I like a good curry. Damn. Even the word curry is a generic Britishism designed to cover any spicy food from lands afar.

Every Indian restaurant in the UK offers "The Most Authentic Cuisine". I know what I like - but I've no way to judge its authenticity.

One of our hosts asked where I wanted to go out for dinner last night. "There's this great Japanese place round the corner," he suggested.

I love Japanese food. But having flown a few thousand miles to India, why would I try any cuisine other than Indian?

The food here is beautiful. As a vegetarian, I'm overwhelmed with choice. With the exception of some ill-advised chutney, I've been able to handle the spiciness.

I've eaten in both cheap canteens and high class restaurants - the food, drink, and service has been uniformly impeccable.

But is it better than my local Ruby Murray? That's hard to say. There are some great restaurants in the UK. The only way to tell, really, is to have just one more spoonful of this paneer, and a quick bite of this dosa and - oh my! - another sip of this delightful mango lassi, and... and.. and...

But not me. I'm white. Very white. More than that - I feel white and foreign. I feel out of place. The people I meet are friendly - but it's clear I don't really understand the culture, the way things work, or even how to cross the road.

My first sight of a swastika shocked me. I know its origins, its special meaning here. But even daubed in multicolour paint on the side of a taxi was enough to make me feel like I was totally separate in a way I've never felt before.

When I first travelled to South Africa, I wondered what it would be like to be a minority. An obvious outsider. I remembered George Takei - I think - talking about his first visit to Japan and being astonished that everyone there looked like him. He was no longer the odd one out walking down the street.

I had heard of international cities - like Beijing - where being "other" was enough to draw the stares of strangers on the street.

Bangalore isn't like that. I am different - but that is not enough to draw the attention of anyone. Why stare at the pale white guy when there's a cacophony of chromatic beauty surrounding you?

The face of the Indian street vendor clearly said "Oh, FFS!"

I had made the universal tourist mistake of paying for a cheap product with a ridiculously large bill. The bottle of mango juice I needed so desperately to cool down in the mad-dog sun came to 20 rupees. The smallest denomination I had was 500.

This created somewhat of an impasse.

Eventually, with much universal gesticulating on both sides, I received my change. It seemed broadly accurate, and I now had some more sociably acceptable currency, so I didn't feel hard done by.

I've always had a funny relationship with money. I baulk at paying £5 for popcorn at the cinema, but think nothing of buying a £200 hard drive. Just the way I'm wired, I guess. But spending money in a foreign land is very confusing. I mentally convert everything back to pounds sterling, and compare the price with what I'd pay at home. Common enough, I suppose. Then I try to mentally match it to the local economy.

"Yes, that's cheaper than what I'd pay at home - but it seems ridiculously expensive compared to that thing over there."

A group of us went out for a meal in an up-scale restaurant. The food was exquisite and the service was impeccable. Total cost? Maybe £30 per person plus tip. Not bad. Not bad at all. Cheaper than a similar meal in London. I tried hard not to think about the hoards of people outside the guarded perimeter who were on a dollar a day.

The next night a bunch of us went to dinner with our Indian hosts. There were eight of us. The beer flowed liberally, the food was piled high, the chocolate cake was en flambé.

Total cost was around £10 per person. This was a big deal. "Still," remarked one of our hosts, "it's good for team morale." "And it's only once a year," opined another.

On the journey back, the taxi charged us 700 rupees for a 200 rupee journey. There's a lesson in there somewhere.