By Justine Griffin for Latitudes, the travel section of the Tampa Bay Times

DELHI

As I slid my shoes off and handed the man a five-rupee note before entering the Jama Masjid mosque, I could feel the heat from the red stone against my heels. I could also feel the intense stares of the Delhi locals. I don’t know which made me sweat more.

As a tall, blond-haired white woman dressed in Western clothes, I couldn’t have stood out more at this ornate and historic place of worship for Muslims in the heart of Old Delhi. My husband and I were still jet lagged from our 4 a.m. arrival in New Delhi, India’s capital, a city with a population of more than 11 million. But we were too excited about our honeymoon adventure to waste any time.

My husband, Alex, is half Indian. His father is from Chennai, a coastal city in south India. While Alex had visited India many times while growing up, he was still itching to see more as an adult. So we booked a 15-day trip.

Alex’s mother, also a blond-haired white woman, warned me about the stares. I remember shrugging it off. India was bound to be a trip of a lifetime. But now that I was here, I couldn’t shake this creeping, uncomfortable feeling as eyes followed me.

Thin women dressed in colorful sarees, some with babies tucked under their arms, washed their hands, feet and faces at a central pool out in front of the mosque. Their eyes seared into mine when we passed by.

A young boy followed me through the mosque. His friends would jab him in the ribs and laugh every time our eyes locked. Just before we made it to the exit, he tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to his smartphone. He wanted to take a selfie with me.

There was never a point in our remarkable trip to India that I felt unsafe. Nearly everyone we met, be it in a shop, at a restaurant or on a dirt street in a rural village, was kind and friendly. People were drawn to Alex — one man wanted to shake his hand and thank him for returning to India to explore his heritage.

I got used to the stares.

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