Notes from a DC Tour

Here are a few snapshots from my DC adventure:

* Going into an interview and hearing "You put on your resume that you type 100 wpm. Is that really the truth, or aren't you exaggerating a bit?" "I've been clocked at 100," I say with a smile. "Well," my interviewer tells me, "we'll give you a chance to prove it." After the test is over he comes back, astonished. "98 wpm and not a single mistake!"

* While I'm blitzing through the standard "prove you know Microsoft Office" tests, suddenly realizing that there are job interviews out there that don't require you to prove you can do a mail merge, and that later on this week, I'll be going on one of them. ^__^

* En route to the Apple Store, helping a group of very old, very giddy British ladies navigate the Metro -- from the turnstile to their eventual landing at Fashion Centre. No doubt they're here to take advantage of the falling dollar; one of them spends the entire Metro ride bursting out with little fits of happy "shopping, shopping, shopping!" Followed by "how many more stops?"

* Taking a breather at the Fashion Centre food court (to rest my foot) next to a group of young people involved somehow with our military (couldn't tell whether they had yet gone to Iraq, but they were clearly the troops in "Support our Troops"). They were talking about other young people in the military they knew who had committed suicide. They knew a lot of people who had committed suicide, mostly after returning from Iraq. "It's usually the really young ones who do it," one of them said. "The ones who haven't started families yet." It was a very sad conversation.

Off to DC!

I'm traveling today... it's time for the DC Interview Tour.

Interestingly, I was in DC this time last year, though for different reasons.

If anyone will be in the area and wants to get in touch, well... you know how to reach me.

TTYL!


(BTW -- sorry I haven't responded to some of the recent comments, esp. the ones from new commenters... will do so when I've got a smidge more time. ^__^)

Eat Pray Love Redux REDACTION

Team, I just learned from Holly Corbett's sister Sara that Holly didn't actually write the Page Six article titled "My Year-Long Trip Changed My Life - FOR THE WORSE."

According to Sara, Holly did an interview for Page Six about her trip and spoke positively about her experiences, just like she does on The Lost Girls, and Page Six rewrote the story (including fabricating the headline quote). From Sara:

Unfortunately page six six six decided they wanted something juicer than the truth and the great experiences, and put a really bad spin on her decision.

Also, Holly didn't get paid for the article, which seems really unfortunate, esp. because she's getting lambasted at places like Jezebel and, formerly, here. (I've pulled my original post, which was about how writing negative travel articles made all travelers look bad.)

Interestingly, the Jezebel commenters have also figured this out, and are jumping to her defense. (Well, most of them.)

Thanks, Sara. I hope that the Lost Girls blog posts something about this, because they're bound to get a lot of traffic from people curious to know who Holly Corbett is.

Eat Pray Love: A Journey of Extraordinary Privilege

I got a copy of Eat Pray Love: One Woman's Search for Everything Across Italy, India, and Indonesia for Christmas, for obvious reasons. It's a very.... tricky book. On the one hand, it's not at all bad. Sure, it's written in the easy-on-the-eyes, slangy chick-lit style; there are a few awkward, presumptive statements about groups of people (e.g. "The staff is Balinese, which means they automatically start adoring you and complimenting you on your beauty as soon as you walk in"); but it's never boring. For what it's worth, Eat Pray Love is quick-paced and quick-witted.

The trouble comes in what author Elizabeth Gilbert leaves out of her narrative. Most of the leaving-out comes in the early part of the book, in which she describes her life before she jets off on this intense journey of "finding herself."

Gilbert writes, early on, a description of herself as "the primary breadwinner and the housekeeper and the social coordinator and the dog-walker and the wife and the soon-to-be mother, and -- somewhere in my stolen moments -- a writer."

A description of Everywoman, right? How many people do you suppose cooed with identification at that particular paragraph, and then sighed with envy a few pages later when we learn that Gilbert's bright idea to write a book about traveling netted her enough advance money to finance her entire trip?

Except... it's not like that. Elizabeth Gilbert is not an "in my stolen moments" kind of writer. She's a professional one, with a list of magazine publications as long as my arm and four successful previous books.

One publication in particular you might recognize, though you're probably unaware of its source. Elizabeth Gilbert wrote the autobiographical piece that later became the film Coyote Ugly.*

So, right from the beginning, we're not dealing with Everywoman. We're dealing with a woman who has already been played on-screen by Piper Perabo, and who will soon be played again by Julia Roberts.

There must be a Guinness World Record for that.

Likewise, when Gilbert makes references to her sister, Catherine, she never mentions she's talking about Catherine Gilbert Murdock, author of Dairy Queen, The Off Season, and Princess Ben. (The two of them recently collaborated on an editorial for the New York Times on how wonderful it is to be sisters, and writers.)

There are little things, little unmentioned things sprinkled throughout the novel that grate against the skin -- things like Gilbert in Italy receiving continual visits from friends who have flown across the Atlantic Ocean for the express purpose of seeing her. A coterie of the well-heeled, as it were, who have the capacity for such travel.

Gilbert even admits, on her website, that she was only able to do what she did because of a past history of accomplishment and privilege. That's straightforward, and I appreciate it. I wish there were a bit more of it in her book. (I'm not putting the link to Elizabeth Gilbert's website because the last thing I want to do is encourage animosity, should she read this. You can find the site on your own. Once you're there, read the FAQ.)

And yet I found myself liking this book. In some sections, really liking it. I know why, though. It's because Gilbert promises hope. Someday, she writes, if you meditate, you too will see the mind of God. Someday, you too may be wooed by a charming man who offers you the world and then delivers. Someday, you too will find this kind of peace.

Can it happen if you aren't already successful and/or privileged? I hope so.

*But wait, you'll say. Wasn't Jersey in Coyote Ugly poor? Non-privileged? That's where the book differed from its source material, and for good reason. Gilbert took the Coyote Ugly job to earn quick cash and bank enough for a trip around the world (it's all explained on her website). Her parents were not working-class; they owned a Christmas tree farm in Connecticut, and Gilbert herself was never in danger of poverty or homelessness.

Other reviews of Eat Pray Love are here, here, here, and of course, Niranjana's.

Done with Doxy!

This past Sunday marked an epoch in my India-travel-adventures.

Sunday was the four-week anniversary of my arrival back in the US.

More importantly, it was "the last day I had to take that damn doxycycline!"

Yep, I'm finally free from the possibility of contracting malaria. I'm also free of the perpetual stomach-lining-burning that came every time I took the doxy, for nearly four months straight.

It doesn't seem like only four weeks since Hyderabad. It seems like years and years. It seems like it's been as long as it took man to evolve from dinosaurs.

But, then again, I've returned to my former state of penury and winter darkness, and every day seems that long.

Cheer up, emo Blue. Spring will come soon.

A Substantive Blog Post

"A substantive blog post."

That's what I wrote on my to-do list today, along with "clean out closets" and several spring-semester-related items. So far everything's been done except the closets.

I've been back in the U.S. for four days now. At my parents' house, temporarily, for Thanksgiving week. My mother was concerned that she would need to put me in bed for several days to detox me from all the pollution, etc. that I encountered on my travels, but a day or two of sleep and fresh fruit seemed to do the trick. As to the jet lag, I recovered very quickly -- mostly because I possess the theatre artist's capability of suspending disbelief, and was able to look at my watch and say "oh, it is 11 a.m.," and never doubt otherwise.

To the commenter who left this note: thank you. ^__^

While I was in India, several people asked me about my "spirit of adventure," as the anon commenter described it, and why I seemed so excited to do crazy-ass things like travel the entire length of India on a train.

I told them that this was, in effect, my holiday; and probably the only one I would have for a very long time. (This necessitated an explanation of American vacation days, or lack thereof -- followed of course by a segue into American sick- and maternity-leave policies. Suffice to say that my Indian audience was always shocked.)

Now that it's done, I find my mind pushing me forward, almost frantically, towards the next step. Which is, at the moment, getting my academic life in order and getting my temp work lined up. (Like an insomniac counting hours, I find myself thinking "if the temp job comes through by next Monday, then I will make $$$$, but if it doesn't come through until Wednesday then I will only make $$$...")

And after those two pegs are in place, of course, comes the even more daunting task of landing the real job. You know, the one that's supposed to come after the degree.

What I hope most, and I will continue to write about this over the next few months, is that I will be able to keep this sense of assertiveness that I acquired in India. I learned quickly that I had to be very specific and very direct if I wanted anything; I gave up trying to please people in the name of trying to get what I needed. I learned how to haggle with auto drivers and salespeople; more importantly, I learned how to walk away from them. In Amritsar, I checked out of a hotel without looking back, after the manager took me into his office under the guise of looking up cinema listings and then began showing me his porn collection (never told you that story); on the way to Delhi I enlisted the police to remove a young man who had been stalking me for a few days (never told you that story, either).

I don't want to lose the person I became in India; the person who "survived the Punjab" and made it through solo, unscathed, through breakfast weevils and Sleeper II trains and getting lost time after time after time, standing alone in the middle of Dworka-who-knows-where with nothing but a highway stretching in either direction (never told you... you get the idea), but who has her wits about her and is able to wrap her dupatta around her head to shade her face and walk alongside the traffic until she finds buildings again.

In theory I shouldn't be afraid of anything anymore. But in practice I am a five-foot-two young woman who still gets nervous about making people (employers, professors, etc.) happy.

We will see what happens. For other people who have made the trip (Susan, I'm thinking of you), how did you feel when you returned? Were you able to keep that sense of adventure with you?

For now, the scent of India still remains with me. Mostly because my perfume bottle broke en route, and the attar leaked into everything in my cosmetics bag. ^__^

Soft

I spent most of yesterday sitting on the couch, catching up on all the episodes of The Simpsons that I had missed while in India, reconnecting with my cat, and eating apples.

Today I woke up feeling better than I had in weeks. Better than I had since Delhi.

I'm not exactly "re-culture-shocked," but I find myself amazed at the softness of everything around me. Yes, you can play with the double entendre if you want, but these past two nights I have tucked myself into a bed of unparalleled comfort. Fresh crisp sheets, two soft pillows, one lovely comforter, plenty of extra blankets inbetween.

Everything feels soft. The carpet under my feet, the pajamas my mother bought for me (having read this blog post about the prior state of my nighties), the bed, the pillows, the kitty, the sleep itself.

It's absolutely luxurious.

Quote of the Day

In some respects, study abroad has become for this generation what going to college was for their parents. Being in a place a dozen time zones away, where Internet service and cellphones are unreliable, provides one of the first chances for true and prolonged independence.

Read the entire article here.

The Best Thing I Ever Tasted

Twenty-four hours. Three planes. Not enough legroom even for a person whose legs are barely three feet long.

And when I got back, a kitty who seemed almost disbelieving. She spent the evening staring at me dubiously, but I found her snuggled up against my legs when I woke up this morning.

I'm at my parents' house for Thanksgiving week (before I go back to seven weeks of temping -- the spring semester starts at the end of January, and I've got to earn some money before then). This morning I went down to see what I could cook myself up for breakfast.

It ended up being an omelette with cheese and tomato and chili powder (you can take the girl out of Andhra, but...) and an apple.

I had asked my mother to make sure there were apples.

And that apple, so fresh and so cool and so crisp, was the best thing I had tasted in months. Better even than ladoos.

Welcome home.

Sorry For The Not-Posting Thing.

I have so much to write about.

Amritsar, the Golden Temple, Diwali, the wonderful fantasticness that is Indian domestic air travel...

I even have pictures.

(Ooh! Pictures!)

But I am in Hyderabad, with just two days to go before I leave India, and I am caught up in a social whirl. Everyone wants a piece of Blue, and so I am very busy paying visits and meeting people.

And (sigh) there are only so many pieces of Blue to go around.

But soon, Team Readers. Soon.

Blue is tired....

Delhi's taken both the piss and the vinegar out of me.

And, as much as I hate to admit it, I'm getting tired of being a tourist. The novelty of paying money to look at things has worn off. ^__^

I've got two more weeks in India. Part of the time includes a trip to Amritsar, which is worrying my parents because of its proximity to Pakistan. I don't think it's any more dangerous than any other city, not really.

Right now, watching the news in my hotel room, the two least safe cities in India seem to be Bangalore (at least they're hyping the whole "BJP Karnataka" thing on TV), and then Hyderabad, which is getting deluged by rain almost to the breaking point. And I've been in both of them already.

But throw in your verdict. How foolhardy am I being?

A 24-Hour Train, and a Surprising Arrival

Greetings from Delhi!

I boarded the AP Express at 6 a.m., in the palatial luxury of an AC 2-tier compartment. The majority of my carriage -- in fact, the majority of the train -- was filled by an extended family of Hyderabadis traveling to Agra to see the Taj. They all had an orange handkerchief pinned to their sleeve so that they could recognize each other, and the entire train was filled with chat and rice and dal and chapatis and lots of shuffling around and greeting one another.

The unexpected bonus of traveling AC-2 is that it has attached electrical ports for laptops. Thus my compartment became the hot favorite as I plugged in and kept the crowd entertained with Bollywood films I had stored on my computer. (Yes, I know. I'm ready for someone to tell me that the worst thing I can do on a train is advertise that I have a laptop. The reason I did it was because everyone else on the train already knew each other, and they all already trusted each other, so I thought I would trust them by association. And no one stole my laptop. ^__^)

My train was scheduled to arrive in Delhi at 9 a.m. Perfect, I thought. I'll get plenty of sleep in my comfortable bunk and arrive refreshed and ready.

Except that everyone else on the train was getting off at Agra.

And they all woke up at 4 a.m.

The worst was hearing the chubby bespectacled kid in the bunk below me grumble at his father "But it's four in the morning! The train doesn't get to Agra until SIX!"

So for two hours, until the train hit Agra... oh, I'll spare you.

I arrived in Delhi still exhausted and wanting a nice hot bath. But when I reached my hotel, it was clear that "nice" was not going to be the case. The Hotel Star Palace is tucked into Main Bazaar along with about twenty-five other hotels of similar nature. It's... oh, I'll borrow from the Brits and use "grotty." Probably worse than that. The bathroom is tiny and insect-ridden (I bought spray and hosed it down), the bedroom is equally tiny and has no bedding (luckily I had packed blanket, etc. for the train).

When I saw it, my first thought was New. Hotel room. Now. But then I noticed the other guests in the corridor and in the reception area lounge. All young European backpackers. And I thought "okay, I am not going to be the spoiled American over this. If all these twenty-something European kids can handle it, then so can I."

(I had been meaning to write a post on the subject of "endurance," in which I explained how I felt guilty about upgrading from Sleeper II -- which smelled like a toilet -- to AC 2-tier, because it meant that I was another one of these American children of privilege who didn't want to endure anything that wasn't perfectly comfortable. Now... well, I think that enduring this hotel will assuage my conscience, and I'm not going to worry a bit more about the trains.)

The surprise that I refer to in the post title is how... um... white this section of Delhi is. The bazaar outside the hotel caters entirely to the young, poor tourist, and all of the stalls are full of cheap Indian exotica (look! elephants and that aum thingy!"). Right now I am in an internet cafe surrounded by white people, and I ate both lunch and dinner in cheap restaurants surrounded by white people. It's a cheap, young, tourist rathole. (It will be interesting to see if Red Fort and the other tourist hotspots feel the same way.)

Anyway. I'll post more when I have more news to tell. Say a "don't let the bedbugs bite" for me, 'kay?

One More Adventure

I'm off to Delhi tomorrow. Then from Delhi to Amritsar, and from Amritsar on a 36-hour haul back to Hyderabad (thank goodness I upgraded the trains, right?), and then a few days of rest and I fly home.

My US suitcase is all packed and stowed away. All I'm carrying with me now is a small bag with a few blue salwars and a half-finished copy of Midnight's Children.

And, of course, my tiffin carrier, which is bursting with fruit and nuts to eat on the train.

The hotel in which I'm staying in Delhi purports a computer lab, so I will post when I can. I've heard there's a "History of the Toilet" museum in Delhi which must be explored and blogged about. ^__^

And one more request for help from all of you, Dear Readers: where can I go to find a cheap, safe hotel in Amritsar? I've made a booking already at a hotel that's Rs 1500/night because I couldn't find anything cheaper online... but wouldn't mind downgrading the hotel, particularly because I upgraded the trains. (In Hyderabad and Mysore and Delhi I've had great success in the Rs 500 range.)

Anyway. Next time I catch you, I'll be in the "untamed north." ^__^

See you soon!

Mysore Posts Soon!

I promise I'll put up my pictures of Mysore... soon.

I was hoping I would today, but... well, today I spent seven hours at a railway station, mostly in queues.

But I got my tickets upgraded and will be traveling north in high style.

Woot!

She's Your Shatabdi

Here's the deal. I was going to take an overnight train from Bangalore to Mysore. Never mind that it shouldn't take the entire night to get from B'lore to Mysore; the price was right and I thought I could endure the seventeen-plus stops along the way.

Then my hosts suggested I take the Shatabdi instead. An air-conditioned chair car that left Bangalore at 11:00 and hit Mysore by 12:30.

Oh, and there's a free lunch.

So I bagged the sleeper car and the all-night trip and took the Shatabdi. It was everything an air-conditioned chair car could be. It was traveling first-class, and being waited on, and not having to hear the endless parade of chai-wallahs screaming, and not having to deal with glinty-eyed young men asking obnoxious questions.

It was the perfect way to get to Mysore.

The problem is that now I want to upgrade all of my train tickets. Now that I know... um... what I'm missing.

Sleeper II

I love trains. Don't know why. They make sense to me in a way that airplanes don't. (Please don't come back to me with sixteen comments about lift and about how the plane isn't likely to drop out of the sky like a stone -- I know the mechanics of how a plane works. I've just never liked them very much.)

Maybe I like trains because I can hang my head out of the window and watch the country go by. Or maybe because, at heart, I am a bit of a romantic and trains (even still!) have that bit of romance to them.

At any rate, when I was buying a packet of idlis to take with me, the man in the queue next to me turned and asked "Why do you look so happy today?"

"I'm going on a trip!" I told him.

My compartment was ladies' only, plus two children, who spent the first hour of the trip playing a game they made up titled "what's in your tiffin-carrier?"

"Is it chocolates?"

"No."

"Is it ice cream?"

"No, sillies, it would melt!"

Etc. It's a good thing I like talking to children almost as much as I like trains. ^__^

Considering I am, in general, a poor sleeper (particularly in new environs), I managed to get much more sleep than I thought I would. The lulling movement was very soporific, and the entire train had its lights off by about 9:30 p.m.

Probably because they knew the lights would come on again at about 5:30 a.m.

From my upper berth (and my compartment's direct connection to the lavatories) I had the privilege of watching nearly our entire car wake up and complete their morning ablutions. Smelling this, of course, was much less of a privilege. Interestingly, most of the male passengers took turns queuing up to brush their teeth... and only one of the women. Is toothbrushing something women are "not supposed" to do in public? Or is it that our breath just always smells like flowers? ^__^

Will write more about Bangalore soon; now, it's naptime.

Trains! Trains! Trains!

Not "I can has," kitty, but I HAS train tickets.

Woo-hoo!

A Flyover Collapses

Two days ago I was in the eastern section of Hyderabad (Koti and Abids) wandering around and enjoying myself and getting groped on the bus ride home.

I left in the afternoon. About two hours later, a flyover (read: overpass) collapsed. 30 people are assumed dead and they're still searching for bodies.

This flyover was right in the heart of the city; directly outside Hyderabad Central, in fact. I had traveled underneath this flyover every time I had come into the city, including that morning on my way to Abids.

I had come back from the city early because a friend had invited me to a Tollywood movie. When I got back to campus, he told me that he had changed his mind and was too busy to go, and I told him off (a bit) for making this plan and dragging me back from the city for no reason when I had been enjoying myself and would have otherwise stayed through the evening.

The next day I told him that perhaps he had saved my life.

Getting Groped (or, How To Increase Site Traffic With Two Simple Words)

On the bus ride home from a bazaar in Abids, I felt an erect penis begin to nudge itself into the small of my back.

It was accompanied by a huge, sweaty belly.

I started to laugh. Aloud. I know I should have been offended, but the whole thing seemed so ludicrous. Here we were, packed like sardines into this stinking bus, everyone dripping with sweat, and this guy next to me decides he's going to get turned on, just because he's standing near a woman.

I stepped away from him (the two inches that I could) but he stepped forward, continuing to press into me.

So I reached behind me and swatted his belly.

He stepped back and disappeared into the crowd of passengers.

Again, I know I should be offended, but my only reaction is "glad to know I've still got it."

Blue Plans a Tour (and Seeks Help)

I've begun to realize that if I want to do any serious travel while in India, I will have to make it happen. I should have known this before, but I was a bit busy getting situated, starting my class, being ill, and... um... buying salwars. ^__^

At any rate. I'll have some time after the first week of October and am trying to figure out how to put together a workable itinerary.

I've been invited to spend some time in Bangalore, which I am very excited about. While there, I'll of course let you all know whether it looks anything like its cartoon version as depicted on The Simpsons. (Manish, take note!)

Besides that, well... followers of this blog should know that there is one place in particular I would like to visit: the set of Kaun Banega Crorepati, in Bombay. That is to say, if I am in the KBC audience I will have the opportunity to watch SRK perform live. ^__^ I'd rather see that than the Taj. But the people I've talked to here say that KBC isn't shooting anymore. (Did it run out of crores?)

On a more serious note (all fangirling aside) I would love to travel north a bit. Mostly because I like books, and so much of Indian literature seems to center around particular places. Delhi-Amritsar-Lahore, Calcutta, etc. So I want to see the places I've read about. After all, I absorbed most of what I know about Indian culture and history through various texts -- Climbing the Mango Trees, A Suitable Boy, etc.

Is this a feasible idea? Can it be done inexpensively? Can it be done safely? And where should I go?

Editor's Note: Before anyone drops a "but what about Kerala?" comment, the uni's arranging a mini-break for me. So I will also get to see God's Own Country, don't worry.