Delhi

Delhi is at least seven cities stacked in one place, and the two on top disagree magnificently: Old Delhi, Shahjahanabad, a Mughal maze where the lanes narrow until commerce and cooking become one continuous act; and New Delhi, Lutyens' imperial geometry of roundabouts and white bungalows, where the avenues are wide enough to land a complaint. Between them run parakeets, seventeen centuries of tombs, and a metro that treats the whole argument as one network.

The sensible traveller climbs Jama Masjid's minaret early, then surrenders to Chandni Chowk by cycle rickshaw — the paratha lane for breakfast, jalebis by weight —; takes Humayun's tomb in afternoon light, where the Taj learned its proportions; hears the Sufis sing qawwali at Nizamuddin on Thursday at dusk; and closes at Lodi gardens at golden hour, where all Delhi walks among the tombs of forgotten dynasties as if they were park furniture, which by now they honorably are.

The Guide's honesty: at every monument the ticket office sells the ticket and the 'helpful' friend outside sells a detour — walk past warmly —; winter air has hard days: check the AQI like weather and plan the mornings; drink bottled, eat cooked, and queue where the families queue; and bargaining is a sport with rules — smile, counter at half, meet in the middle, and never fight over what a chai costs.