A Couple French Fries Short of a Happy Meal

When living in a hostel here in Kolkata, there are a few different types of people that you come across.  There are the people who came here for similar reasons that I did, to volunteer.  There are those who have the travel bug and those who are simply living a transient life style.  One of the best learning experiences I have had is getting to interact with different people from all over the world.  There are those deeply religious people who have come to Kolkata for a spiritual pilgrimage or because God has led them on a path that has brought them here.  Then there are those that just love to experience the world and sample it's many flavors.  And then there is my personal favorite, the crazy people.

The Writer

The most obvious crazies leave you in no doubt in of their mental state and often leave a trail of wide stares, gaped mouths and suppressed giggles in their wake.  Take for instance this one woman.  Back in early February Hanna and I were siting on the roof of the Paragon where she was giving me a henna tattoo.  We were having a lovely time sitting in the afternoon sun listening to music when a woman plopped down in a near by chair.  While Hanna had been doodling up my arm, I was watching the kittens that lived on the roof scamper about.  After sitting for a moment the woman heaved a heavy sigh and mourned for the lack of proper care for the litter.  I informed her of how their mother was very active and attentive.  

"Yes," she worried, "but what do they eat? ... Do cats eat meat"

I paused for a moment  pondering whether this woman has forgotten that kitties are related to lions and were not always domesticated.  They did not simply poof into existence for us to create funny collages and youtube videos, but then replied, "Well they're still nursing, so mom just has to feed herself. "  During this I tried heartily to disguise the incredibly judgmental face that I was wearing.  I also, recalled the large number of rats and mice I had seen, the cat is probably just doing fine.

"I have a whole box of powdered milk at home," she said after a few minutes "I wish I would have thought to bring it."

Ok, a couple of things here.  First of all, no one likes powdered milk and I highly doubt that any stray cat living off of the big fat juice rats here would take powdered milk over fresh meat.  Second of all this woman is English, which means that she is upset that she didn't forsee the "need" cart he box of powdered milk from the UK to India to feed the cat that lives at the hostel that she just happened to stay at.  And third of all, I'm still not over the fact that she didn't know that cats eat meat!  

As I was mulling over the scene that had just played out, I noticed a man peering conspicuously over his book at the woman.  I saw that he was reading Harry Potter and in an attempt to steer the conversation in a different direction I asked him if it was his first time reading it.  We started chatting about the book and he said he had never read them but he was looking to read a book in English to improve his. Just as our banter was starting to really take off the woman interrupted us.

"You know, she stole that idea from me."

Oh boy...

"...J.K. Rowling.  I was going to write about them.  And I had a little book about the stories and I told it to her on a flight from Singapore. I told her all about it and she stole my book and she stole my idea.  I was going to write about Harry and Hermin and the redheaded guy."

W-w-what?  It is a well known fact that Ms. Rowling was just about broke when she started writing HP, so what was she doing in Singapore?  And Hermin and the redheaded guy?  Yes, those sound like great supporting characters.

The Foreigner

Not all crazies are as special as the writer.  Some just are a bit different or rather more difficult than others.  For a while we had a great run with roommates in our room. For many weeks there was a general feeling of comrodery between my roomies and me.  We were all very different people and in different part of our lives but we got along splendidly.  We ate meals together, we to the movies together and walked to the mother house every morning together.  But time passes and people move on and go on their separate paths and you have to just celebrate the fact that the universe was kind enough to bring you all together for one shining moment in time.  That, and try very hard not to take it out on your new roommate when they don't seem to be as agreeable.  After Hanna and Claire left, Rachel and I seemed to have a constant revolving door of people coming in and out of our dorm.  Most people were pleasant enough, or kept to themselves.  However, one man proved to be the most obnoxious of them all.

By this time, I had been in Kolkata for about six weeks and the temperature was staring to rise.  When I first arrived here, it was rather cold at night and I required a blanket when sleeping.  But by the end of February the heat stopped disappearing at nigh.  As I lay in bed one night, attempting to get comfortable, I realized that it wasn't going to happen and I found it necissary for the first time to turn our fan on.  I walked over to the switch on the wall and the man cried from his bed, "No, I am so cold.  Please, no fan."  I was rather sympathetic, he had been sick, so I complied, and went back to my bed, warm and sticky.

A few nights passed, and the heat really started to change and unfortunately my roommate had not.  We were not dipping below seventy five degrees at night and I attempted to turn the fan on a few more times but every time I got the same response.  At this point I wanted to ask ask if he was visiting Kolkata from the sun since he was so cold.  I also wanted to tell him to go get a sweater since he could layer up but I certainly couldn't strip down.

That night, Rachel woke up to a rustling sound in the room.  Remember the rats I talked about?  Well it seems my friend from the sun left a large bag of candy and treats on the floor under his bed and that the rats of the area were having a feast.  This guy officially won the title for worst roommate ever.  If you are going to be inconsiderate enough to turn our room into a Sizzler for rats then I can not give a crap about your cold.  From then on we slept with the fan on, he could suck it up.

The Animal Lover

Crazy people, just like normal people, come in all shapes and sizes.  Sometimes, you think that you could be talking to someone who is perfectly sane who then slowly over time reveals themselves to be otherwise. There was this exuberant young girl from France who was doing some volunteer work when I first started.  She was young with messy hair and blotchy skin but had a wonderful effervescent aura about her.  We chatted for a bit when I first met her and she seemed perfectly lovely.  A bit messy and her English was not very good but I was no ravishing beauty and I speak no other languages so who am I to judge.  Then after seeing her around a few times I notice that she was not like most people, who had their "dirty" days and their "clean" days but rather just looked as if she never showered, ever.  But again, who am I to judge?

One day my roommate Rachel came back from Titigar, the leper colony and was telling me this story of this girl who kept wandering away from the group.  When you get to the colony they specifically tell you to stay together when touring the grounds.  The actual colony is across these train tracks and surrounded by large piles of garbage and refuse.  Rachel was saying how stressful it was because this girl wandered off into the heaps of trash and wouldn't stay with the group.  

"It was like trying to heard cats." -she said.

Then later we were walking out and I saw the French girl playing with several street dogs covered with mange and who knows what.  They were licking her face and she was kissing their mouths.  Rachel identified her as the girl in the trash.  By that time, I wasn't really surprised.

The Social Networker

One morning while I sat soaking my feet in the hallway of the paragon I  brought my iPad out with me to watch a movie while I put my make-up on.  I was minding my own business and had my headphones in so that not everyone had to listen to my movie when a woman approached me and started talking.  We will call her Lucy.  Realizing that Lucy was asking me a question I pulled my headphones out and apologized saying that I did not hear her.  She proceeded to ask me the usual questions I get about my iPad and wanted to know if I had internet.  The exchange was cordial enough but then drew on and I needed to get back to the task at hand so that I could go about my day.  The conversation while pleasant lasted about fifteen minutes longer that I would have preferred.  When the conversation finally did finish we had discussed everything from real estate in Singapore to whether it is safe for a lone woman to travel in the States.  While I could not have cared less about the former topic that latter made me chuckle since she was traveling alone in India.  

I ran into Lucy again by the bathroom that night and knew almost immediately that I was in for another long haul.  This time she wanted to know if I knew Chris.  I told her that I had not had the pleasure yet of meeting him.  She then launched into how great of a guy he was and he showed her the juice place.  I told her I didn't know the juice place.  She said that she was sure Chris would be more than happy to show me where it was.  Also that he was a very trust worthy person, that he would never take advantage of a young lady such as myself.  This was actually a little alarming.  I generally don't assume that people are going to take advantage of me, but why would you say that?  I bid her goodnight and returned hastily to my room.  

Then next day I saw her again and she asked me if I knew John.  I did not.  She then proceeded to tell me much more about John that I'm sure he was comfortable with the general public knowing.  He was very ill and he was having problems with his insurance and his visa was also up.  She was going to try to find out whether his government would pay his hospital bill.  This all seemed very intrusive to me.  She then wanted to know if I would go with her to the German embassy to see what we could do.  I had never met this man, and I told her I didn't feel comfortable doing that.  Also, I had to go to work.  She sighed a little disappointed and then asked me if I would like to go visit him.  I again told her that I had never met John and that if he really was as sick as she was saying then I certainly didn't feel comfortable making any introductions while he was in that grave condition.  She looked a little put out, but I was not going to intrude on this man's privacy, it felt very inappropriate. 

I was now was attempting to spend as little time in the hallway as possible.  But I ran into Lucy a several times over the next few days anyway.  With every encounter there seemed to be introductions with several other people with a pleasant but glazed look in their eyes.  Poor Lucy, she really had very good intentions but failed to understand that not everyone feels the need to get to know everyone.  This is a hostel, not summer camp.  I simply don't need to be set up on play dates with people.  Not to mention it can be a bit exasperating when you go on your play date only to realize that the other person doesn't speak English at all.  

One the third evening of her stay, I was once again in the hallway soaking my feet, listening to music and working on my iPad.  I wasn't there for too long when my new favorite interloper came up to me to ask about my day.  Her questions didn't last long before she launched into some life lessons.  She told me that she was very concerned for me and that I needed to get out, meet people and make friends.  I should not spend so much time on my computer because relationships are wonderful.  She told me that I need to find a man to spend time with (not necessarily in a physical way) because men are wonderful.  She told me I have potential and that when you kiss a man, he grows.  Not physically, although sometimes he will *wink* and that can be really nice.  Physical relationship don't just benefit a man, a woman needs to be touched sometimes too and that is nothing to be ashamed of.  But men can be shy and sometimes you need to be pushy, cunning and forward with them.  That is in fact how she got her husband.  Well, actually her ex husband.  He loved someone else, but she hung around till he chose her.  And while he does not love her anymore she still loves him.  So I should get out there, and eat healthy food and go for a walk after dinner, because that will help with the excess fat.  

I don't know how I managed to not laugh.  Perhaps it was the fact that I was completely dumbfounded and incredulous that I was receiving a "birds and the bees" talk nearly twenty years too late from a complete stranger.  And let us not forget, more weight loss tips.  But I do know that I deserve quite the pat on the back for my censure, for I only reacted with looks of mild interest and comprehension.  At least one of us knew how to hold our tongue.  Brava!

The Healer

The first time I saw this next man I had to suppress a chuckle.  He was dressed in a button up shirt and cargo shorts with hiking boots.  He donned a backpack with many accessories on in including sunscreen, a water canteen, a handkerchief and hand sanitizer all on the outside.  He was very excited, very prepared, very short, very round and very Asian.  I was looking at a grown up version of Russell from the movie Up.  

But while he physically resembled the lovable wilderness explorer in looks and exuberance the resemblance stopped there.  He was at the mother house but one day before he started running around after breakfast had ended announcing the house that he was going to and trying to round up others who were heading there as well.  He also starting running into the different rooms at the paragon in the mornings announcing that the group for the mother house was leaving.  What group?  We are all adults and once again this is not summer camp!  I am a grown and very capable woman.  I do not need to hold hands in a group on my way to mother house,  I do not need a tour guide who has been here about two seconds and I most certainly do not need a human alarm clock bursting into my room while I'm getting dressed in the morning.  

On his fourth morning I was standing at the sinks brushing my teeth when he came over and struck up a conversation with my roommates and me.  We all stood there wishing he would go away as he prattled on when things took a left turn into crazy town.  He went on about he was a massage therapist and that he had cured ten of the paralyzed people at kalighat (the home for the dying) in his three days there.  He was hoping to have cured them all by the end of the week when he left.  He has magic hands you know.

He turned and walked away and I turned and looked at Rachel laughing and sputtering through my toothpaste.  She looked at me and rolled her eyes, "that is exactly the kind of guy I don't like.  He was going on and on yesterday about how his magic hands make girls boobs grow." 

The Lover & The Dancer

By this time I am sure that you have realized that the hallway at the paragon is a hotbed for interactions with people who are chock-full-o-nuts.  Apparently, I am not as smart as you.  Or perhaps a better assessment of the situation was that all of the batty folk that I had run into were over all pretty harmless.  However, this last interaction was to be the end of my hallway adventures.   

I sat washing my feet, yet again when a young French man came and sat down at the table I was at and began talking at me.  I once again removed my headphones and indulged yet another human being who does not understand the headphone code.  

The headphone code: If you see someone who has headphones in it means that they are not looking for a conversation.  They are either previously engaged with the material on their device or looking to just avoid chatting.  It is a polite way of rebuffing people who might be looking for a conversation or to sell you something.  Headphones are essentially the same as having a book, magazine or work papers.   If you have a question, ask it quickly, but then let them get back to what they were previously doing or listening to.  You might be wondering "yes, but what if this person does in fact wish to carry on a polite conversation with me?"   There is a simple way of telling whether they want to or not.  If the person in question stops what they are doing (by either pausing their music, placing their bookmark in and closing their book or putting their magazine or work away) and proceeds to actually engage in the talk, then they are up for it.  Feel free then to chat away.  If the person leaves one earbud or headphone in/over the ear the the answer is no.

This man unlike any of the other eccentric people that I had run into however was drunk.  This became very obvious very quickly.  Between repeated offers for some of his whisky he went on and on about traveling and how much he loved it.  He told me how he was from Paris and that he was a waiter there but here he was a king.  He worked as long as it took him to save money to travel.  He told me that I was a very nice and pretty girl (oh boy) and that I seemed very "simpatique".  He repeatedly apologized for his babbling and asked if i had any cigarettes.  I told him that I do not smoke.  

After several minutes of this nonsense his friend came out to join him.  He talked at me while his friend laughed at him and spoke to him in French.  I am not certain what was said, but I imagine that he was telling him to shut up, that I was just being polite and that he was embarrassing himself.  He asked me if I like gay people, and I said that I did not base my friendships on such trivial things as religion, race or sexual preference.  At this his friend laughed and said that he liked me. 

 At one  point he asked me if I had ever been to Nepal.  I told him not on this trip, but maybe on the next. 

"The heroine there is beautiful."

"Oh ...Well, la-di-dah." 

His friend again laughed, launched into a rant in French and then after a moment of observing his stupefied comrade danced over to me and sang very close to my ear in a very deep and husky voice "silence ... is sexy ... silence ... is sexy" while brushing his fingers from one shoulder to the other on my back.  He then sauntered back to his seat and smiled at me, then looked at his friend.  

"Well, my feet are clean," I said standing " and that just got weird so goodnight."

I gathered up my things and went into my room.  By this time Rachel was asleep but Cynthia was still awake.  I could hardly contain myself, and I had to since both guys were still camped out on the stoop of our dorm.  I immediately began telling Cynthia the story of what just happened and as I was just about done the door opened and the singer popped his head in and asked us if we had a lighter.  We both said no when he looked at one of our random roommates that was sleeping next to the door.  He made a noise and facial expression that suggested that he thought he was attractive and then proceeded to make faces and kissing noises.  I grabbed one of my shirts to cover my face so that I would not laugh out loud, wake the poor boy up and make him aware of what was happening around him.  The man then started to dance around him and mime doing rather questionable things to the sleeping boy.  Cynthia meanwhile had buried her head under her pillow like an ostrich where as I was now nearly eating my shirt to staunch the shock and laughter.  After a few more choice dance moves the man did a turn, then bowed and exited.

"What-"

"Don't" Cynthia strained from underneath her pillow "talk ... to me right now. No ... Just don't."

Holi! The festival of colors.

There is a Hindu holiday called Holi also known as the festival of colors.  It is celebrated in early March in India, Bangladesh, Pakistan and Nepal.  Holi is a holiday that celebrates the coming of spring.  People fill the streets wearing white and throw brightly colored paint at each other, singing songs and dancing through the streets.  The festival is actually only one day but like Christmas it is too much fun for only twenty four hours.  So, some people take to the streets the day before with their paint. But mostly the night before there are bonfires in the street with lots of singing and dancing.  It is a rather rambunctious celebration in the middle of a very restrained society.  So people jump at the opportunity to let their hair down, so to speak.  In the guide book my mother gave to me for Christmas it specifically states that Holi is "not for the faint of heart".  

The night before Rachel and I headed to New Market with the intention of buying white shirts.  We walked by the many street venders only to disappointed by their lack of white clothing and eventually ended up at a store similar to a Kmart.  The men's section seemed to be the most promising and so we proceeded to paw through the racks.  There is a very strange common occurrence among the Indian youth.  There are hordes of young (and sometimes not so young) men sporting shirts with famous western brands that are just slightly misspelled.  Or perhaps they just wear shirts that sport a hodge-podge images, logos and phrases associated with a specific country.  Perhaps a shirt with the union jack, polo players, the tower of London and then the phrase like "no rulz generation" or "born to worship".  Then of course there are shirts that don't actually say anything but are just a bizarre cartoon with a jumble of letters.  So, Rachel and I had a bit of work cut out for us.  These were going to be our Holi shirts, they had to be perfect.  After finding a few gems, including one that claimed that the wearer was "sofa king cool" Rachel settled on a shirt that said vintage with some scribbles and a victrola and I chose a shirt that said Aerosmit.  That's right, not Aerosmith but Aerosmit.  So now with our proper attire we were ready to party!

Cynthia, Rachel and I had decided that we would head out to breakfast the next morning at 9:00, but as I was waking up around 8:00 I was greeted by Rachel who was already splattered with color saying that we should get going, because there was so much fun to be had. Cynthia and I dressed quickly and we nervously headed out into the unknown.  

I was ecstatic to experience Holi, but much like when you are about to  get on a giant roller coaster or tube slide, nerves fill your body at the last minute and suddenly you hesitate.  I knew that I was going to be covered in paint by the end of the day but at the last moment I was seriously questioning my choice to actually wear white.  My two companions had opted for colors that seemed to present them as less of an obvious target where I felt like I was wearing a sign that said "come and get me".  

Holi played a huge part in one of the Bollywood movies I had seen.  The streets were filled with energetic adults and children alike screaming and celebrating.  I seemed to be filled with that dilemma of wanting to play but wary of the consequences, much like a water balloon fight.  But as we emerged onto the street I caught my first glimpse of the celebration. There was singing while people danced around smearing the paint all over each other and one particular shop owner sprayed people down with a hose.  We danced our way through crowd and came out mostly clean and sought out breakfast.  

We sat down at an outdoor cafe and marveled as customers breezed in and out and resembled not people but swamp zombies.  I don't think I have rushed through a breakfast that quickly since arriving here.  We walked through the streets listening for the sound of drums to find where the people were and immediately joined in the fun.  We were dancing an getting our face grabbed by many people we had never laid eyes on before, who each added another stroke to an ever evolving piece of art where our faces and bodies served as the canvas.  There was only one problem, none of us had thought to purchase paint.  We all recognized the blunder in our preparations and decided that it needed to be remedied immediately.  

Taking off in the other direction we ran towards the vendor where a spanish girl said we could purchase supplies.  And after begrudgingly dropping a good deal of rupees we were ready to go.  Cynthia had picked a rich deep purple where I chose bright sunshine yellow and Rachel opted for jungle green.  We left the stand and began to hunt for action.  

We scampered about town passing by the many shops that were understandably closed. This was by far one of the strangest mornings in Kolkata.  Except for where the party was happening, which was transient, the city was a ghost town.  We moved around in search people to play with.  Along the way we came across many street children who we generously shared our powder paint with and shenanigans ensued.  They screamed with delight, attacked and then retreated.  I love playing these types of games with children.   The stakes are always so high.  This is real life and it's life or death.  You can see it in their eyes even if you can't understand their language.  

Several times in the middle of our game of paint war reporters and photographers appeared it of nowhere and snapped photos and interviewers asked questions.  This was rather comical since it happen several times and they were different people each time.  We obliged their interviews and got our pictures taken with the locals with no mention of what publication or station they were from.  I guess that is an American thing.  

At one point when we had run out of ammunition we returned to the vendor to get more.  This time we bought regular powder and some to mix into water.  I wanted to be heavily armed this time.  After we refreshed our supplies our attention was diverted by a group of kids playing by a fountain.  We curiously wandered over eager to play and they rushed over to share their exuberance with the white girls.  We were spray and pelted with water and paint and somehow Cynthia, despite my warnings, ended up in the fountain.  The kids were screaming with mirth and delight to see this American girl floundering around this fountain in an outdoor shopping complex in a full length skirt.  It was quite a sight. When she emerged we decided to leave this unruly group.  As we turned to leave we became aware of the still growing audience that we, or rather Cynthia had attracted.

Eventually we wound our way back to Sudder street where we rejoined the main celebration.  I must say that it was quite a sight to behold.  You could easily attack someone with your paint and then realize after that it was someone that you work with.  I saw a Danish guy I volunteered with who had only recently arrived, was nearly paint free but sporting the tattered remains of what I only can imagine was his shirt.  At one point I turned around to see a giant pink monster and then recognized Sam's voice.  I danced through the crowd spraying people and children who appeared to be too clean with my purple water paint and magenta powder.  The air was filled with bright colors.  At times I felt as if I were in a psychedelic dream.   

After a while the party began to dissipate.   We sat down took look at the pictures we had taken  when a police officer showed up and told up that we needed to go back to our hostel.  We told him that we didn't have anymore paint and that we were being peaceful and minding our own business.  This only seemed to aggravate him and he became rather hostile.  I checked my phone and it said that it was 12:30 PM.  That's right, 12:30 in the afternoon.  Growing impatient with his attitude, I asked him why we had to leave when we weren't being a nuisance.  This was not and endearing statement and we were give the boot with no explanation.  I went, knowing that I would really regret my mouth if I managed to get arrested, but it was with a very sour attitude.  

So, that was it.  Three and a half hours and some of the best memories I have of being here.  Although, I will say that after the process of getting clean was extensive and I had a slightly more pinkish tint to my skin than was normal.  But I'd rather that then the people who looked like they were part smurf for the next few days. 

 Holi in short, is the best.   

I Don't Want to Hold Your Hand

A short list of things I simply don't get about India 

-How an entire country is conservative enough to be shocked by a kiss in a movie, a bare shoulder or the idea of seeing your spouse naked, but public defecation and bathing in the street are perfectly acceptable.  Also, you took the time to build public urinals on the street but then failed to connect them to the sewer system, the result being urine filled gutters.  Is this because of monsoon season, laziness, or is this some bizarre marketing campaign to get me to associate India with the smell of pee. 

-At McDonald's there can be a person designated to getting every part of your meal and there are virtually no customers and yet is still takes longer than any McDonald's I have ever been to anywhere else.  Also, why does it cost fifteen rupees for a side of BBQ sauce?

-The entire country's inability to think outside of the box.  I was at subway and I wanted the baked lays and when I asked the man behind the counter he informed me that it was "not possible" I looked over at the nine bags of baked lays on the wall and turned back perplexed.  I assured him that I was perfectly fine if it was a little more for the baked variety.  I received the same reply, "not possible madam."

-Why anyone would hold the hand of someone they were not dating?  You will never see a married couple display any affection towards one another. However what you will see is grown men walking down the street draped over eachother, holding hands, holding pinkies or eachother's inner thigh when sitting on the subway.  If they were gay, I would get it, but they are not.  I assure you I do not go around holding even my dearest friend's inner thigh. 

-Sometimes when I walk down the street there is an outrageously strong odor  that resembles parmesan cheese.  There is no cheese available in this country that even resembles parmesan. And yet this olfactory sensation is so strong it can make your eyes water.  I wish to always remain oblivious to what creates this smell. 

Good Morning F*#$ Pants

Let's take a moment and talk about sexual harassment.  There are oh so many things that are completely different about this country when compared with my homeland.  I understand that I am an interesting mix of independent New England feminist and shrewd New Yorker.  This makes me the girl who moved to East Harlem to live by myself and did not think twice about it.  My standard mode of operation when in New York is to walk down the street with purpose like I am not to be trifled with, I might be crazier than you.  And most important, however this maybe something only women have, pay attention to that "uh-oh feeling" that occurs in your gut.  I emplore you, always listen to the "uh-oh" feeling.  This has kept me out of uncomfortable and possibly dangerous situations.  I am not saying this to make anyone think that NYC is scary or that Kolkata is worse, but rather to illustrate the code of conduct that I have followed and that I continue to follow when I am here.  I may never get hit on, but I also don't get followed or my ass pinched.  I was propositioned once on the subway but the man was extremely intoxicated and one death look accompanied by my growling the phrase "do we have a problem?" sent him off the train.  My point is, only stupid drunk people mess with me back home.

Here in the lovely city of Kolkata, we have a bit of a different situation.  This culture is extremely conservative.  The woman dress in traditional Indian garb with the exception of a few of the more wealthy younger girls.  But even so, you do not see shorts or tank tops.  This can be mind boggling for westerners since the temperature is so warm and you so often see elderly women baring their mid drifts.  What's more is that their movies have no kissing.  I did see one movie that had kissing and a sex scene but I was so shocked I yelled "what!?" quite loudly drawing the attention of other movie goers.  In your averave Bollywood movie even if the couple gets married, you will never see them kiss.  Not a kiss on the hand or cheek, absolutely nothing.  I don't think I could come up with more than five American movies where there is no kissing. And even so, most of them would be movies like The Lion King and March of the Penguins.   

Then we take the fact that in many ways, this country is still fuctioning like it is in the 19th century.  Most marriages are arranged, and women still need to have a dowery.  A DOWERY I tell you! Technically its illegal, but it is still practiced. There is a tremendous prejudice against women.  Many still do not inherit their husband's propety when they die and so unless they have a son to take care of them, they are put out on the street.  If you see a little old lady in a white sari with no teeth, this is her situation.  

In the early 1980's feticide  was outlawed.  Thus so was finding out the sex of a fetus due to the large number or women who were electing to have abortions to avoid having a daughter.  But that does not prevent the people who reside in the villages from committing the crime or doctors letting the information slip out during and exam.  It has been estimated that somewhere around seven million women have gone missing in the last twenty five years.   This has created an extremely imbalanced gender ratio and explains all the trouble they have with human trafficking and the sex trade.  In short, India is a sausage fest.  One afternoon while standing by then entrace to the subway I counted over a hundred men but only twenty nine women entering and exiting the station. This has made finding the younger generations of men wives rather difficult.  It is also an accepted practice that many wives stay in the village to raise the children while the men go to the city to work, living there for most of the year.  So the imbalance seems even greater in the cities. Then on top of that, the more conservative and traditional people never even see their spouses naked. So, what we have is an extremely sexually repressed culture that is easily riled up and now throw in a bunch of westerners.

The more obtuse tourists have no issue sporting sundresses, tank tops and shorts.  I personally think you have to be a complete idiot to wear that here.  When you get off the plane in India you become aware of a strange phenomenon that will follow you through the duration of your stay.  Indian people stare at anyone who is not Indian. And Indian people gawk at white people.  And me? Oh, a ginger like me gets greeted like I am a real life leprechaun frolicking down the street with my pot of gold bestowing lucky charms on all the wee children.  This gets old so very quickly.  I challenge anyone to not become self conscious when people see you, then get the attention of everyone around them and then actually point at you.  It feels harmless when its done by a small child, but that is not always the case.  It can be down right infuriating when it is done by a group of young men. Especially those times when you are lugging a large package, and then not only do they stare at you but they also refuse to get out of your way.  This does not bring out the best in me.  

The other day I was walking down the street with a rather cumbersome box.  Two packages had arrived at the mother house, one addressed to me and the other to the Tucker family.  Since they had departed I took the package.  To make the transportation of both parcels easier, I opened both and combined them.  So instead of needing to manage two boxes of moderate weight I had one heavy and very unstable box.  The fact that the damage of the larger box was so severe that it made it difficult to wield through the crowded bus, sidewalks and streets was a major oversight on my part.  I was a bit miffed by my poor decision.  This was exacerbated by the heat and the men gawking at me.  Most days I walk down the street with my sunglasses on and my head held high, ignoring the attention that I get and hoping that I give off an air of "don't even think about it" and magically,  I am left alone.  This day however, it was impossible to walk down the street with dignity when the box was so heavy and I was so sweaty.  Unable to fall back on my usual defenses I resorted to giving off the air of a disgruntled troll.  Grunting, sweating and giving off an odor similar to a dairy farm I wielded my box like a club, bashing the men who were staring at me and unwilling to get out of my way while cursing them out.  Not one of my finer moments. 

However, I am happy to report that while my mother would be most ashamed of that sort of behavior my father would be delighted to know that I have yet to be propositioned.  I was told before I arrived here to anticipate the groping situation and not to fear defending myself.  I have so far been pinched twice.  But both times were strange and apparently the perpetrators had bad aim since it was the side of my knee that received the squeeze.  You do hear the occasional horror story of young boys jumping out in a pack and grabbing a girl's chest, a man following a lone woman as she walks through the streets at night, or sexual predators who lure women into the back rooms of their shops offering to help them try on a sari.  A word to the wise ladies, an Indian man would never offer an Indian woman help with putting on her sari.  But most of the time it is just staring, and men "accidentally" brushing up against you as you pass in the street.  The best defensive stance it to carry some sort of bag that you can hang over you rear, while holding the strap in the front covering your chest with your arms.  Other people may be concerned with the bag being an easy target for pickpockets, but I rely on the large amount of crap in my bag to serve as a defense.  I figure, I can never find my wallet in my bag without some severe rummaging, so likelihood of someone else doing it stealthily is pretty low.  

I must say however, the men that I have been working with have been nothing short of chivalrous.  It must feel very emasculating to not be able to protect your wife or female companion.  I met a young German man named Sam who certainly felt this way.  He had heard some stories from some girls he had met and personally witnessed a girl he was walking with get his chest grabbed and it was quite endearing to see how upset he was by it.  Sam, I should say is quite tall standing at 6'4" and practically a giant for Indian standards.  He also rowed crew, played lacrosse and American football when he went to boarding school in Connecticut.  So he has an athletic build which is something you really only see in the movies here.  The wonderful thing about Sam was his gentlemanlike need to protect the ladies he was with.  I have been the only female to volunteer as a tutor downstairs at Daya Dan for nearly six weeks now.  So when the day is over, I am also the only female heading back to travel on the metro, an infamous place for groping.  Sam, being so tall while I am so short was always very protective of me, despite the fact that I am nearly eight years older than him.  He always let me through the turnstile first and made sure that other people weren't cutting me off when I was in line to get a token for the train.  One afternoon a train pulled up that was jam packed full of people.  I hesitated thinking that we could easily wait for the next one, when Sam side stepped into the train checking aside the much smaller men creating a small birth for himself and me. Just before the train doors closed he pulled me by the arm onto the train.  I stood there koalaing him, "we're good friends right?" I asked from his armpit.  He laughed.  As the train pulled up to the next station he said, "Ok, I'm going to hold them back as long as I can. You get off the train and step to the side till we can get back on." This is as close as I want to get to actually being in an action movie.  Laughing and shrieking I jumped off the train as the doors opened.  Sam actually did hold them back, and just as the doors were about to close he grabbed my arm again and pulled me back on the train.  This time, another man yelled from the middle of the car, "madam, come over here." I knew he was talking to me, because there were no other women around.  Sam however saved me the trouble of responding by saying, " No, she's fine". This, thank goodness has only ever happened once. 

Sam has left now, but I was fortunate enough to fall in with a few new young men, one from Denmark and two from Canada.  Each of them, has proved to be just as chivalrous.  And even though my new Canadian friends will be leaving next week, I have faith that they will most likely be replaced by another group of young men who will be happy to protect me on the subway and have lunch after.

The reason why even a modestly dressed western woman is such a susceptible target for all of this is obvious, it's Hollywood's fault.  Young men pack themselves into movie theaters here to see Hollywood movies with their racy sex scenes.  Men see movies where the main character approaches a woman in a bar, they talk for a bit and then low and behold, in the very next scene she is in bed with him.  Clearly this means all American women are sluts.  So, naturally men will see a western woman and then, not even thinking that he is doing anything wrong say "Hello madam, I would like to f*#$ you".  Uh, no thanks.  Then on occasion we have a young man who does not actually speak English but gets a random collection of words and tries them out on the first white girl he sees.

One afternoon I was informed by Kate of such a man who approached her on her way back from the station.  He came up to her with his ever so witty greeting of "Good Morning f*#$ pants." I might add it was about 5:00 pm.  I believe she was taken aback enough to say "excuse me?" but when he repeated himself she did not dignify him with a response and kept on walking.

Somedays when I am alone, after hearing a particularly vexing story from another young woman I sit and day dream of all the wonderful cutting remarks I might use on such a disgusting man.  And I know from my own past dealings that I have no problem defending myself if someone gets too handsy, so there is no need to worry about that.  But then I also wonder, has any man ever had succeeded with such a line? Are there actually girls with big enough daddy issues to succumb to such a offensive and lame request? If you are reading this and you are one of those girls, stop and get some therapy.  If not for yourself, then please, for the rest of us, so that we may walk down the streets in peace.  And to the them men out there who lack the self control to keep their hands to themselves, I am inclined to take away your genitals.  You can have them back when you have demonstrated yourself to be mature enough to handle the responsibility.  

Until then India, not if my life depended on it.

A Love Letter to the Tucker Family

Most people have a core group of friends that are involved in their everyday life.  These are the people we plan movie nights, coffee and lunch dates and share our birthdays with.  These friends are brought into out life through school or work and may fluctuate over the years as people grow and change.  Then there is another level of friendship that has stood the test of time.  These are the people who you may not see everyday but nonetheless you are bonded together by the longevity of kinship and their staked claim in being there for all of your firsts.  If you are luck these friends were there on your first day of school, when you chose your first color elastics for your braces, had your first kiss, had your first car accident and your first heart break.  However, life leads us down our own path which frequently carries us away from these childhood friends.  But those who are most true never move too far away from our thoughts and stay nestled in our hearts.  

Then there is another type of friend.  This is a person who you most certainly must meet as an adult. And you do not have everything in common, but such a deep respect for them that it overrides any petty differences. They are not the type of person who is casually brought into our lives but rather done so with such purpose that surely angels must have been involved.  And regardless of the time and distance between you, the fellowship developed will most certainly never wain.  This type of friend I think is quite rare, and I was lucky to not just find one but a whole family.

Before I ever dreamed of coming to Kolkata I am not even sure if I had exchanged more than a few words with Kate.  I knew her family and her three vivacious talented youngest sisters best.  I think the first conversation we ever actually had I was defending the vegan black bean burgers she had made for her sister Ali's college graduation party.   Friendly acquaintances would be an accurate description of our relationship.  

We sat down last June over coffee in a Dunkin Donuts to have our first talk about Kolkata.  I wanted to know as much as possible about the city and see if this was something I was actually looking to do.  As she delved into her story about why she had gone the first time and what the experience was for her, it was hard to not yearn to go simply because of how passionately she spoke about it.  Her first venture quite simply changed her life and the ripple effect was so great that it resulted in the adoption of two of the boys she had worked with while volunteering at Daya Dan.   I knew immediately that this was something I wanted to try.  When she asked me what I was looking to get out of it, my reply was "an experience".    

We stayed I touch over the next six months while we prepared for our trips.  Josh, her husband was there to answer any questions I had when filling out the forms for my visa.  Every time I would begin to get overwhelmed or nervous about anything Kate was there to just talk to, and I always came away with my nerves feeling quite settled.  I felt that it would be a great security blanket to have them here with me.  Not to mention the fact that they would have their three small children with them, and that would be quite the adventure to witness.  

I must say that I would have never ended up here if it were not for them and I might have never grown to discover the new person that Kolkata has made me.  And for that I owe you this:

Dear Josh, Kate, Ray, Jude and Hosea (Beezer)

I can not possible express to you the overwhelming gratitude that I have for all that you have done for me.  I do not know that I would have ever managed with out you and your guidance.

  I am truly inspired by your commitment here.  From your work with the Missionaries of Charity to Sari Bari (a center that rehabilitates prostitutes teaching them to sew bags and blankets) to the relationships you have with the street people, I am awestruck.  I managed to take myself out of what sometimes feels like the epicenter of narcissism to a place where everyday is filled with honest hard work to help others.

  Josh, rumor had it that you were a "rock star" over here.  I didn't quite know what that meant before my arrival but now I do.  Watching you interact with the locals and speak bengali was quite impressive.  Not to mention all of the stories you had to share about your time here.   And learning the story of your path to Kolkata just adds to my respect for you.  Thanks for checking on me when I was sick and getting me medication.  And thank you for helping me negotiate the food.

  I admire your courage to carry the lessons that you have learned through to your children from the get go.  Kate, you once said to me that you want your children to be more than just good at their profession but "good citizens of the world" and I have such faith that your boys will be.  The choice to bring your family here raised many eyebrows (including your own on some days) but after watching your boys learn to handle the streets of Kolkata, I feel you made the right choice. It was a joy to watch Ray befriend anyone and everyone from the people at your hotel to the waiters at Blue Sky to the street children, I know that the lessons you want him to learn were not lost on his young mind.  Often the things we learn when we are young still hold true into our adulthood.  Which explains why when my mother uses my full name and says "I need to talk to you" to this day I wrack my brain to think of what I could have done to be in trouble.  Even if many years pass before you are able to return here as a family, I think that your time here will resonate quite strongly.  I consider it a great privilege that I got to spend this time getting to know all of you.

  I shan't gush too much longer, or this will just get embarrassing for everyone.  So, thanks.  And I look forward to getting some Mexican food and margaritas with you when I get back.  Josh, we can compare fruit ninja scores then.

Until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of his hand.

It's a white girl problem

After being here for five weeks, making through my illness, getting a handle on my surroundings and finally feeling settled and strong in my purpose here I was ready to make some concessions to my western ways.  I can handle a fair amount of adversity.  I can handle virtually never feeling clean.  I can handle wearing clothes that feel like I am wearing a sack.  I can handle not wearing make-up.  What I can not handle is all three of these things all the time.  

I do not consider myself to be a prissy girl.  I have ripped a picnic table apart to use as firewood and I can adequately handle a drill.  However, I feel that I can safely say that the last time I went five weeks with out wearing a stitch of make up was easily before the Monica Lewinsky scandal.  I like red lipstick and fake eyelashes and I don't see anything wrong with that.  I have the kind of face that can take make-up like a drag queen.  In fact I have had several ask for advice, and I have decided to take that as a compliment.  It took me many years to figure out how to do my face and accentuate my features.  No one escapes the faze when your foundation is far too dark and not blended in with the rest of your skin.  Or when you don't know how to apply eyeliner to your upper lid so you just add more to the lower lid. Then of course there is my favorite awkward make up stage when you just wear whatever new sparkly eyeshadow Mary Kate and Ashley have put out applied as if by a tiny paint roller over your entire eyelid with nothing else.  Electrics blue is always a ballsy choice.  I know that many people may think I have a heavy hand when doing my face but because of my coloring, but I have realized that I am not able to do the "oh I'm not wearing make-up, I just naturally look like this" look.  So, I have simply chosen to boldly charge into my daily life sporting the "I am wearing make-up and I am not even a little bit sorry about it" look.  But I especially in my adulthood I have discovered the many steps it takes to make my face look balanced.  

Here is a glimpse at my daily make-up routine.  I wear very little foundation, I like to even it out more than cover it up.  I like my freckles and I don't want them to go away.  So, I cover up the imperfections (giant dark circles and annoying adulthood acne)  on my face and then apply a light layer of bare minerals powder to take care of any shininess. Then I move on to what is actually one of the most important parts of my face my eyebrows.  Eyebrows are so frequently overlooked when doing make-up but can really make a difference in your face, especially when like me, you don't have any.  For me, if I do my face and don't do my eyebrows it's like looking at a house with out a roof.  Even if the siding and the paint are great really, what's the point?  And in the summer when I want to lighten up on my make-up (because I'll sweat it off otherwise) I dye them a medium auburn color.  I twice tried having it done by a professional but both times had disastrous results. The first time the result had me looking like the most deplorable love child of Lucille Ball and Grouch Marx.  As it turns out, black eyebrows aren't really my look.  And the second time ended with a more suitable light brown color but unfortunately it was on one and a half brows.  Since then, I've just done it myself.  

Next, we move on to eye make-up.  There's a lot potential here, keep it simple or make it fun and colorful.  However, whatever I choose, I will certainly end with black eyeliner and mascara.  I know many people wonder why I don't go with brown, but I will say this, brown just end up looking kind of muddy, where black really makes my blue green eye color pop.  And I figure, no one is going to think I'm not wearing this stuff so, go big or go home.  Then lastly I sweep a little bronzer in an arc from the hollows of my cheeks to my temples, and a bit of blush on the apples of my cheeks.  I know this is extensive, but I also really like playing with make-up.  It's a full commitment but it certainly makes a difference.  

When I left home I did not intend on leaving my make-up at there, that was an accident.  But I wasn't too concerned.  I really didn't intend on putting a face on while I was here.  I felt that it would be good for me or good for my skin or something.  Mostly I just felt that I was coming here to focus on other things.  Also I had been warned about the groping situation with the Indian men here (we can save that for another post) and was prepared to go bare faced and baggy clothed for most of my trip.  Initially that sounded like a dream.  You must know that for all of my girliness I also asked for sweatpants for Christmas like four years in a row.  I am that girl who walks out of the house with a full face of make-up and hair and then is in sweatpants.  The point that I am dancing around is, I was fine with the idea of sweatpants and no make-up for four months.  

However, after my bout with all of the illnesses, I came to the realization that I didn't want to feel gross anymore, I wanted to be presentable.  If I understand this correctly I believe that this is a common side affect of being a grown-up.  The easiest and cheapest solution to this would be the purchase of make-up.  So, after I had recovered I ventured out to attempt to track down some products that would work.  Now, when home unless it is the middle of the summer and I have spent a good deal of time outside I always need to buy the fairest foundation available.  I have usually have the same skin tone as a vampire, so I knew I had a tall order.   Granted, there are entire lines of products here dedicated to whitening your skin here.  Big american companies put out all sorts of products from body lotion, to face and night cream, to a spray for your armpits.  "White armpits will drive your man wild."  What?! All these years I had no idea I should be concerned about the color of the skin in my armpits.  

The best part of those advertisements is all the women in strapless dresses.  What part of India are women wearing dresses like that?  I will tell you.  Nowhere. This country is very conservative in the décolletage, shoulders and back region.  Which makes these advertisements all the more silly.  But what I knew from all of this is that I had a little bit better than a snowball's chance in hell of finding some any products for my skin tone.

When I walk into the first shop I decide to just try to track down some suitable eye make-up.  I walk up to the counter where there is a group of women ready to help potential customers navigate their meager selection.  I am shown some foundation that they recommend for my skin that would be an Italian girl's summer foundation.  One woman tries very hard to sell me some teal eyeliner and I assure her that I don't think the nuns I work with would appreciate it.  She is able to help me out with some eyeliner and mascara that I will use, but when I ask her if they have any matte brown eyeshadow with no sparkles or shimmer things start to get interesting.  She assures me that they do have what I am looking for and takes my hand and repeats my phrase "brown eyeshadow, no sparkles" back to me as she smears sparkly copper eyeshadow across the back of my hand.  I am greatly amused at the thought of having shiny penny eyebrows, but then elaborate on what I intend on using this for.  When I say that it is to color in my eyebrows she gives a slight chuckle of realization and then delves into the cabinet and retrieves a champagne gold color liquid eyeshadow.  We have taken a step back.  I look perplexed for a moment and attempt another explanation.  After a few more exchanges I realize that I am getting nowhere and just take the mascara and eyeliner.  

On my way back I see another store that advertises having Maybelline and Cover Girl products.   I am greeted by another group of women who are ready to deck me out and experience deja vu as the exact same scene right down to the dialogue replays in this store.  I again try to elaborate on what I will be using this for and the women do not comprehend me.  Unibrows are a highly common here so I can understand why no one is looking to darken their eyebrows. 

Later that night, the Tucker family and I ended up venturing out to the South Street Mall.  A mall that is just as nice as any mall I have ever been to anywhere.  They even had toilet paper and soap I the bathroom. There was a crocs store, a multiplex movie theater and a subway sandwich shop, but don't ask for ranch dressing.  There were escalators and everything was very clean.   I was in heaven.  It almost felt like home.  After getting dinner at the food court, we wandered around looking at the fancy shops with western clothing.  I have rarely ever wanted to don a dress as desperately as I do now.  Anything whimsical and fancy really.  It does a girl good to be fancy every so often.  But after a while, when it just started to just get depressing looking at the dresses, I made my way to a department store called Pantaloons where I figured they would have the best selection in make-up.  I headed to the make-up counter where there were many women eager to help someone, anyone.  I looked at the many different sections to see what they would have for brands here.  I find it highly comical that at a department store in London or Paris or anywhere in the states you would find high brow designer brands like Estée Lauder or Clinique where as here I was looking at the the very exotic brand Maybelline.  A brand you normally find a Walmart.  However, at this point I don't care, at all. 

I talk to the woman at the Maybelline counter and explain my predicament.  And as the scene from earlier in the day is about to replay for the third time I stop her and slowly explain that I am looking to color in my eyebrows.  She pauses, looking a bit perplexed, and I commiserate "I know, it's a white girl problem."   But when I ask for a brown eyeliner pencil, comprehension dawns on her face and she pull out a brown eyeshadow pallet. There is a color that is a a bit sparkly but close enough.  I also purchase some other pieces and when as I get ready to leave she exclaims that I have purchased enough to receive a case.  She holds up two garish vinyl make-up bags almost shaped like a heart and informs me that I have a choice between pepto bismal pink and purple.  I would have found these ugly when I was in elementary school and dry reply "Obviously the purple one.".  She smiles kindly and her obtuseness to my sarcasm makes me feel like a jerk.  

A warning to all of my witty  sardonic friends and family members, Indian people are impervious to sarcasm and no amount of exaggeration in delivery will make them understand.  In the end, you come off looking like an a-hole.  No matter how much I try to remind myself to refrain from the use of sarcasm, I seem to weekly have a sticky moment where I appear to be a cad.  

After the acquisition of the materials necessary to paint my face on.  I felt like a whole new woman, almost.  There was matter of my eyebrows.  I have never been able to shape them myself.  This was never quite so evident as when they were jet black that one harrowing afternoon.  After voicing this Kate informed me of a beauty parlor that was one block over from Sudder St that did waxing and threading.  Soon enough we found ourselves walking through the door that said "ladies only" and climbing the stairs.  We were greeted by several women who more than happy to be pulled out of their perpetual state of ennui by our arrival.  We enquired about leg waxing and threading and I was lead over to a chair and two women whipped off my painted on brows to reveal the two blonde caterpillars perched on my forehead.  Then one swept down pulling the skin taught while the other woman proceeded to clean up my brows with her thread.  Threading is nothing I understand.  They take a long piece of thread and twist it and then move it over the offending hairy areas.  Essentially these women cat's cradle your hair off.  It seems like witchcraft, but whatever gets the job done.  

Meanwhile, Kate was whisked over to a row of several chairs where a woman approached with a bowl of hot wax and several fabric strips.  Her five year old son Ray had accompanied us to the beauty parlor and was intrigued by the gruesome prospect of his mom getting her hair ripped out ... on purpose.  Ray watched and held his mothers hand as the woman spread the hot wax over her skin, pressed the cloth piece down and then pulled each strip off.  He only exclaimed once when his mom squeezed his hand too hard.  And he eagerly scampered over to sit next to me when it was my turn to endure this insanity.  

All the while, the women were talking to each other about the state of our feet.  Managing your feet here is a full time job.  Because the streets are mostly dirt and it is too hot to wear anything but sandals your feet take a beating daily.  Every night I soak and then scrub them down in an attempt to prevent my heels from cracking further and return them to a normal human color as opposed to the swampy black they usually are.  I do not envy the poor pedicurist who is going try to fix my feet when I return.  In the beauty parlor the woman looked at our feet in horror and assured us that they would give us "normal feet". As tempting as it was we had not scheduled that for ourselves and had to depart after the waxing.

At the end of it all I spent three hundred rupees for everything, including the tips.  That is about six American dollars and easily one tenth of what I would have paid for just the leg waxing back home.  What a bargain!

The thing I had learned from all of this is that it is not selfish to want to be presentable.  There something to be said about not wanting to completely let yourself go.  I feel that it is not a luxury but a strong dose of medicine to ensure that I don't loose my mind in the middle of all of this mess of women putting their infants to bed on the sidewalk and men shooting up heroin in between their toes in the gutter.  I am willing to give a lot of myself to try to lend a helping hand here, but I won't give my sanity.  And if clean eyebrows and mascara help I don't see anything wrong with that.  

Growing Pains

In my travels I have learned that I am quite happy and elated to be on my journey.  But after two or three weeks my heart starts to long for familiarity and the routine of home. I yearn for the comfort of my own bed, the smell of my own sheets and simple normality. I was rather surprised to discover this last year when gallivanting around Europe with my family. On the second leg of our trip, just after landing in Italy I remember saying, "I can't believe that we have two more weeks of this trip."

This realization stunned me quite a bit.  I will not deny that I can be quite lazy, who doesn't love an afternoon well spent in front of the television watching a Cary Grant movie marathon on TCM?  Or perhaps Law and Order better suits your fancy.  So you would think that being at leisure, touring and getting cultured would be something that I could never get enough of.  However, I will also acknowledge that I come from a family of workaholics and have banged out many an eighteen hour day. What a strange combination.  Armed with this knowledge I was ready to face the inevitable third week homesickness. 

It is also a well known fact that there a few things worse that being ill when not at home. Having a fever or the rumbly tummies could make even a navy seal want mommy.  Whenever I am ill it is most likely a sinus infection, a personal favorite of my body.  I stock up on tissues, tea and saline nasal spray and I know that I talk to my mother quite regularly from the comfort of my couch.  And every time I hear the ache in her voice to be by my side, to comfort me even though I am an adult of twenty-seven.  And last summer when the mysterious stomachs pains (that I would later discover we're due to a gluten intolerance) returned when I was teaching in Alabama, she threatened to drop everything and fly down to Huntsville to be with me.  It was a very much appreciated but nonetheless very silly idea.  Especially since it was opening week for the resort where she is program director.

"What are you going to do, just look at me be in pain on the floor?"

"Well, " she sighed " it would make me feel better."

To which I replied, "I think there are a lot more people who need you there."

I faired that storm with the help of friends and the lovely community surrounding me down there.  That memory surfaced when I was preparing for India.  I knew I would probably come down with something at some point while here.  The length of my stay was too long for me to be healthy the entire time, the air too polluted.  Not to mention the fact that I had be warned  "everyone gets sick when they're in India".  You don't see that on any billboards.

 

What I was not ready for was perfect storm of awfulness that was about to blacken my horizon.  And like the beach goers of early summer in Maine, I was not necissarily warned by big black slow moving ominous clouds.  This thing swept down from the north quickly and all the warning I had was a sudden swift cool breeze on my back.

At this point let me say that this is about to get graphic. I will not venture into great detail but I would not properly be reporting on my time here if I was not honest about it.  If you are squeamish, easily grossed out or have not reared children stop reading and and we will see each other at the next post.  This is not for the faint of heart.

The second week that I was here two of my roommates came down with  stomached issues.  I was surprised to see that it took them nearly four days to recover and return to work.  I have suffered from indigestion.  I live in NYC where you can the worst possible food for you from all over the globe.  And these eateries are open till the wee hours of the morning making the likelihood that a night of drinking will preceded these bad gastronomical choices inevitable.  Needless to say, I've made food choices I have later regretted.  But getting an illness that knocked you out for a week had been reserved for the respiratory system in most of my experiences, but hey, I'm not one to judge. I had been very lucky not to be ill so far, and I knew it.  Claire had been so kind as to point that out to me.  But after my second week, I felt fatigue and illness creeping my way.

 

The air here is of the worst quality imaginable.  Well, short of people needing to walk around in hazmat suits due an outrageous toxic spill or nuclear blast or something.  Everything is covered in a layer of grime and dirt.  Most streets here are not paved, they are dirt and since it is not the rainy season everything is very dry.  So dust kicks up very easily.  Also, the waste management program here would make even the environmentally challenged American raise an eyebrow.  There are no trash cans here in Kolkata, none.  I can never find one anywhere at the homes or the mother house.  So everyone just throws their trash on the ground.  When getting chai on the street they serve it to you in a little clay cup that transfers the heat rather quickly.  So you stand there burning your fingers and your mouth on this tea that just kinda tastes like clay.  But the good news is that when you finish, you can shatter your cup on the ground and demand another just like Thor.   All day this garbage gathers, and then at some point, some mysterious group of men sweep all of it into the gutter.  After it has been picked through by all of the dogs, cats, goats, cows and buffalo the rest is set on fire.  I guess we can't blame that hole in the ozone layer entirely on 80's hair bands.  This is the air everyone is breathing. Delicious.  I had been handling the air quality fairly well, but it was after several consecutive nights of a group of chain smokers camping out on my door while I attempted sleep that I came down with a sinus infection.

 

I knew I was coming down with something and that I needed sleep. But I had promised Claire that we would go to the leprosy colony together.  There is a group that goes out every other Thursday that leaves earl in the morning but is back by lunch.  That morning I woke up feeling very groggy and it was with great effort that I even made it out of bed.  Had it not been for the seventy rupees that I had paid for the bus to take us there I am fairly certain I would have bailed.  Having prepaid for things that are early in the morning is a great incentive to make sure you actually go.  

The bus ride out was long and crowded, but there was good company and conversation so I didn't mind terribly.  The tour at the center was lovely.  Victims of the disease are able to get full treatment and are even given jobs. They harvest food and care for many animals that are able to use for sale.  They also work making clothing and blankets for all of the other homes.  The blue and white habits that are the uniform for the sisters are made there.  The children of people at the center are cared for and schooled.  People who are far enough along in the stages of the disease that they require prosthetic limbs have them.  They were easily the happiest most convivial  group of indians that I met. It was a wonderful experience.

The return trip was not so wonderful.  I have always had a tendency towards getting motion sick, and this ride proved to be the worst.  My head was pounding from sinus pressure and my stomached was queasy from the ride.  I got off the bus, walked directly home and passed out.  I proceeded to sleep and cough and wheeze and blow my nose for the next three days.  I was so exhausted, I hardly ever got out of bed except to eat maybe one meal a day or to lay in the sunshine.  I plugged in to my audio book and lived in that world while I recovered.  Three days of resting up passed before I felt I was ready to return.  After all it was Hanna's last day and I wanted to send her off.

  

My return was triumphant, many people were asking for me.  I guess even among the volunteers my hair color does not go unnoticed.  Several people I had hardly seen but in passing came up to me, " I was just asking my friend if they had seen 'that girl with the red hair'," they would say or "I am so glad to see you are feeling better."  My friend Anna came bounding forward and hugged me proclaiming, "You're alive!". I was filled with a sense of community and belonging, it was wonderful.  I was even greeted with a smile from Dilip when he saw that I was back.  I was having a great day.  Claire and I had made plans to get masala dosa (a dish popular in the south) for lunch.  We sat in the cafe talking about life, our trips, New York and Hanna leaving.  After lunch, Claire took off to go back to volunteer in the afternoon and I went to rest.  I was not quite feeling back to myself and I was exhausted.

 

The next morning we said good bye Hanna after a lovely breakfast.  Claire and I decided to take the morning off, she wanted to go shopping.

  She turned to me and said, "What do you want to do?"

"Lie down!" I said emphatically. I had a pit in my stomach that I knew had nothing to do with Hanna leaving.

 

I made a bee line back to my room where I tried to get control over my flip flop cramping tummy.  I took a fist full of tums and lay down.  I attempted to sleep through the pain, then Claire insisted that I needed good bacteria in my system.  So she convinced me  went to try some curd.  Now, I like regular yogurt, and I love Greek yogurt but curd is foul.  Greek yogurt is bitter and tangy but it's thick and very creamy. While regular yogurt is thinner and not as creamy it is sweeter.  Curd is thin and bitter, the worst of both worlds.  I put one spoonful in my mouth and looked at Claire horrified.  She smirked then grimaced and suggested that I add more honey.  After an hour I had my fill, a total of two and a half bites.  I could feel the unsavory awfulness churning in my stomach.  I briefly was able to talk to my mom and then I headed back to my room.  It wasn't long before I was completely regretting the curd.  And if I thought it was unpleasant to choke down, it was only worse when coming back up.

 

There are something's that I observed about myself during this.  Normally when ill, I succumb to my pain and become the most pathetic person.  It is not beyond me to camp out sleeping on my bathroom floor in the comfort of my own home or cling to the toilet as my stomach empties itself.  I know I'm not alone.  You wallow in your illness fidgeting not knowing what to do with yourself.  I feel I can safely say, that since the time when I was eleven when we discovered that penicillin causes me to vomit violently, I have never been this sick.  However, I have also never kept myself together as gracefully as I did through this illness.

 

The paragon, where I am staying is completely disgusting.  I don't know that the bathrooms have ever been actually cleaned with cleaning products.  Once a day a man hooks a hose up and just sprays everything down, like people who have vinyl siding on their houses.  That is basically the extent that things get cleaned here, the old rinse-a-roo.  If he can't hit it with the hose from the hall it does not get cleaned.  This actually isn't that bad for the pop-a-squat Indian toilets, but this is not an approach that I recommend for any western style toilet.  Most people opt to "improve their aim" so to speak, in an attempt to avoid using this bathroom.  However, when your system is trying to empty itself as quickly as possible, this is not the time to check how accurate your aim is when vomiting.  I therefore adopted a very specific posture when in the western bathroom to avoid touching anything.  I would stand with my feet hip width apart and slightly turned in, knees bent, with my hands resting on them and  bent over at the waist.  I would stand in this posture, puking my brains out.

 

One afternoon, I was standing there perpetually dwelling in the anticipatory moment before vomiting and praying it would come soon, when an insect with many legs caught my attention crawling up the wall.  I was finally able to kick start my stomach.  After every purging session I would then calmly return to my room, grab my toothbrush and listerine and return back to the sinks to clean my mouth.  Through all of this I had very little privacy, because even though it's not an open bathroom stall, the sound carries quite well through to the person showering next to you, or the rest of the building for that matter.

  

This purification lasted for five days.  I was confined to my room out of fear that if I went out I was going to cough and then do a public one woman reenactment of the bridal shop scene from Bridesmaids.  No thank you.  I had refrained from any more curd.  My diet consisted of water, water with pediatric electrolyte powder (fruit punch flavor!) and orange juice.  Although, I did discover that I prefer the brand "real" of orange juice over tropicana because it tastes better to vomit. These are the things that you talk about with the other people who were also sick.

 

My roommates were wonderful, running out and grabbing juice or toilet paper and laughing at my misery. They understood all too well, they had been there.  After my second day though, I had to say goodbye to Claire.  It was a sad affair, but I'm sure we will see each other again in New York.

During the days, I was so grateful for my iPod.  The first few days I laid there listening to the audiobooks that my brother had given me. As I laid listening to Pirates Latitude a raw ache unrelated to my physical illness sunk into the pit of my stomach.  I had been here for three weeks and it felt interminable.  How on earth was I going to get through the next three months here?  I wanted my mom, or anyone that I knew.  I wanted something familiar, anything familiar. Everything here is strange and smelly.  I wanted to be home where I had people who knew me and could make me laugh.  I was dreaming about my clothes and my plush bed, my perfume and my make up.  I miss smelling good and feeling pretty.  I felt that I was losing myself in this place.  So many of the things that I felt defined me so specifically were slipping away.  I know now I haven led an extremely comfortable life where I have the luxury of complaining about my job where I sing and dance.  How stupid and ungrateful I can be.

 

Then later I remembered the Bugs Bunny cartoons that were on my iPod and the movies.  I was able to plug into the characters that had been so prevalent through my childhood and I thought of my brothers and my Papa.  Why was is necessary to travel to the other side of the world to know that I have the best family? They are not perfect but they are supportive and love me through every cavalier reckless decision I make.

 

Then I watched Hairspray and I proceeded to openly weep in the dark surrounded by my sleeping roommates. But this was not out of homesickness.  I was flooded with all of the love that I felt doing that show.  I can say with the utmost certainty that was one of the best times of my life, just pure unadulterated joy.  And I was lucky enough to not have a romantic fling screw it up. How could I ever be sad again when I had such joy in my life?  Joy that I can still hold on to.  And hadn't I gotten a tattoo to try to preserve that memory?  How was able to get so far away from that and into a place of such unattractive self pity?  I realized as I lay there that these were all valid feelings that I was having, but I was also blowing things out of proportion due to the fact that I was so ill and my brain gets weird when I deprive it of food for a week.  But at the end of it all I realized that what I missed most was being able to freely express myself.  This whole country is so pent up, reserved and deprived and if anyone is going to burst out with any emotion it would be anger.  You are more likely to see a mob with machetes than a flash mob.  You never hear people laughing.  In my life back home I frequently am brought to tears because I am laughing so hard.  There are plenty of people who are friendly.  People smile enough, the sisters are extremely pleasant.  But with them, I feel that because of their life style, they are akin to a Jedi and all their emotions are balanced.  I prefer to have the whole spectrum at my disposal.  And apparently I was attempting to feel all of them at the same time like I was going for some world record.  I guess that the conclusion of this self analysis is that I would rather have to throw myself into the gauntlet of Kolkata every so often to ensure that those moments of pure love and laughing so hard I cry are completely appreciated than lead an emotionally balanced pleasant life.

 

Also, I miss not being the loudest most obnoxious person in the room.  I miss my quippy sardonic gay friends and I miss black people.  I miss singing and dancing and acting like an ass.  I miss my job (not Ellen's or Point Sebago specifically) being an artist.

After four days of eating absolutely nothing and vomiting up absolutely everything Josh popped his head in my room to check on me.  He asked about how I had been feeling and that my mom had sent Kate a message saying she had not heard from me in days.  I filled him in on all the gory details.  His face when I told him I hadn't eaten since Monday was comical.  "It's Friday" he exclaimed! After some consideration and when I told him I still had absolutely no appetite he thought I contracted a parasite and ran out to get me some meds.  I thanked him for getting me some medication and promptly took it when he returned.  I also promptly threw it up after he left.  The next day I was still a complete mess, but after two days of medication I ventured out into the world to see Kate and Josh.  We had lunch that day where I enjoyed a meal of four bites of rice and ketchup. The company was wonderful and the next day we headed to McDonalds where I stuffed my face with four chicken nuggets and eight french fries.  It was familiar and wonderful.  I could have cried and I think I was trying with great effort not to. However, after the ten minute walk back I felt like I needed a twenty minute nap.  But I was getting better.

All in all, I got through it.  No one said that changing your life and working to be a better person was easy work.  I didn't end up back at work until Wednesday.  And while I wouldn't recommend it to anyone as a diet, I also feel lighter.  The first glance at myself in a full length mirror was down right shocking.  I truly feel that the eight days of illness and self reflection that I endured were at the end of it, empowering.  My renewed sense of purpose was nearly overwhelming.  I feel stronger and more capable than I can ever remember.

 

I did the math and I only have about ten weeks left here.  Ten weeks is nothing.