Bon Voyage

I'm pretty happy with the way things for our trip are working out. The day before we leave, I think I have everything just about worked out and now we just have to keep our fingers crossed that there are no major catastrophes that we couldn't have foreseen. (Like when Liam and Vivian went to the airport last weekend and were told that because Vivian's passport had her Chinese name and did not match her English name on her credit card, they could not fly. Long story short they had to cancel their flight and rebook with another airline.)

One of the last things that I needed to take care of was putting a deposit down on the two tents we'll be staying in at Ranthambhore National Park. I tried to take care of this with a phone call the other day. The nice man on the phone said that I couldn't simply put the deposit on a credit card. Since I live in Bangalore, he said the easiest thing to do would be to wire money into his account. He was going to send me an email with all the necessary information. After receiving the email with an account number, bank branch information, location, etc., it still seemed like the easiest thing to do would be to charge everything to a credit card. But credit cards are so 21st century and cash is King in India. So after calling RS (this is what he told me to call him) again and pleading with him to accept a credit card payment, I was told that simply is not possible. "It's very simple ma'am. You can go to any bank, bring cash or a check (after I told him I don't have local checks), the details of our account and wire the money to us." Easy.

So yesterday, Chandan and I headed to the nearest HDSB bank where I took out a large sum of cash from the ATM. I then walked next door with my wad o' dirty money and asked the teller if I could deposit the money in my hand to the account listed on the piece of paper in my other hand. The first teller was dumbfounded and called to the women next to him who was just finishing up with someone else, "yes, tell me ma'am." She takes a look at my paper and says, "Oh, no. We can't do that here. You have to go to a Bank of Baroda. Even then, I'm not sure if they'll take cash." Right, like the bank is the one place where credit cards are preferred over cash. But she could tell I was disappointed with her answer and told me there was a Bank of Baroda close by. I just had to take a left out of the parking lot then a quick left and right and right and left - or was that right then left then left...? "It shouldn't cost you more than 20 rupees in a rickshaw." Armed with those precise directions and "it's not farther then a 20 rupee ride," I tell Chandan we need to go to the Bank of Baroda. He looks at my paper and sees that the branch name I have listed is in Rajasthan up north and says, "um, ma'am, this bank is up north." So then I have to explain that I just need to find a local branch of the same bank to make a deposit. When he half understands, Chandan likes to say, "ok ma'am. We'll go check it out," but I get the sense he is just humoring me. We stopped to ask twice and after about 45 minutes driving in a 4 km radius we find the orange awning of the Bank of Baroda. Good thing Chandan is not a quitter.

The bank almost looked closed (which might have driven me to tears of frustration) but I realized that the metal doors were not actually locked and there was a glass door behind the iron curtain that I just had to squeeze through to get inside. Once inside, it felt like I was in a train station and not a bank. There was a waiting area with some benches to the right and on the left were what looked like two ticket booths. In front of me were some desks all crammed in with four people scattered at each in front of computers. They were not in rows of any kind but just facing any which way. Their desks were blocking a stairway. There were a couple of men waiting but appeared more like they were in a coffee shop just chatting away. There was one women at one of the ticket booths yelling at one of the men and another woman also holding a large sum of cash trying to get the attention of someone at one of the desks.

I went up to the empty ticket booth. The man behind the counter, with graying hair and half glasses, was busy counting money but without looking up, and in the middle of counting, said, "Tell me ma'am." I say I need to deposit cash into the bank account in my hand. The man puts down the cash in his hand and looks at me like he is going to be surly and impatient. He holds out his hand and flicks his fingers toward himself, motioning me to give him the paper in my hand. He looks at everything I copied directly from the email the hotel sent me and says, "now what do you want to do?" I tell him that I was told I could deposit cash into the account written on the paper. He types a few things into a computer and finally smiles and says, "yes, just give me one minute. Have a seat." About 5 minutes later he calls me back up to the booth and asks how much money I want to deposit. I tell him 7200 rupees. He then tells me the account number I have written down is wrong. It's like a 28 digit number and at the end I had 122. He says, "this number is wrong. It's 1122 at the end here. You are depositing to the Ranthambhore Bagh, right?" I tell him that is correct and I must have copied the number wrong. "Well, you better check. Can you give them a call?" Anticipating any number of issues, I did have the forethought to write the number down but of course, I had left my phone in the car so I had to run around the block to find where Chandan had parked. But I reach the man at the hotel who I've now spoken with probably 6 times in the past 24 hours. He repeats the account number and it ends in 1122.

I go back to the counter, tell him he was right and he looks at me like I'm a silly little girl. He tells me I have to fill out one of the forms that are on a table behind me. I pull one out and show it to him and he says, "no, no. Not that one." There were only three different ones so I show him all three. He sighs and starts yelling at what looks like either a janitor or a guard. The janitor/guard holds up what I'm sure is the first form I had and shows the man in the booth. "Yes, that's it. Bring it here." Back at the booth, he tells me to fill out the form with the account number my name, the name of the account, etc. I smile alot and keep saying, "yes, sir" so as to stay on his good side and start filling out the form. Where it says "name," I put my name. I have to list how many 100 rupee notes, how many 500 rupee notes and how many 1000 rupee notes I am giving him. When I am done I bring it back to him. With his head down, he looks up over his glasses at me and chuckles. "Not your name, the name of the account you are depositing to." Again I get the feeling that he is amused by my silly mistakes. I didn't put the number of bills in the right spot either so he starts making over exaggerated cross outs all over the form and tells me to try again. I start filling out a new form because there is barely enough space to write anything on the one he has now marked up. Again he laughs, "you didn't have to fill out a new one." I said, "Well, I feel better having a new one." At this, I get a full fledged laugh. He spends the next five minutes filling out another form, stamping everything in front of him and counting the bills, and says, "so what's this for anyway." I tell him a hotel deposit. "Ah, I expected as much. Well, you have a nice trip young lady," and he hands me my receipt with his official signature covering everything and his official stamp verifying it all.

I call my friend at the hotel back to say that I have made the deposit. "Ok, we'll send you a confirmation tomorrow. It'll take a day to process." I just called him as I have yet to receive a confirmation. He knew who it was right away.
"Oh, yeah, we received the payment. No problem."
"Ok, well, you said you would email a confirmation."
"Oh yeah, no problem. We'll see you when you arrive."

The driver I have book is also saying he has no credit card machine and one of the other hotels would not accept a credit card but did allow us to pay using Pay Pal.

Another hotel we are staying at needed payment to confirm the booking. They do accept credit cards and send me a credit card authorization form. I completed it but could not sign it and sent it back. She called to say I needed to sign it. "Ok, but it's an electronic file. I can't sign it."
"Oh, that's no problem ma'am. Just scan your signature and send to me."
"Um, I don't have a scanner."

So the majority of people just won't bother with credit cards at all but then I am just expected to have a scanner hanging around my apartment for the one place in India that will accept my plastic?

The other thing that is funny (peculiar, not ha ha), is that all of these places were, at first, giving me a hard time about making a deposit or paying outright. "Ma'am we need a deposit by tomorrow or we will not hold the rooms." But then when I run around trying to make it happen and call them multiple times a day for five days, they seem to get more and more relaxed about getting their payment. "Ok ma'am. We still are holding your room. You go to bank tomorrow." I just found one email in my Spam account from out hotel in Agra giving me their account information to make a deposit so I just called and said I just received the email. "Oh, it's no problem, ma'am. Your reservation is booked. You pay when we see you. Is ok."

So as of right now, I know we have someone meeting us at the hotel and a hotel to go to. I'm hoping that all of the other confirmations (written and oral) and deposits stand firm and that we come back with funny stories of the fun and frustration that is India (but none filled with tears about how I ruined everyone's trip because of my poor planning). We'll be back in a week.

The life of leisure sometimes gets busy.

You know how exhausting it can be socializing, lunching and tying up loose ends for trips...no post today. Will be back tomorrow with the last post before we head out for the week.

Auspicious Occasions

After my trip to the UPS store yesterday, there was a knock at the door. It was the security guard who sits down in the garage. We refer to him as "the one who always salutes." He had come by a few weeks ago trying to tell me something about his daughter. I'm pretty confident in saying his English vocabulary consists of the following words: hello, daughter, come, you, help, ma'am, money, yes, April. Do you see where this is headed?

When he left a couple of weeks ago, I thought that his daughter was coming and he wanted me to help her - with what, I'm not sure. As I got thinking about it, I thought maybe she works as a maid or cook. But I couldn't really tell if he thought I needed the help or he was asking because she needed the help. So I just kind of ignored the whole thing and chalked it up to random people who come to the door.

When we pulled in from UPS yesterday, he was sitting guard and promptly stood to salute me as I got out of the car. About 4.2 seconds after I made it up to our place and shut the door, he was knocking. English is clearly difficult for him as you can almost literally see him trying to come up with the words. He squints his eyes a little and looks up, almost like he's wincing in pain from thinking too hard. So I try to smile and be as patient as possible and guess what he means to say so he doesn't have to think so hard.
"Hello, ma'am." He's got quite a big smile.
"Hello."
"Ma'am, um, daughter..." He hands me a large, burnt orange envelope that has a picture of a man on a white horse, walking towards a women in a Cinderella looking carriage (carried by men, not horses) and it's all glittery. "Oh, your daughter is getting married. How nice."
"Yes, daughter. You...um, ah, I go April 10. (Pauses to think) Coming..."
"The wedding is April 26?" I have opened the envelope and can see that it clearly says the wedding is April 26. Not sure where he is going with the April 10.
"Yes, daughter. Coming here. You help."
"You want me to help your daughter?"
"Yes, help. (Pauses to think) Money you help."
"Money to help?" I am still trying desperately to follow what the man is trying to say but I just continue to read the invitation hoping something will start to make sense. He just continues to smile but it's no longer his warm, friendly, "hello" smile, it's more of a "why can't you understand me" smile. "I'm sorry, I don't really understand but congratulations on the wedding."
He stands in the door just long enough for it to get even more awkward. I really think he was waiting for me to get money but I continued to just try and look sympathetically confused. Finally, he just stepped away looking frustrated.

I stepped back inside careful to put the invite far from any other papers because man, does it stink - like moth balls trying to cover up body odor. I took a picture of it because it's just so... Indian.



If you can't read it, the top says: "Weddies Invitation." The box of the right says BRIDE, followed by her father's name, their village, their P.O. which is some other indication of where they live, the district in which they live and for the bride, her zip code. Underneath that it says: "Memorandum" with all the pertenent information about where the ceremony is being held. Underneath that is my favorite part: "Dear Sir/Madam, On 26th April, 2008 On Saturday, my daughter MOUMITA GIRI is going to be married with SAMAR KUMAR PARIYA the Son of Sukumar Pariya, the inhabitant of Chak Mahima. On this Auspicious Occasion your Cordial Presence, Co-operation and blessings is highly solicited. Yours - Sri Satyabrata Giri"

What do you suppose you buy the daughter of the security guard of your building (with whom you have never actually had a coherent conversation)? We'll probably pass on this wedding and go to George's colleague's in June (I'm hoping at least).

I did get some clarification from Chandan I think on what his family crisis was. In the car today he starts, "Ma'am, you are leaving on Saturday morning?"
"Yes, it is another early flight. Are you going home for the week?"
"Yes, ma'am but I don't know what to do. You see the 6th and 7th of April there is ceremony for my grandmother." (We come back from our trip north on the 5th of April.)
"Oh, that's nice. Is this a ceremony for her birthday?"
He gives me his nervous laugh, "Uh, no ma'am. This past weekend...she is no more."
I try to hide my embarrassment by quickly telling him that of course he can take those days off. But now I can see why he didn't really know how to respond to my question on Monday about how his mother was doing. So I'm not sure if there is something that you do for people who have just lost a relative. Not sure if they give cards or anything for the occasion so I'm going to have to do some research. I wonder if Answers.com has any postings for: How do I recognize weddies and funerals in India?

Taxes: Is all that hassle worth the money you get back?

I think most people who know me would agree that I am not, what you would call a "Type A" personality. I don't balance my checkbook, I don't always fold my clothes before stuffing them in a drawer, and I always pay my bills - when I pay my bills. Sometimes this is the first of the month, sometimes the 17th and occasionally, just after I make a purchase. I have been known to “misplace” ATM cards, keys and other arguable essentials. I tend to think most things in life have a way of working out. But there are a couple of things that get me surprisingly paranoid as if I were more of your Type A personality. 1. Identity theft and 2. Taxes.

It’s not that I won’t buy anything online or keep money stuffed under my mattress but I do worry about all the Spam mail I get and when I get any kind of message by our virus software. Maybe it was those commercials with the old guy in the rocking chair talking like a teenaged valley girl. But identity theft seems like one of those things that actually might not just work itself out. I’m not as careful as I should be with my information but I do worry about it like I worry about the environment. I know I should only reuse canvas bags at the grocery store but I always forget and walk out with 10 plastic bags.

The IRS worries me, not so much like the environment, but more like using a pressure cooker. Even now that I’ve used it multiple times and know what to do, there is still that uncertainty in the back of my mind. I know it’s not going to blow up the house but what if…Not that I am trying to scam the government but what if I make an innocent mistake and they come knocking on my door. Now I have to figure out where all those receipts are. Because of the paranoia, I do save them but because of my loose record keeping, there is no telling where everything is. And have I really saved the important things or just useless receipts that mean nothing to Uncle Sam? So every year, like a good non-A Type, I procrastinate. I get my W2s in the mail and letters from student loan places and my savings account and I neatly place them in a pile with the paper booklets from the IRS and I watch them. During March, I feel accomplished knowing that I have everything I need all in one pile. I tell myself that my taxes are straightforward so it’ll really only take me an hour or two. Why wasted a perfectly good March day when I still have fifteen days left in April to go through my pile? What’s the point in sending in your return early? Are they not going to give me the money I deserve just because I waited until April 14^th? Getting them in on time is not the issue. It’s doing them correctly that makes me panicky.

So, it’s a good thing Sir is on the ball. He’s been asking me about my taxes since the beginning of March and reminding me that I am not one for whom things always go smoothly. So between living in India and my new status as “married filing separately,” he kindly suggested maybe I do it sooner rather than later. I, of course, tried to ease his mind with – “I can file online,” “they have all the forms I need online,” “my taxes are always pretty simple.” As it turns out, I could only file online if I had my information from my last year’s return. Guess where that information is? I could get the forms I needed but I could not get my W2s or information about my student loans or other personal documents online. And taxes are never "easy" for the mathematically challenged. So it’s a good think I started early this year. Finally on Sunday, I sat down with my pile and got started.

It’s at this point that the panic usually sets in. Have I looked in the right columns? Have I added and subtracted correctly? Can I really claim “educator expenses” without receipts? What does it mean, “if your spouse is claiming deductions, check here”? Not to worry though, with the help of my dear husband, we worked it out. I was getting money back from Uncle Sam and Cousin Connecticut. Through some ingenious sleuthing, we were even able to figure out how much tax I paid on my car without the receipt that is neatly tucked away in some box, somewhere in a storage space in Norwalk, hiding from auditors. This morning I started copying everything over onto a new fresh sheet that I would get out in the mail and noticed a mistake. That darn subtraction. It kills me. This only added to my anxiety about whether or not I’ve actually filled out the correct forms, used the correct tables, and generally done what I’m supposed to do.

After checking and rechecking, I decided it was time to just get it in the mail. While I still have 15+ days to file, there is no way I was really going to trust the Indian Postal Service to deliver two envelopes to the US in that time so we decided I should send them through UPS. After carefully checking both my books from the IRS, I found that I could indeed, use UPS to deliver. I then called my local UPS office here and asked if they had a copy machine I could use to make copies before sending. It took me a couple of “excuse me, ma’ams” to realize that what I should’ve been asking for is a Xerox machine. Copy machine, she didn’t understand, Xeroxes, well ok then. So, with my two envelopes all correctly labeled, with the appropriate attachments, I headed to the UPS store, across town, hoping for a Kinkos-type experience (ha, not really).

The UPS place was tucked behind a bank in some alleyway with lots of men just hanging around outside. It was on the ground floor of an office building that looked to be four or five stories high. I walked into a lobby area with a girl behind the desk. I told her I need to send some documents to the US. “Documents only? Ok, have a seat.” So I sat and waited. There was a door with a key pad to my right and a small table with today’s paper on my left. I waited some more. The girl at the desk was busying typing away at her computer and after about 10 minutes, she asked if I wanted any coffee or tea. This was not going to be a quick trip.

After about another 5 minutes, Mr. Fedrick came out and asked me what I was sending and where. I showed him my two envelopes and said one was going to Missouri and one to Connecticut. He gave me two forms to fill out with my name, address and phone number and the recipient’s name, address and phone number. This was my first problem. “Sir, I don’t have a name and address but it says here in my book, that UPS can deliver.” He took a look at the first address which did not have a street number, simply, Department of Treasury, Internal Revenue Services. He asked if it was a government building and said I didn’t have to give a name and phone number but they couldn’t guarantee a recipient signature. I then filled out the form to send to Connecticut and this time, not only did I have the problem of no recipient name or number, but I was also sending to a PO Box. In the book that the Feds sent, it clearly says, UPS will not deliver to a PO Box, but in my CT book, it simply said that UPS was an accepted form of delivery. They did not mention anything about PO Box. So I asked Mr. Fedrick. “Will you deliver to a PO Box?” He said yes, but the girl on the computer said no. This prompted a quick exchange between them before Mr. Fedrick disappeared. The women informed me he was going to check. "You sure you don't want a cup of tea?" I was sure.

“No ma’am, they will not deliver to a PO Box.” I should have left it at that but I showed him my trusty book and asked if maybe there were other instructions of where to send that UPS employees might know about. (It did say, "ask your delivery service about getting written proof of delivery date.") Maybe could he check with a colleague in the US? He disappeared again and again I waited. After about 5 minutes, a security guard asked if I wanted coffee or tea. I waited some more. And I continued to wait. Lunch was delivered and I almost began to wonder if I would be waiting throughout Mr. Fedrick’s’ lunch but he came back again and said he could not guarantee delivery to the address in Connecticut. I began flipping through my books again to see if there were any instructions about sending from a foreign country. The instructions were to fill out a form to get an extension. I called Sir. No answer. Mr. Fedrick asked for my passport. Why would I bring my passport to UPS? He asked what part of town I live in and when I said Koramangala (the other side of town) he asked why I didn’t just call for a courier, like I was some silly foreigner. I did not laugh.

Finally, I decided to send everything to my parents and have them stick two stamps on the envelopes before April 15. I told Mr. Fedrick I would email him an electronic copy of my passport and he gave me a scratch off ticket. For a split second I wondered if it all wasn’t some weird joke and I was about to win a free pass on my taxes but then I started scratching…I won a free UPS keychain. What can Brown do for you? I’ll tell you: take up two and half hours of your time, $40 of your cash, and give you a free keychain. (The last half hour of my visit was spent waiting for my 10 rupees change, as they would only accept cash despite the two credit card machines staring me in the face. I told Mr. F he could keep the change but he insisted. It finally walked through the door with some guy off the street, “you’re looking for 10 rupees change?”)

This experience has only heightened my paranoia that even after all that, some IRS guy is going to come knocking on my door, years from now, asking why I didn’t send my 2007 forms to Texas instead of Missouri since I was living in foreign country. (This was one thing I learned. I could’ve sent to the Department of Treasury, Internal Revenue Services, Austin, TX, instead of Kansas City, MO like my label said, because I was filing from a foreign country.) But now, technically, they are coming from the good old USA so maybe they won’t come to get me.

Happy Holi, Easter, Birthday, New Year

We had a pretty quiet Easter weekend. Partly because the minority of Indian Christians who celebrate Easter were overshadowed by the majority of Indians (of all faiths) who celebrate Holi - the festival of colors in honor of Spring. And partly because Chandan was gone for the weekend.

As far as I can tell, Holi has no religious connection and is always celebrated on March 21. This year it happened to fall on the same weekend as Easter and I thought, Muhammad's birthday but I couldn't find any confirmation on that. I'm pretty sure the papers mentioned it was a Muslim holiday as well though and I'm pretty sure Muhammad's birthday was the occasion. As if that weren't enough, it was also a holiday weekend for those of the Baha'i faith (Baha'is?). March 21 marks the beginning of their year but like the Muslims, I think the year is based on the lunar cycle so doesn't always fall on the same date. The only thing I ever knew of Baha'i is that it is a religion based on the "unity of mankind." I know this because when I was in France, my roommate Karen, was Baha'i. She and I had completely different experiences. While I was off drinking wine with friends, chatting away, in English about our next trip, Karen was off immersing herself in French society, seeking out other Baha'is and shunning all the superficial American college kids. I asked her once what the Baha'is believe and her response was "the unity of mankind." I don't think she cared for me too much.

Anyway, according to trusty Wikipedia, the majority of Baha'is live in India, although it's origins are in the Persian Empire. From what I can tell, they're kind of like Muslims in that they believe that there were many different messengers of God's word - Abraham, Muhammad, Jesus but that Bahauallah is the most recent (but not the last) of His messengers. They mostly pray in their homes and there are only seven official Baha'i "Houses of Worship" in the world. I don't think they have any sacred book or text but there are writings of Bahauallah that they follow. He emphasized practicing the faith through community service and practicing their spirituality in daily life. Like all religions, they basis of what they say sounds pretty good to me - be kind, treat everyone equally, help your neighbors, etc.

But anyway, suffce it to say, those who remained in Bangalore, were in a festive mood this weekend (though many people took off for the holidays). Since we will be gone all next week with our first visitors, we decided to stay in town and enjoy a quiet and leisurely weekend.

Two things I've known about Bangalore but were reminded of this weekend are: 1. there is nothing leisurely about Bangalore and 2. aside from eating and shopping, there is not much to do in this city.

When Chandan picked Sir up from work on Friday night, he (Chandan) told George that he had to go home for the weekend. According to George, he was visibly shaken and said that his father was sick and didn't really know when he would be back. So we stayed in Friday night worried about our Chandan and cursed Indian television.

Saturday we got out early took a rickshaw into town. George went to get his haircut and I went with him because there are a couple of stores nearby that I don't get the chance to go to very often. I should've known by the traffic that 10 am on Saturday in Bangalore, is like 7 am on a Saturday in Connecticut. Nothing was open, except for the hair place and a coffee shop. So I waited for George and we walked to a more bustling area of town that by 10:30, was still relatively quiet. Not that it was particularly "quiet" because even though nothing was open yet, there were still plenty of people out walking and driving, making noise, giving you the sense that things were moving and busy but just not overcrowded like it normally is. We sat outside the Levi's store and watched a man sweep the sidewalk in front of his store for a good 15 minutes. He was careful to sweep everything into the street, then went into the street and swept everything into a corner where all the dirt and debris slowly blew right back up onto the sidewalk.

We killed time buying CDs and refusing to buy chess sets and toy snakes until noon and had a long lunch at a Thai restaurant - after all my talk of Thai food. We came home and worked off a fraction of the meal playing rousing games of table tennis and badminton. Of course, we had to wait for Alvin to finish his badminton game before we could play. I'm not sure if he actually has an apartment here or if he just lives at the badminton courts. He is very serious about the game and is always playing. Luckily, he has had the chance to meet George because for awhile, I think he thought I was making up this mysterious husband of mine. I bump into Alvin pretty regularly now and for a while, he would only ask me about George - where he was, what he does, who he is going to vote for. Now when I see him, he only asks about the elections. "Another win for Obama, huh?"

As of yesterday, we still hadn't heard from Chandan and were starting to wonder what we would do if he said he had to quit and take care of the farm. Could we offer to employ his mother and sisters as maids and cooks and have them live in Bangalore? Could we beg and plead claiming he is our only true Indian friend? Finally around 7:30, we broke down and sent him a text message. George had to be at work early (before the rickshaw drivers really get moving, so if Chandan wasn't going to be back, he needed to call a taxi). Chandan ignored the "hope everything is ok" part of the message and just said he would be here in the morning. I suppose it could've been some twisted lie so he could celebrate Holi in his native place but not our Chandan. He could tell no such lies.

So we walked back from dinner, around 8:30 on a Sunday night in the normal chaos that is Bangalore. It’s about a 15 minute walk and the weather was beautiful but it hit me again that there is nothing leisurely about Bangalore. Whether it’s sitting on the steps of some store on a Saturday morning or walking home a few blocks on a Sunday night, there is always the constant honking of horns, movement of people, dogs, cows, smells of food and garbage, ripped up dirty sidewalks, recently swept but still somehow dirty sections of sidewalks and just the constant organized chaos moving about. We walked through the mall, which at least is fairly clean but just incredibly packed with people moving slowly and quickly and zigzagging any which way to get around the crowds who have stopped to loiter. You start to feel like if you could just get outside, out in the open with fresh air, it’ll be different but you walk out and are immediately hit with more people and smog from the cars and sounds of the traffic and your suffocated all over again in a different way. Then finally, you reach the rod iron gates of St. John’s Wood and you make your way up to your apartment and at least there, you can shut the windows, turn on the fan and relax on the world’s most uncomfortable couch.

Needless to say, we are looking forward to our trip north. We feel better prepared this time and I’ve worked out some cool places to stay (I hope). We got a driver that was recommended by a friend and are excited to see more of Delhi, the Taj Mahal at sunrise and Jaipur, the Pink City. We’re also staying in luxury tents at a national park outside Jaipur where we are hoping to see tigers. So, I've been busy trying to finalize everything for that.

At least Chandan is back. George found out this morning that it is actually his mother who is sick but when I tried to ask him how she was, he just said she was at home and didn’t elaborate. He just said he would be here this week. I got the sense he didn’t feel like talking so I didn’t push it. I’m sure he is looking forward to our trip too.

I think I mentioned on Friday that Holi celebrations consist of drenching each other with paint and water...our apartment complex had a celebration on Monday morning. Here are a couple of pictures. I was told that if I continued to take pictures, they would take no mercy on me just because I was a foreigner and would get drenched. So these four are all I have.

I snapped the photo and ran before they could get me.

Happy Good Friday/Easter

What I've learned about cooking Thai food: It's all about the ingredients. Thai basil is different from Italian basil (though I'm not sure I could tell the difference.) Thai ginger is different from Indian ginger. They don't even call it ginger, they call it galangal. The lemongrass they use in Thailand isn't really like the lemongrass they use here in India. Kaffir lime leaves cannot be found in India and don't even think about substituting with lime zest. And don't go around thinking that all fish sauces are the same. They are not.

I used to think that cooks were just somewhat snobbish about their art (much like oenophiles), but I'm beginning to understand why chefs are so particular about their ingredients. Growing up on meals made from a box, or if you're really lucky, out of a can, you tend to think that ginger is ginger (one of the castaways on Gilligan's Island) and limes must be good enough if you don't have lime leaves. The Thai cooking lesson was better than our Indian cooking lesson because she had all of the recipes printed out and she went through them slowly with us. Bee, the woman who gave the lesson, could be the next Food Network star (except for the fact that she never once said "yum-o" and did not reveal any over the top table-scape). But she did tell us where to get some of the harder to find ingredients and explained why some spices need to be added before others and how to shred a papaya in 2 minutes. I also learned that if you want chicken stock in India, you have to buy a chicken, de-bone it and boil the bones for four hours. And I think it's safe to say that what the pressure cooker is to India, the mortar and pestle are to Thailand. She used it for every dish and said she never cooks a meal without it. (But showed those of us without fancy kitchen utensils, how to get the same effect with a big bowl.)

I also had another golf lesson on Friday. Next time I go, we're going to start working on my short game and he thinks I'll be ready to hit the course in a couple of weeks as long as I keep practicing.

Yesterday we had to leave for the Leela a little earlier than normal because I told Mei I would help her with new memberships and Vivian said she would help selling books. (The OWC publishes these books that are quite helpful in telling you where to go for whatever an ex-pat might need from exterminators, to restaurants to bookstores to schools.) Anyway, we didn't save ourselves any time by leaving early because traffic was bad. Luckily, no one cared we were late as it was a very small crowd. Instead of helping Mei with new memberships, I sat with a woman from Ireland (who organized the St. Patrick's Day party) and helped her with member renewals. Everyone has to renew by April 1 or your card expires (and membership does have it's privileges). They have been reminding people since January to renew but as you can imagine, not many people see the urgency until the end of March. This makes the Irish woman cranky. But I quickly learned what makes her even more cranky is people who crowd her table and say they don't have a renewal form. The first women who politely asked how to renew, nearly got her head bitten off as she was tersely told by Erin (who wouldn't even look at her) that she needed to fill out the form that has been in her newsletter for the past three months. When she said she had not gotten the newsletter, Erin again snapped back, "well, then you must have moved and not told us." The other women, who must be a fan of Gandhi's "kill them with kindness," ever so gently said that she had moved and she had sent an email about her move but could not quite remember to whom she sent it. Erin would not be broken, "then we have a problem, don't we?" As it turns out, it was Erin's error. In her meticulous filing system, she somehow forgot to change the address. Very unlike her. She then gave the women what sounded like it was almost going to be an apology but turned out to be more of a weak explanation about how she just gets so many people coming at her impatiently with their questions. Did I mention it was a very sparse crowd?

So it Glinda and the wicked witch of the West handling renewals. Erin was very nice to me but gave me strict instructions to shoo people away if they insisted on filling out their forms at the table and not to give out any forms unless there is a special circumstance. (Otherwise, I was to just tell them to get it from their newsletter, fill it out and home and bring it next week.) Needless to say, I was more than happy when Erin had to leave to attend to other important OWC matters (or so she said) and I was free to be as pleasant as I wanted. No form? Sure I can give you one. One women, who apparently had gone through the process before came up, full of apologies about how she didn't have her form and she's been traveling and can't come next week so she really needed to renew (yesterday) and she is soooo sorry to have to ask for a form. When I just said, no problem, she said, "Really? Where's the nasty woman?" Women are funny. So, my "station" was crowded with people busy completing the forms I just handed them. Erin "checked in" a few times to see if I needed help but seemed to be happy enough and at the end of the morning asked if I'd help her out again. She must have realized by now that about half of the forms were ones I gave out as the ones from the newsletter are on glossy paper.

If you don't renew by April first, the price of renewal goes up. Now that I've had time to think about it, I wonder if part of her "reluctance" (and that's putting it mildly) to give out new forms is because she wants people to be delinquent. Maybe then she takes a cut of the raised price and no one is the wiser. At the end of the morning I had 35,000 rupees ($875). Of course, I had to count out with her and reconcile with the receipts I had written but if she is the one who ultimately reconciles everything, maybe she's got some big scam going and I can become the whistle blower. Then they can make a movie about it and Julia Roberts can thank me in her Oscar winning speech. So, I said I would help her again next week.

The other hot topic of the morning that is quite sad and shocking is that an OWC member, who has been living in India for almost 10 years now, is in a coma and it doesn't look good. Apparently, she is 38, from Germany, here by herself and works as a yoga instructor. By all accounts, she lived a very clean life, eating right, exercising, getting rest but she has either had a bad reaction to some medication or has some rare disease or problem with her heart/lungs that has gone undetected her whole life. No one I was with really knew her but still. So what I learned yesterday was that life's too short to go around being nasty to people for no reason.

From lunch, we went to get Kayoko a going away present. We went to a small shop in our neighborhood where we proceeded to try on every top in the place (I'm not kidding between me, Vivian and our French friend, I think we did try everything on). It was a nice place - not like a stall where you bargain but a real store with fixed prices - but the sizes were all wrong. The tag might have said small but it could've been extra small or medium. Extra small was sometimes small, sometimes large so for once, I think the over abundance of employees was useful. Two of them were busy holding up shirts and measuring them against one another to check the sizes while one girl stood by the dressing room and waited for us to tell her what size we thought we had. So that took some time.

It was a little drizzly (which I actually enjoyed seeing as it's been nothing but sunshine, during the days, since January) so it seemed like a good time for some tea. We went back to Vivian's and had a long discussion about racism and affirmative action. It started because Juliette was asking about Obama's speech (since, as she said, that's all anyone seems to be talking about) but then she started talking about racism in France against the growing Muslim population and racism in Malaysia against Chinese-Malaysians and Indian-Malaysians. Vivian said that the majority of the population in Malaysia is Muslim and the Malaysians of Chinese decent, even if they have have been in Malaysia for generations, are seen as second class citizens. Both Vivian's parents were born and raised in Malaysia but still, they are discriminated against by the government (because they are Chinese Buddhists). She said about 80% of spots in universities are reserved for Muslims so most Chinese-Malaysians end up going abroad for school. She didn't come out and say that she had to bribe someone to get into university but she said she got rejected twice because she is Chinese before finally getting in. She followed that with, "Chinese-Malaysians are always bribing people." She didn't seem particularly frustrated or upset and said that's just the way it's always been. She said she grew up not really asking why or trying to fight for "justice" but just learned to live with it and how to get around the system if necessary. I suppose kind of a heavy topic for an afternoon tea, but very interesting.

Then it was almost 6:30 and I hadn't done a thing about dinner. So we went out for pizza at Giancarlos where George was convinced he saw the owner of Kingfisher (who I think is the richest, or certainly one of the richest, men in India). We later asked our waiter and it was not really him but we figured since he was sitting with Gian Carlo himself, he must have been someone big. After all, Gian Carlo is quite the man judging by the bust of himself on the bar, the pictures of him on every empty wall space in the building, his staff who wear "Giancarlo" belt buckles and shirts with his name on the collar and his wife who prances around the place in low cut tank tops (revealing her enhanced chest and tucked tummy), skin tight jeans and knee high boots. He does make a good pizza though.

So that was my Holi Thursday. This weekend is the Holi Holiday in India. It's celebrated more in the north apparently but it is a celebration of spring. To celebrate, everyone gets dressed in all white and then goes out and sprays one another with all sorts of colored paints. The messier you get, the better. I wish I could say I've heard stories of crazy Bangaloreans drenching one another in rainbows of color but like I said, I've been told the celebration is somewhat tame in the south. But just as well I guess as there was an article in the paper about how toxic the paints can be and in addition to irritating the skin, they are terrible for the environment.

So happy Holi and happy Easter.

We will be on Skype all weekend...waiting...and waiting...

Two Days in a Row and No Blog...

And it's not even because our internet has been down.

Yesterday I was busy learning how to cook Thai Tom Yum soup and curries and today I was busy lunching and shopping and having tea. Here it is 6 pm and I've haven't got a thing ready for dinner. Did I say I was becoming a good housewife? I'll be back tomorrow to wish you a Good Friday.

Quitters

Life is full of debatable questions. Who's the greatest singer in the world? What makes Tiger Woods so good? What's the difference between being a snob who only drives a certain kind of car and someone who is cultured and simply knows the best car to drive? What's the difference between quitting and knowing when to say when?

I'm no quitter so when it comes to saying when, I am sometimes in the game just a tad too long. Sometimes it is refusing to give a can over to George even though I've spent ten minutes trying to get it open, giving myself blisters. Sometimes this is continuing to pull my leg sure that I will get it over my head to create the perfect yoga asana if I just keep tugging at it and shrinking my head into my neck (convinced this is a completely natural position and obviously good for me). And sometimes it's continuing to talk to someone who doesn't understand me, sure that if I just speak a little more loudly or slowly or make just the right gesture, they'll understand.

I've been looking for vegetable stock for weeks now. Since I've mastered the use of the pressure cooker, which might be the greatest kitchen tool ever (strictly speaking as a new friend of the kitchen), I've been searching for new and interesting recipes to try. While the initial use of the pressure cooker is somewhat startling - it has all sorts of warnings on the handle and hisses even before it first whistles - it really is easy to use. And very quick. Fifteen minutes and dried beans are plump like they came out of a can. So I found an Indian dish consisting mainly of rice and vegetables that suggests using vegetable stock instead of water.

When Chandan and I went to the Spar supermarket which is, I think, unanimously seen as the best supermarket in Bangalore, I thought for sure I would find it. I've looked for a couple of weeks now but decided yesterday that I would ask. To my surprise, when I asked the girl who takes my groceries out of my cart, "do you sell vegetable stock," she pointed in the direction of the aisle with all the cooking oils. Next to that aisle is one full of spices. I knew I wouldn't find anything as obvious as a can of chicken stock as I had already combed every aisle in the store. So I went down both very slowly not exactly sure what I was looking for. What else could they call it? Maybe, like the oils, it's packaged in a bag or a carton? I asked another women (employee) in the spice aisle. "Vegetables, ma'am?" No, vegetable stock. She knew right away to call someone else. This time I asked a man rearranging huge bags of rice (bags so huge they would put Costco products to shame.) He just repeated me, "Vegetable stock" (with almost the exact same tone)? I tried to explain that you can use it to make soups. "Oh, ok. Yes." He instructed the woman to walk me down to the correct aisle.

We were in the soup aisle - also previously well covered territory by me. I was sure before we even began looking, there was no vegetable stock in the soup aisle. At this point, sure that the women who empties my cart had finished and the woman who scans them had probably already passed them on to one of the multiple baggers, I said, "that's ok. I don't need it this time." But the Indians are no quitters. From the soup aisle we moved to the section with some imported goods which consists mostly of various condiments, stir-fry and soy sauces and tomato sauces. There we met a group of about 7-10 other employees who were gathered around in a circle. The women helping me said something to the others in Kannada. One of the women broke through the circle and stepped up in front of me, "yes, ma'am?" Again, she repeated me, annunciating every syllable, "Veg-a-ta-ble stock?" Again, I tried to explain what vegetable stock is but to be honest, having never really used it, I was a little stuck. Soups and risottos was all I could come up with to help explain why one would need such a thing. I explained that they also make chicken stock and when that seemed to registered with the group (who had all moved with me back to the soup aisle), we began moving to the opposite end of the store. They were taking me to the meat aisle. When we got back in the vicinity of my cart that was still in the process of being unloaded, rung up and bagged, I said "when" and quit the "let's find the vegetable stock" game (also known as the "how many Indians can we get to follow the white lady around the store" game).

Of course, then there was trouble with the AMEX card. They hate using it because they have to run it through a separate credit card machine. There is about a 50% chance that the person ringing you up has not used an Amex card before or has only used it with the help of someone else. Yesterday the cashier looked at the card and recognized that she had to switch the phone card to the Amex credit card machine but she just kept looking back and forth between the two machines and called for help. The two baggers and the girl who emptied my card ran around the other side of the aisle to help her. After a brief discussion, they called a fifth person over. She took the cord that they had unplugged from the first machine and plugged it into the Amex machine. The four who didn't know how to use the machine didn't seem to be paying much attention and seemed content to not learn.

So after spending about 45 minutes shopping and 30 minutes at the checkout, I still had no vegetable stock.

I could post this question to my fellow OWC members but the ladies are getting vicious. In addition to Thursday morning coffees and Saturday night parties, the OWC also has a group on Yahoo where you can post questions or something you are looking to sell, recommend, not recommend, etc. I usually ignore the posts about where to find certain ingredients because they are usually something rather obscure (like aniseed or vanilla beans) and things I cannot use without an oven like various baking supplies. And there really hasn't been anything that I've needed that I can't find (or can't find a substitute) so I have been sure that somewhere, in the thousands of grocery stores in Bangalore, I will eventually find it. But now I'm not sure if I should get in the crossfire of the most current war between the foreigners to inquire about an ingredient I'm not even sure I really need.

Every now and again someone will post something about a maid/cook/driver/nanny/establishment who they would not recommend. Inevitably, the person posting seems to be writing in the heat of the moment when they are feeling particularly hurt or betrayed by the person/people who has/have done them wrong. This usually results in some derogatory remarks about either some company who has employed the person or about India (Indians) in general. This then causes other members to lash out at the person who initially posted saying that they are insensitive, racist, and hateful. This then causes other members to defend the original poster just saying that she was only trying to help others from having a bad experience. The original poster usually tries to defend herself which leads to more discussion before the group "monitor" finally has to post a message about playing nice and a legal notice about how we should refrain from defamatory remarks. This again causes some people to ask, "if we have a bad experience with a person or company, shouldn't we be able to voice that opinion?" Which then just fuels the fire of the whole argument causing some people like me to just ignore the whole group.

Besides, I'm going to be expanding my short list of recipes to also include some Thai dishes as of tomorrow. I'm going to a Thai cooking lesson. I am becoming quite the housewife.

Happy St. Patrick's Day

So Friday night we headed out to the Japanese restaurant with no name. We, and "the family" (as Chandan likes to refer to us when we go out with Viv and Liam), headed out in the Ford Icon around 7:30 for an 8 pm reservation armed with a map drawn on a scrap piece of paper. Kayoko, the Japanese connection, was going to have us follow her but her husband was late so she drew us a map and said she'd meet us there. Because of the well planned roadways in Bangalore, where streets are one way on some days and the opposite way on other days and if you're lucky, two ways, you never really know how long it's going to take you to get anywhere. We had to go out and make a big circle before we could make the right hand turn out of our place. After the nonsensical detour, we landed right in the middle of more traffic. When we finally got through the intersection that was causing the big standstill, we took a couple of turns into some neighborhood and pulled up to this large mansion-like place. It looked more like a hotel then an apartment building. We walked into the enormous lobby which was a combination of dark wood and marble and saw elevators straight ahead and a staircase and pooja room (an alter where you can say your prayers) to the right. To the left was a hallway with three glass top, round tables. Two were pushed together and were already set out with food. The kitchen was just off the hallway.

The six of us were the only diners in the "restaurant." We sat down to a seaweed salad, tempura (prawns and vegetables), a white fish with teriyaki sauce and some mushrooms and peppers, a cucumber and lettuce salad that had been covered with Saran wrap and what looked like some kind of custard also wrapped up. We arrived sometime after 8:30 so we're not really sure how long the food was out waiting for us. Everything (that should've been hot) was slightly cooler than luke warm. There were some unidentifiable chunks in the seaweed salad that I steered clear of but the mushroom chunks and seaweed were good. The cucumber and lettuce tasted like it had been pickled but was seasoned just enough. It was sort of salty and tangy. The fish was good, except that it was downright cold and the tempura was...tempura. Again, not at it's tastiest when it's cool. But by far the most interesting dish was the custard that was not custard. It was egg. I think Kayoko said they boiled it but it didn't have the consistency of a boiled egg. It was a very muted yellow (more white than yellow) and the texture of custard. It was watery towards the bottom and again, there were various chunks in it. There was some fruit but also some pieces of fish in it. I choked down a bite to be polite but it's not something I would recommend. All in all, our exclusive, underground Japanese restaurant was fun because it was new and different, but we're not too upset that we can't go back unless we find another Japanese friend.

Saturday we went to what we hoped was a Nike outlet store (that I've heard exists in Bangalore). We have passed it a few times and from the outside, it looks large and like it's the only store in a large building, so we made the trek across town hoping we would not be disappointed. We were disappointed. As soon as we walked in, we could see everything they had on display. George started looking at shirts and was immediately accosted by the overeager salesman wanting to help him choose size and colors. As soon as you put your hand out to get a better look at something, it's like some alarm goes off and the salesperson closest to you pounces. "Yes, ma'am. What size?" When you say you are just looking, some of the sales people look at you like you've just said something nasty to hurt their feelings. I think the Indians like to be waited on in this way though. They are just as eager to tell the sales people, "I need a medium." But to be followed around while you're shopping is not my idea of fun.

We then hung out at a coffee shop where it seems they serve less coffee and more milkshakes and sundaes and where we can sit and people watch. It just so happens that it is also conveniently located down the street from a small grocery store where you can get such luxuries as Lipton Iced Tea and Lay potato chips. However, they've also recently added to their list of overpriced imported products, Guinness. And in honor of St. Patrick and in preparation for our big Indian St. Patrick's Day celebration Saturday night, we bought some cans. Erin Go Bragh.

Saturday night, the OWC held a St. Patrick's Day party at the same hotel where we celebrated Oktoberfest. Thinking it would be somewhat similar, we were prepared for lots of people (not just OWC) and nothing formal. Just some mingling and a buffet dinner. The traffic on Saturday was just as bad as on Friday because, for what I think is the first time since we got back in January, it rained. It started in the early evening and after an hour of the steady pitter patter, most of the street were good and flooded. So again, we arrived late and were a little surprised to find the mostly older crowd, sitting at round table decked out with green ribbons on the chairs and large flower centerpieces with little sequin shamrocks scattered around the plant. On either side of the plant was the itinerary for the evening. This was a well organized, OWC-only event. We missed the cocktail hour but were just in time for the dinner and there were just enough seats at the last open table for us and the family. We were at a table with Kayoko and David (from the night before), a couple we see often at these events, Mei and Bruce, and two other couples we didn't know. One couple spoke French to one another although she was Philippino. There was a discussion that she could've been the youngest one at the table and he was bald with white facial hair so there could've been about a 20 year age difference between them. The other couple we didn't know, we didn't talk to much as they were directly across from us and we would've had to scream.

During dinner we filled out crossword puzzles with clues all about Ireland. We came up with all but two of the clues. One was about a mythical person who came to clean houses or something like that. The answer was Beatrice or Betsy or something like that that made no sense. I forget the other clue we missed. After dinner was a "pub quiz" that we didn't do nearly as well with. Part of the quiz consisted of identifying the names of people whose pictures were plastered on the wall and part of the quiz consisted of trivia questions. Seeing as we were at a predominantly Asian table, we felt the pressure to come up with most of the answers. After the quiz, there was karaoke including popular favorites like Danny Boy and Molly Malone. After cycling through the handful of Irish songs (about three) that people seemed to know, the floor opened up for international favorites like "Dancing Queen" and the Bee Gees. Before the dance floor got really crazy with the ladies, a group of about 12 women in green skirts and white shirts came out with a choreographed Irish dance. Michael Flatley would've been impressed. (Or maybe at least happy to know that he is still the Lord of the Dance.)

We treated ourselves to a McVeggie and french fries from McDonald's on Sunday and after buying some magazines and books from our local bookseller, we got a 25 cent ice cream cone and had a leisurely walk home among the chaos.

Here are a couple of pictures from Saturday night.

The room



Which one of these kids is not like the others?




Adele and I. George was supposed to be in it too but didn't quite make it.




The Family

Life of the streets of Bangalore

When I was teaching at Darien, we covered a unit on India with our sophomores. I had been emailing with a couple of my former colleagues to see if there was something I could do for the unit since I am in India. What we came up with was for me to take some videos life in Bangalore and write a little about what it's like living here. The only way I really know how to upload videos now is on this blog but since I really didn't want any former students reading this particular blog, I made a new one to upload the videos I took.

This was not as simple as it sounds. Most of the videos I took were a couple minutes long - a minute of traffic, a minute watching some construction, 30 seconds watching a guy sell fruit, etc. I originally envisioned putting all these together in one 5 minute video. But as it turns out, I'm not the technologically savvy. I ended up with 15 or so different files with no idea how to combine them all together. So, I figured I could just upload a few of the most interesting ones which just happened to be some of the longer ones (over a minute). After trying unsuccessfully to upload the for two days, I finally realized that the files were in fact, too large. So then, I had to figure out how to edit them. It's a good thing our camera software has a tab called, "video editing." I spent another day cutting the long clips to less than a minute and what I ended up with was a combination of short videos and pictures (and text).

Since I've been busy today with my yoga, golf (which is coming along very well my teacher says), and planning our trip (I think I'm obsessed with Trip Advisor), today's blog is redirecting you, if your interested, in seeing some video of life on the streets of Bangalore. All of the pictures have been posted before but it's all never before seen video.

http://siddellsindia.blogspot.com/


For those of you who can only get to this blog and are afraid to click on anything for fear of a Y2K-type meltdown (you know who you are Dave and Ellen), all you have to do is click once on the underlined link above and wait). It will take a while for the videos to upload. Don't panic. Just wait. Then, when you see and arrow pointing to the right on the bottom of the pictures, click on that. Good luck. If all else fails, call Laura.

Change is Good

Anyone can come and live in a foreign country for an extended period of time. Some days can be hard but the sun keeps rising. Some people count the days since they've left home while others count the days until they will return home. Not everyone might like it, but anyone can do it. So I'm not really sure it takes a certain kind of person. What I think I have learned (or learnt, as the Indians like to say) is that if you're going to live as an expat, you have to be ok with change. There are the obvious changes to your environment that you can control - the way you do things (from washing clothes, to getting around town to doing your shopping) and your daily routine, but also the changes you have no control over, like people coming and going out of your life.

Some of my friends are moving on soon...maybe. (You also have to be ok with enormous amounts of uncertainty.) Vivian is probably leaving in the next couple of months - either to a job in Singapore or to Dubai with Liam. Adele and Marc think they now may be leaving next month for Jakarta. Edith's husband apparently resigned today and they will be moving on soon. Tomorrow night we are going to a farewell dinner with my friend from Japan and her husband who are moving to Tokyo in two weeks. It makes you realize how many people come and go from your life but also how easy (and difficult) it is to make friends. It's easy to find people to hang out with because for the most part, everyone else is just looking for people to spend some time with too. But what you also realize, is that most of the friendships you make tend to be somewhat shallow (or maybe this is just me). I'm not sure if this is just a function of knowing that you are living in a relatively transient state and either you, or your friends, will be moving on sooner rather than later. Or, if it is a function of just taking awhile to really open up to people.

One of the first questions new people ask of you (or you of them) is, "how long will you be in Bangalore?" The answer is always somewhat vague - probably 2 years, maybe a year, we're not really sure but at least 6 months. I've found that there is an unspoken camaraderie between people in similar circumstances. The short term people seem to stick to the short term people, the long term with the long term and everyone in between trying to figure out who they are more like. I suppose this is only natural.

There is an excitement about not knowing what's next and knowing that you have made friends who have offered you a place to stay in Tokyo and China and Indonesia and Timbuktu. But it also reminds you that you can't get too comfortable with the same people and in the same routine. So I do like change, I just didn't think we were here long enough to already be saying goodbye to people. Of course, things change quickly around here and "leaving soon" could end up being tomorrow or 2009.

So, all of this impending change can make a person think alot about fate and destiny. Especially when, after having no idea (presumably) that I had been talking about when people are leaving Bangalore or about my relationship with him, Chandan and I got to talking on the way home. We passed his apartment which he pointed out to me and we talked about the weather and where exactly he is from. I feel better knowing where he lives now. It is in a good location and not too far from us so when we keep him out late, he doesn't have to go too far. We got on the topic of the weather and he said when he first came to Bangalore in 2002, the average temperature in the hottest months (April-May) was 28 (degrees Celsius). This year, they are expecting the average temperature to be 38-39. But his native place is even hotter. When he first came to Bangalore he said he was always very cold and his mother kept sending him sweaters. After our friendly conversation about his native place and my native place, he asked how long George and I were going to be in Bangalore and where we were going next. I couldn't give him a straight answer for either question. But I was happy with our easy conversation.

All of this talk of change and moving on and staying put and making friends has all made me realize the best anyone can do is just enjoy the present. Which is why, I am very excited for tomorrow night's farewell dinner to Kayoko. We are going to an "underground" Japanese restaurant. It sounds similar to the Korean place we went to a couple of months ago in that it is apparently in a service apartment building. Vivian tried to make a reservation previously (after a Japanese friend recommended it) and was told that the restaurant was only for the Japanese. As a Malaysian/Singaporean, she could not dine there. Since Kayoko is Japanese, she got "permission" to invite her non-Japanese friends. Apparently the food is completely fresh and authentic, cheaper and better than the most popular Japanese restaurant in town (that does cater to foreigners but frequented by many Japanese). I'm just happy we get to be in the club for the night. It's a good thing I've read some of Morimoto's book and know the proper etiquette for eating sushi. Konnichiwa.

My Driver, My Friend?

I forgot to mention that the strangest part of my day (at Safina Plaza) was not that I couldn’t spit, but that when we got back to the apartment and pulled up to Karen’s building, she said, “Oh no, there’s Javed. I can’t let him see me with this huge bag. He’ll yell at me.” She was laughing but still kind of looked like a kid about to get punished.

The driver/drivee relationship is an interesting one and one that varies about as much as any mother/daughter relationship can. Some people are simply cordial to their drivers while some people are somewhat rude referring to them as just part of their “staff.” Some people are very chatty with their drivers and think of them as friends and some people don’t take time to know them at all as they will likely fire them in the near future for some unforgivable offense (like waiting too long on those dusty streets with groceries). And it’s not just the drivees who dictate how the relationship will work. Some drivers like to simply be told where to go and prefer not to have to say a word, while some drivers like to be tour guides and personal spokesmen for Bangalore and/or India. Some drivers never complain no matter where you want to go at what time of day while others like to discourage their Sirs and Ma’ams from going to places where parking is limited or traffic is too bad or when it gets too late. So I think it’s as much the personality of the drivee as it is of the driver that determines the dynamic between the two.

It’s no secret Sir and I love Chandan. But he is pretty quiet and doesn’t ask too many questions and never has complained of anything – not about where we want to go, when we want to go, where we don’t want to go and not even when I have him drop Vivian off at work on Thursday afternoons. I am fascinated by his life and very curious about a lot what he thinks and does but I don’t ask him too many questions either, unless he seems to be in a talkative mood and then I question him until it seems like he doesn’t feel like sharing anymore. We often wonder what he tells his friends about us and what he does in his free time and while we’re pretty sure he knows we like him and think he likes us, it still makes for an awkward relationship. I’d like to say we’re friendly but I’m not sure that’s completely accurate. We joke about taking him to dinner with us but we’re not sure who would be more uncomfortable, we or he? I’d like to see him relaxed in his own environment. We spend so much time with him but we don’t really know him very much at all. And yet, there is so much he could infer about us based on where we go and when. He knows where we like to eat, where we like to go for fun, where we like to go when we don’t really have plans. He is always very professional and sitting in the back with Chandan driving up front is a constant reminder that there is a certain distance in our relationship. But sometimes I think it would be fun to just hang out in the front seat and forget that we pay him to drive us around.

So when Karen said that her driver’s wife was going to come over for a cooking lesson and he buys her girls presents and gets her DVDs from his secret place, I started wondering if maybe my relationship with Chandan is more on the cordial side than the friendly side. But when she asked me to take her big bag of gifts in to my place so her driver wouldn’t see and yell at her, I began to think that maybe Chandan and I are doing alright.

In other news, the headline in today’s paper reads, “It’s official, it’s 4 weeks.” They are of course, talking about the opening of the new Bengaluru International Airport. News about the airport has dominated the headlines now for months. (Literally, I don’t think they’ve gone a day since Jan. 5 without some article [mostly articleS] on the new airport.) The fact that the opening is delayed is, I think, a surprise to no one. But what I love about today’s headline is that once you start reading the article, there appears to be nothing “official” about the supposed 4 week delay. Yesterday, the headline was something about how it was looking likely that the opening would be delayed by anywhere from 2 to 6 weeks. It then got into a rather technical description of the problems they were facing, mostly centering around the ATC tower (Air Traffic Control – God forbid we write out anything that can be abbreviated). Today, they declared in bold font, the delay is officially four weeks but as you read further, they “think” it’ll be “about” 4 weeks. The first sentence of the first paragraph reads, “On Tuesday, aviation ministry joint secretary KN Srivastava said: ‘There could be a delay of a month in the opening of the new airport as ATC faclities are yet to be put in place.’” How does that equate to, it’s officially 4 weeks? A few paragraphs later they say, “Civil aviation sources said a final decision on the date of opening the airport is likely to be taken on Wednesday.” So apparently no one has really given any official word on the delay in opening but why not incite more criticism and hype over the already overly hyped new airport by saying the 4 week delay is official?

Why? Because I think the Indians like the drama! They get themselves all fired up about things and plan strikes and protests and sit-ins and walk-outs and then forget about their cause until something else comes up. The no-dancing ban was all the talk a few weeks ago and now no one mentions it. The truck drivers who went on strike a few weeks ago still didn’t really get their demands and are still sort of threatening to strike but now neither side is really saying anything and just going about their business. I admire the passion and the willingness to fight for a cause (and even the excessive exclamation points are growing on me) but as an outsider, there doesn’t seem to be much resolution. Maybe I’m just not tuned in to the real political pulse of India where issues are raised, discussed and resolved.

So the airport workers are threatening to strike if they close down the old airport (which they are contractually obliged to do), thinking that they have the overwhelming support of angry citizens who don’t want to travel outside the city to get to the new airport. Angry citizens are writing letters and circulating petitions arguing to keep the old airport open for domestic flights and the papers are feeding into the frenzy with semi-accurate headlines and just enough letters and articles to make you forget that anything else is happening in Bangalore (nevermind the rest of the world). Actually, I’m not telling the entire truth, the papers are also reporting the devastating news of men’s hockey (which is field hockey, not ice). For the first time in 80 years, India failed to qualify for the Olympics! Who knew men’s field hockey was an Olympic sport? If you knew that, then did you know that it’s “India’s sport”? “What Brazil is to soccer, or West Indies to cricket, India was to hockey – perhaps not the champion but the game’s sentimental wizard.” They say the coaches have turned corrupt and people have lost interest in the game. They’re calling it a scandal! No interest in men’s field hockey…scandalous indeed!

Other than that, I am busying planning for our first visitors!!! Really, people are coming. All the way from the USA to India. To see us. George’s friend from college and his girlfriend arrive in New Delhi on March 28. We are going up to meet them and visit Agra again and Jaipur in the state of Rajasthan. I’ve heard wonderful things about Jaipur so I’m very excited. (And they don’t know it yet, but I’m going to insist we see the Taj Mahal at sunrise or sunset.)

My friends read the blog, George’s friends take a 17 hour plane rides. But that’s ok. It’s not a contest.

Safina Plaza

Karen had mentioned last week that she needed to do some gift shopping for people back home. Her driver, of course, has taken her to some of his friends’ places but she wanted to try Commercial Street. I haven’t been back since December so I said I’d go with her. Normally, she prefers her driver because he has the car seats to pick up the kids but when I offered Chandan’s services this time, she said ok. “My driver yells at me for going to Commercial Street.” Apparently he complains that you can never take anything back, you can’t bargain with anyone and everything is poor quality. This has not been my experience.

I said I like to start at a place just around the corner from Commercial Street called Safina Plaza. It is a large building with lots of stores on one side and then a big warehouse on the other with a bunch of different stalls. They have everything an American in India could want, cheap clothes (that aren’t just saris and kurtas but more interesting then plain t-shirts and jeans), bags, shoes, curtains, wall hangings, jewelry, housewares... Really, it’s one stop shopping. Plus, since it’s where I did most of my Christmas shopping, I know a guy.

On the first floor of the plaza, there is always something different for sale. I’m not sure how often new vendors come in but I think it’s probably every few weeks. This week/month, they were selling lingerie (sometimes it’s t-shirts, sometimes it’s paintings, sometimes it’s empty). We headed straight for the stairs to the stalls to see my friend. Now, this area of town is no big secret. There are lots of people, Indians and tourists, who come in and out so he’s got to see a fair amount of people throughout the day. But as soon as we walked up, he knew exactly who I was. “Oh, madam, hello. You haven’t come for a long time.” I told him I brought a friend who needed to buy some gifts. And then it began.

All of the goods are displayed in a pretty small space. They have stacks and stacks on top of piles and more piles of stuff – bed spreads, quilts, wall hangings, skirts and shirts, pillow covers, beaded bags, pashminas. They had some little kid outfits hanging that immediately caught Karen’s eye. “For how old is the child?” He had skirts with beads and mirrors and silk and cotton in all the colors of the rainbow and every shade in between. Then we moved onto quilts. Again, whatever your request, after enough digging and climbing, he can almost certainly fulfill it. After moving from silk quilts to the authentic Kashmiri threaded, cotton bed spreads, Karen asked about prices. And with this, my friend really turns on the charm. He says the price and watches it register. Then he turns to me and says, “but you come with very good friend of mine. I give her family price.” He dropped the price a bit which seemed low enough for Karen, who at this point had accumulated about ten different things she was going to buy. As she was still pulling out every shade of green they had, I started looking through his bags. His assistant was helping Karen at this point and he tells me the bag in my hand is 150 rupees. I tell him that I am just looking today and do not need another bag. Then he goes into his song and dance about how it’s a one of a kind and the last one left. I ask him not to sell then and keep it for me until I’m ready to buy. Thinking he was getting ready for his final persuasive push, I stand a little straighter, vowing not to let him talk me into buying it. “You have been very good customer. I want you to have it.” Still thinking, it was going to cost me, I again shake my head ever so slightly before I realize that he is giving it to me. So, Karen spent all the money but (got all the presents she was looking for) and I got the free gift. The poor guy’s stall looked like a war zone after we left but I think in the end, everyone was happy.

I suppose not everyone gets free stuff or feels like they don’t get good deals. In fact, I think it may make some people so mad, they just want to spit.

Thanks to the tidy security or housekeeping staff, spitting is a big no-no at Safina Plaza.

The Bangalore Open 2008

It’s almost as if he planned it. Sir bought our tennis tickets a couple of weeks ago when he first heard Serena and Venus were coming, thinking that if we got tickets for the semi-final, surely we’d be able to see at least one of them play. Boy, did we get our 800 rupees worth…we saw Williams v. Williams in an exciting showdown on Saturday night.

The evening session started at 5 pm with a doubles game that we skipped, knowing it would be a long evening. After the doubles, Patty Schneider (the world #12) beat Yan Zi from China (world #50 or something like that), who earlier in the week ousted the world #4, Jankovic (from Serbia). You could tell the Chinese girl was in over her head and really no match for Schneider (from Switzerland), who won in two sets. It was about 8 pm when Venus and Serena finally came out. There were lots of signs for both sisters but my favorite was the one made by two little girls in front of us that said, “Go Williams Sisters, Peace Out,” with an upside down peace sign that looked more like the Toyota symbol.

Not surprisingly, the crowd was definitely larger and more lively on Saturday night than on Monday afternoon but there were still a number of seats that were empty. Even though we showed up late, we were still able to find seats in the third row just right of center court. And just our luck, we ended up sitting next to another group of four Americans probably in their late twenties to early thirties. The guy sitting next to me was celebrating his birthday and fancied himself as quite the tennis fanatic and former “really good” player…until he started getting injured. He gave his friends lots of insider tips about how the Williams’ play tennis – each with different strengths and liked to say things like, “Oooh, that was nasty!” And, “Oh man, that was a dirty shot.” He alternated wearing his sunglasses and resting them on top of his head assuring his friends that the bats that were circling overhead were “awesome” because they keep the bugs away. He also had on his wrist bands which added to his sportiness and obviously convinced me that he was indeed, once a “really good” tennis player. With his Blackberry at the ready, he was able to Google, Patty Schneider who he declared his new favorite player. This of course, was in between checking his Facebook page. His sister posted a message wishing him a happy birthday. He’s also got a step sister who is an actress and producer in LA and his father occasionally calls on Supreme Court Justices for favors when he and/or his friends find themselves in trouble both at home and abroad. After about a case of Kingfishers at the match, they were headed to the Hard Rock afterwards to try to get something to eat. It was easy enough for him to call on his Blackberry and make a res. All of this I learned and all I really said to him was yes, I would take a picture of him and his friends and no, I didn’t know what time the finals started on Sunday.

There was an area where you could buy food and drinks. They were serving pizza from a truck but people were waiting over and hour for the microwaved goodness. Otherwise, it was “American sweet corn” or popcorn. Similar to the New York pretzel or hot dog, as a grab and go snack, Indians are wild for corn. They serve it hot, in a paper cup with the option of a topping, either spicy or sweet and eat with a plastic spoon. You can find these corn stands everywhere. If neither of those options suited you, they also had Coffee Day stands where you could get your choice of hot or cold coffee drink. These drinks are more about adding whipped cream, ice cream and chocolate or caramel sauce, than actually consuming any sort of coffee (from an actual coffee bean). But they have to cut all that sugar with something, so they also had on hand various cakes. More than a few Indians sat in the stands enjoying the sporting event with coffee shakes and slices rich chocolate fudge cake. Who needs peanuts and Cracker Jacks?

It was a close match that went into a fourth set but ultimately Serena won. Even though we’re not huge tennis fans, it was exciting to watch them play and fun to see how good they really are – so strong and so fast. Serena ended up defeated Schneider in the finals pretty easily. She won $600,000. Not bad. They can raise $600,000 for a tennis tournament but can't afford to feed half the population. Maybe Serena can use some of the money to start her foundation to help India.

Inspired by their athleticism, yesterday we broke in our badminton and table tennis rackets. I think it’s safe to say Sir has a slight edge over me but I think with practice, I’ll be able to give him a run for his money.

Here are some pictures but they didn’t come out that great. We weren’t supposed to use a flash so they either seem dark or blurry.

This is the coin toss between Patty Schneider and Yan Zi before their match.

Action shot.

After she won, they all held up these books. Not trophy here.

Serena steps onto the court.

Venus steps onto the court.

Getting ready for the coin toss.

Warming up.