kama Sutra and 18 million people. He kissed me tenderly on my shoulder.  He slipped the red silk strap of my cami down my arm.  He stripped off his shirt, kicked off his shoes, dropped his jeans to the floor.  Stepped out of them.  Flexed his muscles. Grinned.  Showed me his Michaelangelo David bum that I first fell in love with two years previously.  I'll be back .. he winked  ... and went into the bathroom. 

Trembling with anticipation, I waited for my prince to return to our nuptial Mumbai bed. The moon was high, dawn was on the horizon.  Gongs and drums and whistles and toots and shrieks from the streets.  Shouts in the corridor.  Then the noises began from the bathroom.  No Romeo croonings here, no sounds of love, but abdominally projected noises that made my hair stand up. My prince was wrestling tigers for me, strangling cats and beheading pythons, obviously.  In between the gurglings and flushings, I asked through the crack between the floor and door, if he was alright.  Yep, perfectly fine, came the stoic response.  More gurgles and strangles issued.

I waited. And waited. I dozed.  The sun rose, hot and bothered, into an Indian February. 

Half an hour later, pale and green around the gills, my shaken and stirred prince returned to his bemused, sleep wrinkled bride, his Silver Kris splurge ungraciously given as feedback in all its technicolour glory.   

"Hey husband," I winked in the semi dark behind our silk curtains,  you feel like a little taste of ... Mylanta?"

"Why does it always look like sweetcorn?" were his first moaned words of amore in Mumbai.