“There aren’t a lot of Americans here,” I said to my new friend Nain as we sat on the river bank, watching the water go by. “No,” he replied, “it’s Israeli season.” Even I had noticed the comparatively large number of Israelis, mingling among other Europeans, Canadians, and quite a few Koreans. It’s a strange experience, visiting parts of the world that cater predominately to tourists. Eventually “we” start to overshadow the local population. In India that’s pretty hard to do but there is certainly a noticeable impact. And nowhere is this more apparent than when it comes to eating out.

Here in Rishikesh — at least in Lakshman Jhule, the backpacker side of the city – there are a disproportionately large number of German bakeries and pizzerias, and pretty much every restaurant offers dishes from at least three different continents, along with what seems to be “seasonal” additions, like couscous or tofu. And while I like to immerse myself in local culture as much as possible, some places are not always designed to accommodate.

As I sat in my guest house, scrolling through Tripadvisor and reading up on restaurants nearby, the most common complaint was that the Indian food was not great. That seemed kinda weird, because I’m in India. Little Buddha Cafe, just a few doors down, was highly rated but repeated reviews warned me to stick to western dishes. Being the rebel that I am, I decided to listen to my intuition and order something “authentic.” I took a seat by the river with an amazing view of the water and ordered malai kofta — a strange but deliciously sweet dumpling in a curry sauce — and a side of rice. As soon as it arrived, I took one look and knew that I had made the right decision.

I was wrong. So very wrong. Aside from the slightest hint of curry, it was pretty much flavorless. Disappointed, mostly in myself, I wondered why this place would have been highly rated in the first place. But as I looked out across a sea of iphones, it suddenly dawned on me; this restaurant is not for locals at all. Nearly every person was eating pizza, pasta, or some other obviously non-Indian dish, phone-in-hand, Facebooking up a storm (myself included). This was Western central, and I was no better.

The next day, after a few hours of wandering, I stopped back at the cafe on my way back home. This time I ordered the Margherita pizza and even the waiter seemed more enthusiastic about this choice than he did my previous one. And not so surprisingly at this point, it was great. Turns out, I should have listened to the internet. Of course this doesn’t mean that there isn’t any good Indian food around, it just means that it’s a little further off the beaten path. Meanwhile, they sure know how to deliver when it comes to the things that homesick travelers really crave: pizza, pastries, and wifi.