On Wednesday night, I decided I was ready to cook a full dinner in my new Indian kitchen. I bought all of the ingredients from the various vendors at the market a few blocks from my house, came home and started my cabbage*, potato curry, raita, and rice. And halfway through the cabbage, our gas runs out. You see, stoves in an Indian kitchen are unlike those in the US. They're usually set on top of the counter (few have ovens here) and they're powered by a tank of gas. Which has no gauge. So as far as I can tell, you don't know you're going to run out until you do.
My roommate, K, went upstairs to ask our neighbor where we could procure another tank the next day. When K told my neighbor that I'd been in the middle of making dinner, she offered to let me finish cooking in her apartment. My initial reaction was "ah, awkward," because that's my initial reaction to many new situations. But because I have a "just say yes" policy for new experiences in India (within reason, obvi), I got my pan of cabbage and walked upstairs.
It turns out, my neighbors are a lovely middle-aged Punjabi couple who have been in Delhi for at least 12 years. The husband is a documentary film maker and he told me all about a recent piece he did in the city of Varanasi. The wife, who lived in the UK for a while, told me that she likes our neighborhood well enough but that it's all (certain ethnic group) and (said ethnic group) are unfriendly. Ok then. As far as I can tell they don't have kids, though they do have a dog. I plan on making them my friends, so I'll get more details later.
Auto bargaining update: I'd rather not talk about it.