Happy Anniversary to Us

Six months ago today, we arrived in sunny Bangalore - thirteen thousand miles (or so) away from the eastern shores of the USA.

Between email, Skype and the internet, sometimes it feels like three miles but despite all that, most of the time we still end up feeling very far removed from everything in the U.S. We usually read the Indian papers first and then go online to check out the The New York Times (and I can't help it, I still check the People website for my celebrity news) but even though we can read about the race between Hilary and Barack and the Oscars (which are the only two topics currently getting coverage here), it still feels like we are reading about events happening in Europe or another foreign place. I had heard of No Country for Old Men only because it was out when we were home, but other than that, I barely recognized the names of the movies nominated. The upcoming elections get a fair bit of coverage here and although we read about what's happening online, it still feels very distant. I think maybe because we have to go out and search for the news instead of being bombarded with daily updates on what candidate is saying what. It would be like you reading about truck drivers on strike in India or the controversy surrounding a new airport opening in Bangalore. You know it's happening but it doesn't seem to hold much relevance to your life. Obviously, the next President holds a great deal of relevance to us (and in terms of foreigners, everyone is anxious to see what's going to happen to our economy) but I think we've come to realize that there's not too much we can do. The race is going to be decided for us (like the rest of the world) even with absentee ballots. Like I said, between email, Skype and cheap cell phones, it's been easier to feel connected to friends and family. (And with the blog, you all know what happens almost minute to minute here so that helps to make us feel not quite so far away.)

Not that feeling far away from some of the nonsense is a bad thing. I kind of like the perspective of seeing your country as an outsider. It can make you both critical and defensive at once, like how you feel like you can criticize your family but as soon as someone else does, you can get very defensive and protective. (Not that I would ever criticize my family...) But it's also strange to read articles about India in American newspapers and websites. Not that the information is not accurately reported or holds any biased, it's just that it's written with the sense that it's happening somewhere across the globe. But for us, it's happening here. For example, a while there was this article in the New York Times about the growing trend of twenty something Indian woman, shunning marriage at an early age and instead graduating college and working in the IT industry (or marrying but still focused on their careers). The article was written specifically about Bangalore. Everything the article stated was true but hearing about all of the twenty something women working with George, it was like old news. Just recently, I came across an article about Kerala, the Indian state we visited a few weeks ago. There was a map to explain where it is and it discussed alot of what we saw when we were there. The topics are easily something we could read in The Times of India, it's just that they would be written...differently. It's interesting to see both sides.

We haven't really had much to complain about here on the home front for a while. When we came back from Goa, we turned on a light which caused the entire apartment to lose power. We tried to just flip the switches in the fuse box and I swear we tried every which way, even with the "master" switch but with no luck. After alerting the security guard to our problem, we waited about twenty minutes for someone to come up to take a look. I swear he flipped one switch in the fuse box and we heard the beep of the refrigerator flip on. I haven't tried the drier that sits idle across from the washer in months so its been a while since we've blown a fuse, I guess I just forgot which way the switches go (though I am sure we tried all combinations). He probably left thinking we should apologize for disturbing him with something so easily fixed. Before we left for Goa, George was in the bedroom and I heard a crash. The bar that we hang our clothes on in the closet gave out and collapsed. It never looked all that sturdy. The maid boy came and fixed it and said he tightened the clasps that hold it up but we still have yet to hang everything back up to really test it. But other than that, the maids continue to half-heartedly clean and I find the more I talk to them, the more I confuse them. "We just returned from Goa. It's a lovely place," I shared with the girl-maid on Tuesday. "Oh, Goa, yes Goa. You go?" So far so good. So I say, "No, we went to Goa. Just came back yesterday." I point to the empty sink and the plane ticket stubs. "Oh, yes Goa. Very nice." This morning I got a curious call from Vivian, who uses the same maid, "Do you need the maid today? She thinks you're in Goa." And I really thought we were making progress. Maybe it's my hand gestures. I make these ridiculous hand gestures that I think will help her to understand what I'm saying. To indicate that we went to Goa last weekend I swung my forearm back over my shoulder as I emphasized "last weekend." I guess that is not the universal sign for "last weekend." I also like to play the "speak slower and louder" game as if this will suddenly help the words to make sense. The things she must say about me...

At least I can say I was able to complete a morning run today without any major catastrophes. I was going to say no to my friends, convinced I should become a treadmill only runner in India but they tempted me with a later start time (fifteen minutes). You'd be surprised the difference between starting at 6 and 6:15. We went back to the park and saw a lovely sunrise which helped to light the way.

Author's Note: The idea for today's post came from Sir who would also like to add that we're sad that people haven't come to visit yet. And while we are feeling far removed from things happening in the US it might also have to do with the fact that India doesn't really seem all that foreign anymore. It's amazing how acclimated you can get to a place that seemed so crazy only a few months ago.

(But not to worry mother, we won't be living here forever.)

All Good Vacations Must Come to an End

The sun and fun are endless in Goa. After a very stressful Sunday filled with sand and surf, we decided to take in a beautiful Goan sunset on the beach with fruity cocktails from one of the shacks. While we had learned from the swim up bar that frozen, fruity cocktails in India come without the "frozen" (which is surprisingly disappointing on a hot day), we thought that maybe the shacks would be different. In retrospect, it seems absurd that we might think this considering they are shacks and if a resort hotel can't manage a blender, it's certainly going to be harder to do so on a beach. But still, we ordered the specialty pina colada and sipped the warmish drink while people watched in the evening.

We saw a couple of Indians walking down the beach in ski hats and sweat pants. We saw groups of boys with their arms around one another and/or holding hands as they strolled along pretending not to stare at the tourists. We met another frail women who came over to introduce herself carrying a large gym bag that was so full, it looked like it might tackle her. She had closed up shop for the day but stopped to admire the necklace I was wearing that was made of different kinds of red beads. She commented that the red against my white face was lovely. "Really, the red against the white, white skin, very nice." The way she lingered over and emphasized the "white" was very amusing to Sir. And I thought I was getting a healthy "summer" glow. We also saw a boy walking a cow down the beach. The cow attracted the attention of a playful stray dog who followed them down the beach. They passed us again going the opposite way about 20 minutes later. The boy and the cow kept going while the dog came up to play with some Russian ladies. We did see the sun go down but just as it was hovering ever so slowly above the horizon, the haze and/or clouds that had been lurking in the distance decided at that moment to swoop in and cover the sun that had just gone from orange to red hiding the pinks and purples.

So we left our half full drinks and walked back to the resort for dinner. We were treated to a seafood buffet on the lawn with live "jazz" music. We enjoyed the tiger prawns which are larger than jumbo shrimp but slightly smaller than lobsters. Sadly, we don't think they can be found in the Atlantic. We also had salmon that was small and white but strangely tasted alot like the larger, pink variety. The jazz music consisted of a (presumably) Indian gentlemen at a keyboard and a woman who might have been Indian or African on vocals who sang popular jazz hits like Sheryl Crow's, "All I Want to Do," some Whitney Houston hits (of the 1980s) and an occasional Motown tune.

We had all day Monday since our flight did not leave until 7:30 PM so in the morning we decided to do what all good tourists who come to India eventually do, rent scooters. We had called down to the hospitality desk to see if we could rent through them or if they could help us arrange for one. The women told us that we could go outside and talk to the taxi drivers who would help us. So while I checked out, George went outside to get the story from the taxi drivers. He came back and said that we could get a scooter for the day for 300 rupees ($7) but we had to take a taxi 9 km to get it. He was told that we could just leave the scooter at the hotel when we were done and someone would come fetch it later. We drove through a couple of small "towns," which were no more than four or five store fronts, to a side road leading to another beach. We pulled into a small square with a couple of shops and about 20 scooters parked out front.

Our taxi driver and a man standing by the scooters nodded to one another and we said we wanted to rent a scooter. He asked if we had a license and said it would be 300 rupees for the whole day but we couldn't leave it at our hotel. We said that the taxi driver said we could, they exchanged a few words and the man renting the scooter said, "ok, give me a little more money then." We agreed to give him 350 and he said ok. Then the taxi driver asked for 350 for the ride from the hotel. George tried to ask how renting a scooter for the entire day and a 9 km taxi ride are the same price but they played dumb. After we pushed him further, the taxi driver went back to his car and showed us a laminated price list. We decided with such official documentation, to not argue and just paid him. Then we asked about gas. It was empty of course and petrol was not included in the price. We got into a discussion about how much petrol we would need, where we could get it and how many km we thought we might drive. Not knowing where we would be going or how far anything was, and still getting used to using kilometers (and not miles), this was not an easy conversation. Finally, we opted to just fill it and go. The man renting the scooters said he would help us get the petrol.

He pulled the scooter to a shack behind his "store" and called out to his friend. His friend then went down some alley and came back with four water bottles filled with a liquid the color of diluted iced tea and a funnel. He opened up the gas tank, fitted the funnel on top and poured all four water bottles into the funnel. At that point, they were ready to wave us off until we said we needed a quick lesson since neither of us had driven a scooter before. I suppose he figured if we had a driver's license, we knew how to drive one. He gave George a quick tutorial and he took a very short test run around the small parking lot before I hopped on. The guy who was renting it gave us a look like, "don't make me regret this," but just kept repeating, "just take it slow, Sir." We never signed anything, we never told him our names or where we were from, just that we were staying at the Kenilworth in room 229 (although we had already checked out) nor did we know his name, the name of the place renting the scooter or our taxi driver. We did think about this momentarily when all was said and done, "what if we had gotten a flat tire or the petrol turned out to be iced tea," but at the time, we just adopted the Indian attitude of "no problem." When we did finally return to the hotel and gave our key to the reception desk, they asked who would be picking it up and when we said we didn't know, they just seemed to let it go. No problem.

All of the roads were pretty empty and after the first couple of kilometers, we were able to lift our grips so our knuckles weren't completely white. We cruised around at an easy 30 km/hour, letting everything but bicyclists pass us until finally towards the end of our ride, George felt confident enough to pass another slow poke scooter. Aside from the fact that he was driving something he'd never driven before, he said it was difficult because he constantly had to be paying attention to make sure he was on the right side of the road, that he knew what was behind him and if they were going to pass, that he knew what was in front of him (as some people cut it very close when passing other vehicles) and keeping track of all the animals, push carts and people on the sides of the road, all while being totally exposed. It was only scary for me in the beginning when he seemed a little shaky, like people who a just learning how to ski and you think you better steer clear of them. But after he got the hang of it, I was taking pictures and just enjoying the ride. We tried to get into one of the exclusive resorts but they wouldn't let us park and walk around. But we did get to walk around the Park Hyatt Hotel which definitely seemed like a $500/night resort. Everyone seemed to greet us as if we were staying there and we looked like all the other guests, so we wondered if we couldn't have tried to use some of their facilities as no one seemed to be paying to much attention to where we were going. After taking a stroll down to their beach (which looked exactly like ours but with better chairs) we hopped back on our bike and headed back to the Kenilworth for some more beach and pool time before we had to leave. They were kind enough to let us use their spa to shower and change before our flight.

The flight back was an easy hour journey on SpiceJet and our faithful Chandan was waiting for us as we walked out of the Bangalore parking lot with his yellow plates back on. The big strike was over.

So, all of you who weren't really sure if you were ready for (or willing to come to) India...we could always bring you to Goa to lounge at a resort and you'd be just fine. Pack your Speedos.

P.S. I added more pictures but they are in with the ones that were posted yesterday.

George put the G in Goa

You know how some resort or tourist destinations have catchy phrases either to get you to come visit or to sell merchandise - like Incredible India!, or Ilovermont, or Jamaican me Crazy! Well, we're not sure if Goa has any but I'm thinking we should run a few by the official tourist office. There is the obvious, "Go to Goa: it won't disappoint." Or "Gorgeous Goa." But I like the possibilities that lay with Goahead relax, or Goahead enjoy yourself, or Goahead fall in love with India, Goahead meet some Russians. It's endless really...what you could come up with. But that fussing about where to stay ended up paying off as we were in a lovely location, not too far from the airport, right on a beautiful beach and enough places to choose from to eat but not overly crowded with rowdy Indian (and International) ex-hippies.

Goa is a beach town. Actually Goa is the name of the state, the smallest in India, so feels more like a town.

The map on the right isn't very good but it's the tiny spot in between Bangalore and Mumbai. The map on the left is of the different sites within Goa. We were in between Bogmalo and Colva beach.

We drove about 20 minutes from the airport passing much of the same sights as we see in Bangalore - lots of 2 wheelers, cows, and poverty. We passed large areas just off the highway that looked like shanty towns. There were rows and rows of tin roofs surrounded by dirt and garbage littered all around. As we pulled off the main road, we went winding down a narrow road and could only see the tops of palm trees to the right of the road. The further we went down the shadier it got, like we were driving through a palm tree forest. But as we kept driving, the palm trees thinned out (a little) and you could feel that we were getting closer to the beach. I don't know if you can tell this by the people that you see or by the way the air looks or the houses that you pass but once we got out of the car and could smell the salt air, it was clear we'd arrived at the beach.

We stayed at a resort called the Kenilworth and were greeted by an overabundance of employees ready to make our stay comfortable. It was probably around 3:30 by the time we got settled and decided that there was still plenty of time to enjoy the day so we headed out to the pool. There were about five different sections to the pool including a swim up bar and jacuzzi that wasn't actually filled with hot water but did have jets to give it the same effect. We were not too surprised to find that most of the guests were foreigners because I had read that Goa is a popular tourist destination for the Brits and the Russians. But we were surprised when we took the two minute walk out to the beat and saw all the signs written in Russian and the plethora of Russian flags that dotted the skyline. Opposite the water, there are a few different "shacks" that sell food and drinks so the signs and the flags were attached to these shacks. We were sitting at one one day and a waiter walked by with a menu. We asked to see it and he said, "I'll have to get you another. This one is in Russian." I suppose the warm, sandy beaches of Goa are a welcome contrast to the cold and snowy Moscow.

We spent most of our weekend dividing our time between the pool and the beach, admiring the wide array of Speedos and thongs that the Russians are not afraid to sport. They looked good and apparently, they knew it. They spent a good deal of time doing some photo shoots of one another. One man, had his lady posing in the surf on the beach one afternoon. If you've ever seen, or remember, Madonna's video for "Cherish," it was somewhat reminiscent. Another day we were at the pool and one larger woman was sitting in the grass with her camera focused on another female friend (or relative) in a bikini, posing in all sorts of positions for the camera. In a moment of silliness, she took two coconuts and placed them strategically in front of her chest. Goin' nuts in Goa!

But the Russians weren't the only ones who provided free entertainment for us. There were plenty of Indians who approached us and personally introduced themselves with a proper handshake before trying to sell us various wares. One man asked if George likes "Lacoste" and when he got the slightest recognition of "yes, I know the Lacoste brand," he tried, and tried, and tried to sell him polo shirts in a variety of colors. We neglected to buy any tunics, sarongs, jewelry, or other authentic Indian goods and surprisingly were not annoyed by the attempts to get us to buy. This could be for a variety of reasons including: we were sitting under palm umbrellas; we were looking out at the rhythmic extension and retraction of the sea against the sand; there was a calm but constant breeze; all we had to decide was where to eat and when, whether to swim or not, and beach or pool. Or it could be that we weren't annoyed because the owner of the shack where we were sitting kept coming out to shoo away "vendors" who stayed too long. He asked where we were from and we responded with "from the U.S." "Oh, America," he says. His mother is working in Tampa, Florida. He asked how long we were staying and was a little surprise to hear we were just making this a weekend trip so we clued him in that we are living in Bangalore. He used to work in Bangalore, just near the mall where we can walk to. Bangalore to Goa, not a bad move.

We also saw a very young girl and a slightly older boy approach with six sticks, a rope and a bag filled with who knows what. They got busy putting three sticks in the sand in the shape of a tent on one end and three sticks, in the same tent shape across from the first. They then tied the rope from one end to the other. The boy got the people in the lounge chairs ready by banging on a drum while the girl made a small production out doing some contortionist moves. Like the street kids in Bangalore, she shimmied herself through a small silver ring (that was all rusted), she dislocated her shoulder and moved her body through a circle she made were her arms and then she started climbing. Up one of the tented sticks to the top where she was handed a pole by the boy. Then, as he continued to drum, she walked across the rope that sagged and swayed with her weight. She made it across then turned around, placed what looked like a heavy tin container on top of her head and walked back the other way. She went back and forth the shaky line, took her bow and then tried to get as much money as she could from the spectators. As quickly as they set up they tightrope, the dismantled it and made their way down to the next shack to set up again.

The first night we ate in our hotel's "shack" and ate some delicious Thai spring rolls and prawns, while listening to the waves crashing on the beach. We moved from there to the grounds of the hotel and were shown "the best seat in the house," in the grass, under the stars. I tried to order some fish that I was told was like sea bass but the waiter came over with a smaller, thinner fish called pomphret and assured me he was going to cook it in some traditional Goan spices and make it special for me. He might have also let me know that he was going to serve it in tact (with the head) but surprisingly, that (nor the bones that I had to maneuver around didn't bother me because it was so delicious.

There were two weddings at our hotel on Saturday night. One was a British couple and one was an Indian couple but we couldn't tell if the Indian couple was just having a reception (they usually last multiple days) or whether they actually had a ceremony. It looked like they were setting up for a ceremony but we didn't see it. The British couple and there guests (which looked like they were mostly family) were at our hotels "shack" as we were eating our appetizers. All of the women had small hats, that almost looked more like headbands adorned with flowers and mesh material making me wonder if this held some significance. Later a Russian contingency came in and must have enjoyed themselves as we saw them stumbling back to their rooms later while we were at dinner. One guy was still in what looked like his bathing suit and a t-shirt and was pulling his shirt up over his gut as he mumbled to his wife and friends. Perhaps they miss their vodkas like Sir misses his beers. (Though he could get Carlsburg which seemed to please him.)

You know how those long and strenuous weekends can leave you feeling like you need another vacation, especially when you lead such a stressful life, so I will stop here as it's almost 7:15 pm. There are some pictures posted (some comments courtesy of Sir). More tomorrow.

Indian English

One thing about being in a foreign country, even one where they speak English, and meeting people from all over the world, you find you speak differently than you would at home. Sometimes it's the way that I phrase things and sometimes it's almost like I'm trying to mimic their accent, whoever it is I happen to be talking to - an Indian, a Malaysian, an Aussie... I suppose this is not a groundbreaking discovery but it still surprises me sometimes and makes me laugh.

Yesterday, I caught myself saying to my Finnish friend, "why don't you phone me tomorrow and we can discuss," instead of what I would say to my American friend, "call me tomorrow." Sometimes it's just that I use more words and sometimes it's the choice of words. In the beginning, I was much more conscious of what I said and how I said it because I had to. Vivian or Chandan (or whoever) would look at me like she/he had no idea what I was saying and I would have to come up with another way to say what I wanted. It feels like a more formal way of speaking that catches me off guard sometimes and makes me laugh, like when you catch yourself in the mirror and you think "is that what I look like?"I think when I am mimicking their accents, it's because I'm afraid they won't understand otherwise. When I hear myself doing it, I feel like I'm pretending to be something I'm not. I really don't want to be one of those people who picks up a fake accent but I think I'm becoming less and less conscious that I'm doing it.

Yesterday at lunch we were laughing about some of the Indian phrases we've picked up. A couple of my favorites: "tell me" - which you can say when you pick up the phone, "yes, tell me." Or if you need help in a store and you approach the salesperson they'll say, "tell me." It sounds a little abrupt at first but why beat around the bush, tell me. George says they use the phrase, "pre-pone" at work to indicate that a meeting has been moved. Or, if a company splits up, they'll call it a de-merger instead of divestiture. They also always ask you to do things kindly. Kindly make your payment, kindly leave your shoes at the door, kindly use the other door. In restaurants, when you ask for a bottle of water you are given two choices, room temperature or chilled. If you reply, "cold," they look at you blankly. They'll start listing off brand names of water (Evian? Himalaya? Aquafina?) or just start listing other beverages. Only until you ask for chilled water, will you get a cold bottle. They will give you a similar blank look if you ask them to wrap up your leftovers. Not until you ask them to parcel your food, will you get a doggie bag. And sometimes, like on Wednesday when we tried a new restaurant, Giancarlo's, they'll refuse to parcel your food for you.

Legend has it, Gian Carlo was a flare bartender, like Tom Cruise in Cocktail. He was hired by one of the luxury hotel chains in Bangalore and recently decided to go out on his own and start a restaurant. We had heard that he had a brick oven to cook pizzas which was enough to entice me. Apparently you can take the man out of the luxury hotel restaurant but you can take the luxury out of the man. There were three eager employees at the door to let us in, all dress in black pinstripe pants and matching pinstriped shirts with the Giancarlo logo on the breast pocket. There was another employee two feet away at the elevator to press the button for us. When we got to the third floor I went right and almost walked into the dimly lit but cozy looking cigar room. To the left was the restaurant that was nicely laid out with some rod iron tables and chairs, some couches and some benches but totally empty. The heavily made up hostess wearing a shirt with a plunging neckline asked us if we had a reservation. It was 7pm on a Wednesday so we did not make a reservation. She gave us an "oh geez" look, curling her ruby red lips into a frown and said, "um, ok." She then consulted her book in front of her (that was blocked by a narrow shelf) and looked at her watch. Let me repeat, the restaurant was completely empty (and Indians don't eat until at least 8:30). Where could she possibly seat us, the rebellious, reservationless expats? She then consulted with another hostess and finally asked if we'd prefer the terrace. We said fine and headed up one more flight of stairs. The terrace was lovely with soft lighting, two bars facing one another with table in between and more tables at either end of the bars. Behind one of the bars was the brick oven.

Our waiter pointed out Gian Carlo decked out in jeans, black loafers, a white button down and slick hair. His name was tattooed on everything from the napkins, to the place mats, to the plates themselves. The pizzas were delicious and I've declared them the best in Bangalore. The bruschetta was perfectly seasoned with warm tomatoes and fresh bread and they had cans of Guinness. The portions were generous so we each had a few slices left over. We asked our waiter to parcel them and he said flatly but with a smile, "no." Apparently Gian Carlo will allow no such thing. His pizzas are meant to be consumed on the premises. Because they are cooked in the brick oven at the exact right temperature, if you tried to reheat the masterpiece, you would be doing an injustice to his "art." Obviously microwaved pizza is no match for brick oven pizza. We understand the brick oven works magic as evidenced from all the pieces we did eat. But we paid for a whole pizza and we wanted to eat a whole pizza. Our waiter claimed there was nothing to package our pizzas in but he'd see what he could do. He came back about 10 minutes later with two aluminum foil packages. We thanked him and tried to reiterate that we wanted to bring it home because it was so good. Gian Carlo should take this as a complement, not an insult. I put our packages on the table next to me and the waiter looked like he was about to reach over me and grab them again. "Please ma'am, put them in your bag. If Gian Carlo finds out, I'll be in trouble." I'm glad Gian Carlo takes his craft seriously but buddy, come on, it's pizza. (Oh, and when we left, there were still plenty of empty tables just waiting for customers.)

The drivers of trucks and taxis are striking again. It starts tonight at midnight so Chandan will have to go back to the white plates. He mentioned it earlier this week but didn't seem too concerned about it. But today Karen asked me how we were getting to the airport tomorrow. When I replied, "Chandan," she gave me an over-exaggerated look of surprise. I told her he has white plates so he can still drive us and she said, "oh, well, Javid (her driver) also has white plates but he's really paranoid about this strike. He said we should just stay close to the house this weekend." Considering the last two strikes last all of two days, I said that I didn't think it would last that long. Well, she and Javid aren't so sure and were going to stock up on some supplies today anyway. Sounds like a good weekend to go to a beach resort. We'll be back Tuesday.

"So What Do You Do?"

I'm feeling a bit contemplative today...

It's getting hot in Bangalore. I've never lived anywhere that is hot in February. The days have been about the same length since December and there is no way to look out the window and gauge the days passing. And yet, according to the calendar, here it is almost March and we've been in Bangalore six months (though, in some ways it feels like 6 years).

I continue to spend my Thursdays socializing in the morning and lunching until (on some days, like today) the late afternoon. If I'm not lunching, I might be shopping or getting a pedicure but when I think about it, I've had one pedicure and one manicure in six months and since I've been back from Christmas, I've done no shopping other than for groceries. I have been trying to write (something other than a blog entry) but while it's pretty easy to blog about things that are happening here, I'm a slow writer when it comes to fiction. I'm not bored and I don't feel unfulfilled, so I guess that's what I spend most of my time doing - spending alot of time in front of the computer trying to fill blank pages with words although with little to show for it (aside from the 111 blog entries). So when I meet new people, like I did yesterday on the way to Shristi Academy, I have a hard time answering, "so what do you do here?"

I think I mentioned yesterday that these day trips seem to attract mostly the "older" OWCers which only adds to my reluctance to go. So when I arrived at the "meeting point," I was not surprised to see very few people I knew. I was surprised that there seemed to be no mini-bus to take us to the school after I had told Chandan to back and pick me up later in the afternoon (thinking I had transportation). I recognized a couple of women from Thursday mornings and they recognized me so we introduced ourselves and when I said I was from Connecticut, another woman to my left introduced herself as Maggie, from the San Fransisco Bay area. She just arrived in January and looked at me the way I remember looking at people who had been here six months or more - with part envy and part sympathy. I told her I had sent my driver away and before I could ask if she had any extra room, she offered her car. So the two Americans set off together - a fact which she thought bonded us in a very special way. "Don't Americans seem much more open than Europeans? Have you noticed that there is a German Association, a Swiss Association, a Scandinavian Society (etc., etc.) here in Bangalore? All these other countries have their own little clubs. Doesn't it seem so American that we don't have one? We can fit in wherever and are happy to do so." (I'm still trying to decide if I agree with some or any of that. Maybe tomorrow's post?) After we had exhausted the usual, where are you from, what did you do before Bangalore and what brought you to Bangalore, we got the the inevitable, "so what do you do in Bangalore?"

She easily answered with the "still settling in" line that's good for at least the first two months. I however, had a hard time "quantifying" what I do without sounding shallow, stuck up and/or totally and completely boring. I go grocery shopping, I exercise, I lunch, I read books...I make observations about the problems of Bangalore but do little to really help. All of this is true and yet, it feels like my days are much more interesting. I often feel like there is not enough time in my days to do everything I'd like. And I feel like if I remain grateful (and lucky) to be able to just have time to figure out what I like to do then I'm not really that shallow.

I told Maggie that I've been trying to take advantage of my days by writing. But as soon as you say that, people want to know what you've published or who you write for - magazines? newspapers? in India or abroad? If you don't write for someone or for a specific end, it seems it's more like keeping a journal. "Oh, I have a blog too. All my friends just love reading about our experiences. They say I need to write a book." Yesterday wasn't the first time I've heard this and it always makes me want to say, "Yeah, well...my blog is better!" But instead, I just quietly wonder if I should spend less time blogging and more time doing...something: saving the baby girls, organizing a group to clean up the polluted river down the road, giving to the poor, fighting for a "greener" Bangalore... With Maggie decidedly unimpressed by how I spend my time, instead spent most of the ride talking about all of the things she did at home (in CA) and all the things she'd like to accomplish while she's here. She just about built a special ed school in California while raising and home schooling six, brilliant and well adjusted kids. In her spare time she helped (and will continue) to help with her friends textiles business and various other crafting projects. Oh, and she was battling some terrible illness all the while. She's not sure what she wants to do in Bangalore yet but I'm sure it will include saving the world.

I'm not sure I really have a point today other than the fact that I'm not sure the shallow and superficial are really self-aware enough to realize that they shallow and superficial. Maybe I am no better than the snobby expat wives who leave their kids with their nannies while they buy things they don't need, ignore the beggars in the street like they don't exist and complain when their maids take to long to scrub their showers. Maybe touting the life of a lady of leisure is pointless and rather obnoxious. But I hope that I am getting more out of this experience than thinking I deserve any of this.

Now, please don't post any, "no, no, you are a good person" comments. While it may seem like that's what I'm looking for, I'm not. I know I can't save the world, I'm just trying to figure out what I can say I do.

I Believe the Children Are Our Future

I took another day trip outside of Bangalore today, organized by the OWC. This time we went to a school for the "differently challenged." Shristi Special Academy has about 150 students, mostly from poorer villages outside of Bangalore, who are mentally and/or physically challenged and/or autistic. It took us about an hour to get out to the school but it didn't seem as rural as I had expected. We left the center of bustling Bangalore and drove out to areas that were still bustling, just on a smaller scale. There were lots of smaller shops and plenty of people roaming around doing their daily chores whether it be driving a cart pulled by an ox, digging up dirt and carrying it in a bowl on your head to be dumped somewhere, or just hanging out in front of a tea stall. It didn't feel like we were in some rural part of India but rather (quite accurately) on the outskirts of a city.

We did have to take a couple of "roads" in very poor condition as we got close but we pulled through empty fields into a clearing where there was one long, white building to the left and a smaller white building straight ahead. We were greeted by Rosie who invited the 15 (or so) of us into a tiny, dark office. We all squeezed in and Rosie introduced herself and gave a brief background on the place. They've been opened since 1995 and have grown from 10 students to 150. The ultimate goal is to either get the kids to a point where they can attend public school or help them with at least one skill that they can use for employment or just to live as normal a life as possible. The range of disabilities runs the gamut in terms of the actual disabilities to the severity of the disability. Rosie then told us the "program" for the day. This is very Indian. There usually seems to be a great deal of time spent discussing how the day will go. Rosie kept asking our OWC liason, Indra, when she should go over the "program for the day," from the moment we got out of our cars until the moment she finally got to discuss the program. We would have some "breakfast" and go to the Pre-Vocational room that OWC funds helped to build, then we would take a tour of the school and visit with the children, then the children would perform a show for us, then we'd have lunch. "Does this sound acceptable to all? Is this program good?"


After we assured Rosie it was fine, we headed to a large room where each corner was cluttered with stuff and tables and chairs in the middle. In one corner there were about 20-25 kids sitting at picnic benches putting what looked like plastic eggs in what looked like plastic egg cartons or they were threading shoe laces through wooden shapes or working on fitting plastic shapes together. In another corner there was a women and just a couple of girls sewing sequins on a blue piece of fabric, just in front of a table that was laid out with goods that the kids had made, available for purchase. These items included, canvass bags, candles, bracelets and temporary tattoos. However, we were never told how the children either made or contributed in making any of these goods. In another corner were shelves filled with what appeared to be mostly buckets of various sizes. In the forth corner was a door and a couple of book cases filled with books. We sat at the tables in the middle and had our breakfast that consisted of tomato and cheese sandwiches on white bread with some sort of mint chutney spread which tasted about as good as it sounds. We then got to socialize with the kids a little, most of whom were all too eager for the attention. I never did figure out the point of putting the plastic ovals in the cartons but the kids that were threading the shoelaces through shapes would eventually get good enough to sew or do some simple embroidery.

The corner with the buckets.

The blue fabric getting it's bling.


The kids working on the plastic eggs and shapes.


These two were both kept begging for me to take their picture but neither wanted to actually look into the camera.

The white ladies are suckers for cheap bags for a good cause.

After most of the goods on display had been bought, we were led out of that room into the main wing of the school. It was actually much better equipped than I would have thought. They had different rooms set up for speech therapy, physical therapy, rooms for sensory and motor training, rooms for older students and rooms for younger students. They have a licensed physical therapist on staff and plenty of teachers and tutors that seemed to work very well with the kids. We got to play with some of the kids but we were a big group and were clearly disrupting their normal routines. The youngest kids were probably 3 and the oldest had to have been at least 18. I befriended a girl with Downs Syndrome who might have been 6 or 7, who latched onto my hand and didn't want to let go. She was also probably, the only kid who did not want her picture taken. The rest were more than happy to pose.



We were then informed that there was going to be a change in the program. (Gasp!) We were going to eat before the big performance. So we went into the "cafeteria" and were served rice, peas and carrots in a yogurt type sauce, something with the consistency of cornmeal but the taste of paper and tiny fried flour balls with a spicy sauce that tasted like Kix cereal coated in a mild curry powder (that the Swedish women next to me raved over), and fruit salad in a yellow custard for dessert. I ate all the rice and enough of the rest to hopefully appear polite.

But after lunch was the real treat...a series of performances choreographed by four of the teachers that must have taken weeks to prepare. They had two TVs and a stereo hooked up in the cafeteria and as we were finishing our lunch, all the students, some in costume began the process of filing in and getting seated for the show. As you can imagine, getting 100 or so excited students, with disabilities, to sit and wait is not an easy task. But they sang songs (in Hindi) to keep them occupied and after another 15 minutes or so, the cafeteria was packed and stuffy and the kids were ready to get started. The first act to go was the younger kids who coupled up and danced the chicken dance. One couple just kind of stood staring at the crowd while another couple fought for the lead. The girl in the third couple, clearly was in charge and kept making her partner twirl her. He was more than happy to oblige. After they were finished, a group of three took the "stage," one girl and two boys. One of the boys was a teenager and almost stole the show, if not for the girl who might have been ten and kept right up with him. He must have taken his dance straight from a Bollywood music with all the attitude to go with it. He took his dancing very seriously and was very animated pumping his fists to the sky and working the crowd. He could've been the next Indian idol and clearly studies the likes of ShahRukh Kahn (King Kahn) - the King of Bollywood - very closely. After the first song, he remained on stage for a solo performance that he did with just as much enthusiasm as the first routine. At one point, one of the teachers who was coordinating the event, had a look of panic as he fell to the floor to do a mock push up. But he actually pulled it off quite well. When he was done a cast of 10 came to the front with props and the most elaborate costumes. Two boys were wearing blue capes. It was the blue fabric that was getting the sequins put on earlier that morning. Apparently they were peacocks. The props included cardboard drawings of palm trees and a house, each held up by eager participants. Another girl in a green, gold and crimson sari and a boy in a beaded vest and scarf tied around his head stood in front and danced. The peacocks swung their arms and the props, for the most part, remained upright. No one really explained the significance of the costumes or the props so I have to assume if we understood the words to the song, it would've all made sense.

The kids ate outside since we were eating in the cafeteria. They didn't seem to mind.


Getting ready for the performances. Not sure what the green cape was about...

Chicken dancers. The girl in blue was the one who demanded the twirling. This was taken before the music began.


This was the last dance with the props. The picture on the right is the "peacock."




Getting ready to mobilize.

All in all, a fun day. Not quite as inspirational as my day in the village with the women, but good to see another part of India. Like I said, the school was surprisingly well equipped with stationary bikes, exercise balls and mats, desks and lots of supplies for the kids to play with and use. The kids were happy to have visitors and again, had if it were closer, I'd consider trying to go regularly.

(The woman from the school close to our place who I have been in touch with, has yet to give me a day and time when I can come for a visit. She keeps assuring me that she does want/need the help and insists that she is just "extraordinarily busy." So, I'll keep emailing her and hopefully will get to go there soon.)

Happy President's Day

In honor of President's Day, I took the day off from blogging and got a pedicure instead. I'm sure Abe and George would be pleased to know I that even though I'm in India, I still took time to observe and celebrate their birthdays with a treat to myself after a tough weekend of sitting in front of the computer trying to plan some trips. I tell you what, being a travel agent ain't easy.

I've been trying to book a trip to Goa on the West coast of India - a popular beach resort area - for days now. I've literally been pouring over reviews, multiple "discount" websites trying to figure out if we want to stay in the more lively (or chaotic) North or the more low key (or boring) South. I have identified three problems (in addition to the north or south debate) that have made this a particularly difficult weekend to book:
1. As a popular vacation destination, there are plenty of places to stay but dare I say, too many.
2. Everyone has an opinion. There are lots of reviews on each place but they are as varied as opinions on the best restaurant in NYC. Occasionally, I've been lucky enough to come across all similar complaints, "everything was great but the service" but most have mixed reviews. I'm not sure though, if this has encouraged me to start writing reviews on places we stay or discouraged me. On the one hand, the more reviews you read, the better you know what your getting into but, on the other hand, the more reviews you read, the more confused you can become.
3. We're beginning to realize that most expats in Bangalore seem to have unlimited funds and unlimited amounts of time to vacation so when asking for tips or recommendations, we tend to get people who can afford $350+ for a room or can afford to negotiate a package deal that requires you to stay 4 nights.

But alas, finally, after days of researching and going back and forth we finally settled on a place, in the south but not too far south, that looks like it's got a lovely pool and beach location. So we leave Saturday and will be back Monday night.

So we'll still have Friday night free if we want to make a return trip to the Hard Rock. We were led in on the left side of the velvet rope outside the world-renowned "Cafe" and walked into an old stone building. To the right, there was the bar area with a stage for the live bands that are not allowed to play in no-boogie Bangalore, and to the left was the restaurant area. The building itself, I think used to be an old museum but it has the feel of an old bank. And of course, as with all Hard Rock Cafes, there was plenty of music memorabilia decorating the beautiful stone work. Apparently Bengaluru is not tops on the list of the most popular or critically acclaimed artists but does seem to draw quite a buzz from 1980s heavy metal bands. Most of the items displayed were from artists I had never heard from until Sir explained that it was the guitarist in Warrant or the drummer from White Snake or the bassist from Black Sabbath. We were aware of the Indians LOVE of the death metal based on the shelves of CD stores and the limited number of artists who have come to Bangalore to play, trying to relive the glory days of the 1980s. So it was only fitting that the Hard Rock Bengaluru paid tribute to these bad bands of decades past. The music however, was surprisingly good. We're pretty sure it's the only place in Bangalore that plays music made after 1990 (and not according the Rule 11 necessarily light music). The menu was a mix of American and Indian food. There were of course popular favorites like nachos (that weren't half bad) and onion rings as well as paneer masala wraps and chicken curry. The drinks and the appetizers are the only things that might bring you back. We had margaritas - though we could have opted for a plethora of fruity drinks and the "American classic, Long Island Iced Tea."

But the company was good. George got us invited to a summer home outside of Helsinki owned by our pregnant Finnish friends and Liam made me very glad that I did not start working for his dodgy company. He started one story by telling us, "well, we were in all black because it was Friday." Everyone in the company wears all black on Friday for reasons he wasn't too clear in sharing. But the all black wasn't the highlight of the story. The highlight was that 50 of these employees, in all black, went to someone's house or office to confront someone who'd done someone in the company wrong. I'm not sure how much of a brawl ensued or if it was just the intimidation factor they were hoping to achieve. I started listening halfway through the story so I didn't catch the whole thing. But Liam and his brother Justin, who also works there, claim that that sort of thing happens all the time. "Well, half our employees are part of the Indian mafia." Who knew such a thing existed in this peace-loving, non-violent, pro-democratic society? There was another story about the cops coming to the office because of some domestic dispute gone wrong involving more than one of their employees who had started a torrid love affair. "It's a shady company to begin with, nevermind that I'm running the office in India, which is full of shady characters and shady business." I'm glad I'm not mixed up in all that. Though, I must admit, part of me longs for the good stories I could tell after spending just a couple of days a week there.

Other than that, our weekend was pretty low key. We started working on our tennis game again. We got some cheap rackets and went down to the courts in our complex. I blame my poor play on the cheap rackets and my healing hand wound. But, much like my golf game, I have high hopes for the future.

We were interrupted on our lazy Sunday with a knock on the door. It was the maid-girl's friend. I still don't know her name but she is unusually short and always smiling. She must work for the man next door who I've only seen twice, in the mornings, getting his paper with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and scowl on his face. At least, I think she works for him. She is in and out of the apartment all day but I also see her in and out of other buildings in our complex and running back and forth from the little store. I think she must be a cook and maid. Anyway, she knocks on our door and immediately starts talking very fast. "Hello ma'am. Aka laka maka..." I can tell something is bothering her even though she continues to smile and walks right in. Come to find out, she locked herself out of the apartment next door. At first I thought she was asking if we had the key but I think she was just explaining that the key was inside. She goes out to our balcony and hangs over the edge like she trying to activate her "go, go gadget arms" but doesn't hang very far because she is so short. In a flash she is back in our place saying, "one minute madam, one minute." She goes out to the atrium area, careful to leave our door open, and yells something to the guy at the front desk. She continues talking to him long enough that we assume she's worked something out and it's ok to shut our door. A few minutes after we resume our vegging, with the door shut but not locked, she's in our place again with a boy probably no older than 17, again saying things we can't understand and aren't even sure if they're directed at us or the boy. Before we can say, "oh sure, come in, welcome, how can we help," the two of them are out on our balcony hanging over the edge again. The boy then climbs over our balcony and stretches one arm and leg to the balcony next door while holding on to our balcony with the other arm and leg. A minute later he is gone and she is shuffling out of our house with a quick and cheery, "thank you madam, thank you madam."

I guess we know what to do if we ever get locked out.

Someone call Kevin Bacon

Isn't it true that through six degrees of separation we should at least know someone who knows someone who knows...Kevin Bacon? There is no dancing in Bangalore.

A crackdown on immoral behavior began in December 2005 when the state "home department" required live bands (that the newspaper writes as one word, livebands), cabaret and discotheques to apply for a special license but apparently had difficulty meeting the "stringent conditions demanded for the new licenses." The article in the paper conveniently skips the next two years and jumps to February 2008 saying that the government has now reinstated a law from 1967, the Karnataka Excise License General Conditions Rules. Apparently Rule 11 does not allow dancing where alcohol is served. A senior excise officer states, "The rules permit us to arrest the owner where dancing takes places." The dancers themselves are free to go home and cut footloose. Now, you can imagine in a city that fancies itself as one of, if not the most, cosmopolitan in India, this is an outrage worthy of front page news (and multiple related articles).

One of the articles about the "dancing crisis '08" cites back the long tradition of dancing in the city even when ruled by the British. Even after independence, "DJ Rohit Barker's parents recall that in the '70s people would dance till 5 AM! There were parties, live music, bands and what not!" And now thirty years later, it's like some town in the Bible-belt of America where dancing was outlawed because of the naughty behavior it encourages. Although, no one has really laid out the rationale for the ban so one can only assume that drinking and dancing can lead to what not! You've seen Dirty Dancing...

Not to worry though, in the country that defined non-violent movements as a successful means of protest, the club owners are rising to the challenge and fighting for justice. The Association of Bar Restaurant Pub & Hotels of Bangalore (ABRPHB) has recently formed and adopted as its campaign, "Save Bangalore's Nightlife: Anything in excess is a waste. Be responsible." This article about the ABRPHB, goes on to explain that the law is being interpreted incorrectly. It reads like a bit you might see on Saturday Night Live's "Weekend Update." The article is mostly a series of quotes from the Association that appears to take itself very seriously. A few of my favorite lines are, "Erroneous interpretations of the law or obsolete laws shall be taken to the highest level for redressal." And, "...we would like to state that we don't come under the Excise Act for illegal dancing and the Amusement Police Act of 2005 as we are neither amusement nor entertainment." Maybe I'm not seeing the severity of the situation but how can you possibly talk about the Amusement Police Act without feeling ridiculous? Perhaps it is a backlash against all of the change and modernization that has hit the city but trying to institute some archaic law against dancing as some morally corrupt practice in the year 2008 is just laughable. This is not a Muslim country and in fact, most Hindu festivals and rituals include some form of dance. But for now, in Bangalore, dancing is dead.

So it seems somewhat ironic that the Hard Rock Cafe just opened its newest chain in our very own Bengaluru. (It is know as the Hard Rock Bengaluru and not Bangalore. Much like the new airport is going to be called Bengaluru International Airport leading some to believe that Bengaluru is finally going to start to stick.) Liam and Vivian invited us to check it out tonight so we will go and enjoy the "light music" that is permitted in restaurants.

Happy Valentine's Day

My hand feels much better today. It looks kind of gross but I think because it is healing. I had to change the bandage this morning and tried to re-wrap it like the woman did yesterday but didn't do nearly as good a job. But lacking real band aids, I did the best I could. I couldn't have the ladies at the Leela looking at my open wound though I did get lots of concerned looks. On the way over, I thought about coming up with a better story...I got in a fight with a rickshaw driver. I saved a child from being hit by a car. I was riding a camel and fell off...In the end I just told the truth. The most common response, "you get up at what time to go run?" My retelling of the story today was not nearly as dramatic as yesterday.

So Bangalore, as you should know by now, has many names: India's Silicon Valley, the Garden City, Bengaluru...I'd also like to add on this St. Valentine's Day, the City of Romance, the Paris of India...

The mall has been decked out for weeks now with hanging hearts, fake roses and cuddly little teddy bears. The Hallmark holiday has hit Bangalore with a...bang. Apparently it's only really taken off here in the past couple of years with the IT boom, new malls that have popped up and the growth of the Young Hipster class. But they've not only recognized the holiday, they have embraced it with wide open arms. One of the grocery stores I go to has a section on the first floor where they sometimes put special displays or advertise specials. Two weeks ago they started setting up for Valentines, dousing the entire first floor in pinks and reds, reminding you that if you really LOVE your sweetie, you'll buy, buy, buy. But what is most amusing to me are their cards. The majority of them are probably 12x15 inches in size and they are filling with the most decorative of all the cursive fonts. Big, swirly, slanted letters that say things like, "For my love, my darling, the most precious thing in my life. For you, the love of my life, I'd like to wish you the most special Valentine's Day. In all my life, I've never known a love as true as yours..." And on and on and on and on they go. The entire 12x15 card filled with cliches and hearts and roses. But not just the outside, you open the inside and both sides are filled with more long and embarrassingly sentimental wishes. There are a couple of "humor" cards but they are few and far between and not really that funny. If you get anything other than flowers, chocolate or stuffed animals, your mate doesn't really love you. At least that's the message I'm getting.

But if you don't get an enormous, cheesy card or any of the above gifts, you could always look to the stars or see a numerologist. On the front page of the Bangalore Times (the trashy section of the the Times of India), they devoted the whole left hand column to predicting the futures of hot Bollywood couples using numerology. In this obviously, very scientific study, they use both astrology and a complicated number system to decipher the personality of each partner. "Saif [Ali Khan born on August 16, 1970] is ruled by Neptune and the Moon (No. 2), and is a Leo who's also governed by the Sun (No. 1). His compound number is 5 (16+8+1970 = 5)." Based on that logic - ruled by the Sun and Moon and clearly a 5 - of course I would believe everything else that follows. One couple is doomed because while his name adds up to 7 and hers adds up to 6 (Bipasha Basu and John Abraham - how they get 6 and 7 is unclear), their birth dates are not in harmony. Perhaps Sir and I should consult the author of the article.

In a place where arranged marriages are still commonplace, the fact that they are making such a to-do about Valentine's Day, I think, seems a bit odd. Although I am told, that it is common for parents to consult astrologers or numerologist (or both) when choosing a mate for their children to ensure a solid match. So I'm sure a good deal of arranged marriages are loving marriages but the emphasis of all this Valentine's Day advertising and merchandising is on those who are dating and courting because of true love (and not some arrangement). But I suppose just further evidence of how things are changing around here, particularly among the young generation that now has jobs and money their parent's never had and are living away from home and meeting lots of new and interesting people. Seems like a win-win to me. They can try to find love and get out and date and if that doesn't work out, they can always rely on an arranged relationship. Because, after all, in any society, coupling up is a good thing. Isn't that what St. Valentine said, if you don't have love, and buy that love candies and flowers on February 14th, you'll never find happiness?

For a newlywed, I'm awfully cynical, no? Look up the history of Valentine's Day...you too, will read about how there were in fact three men named Valentine who were martyred by the Catholic Church and one did write a love note while in prison but beyond that have little to do with love. The Pagans were the ones who held a "fertility festival" in February which was once considered the beginning of spring (new life/fertility) and most likely because of the Christians, the Pagan holiday was morphed with tales of one of the St. Valentine's to create a "holiday" for lovers. Around the seventeenth century, the Brits started exchanging small tokens on this "holiday" and from there, slowly it's snowballed into what it is today. That is a very brief and not at all comprehensive history of the historically elusive holiday but the point is, it has a shaky history at best, so instead of wasting your money on stuffed animals and hearts, just to go to dinner and love the one your with - which is what we plan to do. You should save all the mushy love stuff for the every other day.

Happy Valentine's Day.

The Clutsy Madam?

Nice, mean, irresponsible...today I am the clutsy madam.

It's been a while since I've run with my friends in the morning so when they asked if I would be interested in going this morning, I figured sure, why not? We were going to the botanical gardens for a 6 am start. My friend Sunil was driving so I didn't even have to worry about the dogs at the end of our street. Sure enough, he was waiting just outside our gate at 5:45. I'm not sure where the phrase, "bright and early" comes from because it was nowhere near bright and downright dark. As it turns out, the two other women who normally run with us couldn't make, so he and I started out in the gardens I haven't revisited since our second week here, just before 6.

It was surprisingly crowded with lots of walkers getting out early for some exercise and surprisingly few dogs creeping about. It had all the makings for a lovely morning until about 15 minutes into our run...for the second time in probably six weeks, I fell. (In how ever many years since I've been running fairly consistently, I think I've tripped and fallen all of twice before. Since coming to India, I've now doubled my record. So really, I wouldn't say I'm prone to falling.) Because it was dark, we were on a dirt path and a tree root jumped out right in front of me falling was less embarrassing and more frustrating this morning. I did not feel like I went down too hard and jumped right back up but felt the stinging in my left hand. I felt ok to keep going but Sunil spotted blood and insisted I come home and clean the dirt out of my hand.

It's really no more than a scrape but it's but the kind that burns enough to make it feel worse than it is. I believe some call it, "road rash." I washed it as best I could stand and put some Neosporin on it but we didn't have any band-aids. As my mother would say, I was "letting the air get at it." I tried to take a shower thinking that letting the soap run over it would help, but that proved disastrous - too painful. I tried cleaning it again after I had gotten dressed and put some more Neosporin on but it still looked dirty. I decided it was time to get a band-aid on it. So off Chandan and I went to the drugstore. I went straight back to the "chemist" and he took one look at it and said, "oh, you need to go to a doctor. That needs to get cleaned out and you'll need a tetanus shot." I tried to insist that if I could just get some Bacitracin and a bandage I was sure I'd be fine. But he insisted I go see a doctor. To the Apollo Health Clinic Chandan...

I go to the desk and show the woman my cut and say I'm not sure I really need to see a doctor. She says, "ok, you just want a dressing?" (I remember this from my first visit to the clinic with the stomach bug. The doctor seemed to be asking me what I want as much as telling what I need. "ok, so you want antibiotics?" Well, yes, I guess if you say this bug I've caught is not going to go away on its own.) This time, the woman at the desk tells me for my dressing to go to the first door on the left. I walk in and see a woman at a desk talking to two other women opposite her. They appear to be just chatting so I say, "the woman at the front desk told me to come in here for a dressing," and again show my hand that is now oozing ickiness. She says, "oh yes, just have a seat behind the curtain. Someone will be there in a minute," and continues chatting. I wait and assure myself that everything is sterile despite the chipping paint on the walls and clutter of tools and medical stuff, laid out on old newspapers, on a cart in front of me.

A woman, who looked all of 18, comes in dressed in a cream colored sari and looks at my hand. She smiles but doesn't say anything. I say, "you'll clean this up?" just to make sure we're on the same page. She just gives me the head bob and a not so warm smile and turns to the cart. When she turns around she's got a square of gauze in one hand and a bottle in the other that I think says "peroxide". Instead of pouring the liquid on the gauze and dabbing that on my hand, she pours from the bottle directly on to my open wound with no warning. It brought tears to my eyes, not in the way a good movie does, but in the way pounding your hand with the prongs of a fork might. She didn't seem to notice my wincing and the tears because she turned back to the cart and grabbed another bottle and began the same procedure. Only this time, I'm sure it was pure acid she poured over my hand. There might have been smoke rising from my cut and blisters forming but I couldn't tell because my eyes were too watery and I was afraid I might vomit. She gave me a weak smile and either asked me if it hurt or told me it hurt as she now was scrubbing all of the poison on my raw hand. She must have skipped the nursing classes that talked about how to gently clean wounds. She then said in a tone that made me feel like I was being dramatic (but I promise you I was NOT), "this one won't hurt," and put some ointment on the wound. Then she began unraveling gauze and wrapped my hand in what now looks like a small cast. She said, "tentanus now," wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to me. I wasn't sure what to do with it and was still practicing my yoga breaths to ease the pain. She told me to go back to the front desk where they told me to go next door to the pharmacy.

I gave the slip of paper to the man behind the counter (at the pharmacy) who took it to the woman in a lab coat counting inventory and had a chat. He then went to the small refrigerator in the back and took out a vile of liquid. Then he grabbed a syringe off the shelf, put them in a bag and asked me for 13 rupees (about 30 cents). I asked him what I was supposed to do with it and he looked at me blankly. I asked if I was supposed to take it home and again, he just kind of looked at me and said, "doctor" and pointed next door. So with my syringe and vile I walked back to the clinic and the front desk. The women asked, "you want someone to administer this?" Well, yes, I prefer not to shoot intravenous drugs by myself.

Back to the first room on the left with woman at the desk. This time she appeared to be talking to two pharmaceutical reps. I waited again trying to decide if the burning sensation in my hand was subsiding. The possible pharmaceutical reps left and I waited long enough to wonder if I had misread the situation and was supposed to be somewhere else. Finally, another woman hurried in with her scooter helmet in hand and smiled (genuinely) at me. Her phone rang and she seemed to rush the person off the phone. After she put her things down and her not so clean lab coat on, she turned to me, saw my heavily bandaged hand and asked me what happened. I told her I fell and was waiting for the tetanus shot. She took the vile and syringe from me and started putting them together as she fielded two more phone calls and shooed away some friend of hers in regular street clothes who rushed in. She was much nicer than the first woman and asked me a bit more about where I fell and what I am doing in India. She told me that even though I probably had already had my tetanus shot, "you can never be too safe especially with all the dogs in these parks." She then apologized for all the interruptions and warned me it might pinch. As she was sticking me she kept asking if it hurt but I tried to ask where she was ten minutes ago. I asked her if I could buy some band-aids at the pharmacy next door to replace the gauze. "Well, yes but you come back on Friday and we'll re-wrap it." Despite the whining, it is only a scrape. I'm not really sure it necessitates multiple visits so I went next door and bought some gauze. I think I can manage it from here now that I know it's clean.

The biggest disappointment though, is not that I'm going to be paranoid now about the dogs AND the dark when running in the mornings (which may mean it's all treadmill all the time), but that I had to cancel my second golf lesson. Instead, I'm playing travel agent again today looking for a place where the weak of stomach and clumsy can't get hurt.

The Mean Madam?

I don't like to brag or anything but I think it's fair to say that most people would consider me a nice person. In fact, I've even been told before that I am too nice - as if there is such a thing. So, it's somewhat disconcerting that now, I think I may have to accept that I am the "mean madam."

The girl maid came in today with her usual cheery hello. She started in the kitchen as she normally does with the dishes. I am now cognizant of when there are dishes to be done as when there are not, she looks at me and laughs, "you no cooking?" But she spared me today as last night I made some fajitas with delicious guacamole. The avocados are enormous here (somewhere between the size of a small melon or large mango) and sometimes called "butter fruit." I've had the hardest time figuring out when they are perfectly ripe but finally got it right.

Anyway, after finishing the dishes she was over by the countertop where I had some Chinese medicine Vivian had given us when we weren't feeling well. Lakshmi (the maid) looked at it inquisitively and asked, "Dannalako yako nolo you?" I said, "from Vivian," and pointed upstairs then pointed to my stomach and said "medicine." She understood medicine. "Ah, yes, ok, ok. Medicine." Now, when Vivian gave me the medicine, she said she has given it to Lakshmi before when she complained of being sick to the stomach. But the maid didn't seem to recognize it as something she's taken before. She just began to say, "ah yes, Madam Vivian. Very nice. Very nice. Very nice." She didn't repeat it like she sometimes does when she thinks I don't understand. This time she seemed to be repeating just to make her point clearer. So I agreed that Vivian is indeed very nice. But she seemed to go on and on about how much she likes her.

Not that all that gushing is surprising. Obviously Vivian is very nice, but I've also come to learn that she and I have very different relationships with our maids. She is the "nice madam" and while I'm probably not the "mean madam," I am certain I am either the "incomprehensible madam" or the "distant madam." Now, Lakshmi does go to Vivian's six days a week and is only here twice a week so naturally, by virtue of spending more time there, they might be friendlier. But Vivian has mentioned before (back when I didn't even know Lakshmi) that she has taken her maid and her kids out for their birthdays...just to McDonald's but still. She brought back a gift for her maid from Malaysia and sometimes Lakshmi and her kids sleep over (usually when Liam is away). Just last week while he was gone, she mentioned that Lakshmi was sleeping over. She said she doesn't really remember how it began but when Liam travels, she sleeps over. I said, "well, what about her kids?" Apparently they sometimes come too. She has a boy and a girl. Vivian said she's pretty sure her kids don't have beds because they both fell off the first time and seemed a bit frightened by the whole experience (even though they know and like the nice madam). So while she's playing house and having sleepovers with the maid, I'm trying to make sure there are enough dishes for her to wash. Very nice indeed.

Vivian also told George and I a story about how she and Liam received a call one night from "the police" looking for Lakshmi. They insisted that she was not there and Lakshmi was their maid and did not live there. But the man on the phone persisted and kept calling. He said they needed to find her, immediately. This went on for a good half hour before Vivian and Liam finally got a hold of Lakshmi and said that they are getting harrassed by the police and she better explain. She showed up a few minutes later and said that it wasn't really the police calling but a cousin or some other relative calling. I guess Lakshmi let him borrow money but he wasn't paying her back. So either she or her husband was trying to get it back and the relative was trying to bully her so he wouldn't have to pay it back. Lakshmi said that her husband and a group of men were going to the relatives house to "straighten it out" (Read: beat him up until he paid up). Vivian says, "the strangest part of the story is that after Lakshmi's husband and friends beat the guy up, they all went out drinking together and everything is supposedly fine." We all agreed there must have been more to the story but the fact that she got all that, was impressive enough to me (who can't seem to get her to understand not to open the bathroom window because there is no screen and the bugs come in).

I also know that Lakshmi keeps her money at Vivian's place because according to Vivian, her husband steals it from her. So the fact that she let's Lakshmi use her bed, gives her medicine when she's ill, buys her gifts, buys her kids gifts and provides a "safe house" for her, I'm sure puts Vivian up there as a very, very, very nice Madam.

The fact that not only have I done none of those things but also cannot understand a word she says, nor get her to understand a word I say leaving me more apt to just let her do her thing quietly, puts me not at the top of the very nice madam list. I am ok with this. But today, I think I put myself on a new list. I had received some lovely drawings from my niece Carolyn that were sitting on the table. Lakshmi saw them and started asking me about them. Long story short, I think she thinks I have kids but they live in the US while I live here. I tried to explain that they are from my sister's kids and were sent to me but I swear she thinks MY kids sent them to me. When she picked them up, I said, "from my niece."
"Baby?"
"Yes, sister's baby."
"Your baby?"
"My sister's."
"You baby?"
"No, my sisters."
"No?" She looked confused, clearly the pictures were done by a child. "You baby."
"Yes, a baby. But not MY baby." How to convey the word sister in a gesture?
"You baby come here???" She looked utterly confused.
I showed her the envelop and she nodded and looked like she finally understood at least, that the drawings were sent. "You baby very nice." She was pointing at the pictures. We then talked about how nice and colorful the drawings were. She went back to sweeping.

So now, I am the madam that cooks sporadically, only has a maid come twice a week (she doesn't know about the maid boy), does not buy her any gifts but does give her things I'm going to throw away anyway, (I gave her a carton of juice and chips we decided we didn't like), does not even know when Lakshmi is sick, let alone gets her medicine, and has children she's left halfway across the world with God knows who. I don't know if that makes me "mean" but it certain makes me not Vivian.

Perhaps Hallmark makes a Valentine's Day card for hired help?

A Day at the Races

When the Chairman and Members of the Managing Committee of the Bangalore Turf Club cordially invite you to attend the running of the Stayers Trial Stakes, how can you say no?

I had heard alot about "Race Day" since we got back in January. ("It's a great time. You have to go. When in Bangalore...", etc.) So, like the good ex-pats we are, we bought our tickets through the OWC. I knew we would be in some sort of room but didn't really know what to expect. The OWC requested we "dress smart" but our tickets said dress regulations were: Lounge Suit/National Dress/Blazer/Jacket with Tie/Safari Suit. So with no real expectations, we got dressed up in our "smart attire" and headed out on Saturday for the races.

Clearly we still haven't gotten used to "India time" because we arrived promptly at 12:30 to a nearly empty parking lot and a few guys wandering around but no one in Safari suits, lounge suits or national dress. Most people looked like they either worked at the Turf Club or have made a profession out of loitering. But each time we passed someone, they pointed us in the same direction so we walked over to what looked like some sort of clubhouse. When we reached the clubhouse, we were told to go up to the 3rd floor. At no point did anyone ask for our tickets, or if we were with any particular group. (We were just dressed nicely and clearly weren't Indian.) When we got to the 3rd floor, we were told to go up one more flight. There was one other older couple - the women I recognized from Thursday mornings so I knew we were in the right place, though they still appeared to be setting up and not quite ready for guests. As we waited for others to arrive, we grabbed a seat on the balcony area outside and tried to guess if Chandan was going to stick around to watch the races or head somewhere else. (We did see what appeared to be a group of drivers on a small bridge watching the races but could not tell if Chandan was one of them. Later in the car, he said he did see some of the races but we couldn't tell from where he watched. He said he didn't bet. This does not surprise me.)

As people trickled in, the pace of the set up seemed to increase and by 1:30-ish, the first bets were placed and the horses were ready to go. We did not bet on the first race but I put about $2 on the second race and won about $4. That's all it took for me to get hooked. We were served lunch, which was not the best food I've ever eaten, and later at tea time served some desserts. There was an open bar which probably didn't help me make the most sound judgments while betting but it's a good thing I didn't have much to spend. As the day wore on, I got more bold with my betting and probably had a whole $5 down on one race. But I only used the money I won so when all 10 races were over, we might have had $15 more that what we started with.

It was a good mix of people, some of the older ladies, some of the younger ladies, some of the mothers. For some, I'm sure this was not their first time at a horse race. Since they were pretty lax on collecting/checking tickets, there were rumors of OWC "crashers" but no one really seemed to mind. I think 150 OWC tickets were sold so it was a large room. Last year, apparently, there was no roof on the building so perhaps that is why some of the ladies chose to wear there oversized hats. There were two cashiers in our room so we didn't even have to leave to place our bets. Our room connected to a smaller area that was occupied by a group of high society Indians and the balcony was off that room so we all ended up mingling together. The building itself was a bit run down but the gray morning turned sunny so it was good to be outside but in the shade. Below the balcony area, is where we think most of the other people could go to watch but aside from our group, there didn't seem to be a huge crowd.

We hadn't anticipated staying the entire time but we should know now based on other events we've been too, we almost always stay later than we anticipated and true to form, we stayed through the last race. (I was on a roll, we had too.) Then, since it was still relatively early and the fun kept coming, it seemed like a good idea to go across the street to the outdoor bar and continue the party - with our big winnings. We called it a night around 9, which was plenty late enough after a full day and spent yesterday relaxing (or for some of us "recovering" might be the better phrase).

Some more pictures posted.