Maybe 5 weeks in India at twenty-four years old wasn’t enough for a fair judgment. Maybe my experience was seen through a Westerner’s arrogant spectacles. Maybe my perceptions were accurate but my information skewed and inequitable?
Fortunately, I have now had two additional months and the help of Rohan – the type of boy who no doubt spent his childhood filling girls’ ponytails with paste, his teen years snapping training bras, and now his adulthood reading and critiquing my blog for the pure enjoyment of getting a rise out of me. I have been given a challenge, in reference to my thoughts on India two years ago, and I quote:
“This will go down very well with the typical white male/female who has already a stereotyped view of India. This just confirms their worst fears and prejudices about the country.
…most Indians are in denial, which is why most will react in the same manner (vehemently patriotic for no reason) to anything negative said about India no matter how true. I am one of them.”
Not quite the bully he seems, Rohan has a valid point and left me thinking how my opinions may have since developed, with a bit more time and information. I humbly acknowledge my own ignorance, on the condition that you also acknowledge a certain open-mindedness on my part, based simply on my unusual willingness to spend a cumulative total of 3 months and 1 week in such a foreign place.
Before I get into this, I have no choice but to back some of my initial viewpoints [which are more opinion than anything]:
(1) You people still drive like crazed maniacs and there is just no denying it. Let’s look at this objectively: I have so many demerits on my driver’s license they’ve threatened to take it away with one more indiscretion, so I’m not what one might call vigilant in terms of road safety, and you still couldn’t pay me to get behind the wheel here. Consider starting by teaching your professional drivers how to operate a manual transmission, so I don’t end up biting the end off my tongue while they go 35km/hr in 5th gear at a whopping 7 RPMs.
(2) I see no problem with toilet paper provision and do not understand how this biodegradable luxury is less economical than the water consumption those high-pressure spray hoses must use. No amount of tree preservation is an excuse for the bathroom floors and every toilet seat in the country to be wet all the time. In fact, save some money by eliminating 1 in every 10 of the housekeepers who work 24 hours a day to clean this mess up, and turn your saved resources back into planting trees. Call it a toilet paper factory if you like–consider hiring the housekeepers whose jobs you’ve taken away to water the trees.
(3) Has no one noticed the amount of garbage accumulating in the streets? It seems to me that manual labor is cheap and people are over-taxed—I won’t pretend I have the knowledge to address your bribery-based government officials—but for Heaven’s sake, can’t they use a fraction of your taxes to hire someone to collect the garbage? It would do wonders for the aesthetics of your cities. Like introducing a unibrow victim to a pair of tweezers, this simple task will allow the natural beauty to be seen where before it was entirely hidden. In fact, (me with my ingenuity), why not take the people currently responsible for painting lines in the streets, (as driving within such structure is just never going to happen,) and assign them to garbage cleanup instead?
(4) Two words: line ups. I am tired of waiting an hour and a half in the mornings for my turn in the elevator. With just a little bit of order the world is a happier place. Take Switzerland, for example – there is no culture more rule driven or order based, and look how happy they are. Granted, it is a measured and controlled happiness, but maybe there’s a middle road that could be found?
(5) I have yet to figure out how you people function in terms of everyday efficiency. Every vehicle is driven like there is a woman in labor in the backseat, and yet it takes 45 minutes for the restaurants to produce an egg with toast. A little consistency in this matter (so I’m able to make an asinine remark on the subject) is all I ask.
(6) I will never understand your affections for car horns. Please tell me how it is even remotely beneficial to your neighbors at a stop light for you to honk and honk and HONK those damn horns so relentlessly? Enough already! Let me tell you a story: I was once driving down a high speed 4-lane highway, when the car in the lane to the right of me signaled a lane change in my direction, clearly unaware of my positioning. Chances are I’m being presumptuous here, but I suspect the ensuing accident would have been fatal, had my use of the horn to create awareness of my position not saved my life. Picture the same scenario in India – no one even hears the bloody horns anymore [except echoing in your head at night when you’re trying to sleep]. It is the Boy Who Cried Wolf scenario, but more like the Horns That Would Not Shut the Hell Up.
(7) I have tried to stay quiet about this, but simply have to document a formal complain about your coffee. As a passionate appreciator of black coffee, I tell you that if I had to stay here for one more week, the depth of my longing for a good cup of coffee would institutionalize me. I can’t quite pinpoint why the flavor of your coffee is so off, but I suspect either it is made from the downstream water of the Ganges [thus bearing feces, used bathwater, and the ashes of cremated relatives] or else from the water that is squeegeed off bathroom floors and collected from the floor drains.
Agree or disagree, those are my thoughts.
I do confess, however, that many of my previous opinions of India were narrow-minded and require either elaboration or correction. Take my impressions of poverty, for example. I believe in North America that poverty does exist, though on a much smaller scale, but is hidden from the public eye. We don’t like to see it; we live, after all, in the Land of Opportunity, where thousands of immigrants a year continue to seek refuge. We take pride in that fact that this is who we are and have been for hundreds of years. We [maybe blindly] tell ourselves that all are equal and opportunity exists for everyone, while quickly flicking World Vision off our TVs on Sunday mornings. My exposure, for example, has been short trips to inner cities to serve food in soup kitchens. Your exposure has meant seeing these people not only in the streets every day of your life, but in your own homes, serving you your meals and cleaning up after you, calling you “sir” since the ripe age of 3 (depending on wealth and caste, of course). So certainly it is a shock to the visitor when you’re stopped at a traffic light and two women holding crying naked babies are knocking on the window of your chauffeured, air-conditioned car. I am aware my perceptions might be excessive and exaggerated, but I see no way of extinguishing my sensitivity to the subject, and am not sure I even want to. It is tragically sad, and I cannot and will not pretend otherwise.
You mentioned a comment I made about the hard expressions I noticed on the faces of locals, and the sad looks I perceived in their eyes. I do openly confess this was an unfair observation, not only because I have no way of knowing the thoughts behind a person’s eyes, but also because the groups of people with which I have associated in my visit is very biased indeed. In reality, they’re more likely thinking “Strange white girl, what are you doing here?” than “Oh woe is me; my life is so sad.” At the office, for example, people are highly educated and doing somewhat menial work, like I said. However, theirs is an industry of vast opportunity and rapid advancement; these people are young and fresh out of government funded university (a concept missing from North America that I see as a tragic flaw in our systems) and for most this job is a stepping stone to greater things. Plus, so many of these people have had opportunities to travel the globe more than I have, and who am I to judge their career choices? At the end of the day, they are happy and seem to have much less arrogant expectations of what they deserve from the universe, possibly creating a deeper satisfaction than we could ever hope to know.
I still confess that I hate being served so extravagantly. I’ve spent the last two and a half weeks trying to remember how one opens a door for oneself, but the concept is lost. I fear that when I get home and need to go somewhere, I will walk to the back door of my car (failing to notice the absence of a Driver) and just stand looking at the door confusedly, wondering why it’s not being opened for me and where the chilled water and today’s newspaper. As long as I don’t go to the extent of writing letters to myself [the owner of my car] complaining about the poor service, I’m sure I’ll find a way to adapt back. However, what I have learned is that the hand-folding bow done in my direction 700 times a day is actually the Namaste greeting and not so much a matter of submissiveness—thank goodness! Once again to compare, I come from a place where customer service is unheard of and I would have to be convulsing on the restaurant floor in a diabetic seizure to get the attention of a waiter or waitress. My mom taught me to do laundry, clean up after myself and cook meals for the family while I was a child, and I don’t respond well to having these things done for me. I think in no way do I deserve fresh sheets and towels every day, so you can understand why this all feels so unnatural. [And yet, as I write this, I am sitting in a poolside wicker chaise lounger under a palm tree, listening to the ocean and the birds while drinking a chilled beer that someone delivered before I’d even settled into my chosen seat. It seems that I have adapted somewhat!]
I admittedly have been narrow-minded about the concept of arranged marriages as well. My opinions were naively formed by the story of one friend escaping an abusive marriage and the fact that the concept of a “Love Marriage” seemed unheard of; [sure, maybe I am tainted by the romantic influence of Hollywood.] “Independence” being my middle name, the thought of meeting a potential spouse for the first time under the watchful eye of both sets of parents, not to mentions siblings, cousins, grandparents, aunts, and any widows who might also live under your roof … well, it could not be more repulsive a thought. And please don’t get me started on the formal interviews conducted, touching on horoscope signs, education levels, and the woman’s gusto to prepare a list of outrageous demands for the man on the initial meeting. Still, I admit that the way marriage is done in the Western World is by no means idealistic; divorce rates are an undeniable testament to this. Personally speaking, the approval of my parents and brothers is top of my list, and I can imagine that where family influence is evident throughout the process, a world of hurt and mistakes could be prevented. Having discussed the concept in depth with Rohan, I came to the conclusion that while details differ, the game is exactly the same. There is still hope, still rejection, still confusion, and still butterflies. Even with our concept of long-term dating, how can you really know someone before you marry them—before you’ve experience shared finances, childbirth, tragedy, and old age together? Relationships are dynamic, whether you’ve dated for 5 years or known each other for 5 minutes prior to marriage, and I envy the concept of devotion to the marriage, commitment to the challenge, and joy in the celebration.
At the end of the day, there is one truth that is undeniable: in whatever country you received your upbringing, there is a certain amount of allegiance. Truth is what you know, absolutely dependent on the familiarities of your small world. To me, Canada is beautiful and even with its shortcoming, could not be more perfect (and I don’t even say that based strictly on our lack of slimy reptiles and oversized rodents.) I have to respect that to Indians, there is much in my world that is surely perceived as tragic and missing. The entire reason for travel and exposure to the differences of the world is to challenge one’s values and open one’s mind to extraneous possibilities, to know that while you love it, yours isn’t the only way, and to strengthen personal appreciation and basic principles.
Your country is like your family: I am aware of weaknesses in personalities, imperfections in relationship, flaws in appearances, and still I think the world should envy the fact that I live in what is undoubtedly the greatest family imaginable. Likewise, my country has its deficiencies, but it is mine and it will always receive my devotion and undying pride. If such appreciations didn’t exist, then we would have problem. And so, in the last days of my visit and with a much-anticipated return home, I choose to respect the comparable value that Indians have in their own country, complete with cobras, garbage, and the occasional sad story.
Where I've Been
- Create your own travel map or travel blog
- Vacation rentals at TripAdvisor
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Sunday, May 23, 2010
The Things That Happen to Me
Some of you have been demanding my stories, and this is for you. I plan on piecing together the odd moments of my travels [whether international or local] with zero pattern or logic, so try to keep up to the madness.
It has become apparent to me, over the years, that I attract bizarre attention from strangers. Wherever I go, with an obvious influx of occurrences while in airports, I form what I will henceforth call “friendships”. These are short-lived non-committal friends who flit in and out of my life momentarily; we don’t become pen-pals or even phone-pals, in most cases names are not exchanged, and so I must document them before they drift from my goldfish-memory forever.
I have a terrible fear of tornadoes, one that I didn’t realize would be an issue while in Texas. Also, I don’t exactly fancy the thought of being murdered. And so, when I was befriended by (or maybe I did the befriending, I’m never quite sure) the airport security guard, I was somewhat taken aback by his affronting both of these fears. Sitting on a bench outside, he began quizzing me on my destinations, as he chain smoked one cigarette after another. “Y’all are goin’ to Dallas? I heard tell them parts was hit with twenty or thirty tornadoes today, more expected tomorruh.” He dropped this news as though he was merely saying “I have ten fingers and ten toes,” leaving me to imagine what exactly it would be like to experience a tornado from an airplane, while also trying to keep up to his morbid conversation. Now, the challenge of conversing with said big-fat-chain-smoking-security-guard was not so much the Southern drawl, but the volume with which he threw my deepest fears at me. Low-talker would be an understatement, and so closer and closer I came to him, listening with all my might. “Going to India? Well I heard on the news today of a girl going to India that was murdered.” Huh. Well isn’t my life just a bed of roses, and my future bright and hopeful? As the story developed, he clarified that she was killed by her boyfriend in a domestic dispute prior to an intended trip, and so the India part of the story was merely word association, on his part. Phew. Just tornadoes to worry about then.
Last year, returning from Italy I had the opportunity to spend much time in Amsterdam’s Schiphol Airport. Having forgotten to find souvenirs for anyone, I visited the Duty Free to find some imported Italian wine. (Pause to acknowledge the irony of an “authentic” souvenir like imported wine.) While paying, the lovely woman working the till asked “Shall I bag these up, or will you be drinking them in the airport?” Not sure if I mentioned: there were about 6 half-liter bottles in my collection. Speechless at the legality of cracking open duty free booze in the airport, not to mention the level of blood alcohol that would certainly result in such activity (yes, I am aware of the liberalistic ways of Amsterdam) all I managed to stutter was “But I’m by myself” before wandering off confused.
Shortly thereafter, aware I would soon be boarding a long flight, I decided a walk was in order, and commenced to speed-walk from one end of the airport to the other. From the corner of my eye, in a particularly abandoned terminal, I noticed a brazen boy about my age, bee-lining straight across the terminal in my direction. He came to a dead halt directly in my path, standing about shoulder high. I would later learn he was born in Thailand but now living in Holland and working as a porter for the airport. Standing there looking up at me, he said rapidly [aligning with his equally quick appearance in my path] “It’s my coffee break. Will you join me?” Deciding he should be rewarded for his valiance, I conceded. Comically, the place he chose to sit was directly beneath a speaker, and we all know that in airports, an announcement is made every 12 seconds or so, thereby making the conversation considerably less than fluid. Nearing the end of his fifteen-minute break he asked, “Do you have a boyfriend?” “Yes” I lied. Clearly smarter than the average porter, he asked “Then why are you traveling alone from Italy?” Good point, Ballsy Porter; back to work for you.
Come to think of it, this isn’t the only time I’ve told that lie. Recently wandering the aisles of Wal Mart a young handicapped man appeared in front of me, grinning. I smiled back but kept walking, weaving erratically in and out of aisles, too distracted by shiny things and bright colors to notice I was being followed. Wherever I went he seemed to appear. Eventually, while I stood studying toothpaste, his grinning face appeared again over my left shoulder. “Hi!” (Awkward pause.) “You are very beautiful!” (From my corner, the typical stuttering babble.) “Do you have a boyfriend?” Feeling my only option was another lie in order to prevent a mixed-functionality marriage, I began apologizing profusely for being Pretend Committed and wandered off, wondering if maybe this new fan- albeit simple- might treat me better than most of the gender he represented?
To be fair, such awkward moments don’t come strictly from the male species. Checking into a hotel recently, I stood at the front desk visiting with the shuttle driver and front desk clerk—both girls about my age. The more effervescent of the two pronounced suddenly “I figured it out! You look like Lily Allen!” The other girl, merging a Texan accent with Valley Girl impression, felt the urge to throw in her two cents: “I, like, just read that, like, Lily Allen is, like, the hottest celebrity right now. Like.” Thinking we’d safely reached the peak of awkward and would soon being going downhill again, I was proven wrong, when the driver said “Oh my god! No! I’m not a lesbian! I wasn’t hitting on you or anything; I swear I didn’t know that.”
Abrupt topic change. [As there is no natural progression from a story such as that.]
Walking through the hospital corridor one day, I came across a big old fat patient in a wheelchair. His hospital gown was not quite secured in the back, leaving …. Well there is just no gentle way of saying this: leaving naked ass protruding from the side of his wheelchair. “Hi!” he shouted, as he wheeled himself into my path. “On your way to work?” I responded that no, I was just here to visit. Taken aback, he claimed “Well that’s surprising. You look just like a nurse.” Enlightened to learn that the nursing profession revolved around one’s appearance, I felt the urge to seek out a mirror and look at myself with a new perspective to see if what he said was true. Granted, I hate sick people, blood and needles, the smell of hospitals, and germs … but if I look like a nurse, maybe it’s time I reconsider my career choice?
Although, if conceding to beliefs held by strangers, in regards to my appearance, were enough to dictate my life choices, then I would also have no option but to call myself a Mexican. One morning at a Tim Horton’s drive-thru window, the woman handing me my coffee said abruptly “Are you Mexican?!” She seemed disappointed when I said no, but let me off anyway. A few weeks later, clearly forgetting our initial encounter, the same woman asked me “What is your nationality?” I responded “Scottish and Irish,” but she would have none of it. “Nope. I think you are Mexican.” And that was that—the decision had been made. The beauty of this story: the woman, herself, was Mexican and seemed unable to recognize her own kind. I have to wonder if it was my freckles or blue eyes that gave away my secret Mexicanness.
Said blue eyes have not always gone unnoticed, however. Wandering through the markets in Kusadasi, Turkey, one shop clerk noticed them and shouted at me in broken English as I walked away from him, “Your eyes! Your eyes! In my life, I have to see eyes like yours again!” Laughing at him, I put on my sunglasses and watched him drop to his knees, arms dramatically waving to the heavens as he bellowed after me “No! Not sunglasses!” and dropped face first onto the street in protest.
I suppose it is all a matter of perception. Following a trip to Europe last year, some colleagues in India asked that I send some photos. One of them later messaged me, to say (and I quote) “It looks like you are very happy these days and that has made you gain a little weight.” Since he intended this as a compliment, I couldn’t stop laughing, imagining a man in America saying that to any woman and coming out of the situation with his manhood still intact.
…just a few examples of the types of situations I frequently find myself in. Check back shortly, as there is no indication that stories such as these will stop finding me anytime soon.
It has become apparent to me, over the years, that I attract bizarre attention from strangers. Wherever I go, with an obvious influx of occurrences while in airports, I form what I will henceforth call “friendships”. These are short-lived non-committal friends who flit in and out of my life momentarily; we don’t become pen-pals or even phone-pals, in most cases names are not exchanged, and so I must document them before they drift from my goldfish-memory forever.
I have a terrible fear of tornadoes, one that I didn’t realize would be an issue while in Texas. Also, I don’t exactly fancy the thought of being murdered. And so, when I was befriended by (or maybe I did the befriending, I’m never quite sure) the airport security guard, I was somewhat taken aback by his affronting both of these fears. Sitting on a bench outside, he began quizzing me on my destinations, as he chain smoked one cigarette after another. “Y’all are goin’ to Dallas? I heard tell them parts was hit with twenty or thirty tornadoes today, more expected tomorruh.” He dropped this news as though he was merely saying “I have ten fingers and ten toes,” leaving me to imagine what exactly it would be like to experience a tornado from an airplane, while also trying to keep up to his morbid conversation. Now, the challenge of conversing with said big-fat-chain-smoking-security-guard was not so much the Southern drawl, but the volume with which he threw my deepest fears at me. Low-talker would be an understatement, and so closer and closer I came to him, listening with all my might. “Going to India? Well I heard on the news today of a girl going to India that was murdered.” Huh. Well isn’t my life just a bed of roses, and my future bright and hopeful? As the story developed, he clarified that she was killed by her boyfriend in a domestic dispute prior to an intended trip, and so the India part of the story was merely word association, on his part. Phew. Just tornadoes to worry about then.
Last year, returning from Italy I had the opportunity to spend much time in Amsterdam’s Schiphol Airport. Having forgotten to find souvenirs for anyone, I visited the Duty Free to find some imported Italian wine. (Pause to acknowledge the irony of an “authentic” souvenir like imported wine.) While paying, the lovely woman working the till asked “Shall I bag these up, or will you be drinking them in the airport?” Not sure if I mentioned: there were about 6 half-liter bottles in my collection. Speechless at the legality of cracking open duty free booze in the airport, not to mention the level of blood alcohol that would certainly result in such activity (yes, I am aware of the liberalistic ways of Amsterdam) all I managed to stutter was “But I’m by myself” before wandering off confused.
Shortly thereafter, aware I would soon be boarding a long flight, I decided a walk was in order, and commenced to speed-walk from one end of the airport to the other. From the corner of my eye, in a particularly abandoned terminal, I noticed a brazen boy about my age, bee-lining straight across the terminal in my direction. He came to a dead halt directly in my path, standing about shoulder high. I would later learn he was born in Thailand but now living in Holland and working as a porter for the airport. Standing there looking up at me, he said rapidly [aligning with his equally quick appearance in my path] “It’s my coffee break. Will you join me?” Deciding he should be rewarded for his valiance, I conceded. Comically, the place he chose to sit was directly beneath a speaker, and we all know that in airports, an announcement is made every 12 seconds or so, thereby making the conversation considerably less than fluid. Nearing the end of his fifteen-minute break he asked, “Do you have a boyfriend?” “Yes” I lied. Clearly smarter than the average porter, he asked “Then why are you traveling alone from Italy?” Good point, Ballsy Porter; back to work for you.
Come to think of it, this isn’t the only time I’ve told that lie. Recently wandering the aisles of Wal Mart a young handicapped man appeared in front of me, grinning. I smiled back but kept walking, weaving erratically in and out of aisles, too distracted by shiny things and bright colors to notice I was being followed. Wherever I went he seemed to appear. Eventually, while I stood studying toothpaste, his grinning face appeared again over my left shoulder. “Hi!” (Awkward pause.) “You are very beautiful!” (From my corner, the typical stuttering babble.) “Do you have a boyfriend?” Feeling my only option was another lie in order to prevent a mixed-functionality marriage, I began apologizing profusely for being Pretend Committed and wandered off, wondering if maybe this new fan- albeit simple- might treat me better than most of the gender he represented?
To be fair, such awkward moments don’t come strictly from the male species. Checking into a hotel recently, I stood at the front desk visiting with the shuttle driver and front desk clerk—both girls about my age. The more effervescent of the two pronounced suddenly “I figured it out! You look like Lily Allen!” The other girl, merging a Texan accent with Valley Girl impression, felt the urge to throw in her two cents: “I, like, just read that, like, Lily Allen is, like, the hottest celebrity right now. Like.” Thinking we’d safely reached the peak of awkward and would soon being going downhill again, I was proven wrong, when the driver said “Oh my god! No! I’m not a lesbian! I wasn’t hitting on you or anything; I swear I didn’t know that.”
Abrupt topic change. [As there is no natural progression from a story such as that.]
Walking through the hospital corridor one day, I came across a big old fat patient in a wheelchair. His hospital gown was not quite secured in the back, leaving …. Well there is just no gentle way of saying this: leaving naked ass protruding from the side of his wheelchair. “Hi!” he shouted, as he wheeled himself into my path. “On your way to work?” I responded that no, I was just here to visit. Taken aback, he claimed “Well that’s surprising. You look just like a nurse.” Enlightened to learn that the nursing profession revolved around one’s appearance, I felt the urge to seek out a mirror and look at myself with a new perspective to see if what he said was true. Granted, I hate sick people, blood and needles, the smell of hospitals, and germs … but if I look like a nurse, maybe it’s time I reconsider my career choice?
Although, if conceding to beliefs held by strangers, in regards to my appearance, were enough to dictate my life choices, then I would also have no option but to call myself a Mexican. One morning at a Tim Horton’s drive-thru window, the woman handing me my coffee said abruptly “Are you Mexican?!” She seemed disappointed when I said no, but let me off anyway. A few weeks later, clearly forgetting our initial encounter, the same woman asked me “What is your nationality?” I responded “Scottish and Irish,” but she would have none of it. “Nope. I think you are Mexican.” And that was that—the decision had been made. The beauty of this story: the woman, herself, was Mexican and seemed unable to recognize her own kind. I have to wonder if it was my freckles or blue eyes that gave away my secret Mexicanness.
Said blue eyes have not always gone unnoticed, however. Wandering through the markets in Kusadasi, Turkey, one shop clerk noticed them and shouted at me in broken English as I walked away from him, “Your eyes! Your eyes! In my life, I have to see eyes like yours again!” Laughing at him, I put on my sunglasses and watched him drop to his knees, arms dramatically waving to the heavens as he bellowed after me “No! Not sunglasses!” and dropped face first onto the street in protest.
I suppose it is all a matter of perception. Following a trip to Europe last year, some colleagues in India asked that I send some photos. One of them later messaged me, to say (and I quote) “It looks like you are very happy these days and that has made you gain a little weight.” Since he intended this as a compliment, I couldn’t stop laughing, imagining a man in America saying that to any woman and coming out of the situation with his manhood still intact.
…just a few examples of the types of situations I frequently find myself in. Check back shortly, as there is no indication that stories such as these will stop finding me anytime soon.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Homage to the Travel Partner
I read recently that the root of the word travel originates from the same as the Latin travail meaning “to suffer.” When I learned this, I felt like a Hindu who’d finally accomplished the lifelong quest for enlightenment. I never know why it is that travel is so addictive, when it can also be so incredibly torturous. In retrospect, [but never at the time!] it is best to laugh at the unsightly, irritating, and otherwise unflattering sides of a person’s character that come out only when living out of a suitcase.
Let me introduce you to Deah, a show-stopping and overwhelmingly-adored friend of mine. One summer, at the end of which I had planned a 3-month backpacking trip to Australia, I convinced Deah to move to my small town and work with me. To be clear, she didn’t so much move into my town, as into my bedroom, where there was just enough room to parallelize our twin size beds like Fred and Wilma Flintstone. For three months we worked together, commuted together, drank rye together, and cycled through REMs together. Midway through this time, I began my mission to convince her to join me on my trip. As I so love to do, I eventually got my way and her seat on our flight was secured.
Math is not my forte, but in the interest of numbers, let me clarify that this would mean a cumulated 6 months of uninterrupted time together … that’s 4,320 hours. Me and Deah – eating, sleeping, Greyhounds, pickups, vans, jobs, bars, poverty, peanut butter sandwiches, lost wallets, tents, wild boars, snakes, Europeans, and instant coffee – we shared it all.
I have a theory: there are absolutely NO two people on the planet who can spend this much time together and still admit to enjoying one another’s company, still have anything at all to talk about, not notice every irritating habit of the other and be able to focus on anything besides that weird whistling noise her nose makes when she’s zoned out reading a book.
All of this time seemed to come to a head in our last two weeks, once all the other people we’d met and traveled with had carried on, and we found there was nothing remaining to distract us from one another. Neither of us being morning people, it was often noon before one word was spoken between us. Keep in mind, we were backpackers; we could sleep as late as we liked and had nowhere to be besides the beach, so it remains unclear why mornings were so difficult.
One morning, in Newcastle, we had booked a whale watching trip. This meant an hour long bus ride from our hostel, and that we had to be out of bed before noon. We went about our routine of making breakfast, getting ready, finding the right bus– all the while communicating with caveman-style grunts rather than the spoken word— and then selecting our seats across the aisle from one another so we didn’t have to be too close. We only unclenched our jaws long enough to sip our coffee, staring straight ahead and acting as if we didn’t even know the other existed. After some time had passed, I heard an odd gurgling noise coming from Deah’s side of the aisle. I looked, and she had somehow choked on her coffee and in order to recover, spewed a mouthful all over the floor and the back of the seat in front of her. Dying to laugh but consumed by fear, I just turned away again, resuming staring straight ahead, deadpan.
A while later on the Bus Ride That Wouldn’t End, staring out the side window I finally accomplished my long quest to spot a wild koala in all of its inebriated glory. Excited, I turned to Deah, declaring “I just saw a koala in a tree!” She looked at me, with the Look of Death to which we’d both grown so accustomed, never said a word, and turned back away. To this day, neither of us is quite sure why my koala spotting was so irritating to her.
There comes a point as a backpacker that you begin to resent your pack with every part of your being. The encumbrance created, the pain in your shoulders, the limitation to freedom, the getting stuck in doorways to city buses thereby causing dozens of Sydney commuters to utter death threats in your direction … travel is suffering indeed. Being somewhat of a minimalist [and maybe just a bit lazy,] this meant that I would intentionally leave behind whatever wasn’t absolute necessary for my survival. Hostels in my wake would collect shirts, books, CDs, and shoes… or they WOULD HAVE collected these things, if Deah weren’t also in my wake. I wouldn’t call her a hoarder—per say—she just didn’t like seeing anything go to waste and was slightly more economical than myself.
And so, by the end of our trip, my rudimentary pack was sunken in and hungry looking, like an oversized t-shirt hanging on the bones of an anorexic girl. Deah’s, however, was nothing short of miraculous. Like Mary Poppins, she could pull out canoes, umbrellas, elementary school teachers, and canvases of artwork. But that wasn’t all! There was also that giant black duffel bag that she lugged with her up and down the East coast of Australia, the sight of which would likely still invoke anger in me, five years later. (Please don’t ask why this made ME angry, since it was HER who chose to carry it!) This bag served not only as Deah’s library—housing everything from self-help books to her Bible to fiction and fantasy—but also her winter clothing storage, which some might say is unnecessary upkeep in the middle of an Australian summer. Everything that I would leave behind, Deah would claim, and it would be invited in to her very multi-faceted Duffel of Torture.
Even without the impediment of the luggage, Deah is the sort of person for whom they invented the phrase “she would lose her head if it weren’t attached.” Oftentimes, we would fly into a state of Deah Panic, whether over a lost hostel key or a misplaced wallet, and would not resume normalcy until said issue had been resolved. In Airlie Beach, where we lived in the same hostel for a month while commuting via bus and ferry to one of the Whitsunday Islands for work, we experienced The Case of the Lost Wallet. In a foreign country, Deah was right indeed to panic about a loss of identity, as it were. The entire public transit system came to know her by name, as she was forever wandering off to find a payphone to check if the wallet had turned up. The bus drivers and ferry captains practically send Deah Christmas cards to this day, she became so familiar to them. We lived this stage of our transitory lives in a hostel room shared with two friends from Finland and two from England. Our entire room was torn apart, nearly to the point that you could actually see the bedbugs buried inside the mattresses. After several days of this panic, the wallet reappeared, under Deah’s bunk laying patiently, waiting to be found amidst the rest of her stuff. (I should just say that my favorite thing about Deah is that, while still living at home with her parents, she slept every night on the couch because the bed in her room was so buried in clothing that she couldn’t find it if she’d tried.)
With all the time we had together, I eventually stopped reacting when Deah would lose something, figuring one of us should remain level-headed and try to preserve a healthy blood pressure. At least this is the justification I used to avoid acknowledging that I was simply being a heartless bastard amidst her turmoil. One day on the last leg of our journey something else went missing and Deah went fanatic. Having long since learned not to worry, I laid on my bunk reading a book, completely and totally ignoring her screeches and erratic breathing. So effective was my ignorance, I hardly noticed when she would periodically roll me over to check underneath of me, flip my mattress and hurl me to the floor, or throw her Duffel of Torture on top of me, causing internal bleeding … I just kept reading. She emptied her entire pack onto the floor, flinging things around until our room looked like a warzone, underwear and tank tops hanging from light fixtures and flung over the curtain rod, canoes and schoolteachers exiled to the top bunk. I simply read on. Eventually concluding the missing items were not in her pack, she tore into mine [I decided it best not to protest.] Soon all of my earthly possessions were also strewn about the room, my pack looking more vacant than ever before. I sensed she had given up when I looked up from my book to see her sitting dejectedly, cross-legged on the floor among all our clothes, only visible from the armpits up. Setting down my book, I said disinterestedly “Did you check the outside pocket of your purse?”
She checked the pocked, as advised, and there were all the missing items.
Yes, it is always interesting to see the side of a person that comes out during travel. I am certainly no better, and fear that stories retold on me might be much less hysterical than about Deah. In fact, ‘bitchy’ might be the first word that comes to mind.
So my Deahr, I thank you for the adventure and your ability to laugh along with me! This is my pledge to you, should we ever travel together again:
I will not point out that the Australia hoodie in the Chinatown market is ¼ the price you paid at the Tourist shop; I will panic when you panic over lost items; I will permit laughter when I back our van into a tree; I will never look for another koala and should I accidentally see one, I will not tell you; I will wake you up when you snore on the beach instead of smirking and moving my towel further away, pretending not to know you; I will grab one handle of your Duffel of Torture to share the weight (similar to the time we carried that box of beer between us down the highway, right up until the point that our stumbles went the opposite direction and we tore the box in half); I will never again try directing you home from the bar, due to my incredible lack of respect for the difference between North and South; I will not mock you or reject you when you sunburn yourself so badly that a third of your body is covered in white blisters, and finally, I will never again laugh at you while you are choking.
Love you, Deahr!
Let me introduce you to Deah, a show-stopping and overwhelmingly-adored friend of mine. One summer, at the end of which I had planned a 3-month backpacking trip to Australia, I convinced Deah to move to my small town and work with me. To be clear, she didn’t so much move into my town, as into my bedroom, where there was just enough room to parallelize our twin size beds like Fred and Wilma Flintstone. For three months we worked together, commuted together, drank rye together, and cycled through REMs together. Midway through this time, I began my mission to convince her to join me on my trip. As I so love to do, I eventually got my way and her seat on our flight was secured.
Math is not my forte, but in the interest of numbers, let me clarify that this would mean a cumulated 6 months of uninterrupted time together … that’s 4,320 hours. Me and Deah – eating, sleeping, Greyhounds, pickups, vans, jobs, bars, poverty, peanut butter sandwiches, lost wallets, tents, wild boars, snakes, Europeans, and instant coffee – we shared it all.
I have a theory: there are absolutely NO two people on the planet who can spend this much time together and still admit to enjoying one another’s company, still have anything at all to talk about, not notice every irritating habit of the other and be able to focus on anything besides that weird whistling noise her nose makes when she’s zoned out reading a book.
All of this time seemed to come to a head in our last two weeks, once all the other people we’d met and traveled with had carried on, and we found there was nothing remaining to distract us from one another. Neither of us being morning people, it was often noon before one word was spoken between us. Keep in mind, we were backpackers; we could sleep as late as we liked and had nowhere to be besides the beach, so it remains unclear why mornings were so difficult.
One morning, in Newcastle, we had booked a whale watching trip. This meant an hour long bus ride from our hostel, and that we had to be out of bed before noon. We went about our routine of making breakfast, getting ready, finding the right bus– all the while communicating with caveman-style grunts rather than the spoken word— and then selecting our seats across the aisle from one another so we didn’t have to be too close. We only unclenched our jaws long enough to sip our coffee, staring straight ahead and acting as if we didn’t even know the other existed. After some time had passed, I heard an odd gurgling noise coming from Deah’s side of the aisle. I looked, and she had somehow choked on her coffee and in order to recover, spewed a mouthful all over the floor and the back of the seat in front of her. Dying to laugh but consumed by fear, I just turned away again, resuming staring straight ahead, deadpan.
A while later on the Bus Ride That Wouldn’t End, staring out the side window I finally accomplished my long quest to spot a wild koala in all of its inebriated glory. Excited, I turned to Deah, declaring “I just saw a koala in a tree!” She looked at me, with the Look of Death to which we’d both grown so accustomed, never said a word, and turned back away. To this day, neither of us is quite sure why my koala spotting was so irritating to her.
There comes a point as a backpacker that you begin to resent your pack with every part of your being. The encumbrance created, the pain in your shoulders, the limitation to freedom, the getting stuck in doorways to city buses thereby causing dozens of Sydney commuters to utter death threats in your direction … travel is suffering indeed. Being somewhat of a minimalist [and maybe just a bit lazy,] this meant that I would intentionally leave behind whatever wasn’t absolute necessary for my survival. Hostels in my wake would collect shirts, books, CDs, and shoes… or they WOULD HAVE collected these things, if Deah weren’t also in my wake. I wouldn’t call her a hoarder—per say—she just didn’t like seeing anything go to waste and was slightly more economical than myself.
And so, by the end of our trip, my rudimentary pack was sunken in and hungry looking, like an oversized t-shirt hanging on the bones of an anorexic girl. Deah’s, however, was nothing short of miraculous. Like Mary Poppins, she could pull out canoes, umbrellas, elementary school teachers, and canvases of artwork. But that wasn’t all! There was also that giant black duffel bag that she lugged with her up and down the East coast of Australia, the sight of which would likely still invoke anger in me, five years later. (Please don’t ask why this made ME angry, since it was HER who chose to carry it!) This bag served not only as Deah’s library—housing everything from self-help books to her Bible to fiction and fantasy—but also her winter clothing storage, which some might say is unnecessary upkeep in the middle of an Australian summer. Everything that I would leave behind, Deah would claim, and it would be invited in to her very multi-faceted Duffel of Torture.
Even without the impediment of the luggage, Deah is the sort of person for whom they invented the phrase “she would lose her head if it weren’t attached.” Oftentimes, we would fly into a state of Deah Panic, whether over a lost hostel key or a misplaced wallet, and would not resume normalcy until said issue had been resolved. In Airlie Beach, where we lived in the same hostel for a month while commuting via bus and ferry to one of the Whitsunday Islands for work, we experienced The Case of the Lost Wallet. In a foreign country, Deah was right indeed to panic about a loss of identity, as it were. The entire public transit system came to know her by name, as she was forever wandering off to find a payphone to check if the wallet had turned up. The bus drivers and ferry captains practically send Deah Christmas cards to this day, she became so familiar to them. We lived this stage of our transitory lives in a hostel room shared with two friends from Finland and two from England. Our entire room was torn apart, nearly to the point that you could actually see the bedbugs buried inside the mattresses. After several days of this panic, the wallet reappeared, under Deah’s bunk laying patiently, waiting to be found amidst the rest of her stuff. (I should just say that my favorite thing about Deah is that, while still living at home with her parents, she slept every night on the couch because the bed in her room was so buried in clothing that she couldn’t find it if she’d tried.)
With all the time we had together, I eventually stopped reacting when Deah would lose something, figuring one of us should remain level-headed and try to preserve a healthy blood pressure. At least this is the justification I used to avoid acknowledging that I was simply being a heartless bastard amidst her turmoil. One day on the last leg of our journey something else went missing and Deah went fanatic. Having long since learned not to worry, I laid on my bunk reading a book, completely and totally ignoring her screeches and erratic breathing. So effective was my ignorance, I hardly noticed when she would periodically roll me over to check underneath of me, flip my mattress and hurl me to the floor, or throw her Duffel of Torture on top of me, causing internal bleeding … I just kept reading. She emptied her entire pack onto the floor, flinging things around until our room looked like a warzone, underwear and tank tops hanging from light fixtures and flung over the curtain rod, canoes and schoolteachers exiled to the top bunk. I simply read on. Eventually concluding the missing items were not in her pack, she tore into mine [I decided it best not to protest.] Soon all of my earthly possessions were also strewn about the room, my pack looking more vacant than ever before. I sensed she had given up when I looked up from my book to see her sitting dejectedly, cross-legged on the floor among all our clothes, only visible from the armpits up. Setting down my book, I said disinterestedly “Did you check the outside pocket of your purse?”
She checked the pocked, as advised, and there were all the missing items.
Yes, it is always interesting to see the side of a person that comes out during travel. I am certainly no better, and fear that stories retold on me might be much less hysterical than about Deah. In fact, ‘bitchy’ might be the first word that comes to mind.
So my Deahr, I thank you for the adventure and your ability to laugh along with me! This is my pledge to you, should we ever travel together again:
I will not point out that the Australia hoodie in the Chinatown market is ¼ the price you paid at the Tourist shop; I will panic when you panic over lost items; I will permit laughter when I back our van into a tree; I will never look for another koala and should I accidentally see one, I will not tell you; I will wake you up when you snore on the beach instead of smirking and moving my towel further away, pretending not to know you; I will grab one handle of your Duffel of Torture to share the weight (similar to the time we carried that box of beer between us down the highway, right up until the point that our stumbles went the opposite direction and we tore the box in half); I will never again try directing you home from the bar, due to my incredible lack of respect for the difference between North and South; I will not mock you or reject you when you sunburn yourself so badly that a third of your body is covered in white blisters, and finally, I will never again laugh at you while you are choking.
Love you, Deahr!
Friday, January 22, 2010
The Angry Venetians
““Be advised that the Venetians may not always take the time to express hospitality to the visitor.” This was the warning in every travel book I picked up- a diplomatic way of advising you that you will experience very little hospitality during your stay in Venice.
Day 1: Arrive at the Marco Polo Airport 11 p.m., only ten minutes before the final bus would run to the city of Venice. Perfect. Just enough time to purchase a ticket from the Information desk, where the clerk would do little more than glare at me, hand over a ticket, and turn her sign to read what I assume was Italian for “Closed” (That, or “Piss off, Tourist”). Step outside, in search of the Number 5 bus. Instead find the Number 5 Parking Lot—which is, as fate would have it, 5 of 5 and therefore furthest from the airport. Now retrace steps to the airport entrance, attempting panic-minimizing self-talk during the journey. Notice Number 5 bus has now arrived, clearly and conveniently parked directly in front of the Arrivals door. Am once again reminded of how much easier my life could sometimes be. Ask the cigarette-puffing driver if we are indeed going to the Piazzale Roma, where I need to be. He stares at me, eyes saying: “I would far rather suffocate you and leave you to the coyotes than have you ride on my bus.” I board the bus anyway and begin praying for divine direction.
12 a.m.: Arrive Piazzale Roma, and begin to walk with the intent of portraying confidence and assuredness. Soon realize have confidently walked in very much the wrong direction. Turn back; wonder how to portray- with confidence- that I had every intention of walking with suitcase in tow 2 blocks down the sidewalk, rotating 180 degrees, confidently walking back to my starting point, and committing the most shameful tourist crime: pulling out a large crumpled piece of paper to refresh my mind of directions. 30 minutes now until the hostel in possession of my credit card closes its doors for the night and I am left sleeping on cobblestone streets- thank my lucky stars there are plenty of bridges under which I could find shelter, if necessary.
Find Ponte dei Scalzi- the bridge falsely named within the broken English directions provided by Valentino at what I hope will be the hostel where I’ll lay my head tonight. Rename the bridge in my mind: Ponte dei Death, as it is really little more than 10 or 12 thousand steps up to the peak, and then back down again. Consider the possibility that Ponte dei Death may be a structural foreshadowing strategically located at the entrance to an unwelcoming city, as my suitcase clunks awkwardly down step after step behind me. 20 minutes until hostel doors close. Am walking now along the Grand Canal; more optimistic of travelers would, at this point, illustrate the magical ambiance of such a famous location. Certainly this is all true, in the daylight, if you know where you’re going and have no fear of abduction or sense of smell. I, on the other hand, wanted to curl into a ball on the street and cry in frustration, revealing that I am in no way the bold and confident lone wolf that I am hoping they’re seeing. Walk on. Canal disappears and street narrows, am surrounded now on both sides by tall brick buildings and sporadically placed mystic wrought iron street lamps. The dark night air is thick and heavy, and streets are full of large suspicious men who have blankets spread on the street, displaying knock-off Prada, Dolce & Gabbana, and Louis Vuitton. Tell myself these bags are genuine and stolen, because the fake leather and gold embellishments are somehow too depressing to acknowledge. (Either way, a few days later witness the men grabbing their displays and running when they notice police doing a routine wander through the streets in their direction.) Avoid eye contact, attempt to hold head higher and shoulders even more erect. Like a hotel hallway after too much to drink, the street seems to elongate as I walk. Finally step into a square, illuminated on my left by a large underwear store. Notice now the elusive Star of David, lights shining from above, and hear angels singing, as I remember Valentino’s directions: “located above undergarment shop”. Hallelujah!
Well, Hallelujah, except that buildings constructed hundreds of years ago rarely contain elevators. Lucky me— 3rd floor room. Clunk, clunk, clunk … now it is my suitcase begging to surrender with tears in a corner, or better yet, be thrown into the canal and risk instant disintegration caused by the unimaginable pollution that makes the canals smell the way they do and glow that eerie green color. Venice is so much more than the picturesque photographs portray.
Mentally pat myself on the back for money-saving decisions made from the comfort of home, as I sneak into the 6-bed dorm room with only a couple minutes until curfew. Notice that my bed is pushed awkwardly close to the next, a faceless stranger already cocooned inside. Have just flown for 11 hours, spent a day touring Amsterdam, experiencing extreme sleep deprivation, and am glowing slightly (because girls don’t sweat, they glow.) Regardless, a shower doesn’t seem to be in the cards tonight; instead I climb silently into bed to avoid further disturbance of new roommates. Compare, in my mind, the first impression of European hostelling (curfew, silence, cleanliness) to previous Australian experience (endless parties, unwelcomed overnight guests, filth, and the sort of drama that makes Dawson’s Creek appear mundane. Have since learned that the hostel we called home was later closed due to the underground drug dealing operation being run from the office. I assure you, there were no signs during our stay… other than one peaceful evening on the terrace disturbed by a wailing girl, running in an erratic zigzag pattern, flinging herself into the pool, only to be rescued by three equally raucous boys. There is no need to mention Simon, the hostel manager, who had the strangest case of incurable sniffles, jitters, and bloodshot eyes, which he blamed on bedbug spray. I believe him!)
Roommates tonight include the girls on an art tour from Norway, who go to bed very early. Also a scrawny Korean boy who’s spent over a year touring Europe, South America, and Asia. Wonder if he’s looking for a wife, (as he clearly has an exceptional travel fund,) until it becomes apparent that he has no qualms with displaying his tighty-whiteys, unconcerned with the company present. Remain single. Chat also with a very friendly Egyptian boy, until he offers assistance by advising that I should take advantage of the sheets and blankets crumpled at the end of my bed. He seems oblivious that our room’s temperature can really only be compared to the surface of the sun itself. Clearly he’s crazy. Roll over and find myself ridiculously aware that I am much, much too old for hostelling.
Day 2: Wake far earlier than I’d like. Another advantage of the chosen hostel: you make the most of your day, because you are asked to leave by 10 a.m., in order that the cleaners have no obstacles to work around. To clarify, in my vocabulary, “asked to leave” is synonymous with “shouted at in Italian by a flock of women with large hair and even larger voices, dressed ever-so-serenely in all white and red lipstick.” Can only imagine what my rapid-exit appearance must be like as I run out the door, wild-eyed, into the busiest square I’ve seen, barely recognizable as the ghost town/potential mugging site wandered through the night before. Am exhausted already, overwhelmed, and feeling quite lost. Walk directionless until I see a sign that says “Brek Café” … optimistically take this to mean breakfast. My assumptions are confirmed, and here the angels are really belting it out, as I take a sip of my first Cappuccino, content for the first time. And then an Americano. And a Latte. Suddenly my Starbucks expertise becomes valuable, given their highway robbery of Latin words, enabling Anglophones to feel exotic and sophisticated while ordering their coffees. It should be known that it really was necessary to order a multitude of coffees, because portion sizes are so ridiculously small in the rest of the world. Wonder to myself why obesity is at an all-time high in North America? Oh well… another cappuccino, per favore! Grazie!
After stalling to the point of ridiculous, re-enter the busy streets. Am soon approached by a middle-aged man, the sort to epitomize the term “greasy.” Rambles something to me in Italian; I presume he is asking something about taking my photo as he is also waving a camera in my face. Caffeine has not kicked in... I knew I should have injected it. To say I am dazed and overwhelmed would be an understatement. Before I know it, someone else is holding his camera, aimed at us, and I can feel his stubble he presses our faces into closer proximity than the strange Norwegian girl’s bed to mine last night. Can only imagine the less-than-modelesque expression that must have been inhabiting my face. The man insists on buying me a drink; respond ‘no, it isn’t even noon!’ and turn to make my escape; my legs move, but my face is stuck! Both his hands are suddenly holding my head, and he is dangerously close … lips are puckered … everything is slow motion now … I can see his pores! A quick head swivel is now my only option; wonder as he’s slobbering on my cheek if pouring salt on him would help to detach this particular breed of leach? Escape! Turn now to see two old men standing under a store awning, inhaling deeply on their cigars, laughing boisterously in my direction. One shouts at me: “You’re in Italy now, lady!” and resumes his puffing, suddenly disinterested. Place this experience in my Lessons Learned column, and walk on, feeling slightly violated and disappointed that this man has just proven the more negative stereotypes about Italian men.
Previously failed to notice in the travel guides that another claim to fame for Venice is its being the most expensive city in the world. Fantastic. At least they are consistent in their thwarting of tourist life. As a result, am forced to drop extremely expensive bread crumbs in my wake as I walk, creating a trail to guide me back to my hostel. Walk for two days, smitten with the style and fashion, the history, the architecture, the arts, culture that is unavoidable even when tainted by tourist shops overflowing with Morano glass and Venetian masks. In this constant state of awe, am initially able to ignore the intense heat, with frequent breaks to sit and watch, take in my surroundings… and the odd cheap beer. Can eat only in the places where food is on display, as the Pointing Method has proven my only success. By Day 3, can literally no longer stand. My feet are red, swollen fatter than a pregnant WalMart checkout clerk’s, throbbing and shooting hot pains up my shins. As soon as the Crazy Italian Hostel Janitors are done for the day, am back in my room to eat a KitKat, soak feet in cold water, elevate, & down anti-inflammatories before my nap. Not only am I too old for hostelling, but with my raised feet, am possibly too old for walking as well. Drift off with a smile on my face, images of wheelchairs dancing in my head…
Spend the evening sitting on a cement step leading down to the Grand Canal, silently observing. Would be fair to say that at any given time, there could always be counted at least five people in the vicinity eating gelato. Pretend not to notice the glaring locals, puffing cigarettes and blatantly willing us intruders to leave their unique oasis. [In an attempt to keep the bitterness even, I format a silent speech to the Venetians about how Tourism is their ONLY industry and they should really learn to appreciate us.] The air smells of fishy saltwater, cigarette smoke, and beer. I watch as a unique pair passes- a large woman in tight leopard print, with frizzy red hair, a lipstick-stained cigarette dangling from her mouth, carrying a bag with an overflowing and aggressively spinning whirligig hanging out. With her is a short man, even rounder than her, towing behind him a huge pink suitcase. As the boat they’ve boarded pulls in front of a water taxi, it is assailed with a wave and teeters dangerously, causing her to bury her hands in her crimson mop in panic. Glance around to see if anyone else has witnessed this comedy; wonder briefly why no one besides me yelps and jumps as the pigeons swoop dangerously close. They seem to be staging an overthrow, and everyone but me is oblivious.
Day 4: 1 becomes 2! Off to the airport to meet Heini and face this city in tandem. This time, on Bus Number 5, I have my IPod in, feet up, am relaxed and comfortable. Amazing how a place can become familiar in such a short time. I know where I’m going. Take that, Italy! Airport Cappuccino. Guide Heini not with faux bravado this time, but actual conviction, to Bus Number 5. Bus Number 5 is my favorite. Laugh as she tows her suitcase up and then down again Ponte dei Death, content with the fact that mine is resting peaceably on Floor number 3 at Alloggi Gerotto Calderan, the hostel I have learned to find even without the aid of a crumb trail. We pay, unpack, I soak my feet, she showers, and we venture out in search of real proper Italian PIZZA! A restaurant materializes with English on their menus, immediately making it an obvious choice. In hindsight, this too must have been divine direction, since the English-speaking menu may have prevented the accidental consumption of Horsemeat Pizza. Will never know for sure. I somehow manage to eat an entire pizza to myself, and will forever consider this a fabulous accomplishment. Am practically a Ninja Turtle; at the very least know I’m a shoo-in if April ever kicks the bucket. Sample local wine as well, and enjoy every sip. This country is famous for nothing else, if not my two favorite drink genres!
Day 5: Piazza San Marco is immediately tainted in my mind as I have no option but to pay €1.50 to use a toilet. Am filled with remorse that I didn’t bring a full 2 liter water bottle to drink inside. If I’m going to pay, should at least make it worthwhile … 1 Point-Venice, 0-Michelle. Would like to take this opportunity to rename Piazza San Marco: Piazza Touristic Hell. Granted, there are sights to be seen here that throngs circle the globe to experience; certainly not devaluing the breathtaking art and architecture.
Day is begun with, aside from the obvious caffeinated treat, a vaparetto ride. (A vaparetto, for all intents and purposes, is a floating bus, full to bursting with abrasive people, hot & smelly, with standing room only. Should good grace find you a seat, beware that a fat old woman will soon notice you, and proceed to shout at you in Italian while simultaneously using her cane to point to the sticker on the seat back depicting a happily seated geezer.) I survive only by admiring the Gondoliers we share the water with, simultaneously pitying them for being objectified as a Venetian landmark and daily subjected to the most ignorant and lazy of tourists. Quickly realize I am contradicting myself, as I am both objectifying and resenting the objectification. Feel confused. Exit the vaparetto 3 days later, [or so it seems,] confident that whatever is on the other side will surely resemble Utopia to make this ride worthwhile. Au contraire! Piazza San Marco has the most concentrated tourist population fathomable. The Bridge of Sighs is surrounded on three sides by a dishonoring advertisement for a chain department store, which seems heart-wrenching somehow. Rather than photograph Basilica di San Marco, my mission quickly becomes to capture a photo of the most idiotic-looking tourist possible. I confess my interests are slightly twisted in comparison to most travelers.
Attempting to escape the crowds, we wander through narrow back streets instead, anxious to see what goes on behind the scenes. Soon learned how futile the effort of re-stowing the camera in my bag between photographs, as no sight can be ignored. Occasionally, vociferous soulful singing would echo through the canals, to eventually be followed by the appearance of the gondola from which the singing is coming. An infatuation develops for streets so narrow I am able to reach and touch the buildings on both sides, even with what I consider a very average wingspan. After a few hours of this, a museum filled with 1st Century orchestra instruments quickly loses my already limited attention, which is instantly reclaimed by my feet. Briefly consider lying down on the museum floor, but the fear instilled by hostile Italians aids in the maintenance of my vertical status.
After a nap, catch an evening vaparetto, intent on taking full advantage of our 24-hour tickets and hoping that Venice actually loses money on us. Having learned the Italian way, eventually wrangle our way to the front of the boat and acquire- gasp! - chairs! Is a highlight moment for me, not only because I’m sitting, but because it is such a warm evening with a refreshing breeze. We are intentionally going Nowhere, one of my favorite destinations, because only then is everything you see beyond expectations. Would ride from one end of the Grand Canal to the other, and back again, doing nothing but enjoying the scenery. In the dark, the water-front buildings surrounding us suddenly seem less abandoned than they do during the day. It’s as though, in daylight, you are viewing a vacant mask … but at night life reveals itself from behind the mask. Lights now illuminate modern metropolitan apartments high above us, decorated inside with phenomenal artwork and sparkling, outrageous chandeliers the size of my condo. My mind reels with images of the people who must live in these places, what their stories, how they live their lives. Suddenly realize that with their 60,000 residents and 200,000 tourists a year, the beauty of Venice may actually exist nowhere else but in its hostility towards visitors. No concerted effort is put forth to cater to vacationers- signs display no English, there are no public bathrooms, no Information sites, no one willing to help, never an Italian smile seen. Maybe they’re aware that they’re living in one of the world’s gems, and therefore the travelers will come, whether welcomed or not. In no way are Venetians acting out a skit for tourists, but instead are living out their culture stubbornly and shamelessly, refusing defeat. Despite being outnumbered 3 to 1, these resilient people withstand all influence and remain undeniably and beautifully Venetian.
Day 1: Arrive at the Marco Polo Airport 11 p.m., only ten minutes before the final bus would run to the city of Venice. Perfect. Just enough time to purchase a ticket from the Information desk, where the clerk would do little more than glare at me, hand over a ticket, and turn her sign to read what I assume was Italian for “Closed” (That, or “Piss off, Tourist”). Step outside, in search of the Number 5 bus. Instead find the Number 5 Parking Lot—which is, as fate would have it, 5 of 5 and therefore furthest from the airport. Now retrace steps to the airport entrance, attempting panic-minimizing self-talk during the journey. Notice Number 5 bus has now arrived, clearly and conveniently parked directly in front of the Arrivals door. Am once again reminded of how much easier my life could sometimes be. Ask the cigarette-puffing driver if we are indeed going to the Piazzale Roma, where I need to be. He stares at me, eyes saying: “I would far rather suffocate you and leave you to the coyotes than have you ride on my bus.” I board the bus anyway and begin praying for divine direction.
12 a.m.: Arrive Piazzale Roma, and begin to walk with the intent of portraying confidence and assuredness. Soon realize have confidently walked in very much the wrong direction. Turn back; wonder how to portray- with confidence- that I had every intention of walking with suitcase in tow 2 blocks down the sidewalk, rotating 180 degrees, confidently walking back to my starting point, and committing the most shameful tourist crime: pulling out a large crumpled piece of paper to refresh my mind of directions. 30 minutes now until the hostel in possession of my credit card closes its doors for the night and I am left sleeping on cobblestone streets- thank my lucky stars there are plenty of bridges under which I could find shelter, if necessary.
Find Ponte dei Scalzi- the bridge falsely named within the broken English directions provided by Valentino at what I hope will be the hostel where I’ll lay my head tonight. Rename the bridge in my mind: Ponte dei Death, as it is really little more than 10 or 12 thousand steps up to the peak, and then back down again. Consider the possibility that Ponte dei Death may be a structural foreshadowing strategically located at the entrance to an unwelcoming city, as my suitcase clunks awkwardly down step after step behind me. 20 minutes until hostel doors close. Am walking now along the Grand Canal; more optimistic of travelers would, at this point, illustrate the magical ambiance of such a famous location. Certainly this is all true, in the daylight, if you know where you’re going and have no fear of abduction or sense of smell. I, on the other hand, wanted to curl into a ball on the street and cry in frustration, revealing that I am in no way the bold and confident lone wolf that I am hoping they’re seeing. Walk on. Canal disappears and street narrows, am surrounded now on both sides by tall brick buildings and sporadically placed mystic wrought iron street lamps. The dark night air is thick and heavy, and streets are full of large suspicious men who have blankets spread on the street, displaying knock-off Prada, Dolce & Gabbana, and Louis Vuitton. Tell myself these bags are genuine and stolen, because the fake leather and gold embellishments are somehow too depressing to acknowledge. (Either way, a few days later witness the men grabbing their displays and running when they notice police doing a routine wander through the streets in their direction.) Avoid eye contact, attempt to hold head higher and shoulders even more erect. Like a hotel hallway after too much to drink, the street seems to elongate as I walk. Finally step into a square, illuminated on my left by a large underwear store. Notice now the elusive Star of David, lights shining from above, and hear angels singing, as I remember Valentino’s directions: “located above undergarment shop”. Hallelujah!
Well, Hallelujah, except that buildings constructed hundreds of years ago rarely contain elevators. Lucky me— 3rd floor room. Clunk, clunk, clunk … now it is my suitcase begging to surrender with tears in a corner, or better yet, be thrown into the canal and risk instant disintegration caused by the unimaginable pollution that makes the canals smell the way they do and glow that eerie green color. Venice is so much more than the picturesque photographs portray.
Mentally pat myself on the back for money-saving decisions made from the comfort of home, as I sneak into the 6-bed dorm room with only a couple minutes until curfew. Notice that my bed is pushed awkwardly close to the next, a faceless stranger already cocooned inside. Have just flown for 11 hours, spent a day touring Amsterdam, experiencing extreme sleep deprivation, and am glowing slightly (because girls don’t sweat, they glow.) Regardless, a shower doesn’t seem to be in the cards tonight; instead I climb silently into bed to avoid further disturbance of new roommates. Compare, in my mind, the first impression of European hostelling (curfew, silence, cleanliness) to previous Australian experience (endless parties, unwelcomed overnight guests, filth, and the sort of drama that makes Dawson’s Creek appear mundane. Have since learned that the hostel we called home was later closed due to the underground drug dealing operation being run from the office. I assure you, there were no signs during our stay… other than one peaceful evening on the terrace disturbed by a wailing girl, running in an erratic zigzag pattern, flinging herself into the pool, only to be rescued by three equally raucous boys. There is no need to mention Simon, the hostel manager, who had the strangest case of incurable sniffles, jitters, and bloodshot eyes, which he blamed on bedbug spray. I believe him!)
Roommates tonight include the girls on an art tour from Norway, who go to bed very early. Also a scrawny Korean boy who’s spent over a year touring Europe, South America, and Asia. Wonder if he’s looking for a wife, (as he clearly has an exceptional travel fund,) until it becomes apparent that he has no qualms with displaying his tighty-whiteys, unconcerned with the company present. Remain single. Chat also with a very friendly Egyptian boy, until he offers assistance by advising that I should take advantage of the sheets and blankets crumpled at the end of my bed. He seems oblivious that our room’s temperature can really only be compared to the surface of the sun itself. Clearly he’s crazy. Roll over and find myself ridiculously aware that I am much, much too old for hostelling.
Day 2: Wake far earlier than I’d like. Another advantage of the chosen hostel: you make the most of your day, because you are asked to leave by 10 a.m., in order that the cleaners have no obstacles to work around. To clarify, in my vocabulary, “asked to leave” is synonymous with “shouted at in Italian by a flock of women with large hair and even larger voices, dressed ever-so-serenely in all white and red lipstick.” Can only imagine what my rapid-exit appearance must be like as I run out the door, wild-eyed, into the busiest square I’ve seen, barely recognizable as the ghost town/potential mugging site wandered through the night before. Am exhausted already, overwhelmed, and feeling quite lost. Walk directionless until I see a sign that says “Brek Café” … optimistically take this to mean breakfast. My assumptions are confirmed, and here the angels are really belting it out, as I take a sip of my first Cappuccino, content for the first time. And then an Americano. And a Latte. Suddenly my Starbucks expertise becomes valuable, given their highway robbery of Latin words, enabling Anglophones to feel exotic and sophisticated while ordering their coffees. It should be known that it really was necessary to order a multitude of coffees, because portion sizes are so ridiculously small in the rest of the world. Wonder to myself why obesity is at an all-time high in North America? Oh well… another cappuccino, per favore! Grazie!
After stalling to the point of ridiculous, re-enter the busy streets. Am soon approached by a middle-aged man, the sort to epitomize the term “greasy.” Rambles something to me in Italian; I presume he is asking something about taking my photo as he is also waving a camera in my face. Caffeine has not kicked in... I knew I should have injected it. To say I am dazed and overwhelmed would be an understatement. Before I know it, someone else is holding his camera, aimed at us, and I can feel his stubble he presses our faces into closer proximity than the strange Norwegian girl’s bed to mine last night. Can only imagine the less-than-modelesque expression that must have been inhabiting my face. The man insists on buying me a drink; respond ‘no, it isn’t even noon!’ and turn to make my escape; my legs move, but my face is stuck! Both his hands are suddenly holding my head, and he is dangerously close … lips are puckered … everything is slow motion now … I can see his pores! A quick head swivel is now my only option; wonder as he’s slobbering on my cheek if pouring salt on him would help to detach this particular breed of leach? Escape! Turn now to see two old men standing under a store awning, inhaling deeply on their cigars, laughing boisterously in my direction. One shouts at me: “You’re in Italy now, lady!” and resumes his puffing, suddenly disinterested. Place this experience in my Lessons Learned column, and walk on, feeling slightly violated and disappointed that this man has just proven the more negative stereotypes about Italian men.
Previously failed to notice in the travel guides that another claim to fame for Venice is its being the most expensive city in the world. Fantastic. At least they are consistent in their thwarting of tourist life. As a result, am forced to drop extremely expensive bread crumbs in my wake as I walk, creating a trail to guide me back to my hostel. Walk for two days, smitten with the style and fashion, the history, the architecture, the arts, culture that is unavoidable even when tainted by tourist shops overflowing with Morano glass and Venetian masks. In this constant state of awe, am initially able to ignore the intense heat, with frequent breaks to sit and watch, take in my surroundings… and the odd cheap beer. Can eat only in the places where food is on display, as the Pointing Method has proven my only success. By Day 3, can literally no longer stand. My feet are red, swollen fatter than a pregnant WalMart checkout clerk’s, throbbing and shooting hot pains up my shins. As soon as the Crazy Italian Hostel Janitors are done for the day, am back in my room to eat a KitKat, soak feet in cold water, elevate, & down anti-inflammatories before my nap. Not only am I too old for hostelling, but with my raised feet, am possibly too old for walking as well. Drift off with a smile on my face, images of wheelchairs dancing in my head…
Spend the evening sitting on a cement step leading down to the Grand Canal, silently observing. Would be fair to say that at any given time, there could always be counted at least five people in the vicinity eating gelato. Pretend not to notice the glaring locals, puffing cigarettes and blatantly willing us intruders to leave their unique oasis. [In an attempt to keep the bitterness even, I format a silent speech to the Venetians about how Tourism is their ONLY industry and they should really learn to appreciate us.] The air smells of fishy saltwater, cigarette smoke, and beer. I watch as a unique pair passes- a large woman in tight leopard print, with frizzy red hair, a lipstick-stained cigarette dangling from her mouth, carrying a bag with an overflowing and aggressively spinning whirligig hanging out. With her is a short man, even rounder than her, towing behind him a huge pink suitcase. As the boat they’ve boarded pulls in front of a water taxi, it is assailed with a wave and teeters dangerously, causing her to bury her hands in her crimson mop in panic. Glance around to see if anyone else has witnessed this comedy; wonder briefly why no one besides me yelps and jumps as the pigeons swoop dangerously close. They seem to be staging an overthrow, and everyone but me is oblivious.
Day 4: 1 becomes 2! Off to the airport to meet Heini and face this city in tandem. This time, on Bus Number 5, I have my IPod in, feet up, am relaxed and comfortable. Amazing how a place can become familiar in such a short time. I know where I’m going. Take that, Italy! Airport Cappuccino. Guide Heini not with faux bravado this time, but actual conviction, to Bus Number 5. Bus Number 5 is my favorite. Laugh as she tows her suitcase up and then down again Ponte dei Death, content with the fact that mine is resting peaceably on Floor number 3 at Alloggi Gerotto Calderan, the hostel I have learned to find even without the aid of a crumb trail. We pay, unpack, I soak my feet, she showers, and we venture out in search of real proper Italian PIZZA! A restaurant materializes with English on their menus, immediately making it an obvious choice. In hindsight, this too must have been divine direction, since the English-speaking menu may have prevented the accidental consumption of Horsemeat Pizza. Will never know for sure. I somehow manage to eat an entire pizza to myself, and will forever consider this a fabulous accomplishment. Am practically a Ninja Turtle; at the very least know I’m a shoo-in if April ever kicks the bucket. Sample local wine as well, and enjoy every sip. This country is famous for nothing else, if not my two favorite drink genres!
Day 5: Piazza San Marco is immediately tainted in my mind as I have no option but to pay €1.50 to use a toilet. Am filled with remorse that I didn’t bring a full 2 liter water bottle to drink inside. If I’m going to pay, should at least make it worthwhile … 1 Point-Venice, 0-Michelle. Would like to take this opportunity to rename Piazza San Marco: Piazza Touristic Hell. Granted, there are sights to be seen here that throngs circle the globe to experience; certainly not devaluing the breathtaking art and architecture.
Day is begun with, aside from the obvious caffeinated treat, a vaparetto ride. (A vaparetto, for all intents and purposes, is a floating bus, full to bursting with abrasive people, hot & smelly, with standing room only. Should good grace find you a seat, beware that a fat old woman will soon notice you, and proceed to shout at you in Italian while simultaneously using her cane to point to the sticker on the seat back depicting a happily seated geezer.) I survive only by admiring the Gondoliers we share the water with, simultaneously pitying them for being objectified as a Venetian landmark and daily subjected to the most ignorant and lazy of tourists. Quickly realize I am contradicting myself, as I am both objectifying and resenting the objectification. Feel confused. Exit the vaparetto 3 days later, [or so it seems,] confident that whatever is on the other side will surely resemble Utopia to make this ride worthwhile. Au contraire! Piazza San Marco has the most concentrated tourist population fathomable. The Bridge of Sighs is surrounded on three sides by a dishonoring advertisement for a chain department store, which seems heart-wrenching somehow. Rather than photograph Basilica di San Marco, my mission quickly becomes to capture a photo of the most idiotic-looking tourist possible. I confess my interests are slightly twisted in comparison to most travelers.
Attempting to escape the crowds, we wander through narrow back streets instead, anxious to see what goes on behind the scenes. Soon learned how futile the effort of re-stowing the camera in my bag between photographs, as no sight can be ignored. Occasionally, vociferous soulful singing would echo through the canals, to eventually be followed by the appearance of the gondola from which the singing is coming. An infatuation develops for streets so narrow I am able to reach and touch the buildings on both sides, even with what I consider a very average wingspan. After a few hours of this, a museum filled with 1st Century orchestra instruments quickly loses my already limited attention, which is instantly reclaimed by my feet. Briefly consider lying down on the museum floor, but the fear instilled by hostile Italians aids in the maintenance of my vertical status.
After a nap, catch an evening vaparetto, intent on taking full advantage of our 24-hour tickets and hoping that Venice actually loses money on us. Having learned the Italian way, eventually wrangle our way to the front of the boat and acquire- gasp! - chairs! Is a highlight moment for me, not only because I’m sitting, but because it is such a warm evening with a refreshing breeze. We are intentionally going Nowhere, one of my favorite destinations, because only then is everything you see beyond expectations. Would ride from one end of the Grand Canal to the other, and back again, doing nothing but enjoying the scenery. In the dark, the water-front buildings surrounding us suddenly seem less abandoned than they do during the day. It’s as though, in daylight, you are viewing a vacant mask … but at night life reveals itself from behind the mask. Lights now illuminate modern metropolitan apartments high above us, decorated inside with phenomenal artwork and sparkling, outrageous chandeliers the size of my condo. My mind reels with images of the people who must live in these places, what their stories, how they live their lives. Suddenly realize that with their 60,000 residents and 200,000 tourists a year, the beauty of Venice may actually exist nowhere else but in its hostility towards visitors. No concerted effort is put forth to cater to vacationers- signs display no English, there are no public bathrooms, no Information sites, no one willing to help, never an Italian smile seen. Maybe they’re aware that they’re living in one of the world’s gems, and therefore the travelers will come, whether welcomed or not. In no way are Venetians acting out a skit for tourists, but instead are living out their culture stubbornly and shamelessly, refusing defeat. Despite being outnumbered 3 to 1, these resilient people withstand all influence and remain undeniably and beautifully Venetian.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
White.
I had hardly touched my feet to Indian soil when struck with a sudden and overwhelming realization, one I knew with no concise awareness until this surreal moment: I am white.
For twenty-five years, this didn’t seem an issue to concern myself with. I come from a colorful country, an eclectic mixture of accents, heritages, and religions. A place where we are all merely one strain in the fusion of many. Never in my life have I known a real minority, let alone so blatantly been one that it struck even me as strange. I’d entered a new world, one in which I felt alien in my own shoes.
I have an innate curiosity towards people, and have found that at home I can sit for hours just observing people, inventing in my mind stories of who they might be and what is the reason they’re in that exact place, with their company, at that moment. I notice body language, facial expressions, interactions, and tone of voice. At home, I can carry on such observations inconspicuously, as I am just an invisible one of many.
Suddenly, everything I do is seen. Every move I make is observed, critiqued, questioned, noted. I am a minority, one so extreme that wide eyes are never absent, wherever I turn.
My first real contact with India was the day a trainee was delivered to my office to begin a month’s training- “knowledge transfer” they called it, creating an image in my mind of flashing lights and beeping noises coming from a massive machine in a sterile room, while wires connected my brain to hers and would leave me a Stepford Wife. The first thing she said to me, in broken English: “Your eyes are so blue. I have never seen blue eyes.” Thus began my own awareness of my traits that have never been anything but ordinary.
And now, standing in a filthy and overcrowded airport, it isn’t my eyes that are making me feel exposed and vulnerable, as though I’ve found myself with a target pinned to my shirt at the wrong end of a shooting range.
Having located my taxi, I’m faintly relieved to have the first step of finding my way to safety accomplished. However, as the driver veers from what appears to be a main road, into an unlit dirt road, the relief dissipates. It is the middle of the night, the alley we’re puttering through is narrow, abandoned but for some lurking men sitting in the middle of the road, their motorbikes strewn to the side. We turn a few corners, steering around men and dogs, cattle and goats, but appear to have driven the same alley three or four times. My imagination plays out traumatizing scenarios, in which the driver turns me over to these discomforting middle-of-the-night loiterers.
Resuming travel on a more main road, I’m given an awkward explanation of the new road that has been built, including overpasses and exits unfamiliar, causing confusion. One deep breath is all I’m allotted, before we are waved over by the police. Their flashlights turn from my driver to me; they shout in Tamil, all speaking at the same time, waving their arms abrasively. I regret having the knowledge I do of India’s corrupt and brutal police force, functioning on bribery and deception.
At the hotel now, my role changes. I am not an invader. I am a princess. I am royalty. My heels clack down long marble hallways, taking me to a room where starched white sheets on my lush king size bed are changed daily; fresh flowers are delivered along with fresh squeezed guava juice every morning. I receive courtesy Swedish massages (ironic, as they’re administered by Thai girls, in India.) Every employee I see- and there is certainly an abundance- folds hands, bows heads, smiles widely, and behaves as though I somehow deserve such red carpet treatment. I often think that I would rather be in that back alley in the middle of the night, than to be treated with such humble servitude.
The office where we spend our days requires that, in order to use a washroom, one must pass through a room the size of a football field, crammed full of cubicles, each cubicle seating four people. While I pass through I fake oblivion as all heads raise, all chins turn, all eyes are on me. They follow me like goldfish. How odd it is to feel unnatural in one's own skin. The Ladies Washroom, it seems, is the only place these timid and silent women will chat with animation- but only until they notice my entrance. All freeze and stare blatantly, suddenly mute, backing themselves against the walls. Working night shifts, I often walk in to find the cleaning staff, the "lower class" who speak no English, squatting on the floor or lying asleep on the cold tile floors under bathroom sinks. It is to these women that I seem the most foreign, it is these ones who hide their faces from me or leave altogether.
Not only my appearance, but every detail of my life is foreign and shocking. All day long I am quizzed. They are appalled that, unmarried, I no longer live with my parents or even a sibling, but on my own. In fact, they find the fact the I am unmarried and without children the most disheartening. They think it drab how little jewelry I wear, how little sparkle and jangle and shimmer. They’re confused about the stud in my nose, which indicates singleness, offsetting the ring on my toe, indicating marriage. They want me to wear more color; in fact they want nothing more than to see me in a sari. I am enthralled to know about their lives outside the office, but cannot seem to get the topic off of myself and the unceasing line of questioning.
What a peculiar state of being. I am an intruder. I am white, and how strange it is that this is strange.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
The Shared Armrest
We’ve all met them. They’re a transitory fixture in your life- a seeming foreshadowing of a trip yet to be experienced. Despite the consumption of poor quality food prepared 6 hours prior; despite the frigid recycled air (take a moment, if you will, to envision someone exhaling into a bag, the sealing and refrigeration of the bag, and your subsequent inhalation of said air); despite the pillows that more resemble a cotton ball stuffed into an envelope; despite the shooting pains from your lower back that miraculously reach all the way to your forehead … despite all this, every traveler knows it is, in fact, your seat neighbor that dictates the levels of pleasure or pain on every single flight ever taken.
Let me clarify: When I use the word “pleasure,” I am obligated to acknowledge that this is an adjective in no way accurate to describe any flights I’ve personally experienced. Single girl, on a quest to experience all the world’s adventures, but never has the universe granted me a gorgeous and nice-smelling neighbor. Oh! Forgive me! There was one bicep-blessed firefighter, on a particular domestic flight, who endowed me with a plethora of stories about his lovely wife, no doubt with a 24” waist.
There have been many a character experienced, however, who have aided in creating a slightly jaded outlook on the joy that is air travel. My greatest highlight, to date, was the large East Indian man who spent approximately 12 ½ of our 13 hour flight with his arm on my rest and his left leg stretched comfortably across the line that should separate the tiny bit of personal space that I exchanged thousands of dollars for. Let’s call him … One More Brandy. And let me say, like a monster who gains size with every act of maliciousness in his presence, One More Brandy seemed to expand, inch by inch, with each ounce drunk. Before long, he would be tossing his pillow onto my lap, stealing my blanket the minute I was given the grace of unconsciousness, dripping alcohol down my leg, and to top it off- ordering his limit of Duty Free brandy so his experience could be extended once reaching Chennai.
I must ensure not to overlook Static Head- the little girl keeping me company on the way to Florida, who I woke up to see staring at my face, her nose 2 inches from mine, her hair stuck straight out in all directions like a Chia pet, so much so I swear it was sticking to MY face as well. Oh, and there was the Dutch man en route to Amsterdam, wife and child next to him, who seemed to think that acknowledging my existence would equal certain and imminent death.
Sadly, only I can be blamed for my experience with the Italian shoe-factory owner sharing an armrest on one particular journey bound for Frankfurt. As is so uncommon, this particular plane was only half-full, leaving plenty of options for moving around and even, dare I say it, fully horizontal status! Unfortunately, I was experiencing such ecstasy over having scored my first ever Emergency Exit seat that I told the flight attendant I was happy where I was. What a decision—A decision that luckily resulted in my 9 hour exposure to the subpar breath of one Italian shoemaker.
I must take a moment and invite Optimism to this party. I recognize that not everyone has my luck. One of my favorite men, who happens to barter his way into business class on 8 out of 10 flights, spent one particular voyage with an exceptionally vivacious, beautiful, and assertive girl while both were in their 20’s. Once the standard snack-drink- dinner-drink and tuck-in-for-a-nap had occurred, this particular young lady unfolded her blanket, raised the armrest, rested her head on his shoulder, and drifted contentedly off to sleep. I would imagine he sat, suddenly nocturnal, grinning and feeling really quite proud of himself for being so undeniably irresistible.
But to date, nothing like this has happened to me. It doesn’t mean I’ve lost hope. In a few hours I board my next flight, from Amsterdam to Venice, and since it’s such a short one, I am sure this will be my big break.
Chennai, India
FIRST IMPRESSIONS: ACCURATE?
Fighting the urge to cower in a corner, I pass through a roughly constructed 2x4 and plywood frame that appears to be imitating, nay, mocking a metal detector. Best efforts to ignore the constriction in my chest fail, as Nepalese security guards in army suits glare at me from under large black eyebrows. I re-cinch the strap of my backpack, check the lock again, wonder where to settle my eyes; I’m pushed and bullied again to the back of the lineup by the Baggage Claim Predators on a vicious luggage hunt. I wonder how my common sense could betray me so, waiting until now to challenge my agreement to this trip. I look down at my pale skin, a stark contrast to my surroundings- to the crowds of people, the stained walls, the gray air. Silently, at my side appears the tiny Indian girl I sat next to on the plane; I smile and regard her as an old comfortable friend. She lingers, protectively, until I’ve found my luggage. I step outside, colliding with an offensive wall of odor and humidity, to be greeted by inexplicably intimidating crowds. The invisible canvas tie-down strap tightens on my chest, another notch, another. I locate my name on a hand-held sign; smile back at the face of my driver, relieved to be spoken for on that 8 ½ X 11” Jiffy marker claimant.
My driver is called Guna, and stood waiting for me in a full, white suit with a proper chauffer's hat on. Communication is awkward, but I feel comfortable under his watch. He tells me stories of his new bride, glowing with patriotic pride as most will while interrogating “First time in India? You like India? Are you married? How is your family?” The values of the culture bombard you even in an introduction.
It is the driving in Chennai that I expect to be the most disconcerting part of the trip. There seems to be little, if any, regard paid to traffic laws. Guna said, while laughing at his own joke, that "the cows are the traffic police" and they do indeed seem the only thing holy enough to stop the flow of cars, water trucks, 3-wheeled rickshaws, and bikes. Rather than stopping at the occasional traffic light that appears, one simply honks his horn and punches the accelerator. Lines drawn to identify lanes were clearly a futile effort, and are blatantly disregarded. Maybe I should have stayed in the airport, under the accusatory watch of the security guards?
THE OFFICE
Today is "Diwali" in India, the Festival of Lights - a very important and joyous Hindu celebration of the triumph of good over evil. This means that roads were quiet of traffic, and fireworks have been exploding in city streets all day. The women are all wearing newly purchased sarees, and are adorned with gold jewelry and gorgeous sprigs of potent white flower in their hair. (By “potent”, I mean eye-watering, throat-constricting potent.) Now even, at 5 a.m., I am hearing occasional explosions outside.
The office is massive, a cornucopia of cubicles. I would later learn how deceivingly quiet my first day, with the calm and stagnant feel of the building due to the holiday, party decorations left strewn over bulletin boards and hanging above doorways. Every person would excitedly welcome me with a “Happy Diwali!” and wide smile, to which I would return the greeting, as though I knew what I was commemorating.
The people are intriguing, and I am filled with longing to truly know them. Generalizing, with the aid of my Westernized preconception, they appear sad, their faces hard and their characters calloused. The work ethic is astounding, doing data entry with educations far surpassing mine, and yet- are absolutely willing to nod obligingly to anything I have to say. Extreme population and minimal jobs create a highly competitive work force; I hope do little more than instill even an ounce of confidence.
LESSONS LEARNED
1) Do not put soap in your hand until first testing to see if there is water in the taps that particular day. This is just the type of situation for which you packed hand sanitizer.
2) When crossing the room holding hundred of employees, know that they will without fail all turn their heads to watch the freckled little white girl pass through. They’re only curious, don’t be threatened; just smile and they will grin rewardingly in return.
3) Get in the back seat of the car and the back seat only. Otherwise you are risking the loss of years of your life and the accumulation of prematurely graying hair or a possible ulcer.
4) It is not only possible, but indeed common, for two adults and any number of children to ride on the same 2-wheeler scooter or pedal bike. Need I mention the audacity of the father, who is generally the only one wearing a helmet?
5) Every vehicle will, without fail, exercise it's self-determined right to occupy the space in front of or beside it, whether or not said space has yet become available. Wear a seatbelt, and tuck your chin.
6) Just because you SEE a mosquito, doesn't mean you have malaria.
7) When the lights in the office go out, as they surely will periodically throughout the day, do not in any way acknowledge the darkness. Your alienation will become glaringly obvious in doing so (not that the wearing of pants and exposing of arms doesn't already give you away.)
8) Always be at attention. When you are beckoned, it is often with a mere whisper, and the State dialect of Tamil is a slurred and difficult one to comprehend. While on the topic of language, talk slowly, annunciate, avoid slang and be prepared to come up with a new way to say exactly what you just said. Good luck keeping the hand gestures to a minimum.
9) Given the use of the spray-hose located beside every toilet, never sit without adequate preparation and always carry your own toilet paper. (I am beginning to wonder why none of the travel guides recommended, in preparation for India, a routine of squats and lunges in order to strengthen one’s legs for The Hover.)
10) Before you leave Canada, take a deep, long breath of fresh air, and appreciate it. It will be a while before you have more.
11) Indians want you fat. Every day, multiple times, you’ll be quizzed: “You ate? When? How much? What did you eat?”
12) The people are genuinely welcoming, endearing, kind, and capable of stealing your heart, never to be returned. Be prepared. Receive what they offer graciously, as it is their pure joy to help you experience the country they love.
HUMILITY
Isn't it ironic, that the more one is treated like a Queen, the more she feels like a Peasant?
They say that the customer service in Asia is extravagant. They say this is normal. But to have someone fold their hands as if for prayer, bow their head, and in true submissiveness, say to you "Good morning, Ma'am. How are you, Ma'am?" could not make me feel less like a "Ma'am." I want to lift their chins, look them deep in the eyes, and tell them what deserving and valuable creatures they are. I want to submit to them, rather than the other way around. I want to tip them all so extravagantly that they see my side, but I'm afraid the only effect would be an increased servitude.
I have woken up in the body of a 1920's "Lady," and could not feel less natural in this reincarnation.
THE PEOPLE & THE STREETS
India, to me, is predominated not by scenery, development, technology, but by the People. I am a curious child at Disneyland for the first time, my brain assailed with too many sights to truly take in. I’m overcome with love and compassion, while also feeling a strange hesitation and discomfort. There are faces I have seen here- certain eyes- I never want to forget. I only wish it were a more sanctioned activity to wander around taking photos as one feels the urge.
First, there is the Server in the hotel restaurant. He looks so young, and is never without a wide smile. To acknowledge that he understands your request, he wrinkles his nose and grins, thereby enhancing his dimples, while conducting the customary Indian head-wobble.
Then, of course, there is my Housekeeper, Karuna, who is as committed to the cleanliness of my room as a mother to her child. He, too, possesses a face-consuming smile at all times. My room is rapidly becoming cluttered with the jungle creatures he is creating with towels and the vases of flowers he daily delivers, along with notes signed “Best Regards.”
I think, too, of the people in the office. Gorgeous, shy, silenced by my presence, following me around the room with large, deep eyes.
It is futile for me to attempt the true capturing in words of the sights seen on city streets in our short commute each day. The colors, the inexplicable filth, the animals, the aggressive hustle, the density of pedestrians- it is all beyond overwhelming. I try to imagine each of these people as an individual, each with a unique story to tell; a life so different from mine and yet emotions experienced that link us together in humanness. There is a man sitting beside the street, on a piece of burlap fabric, folding white t-shirts- who do the t-shirts belong to? Where did they come from? Why is this where he chose to fold them? An overloaded truck passes, carrying in the box wood planks and barefooted men seemingly on their way to a jobsite. I catch my breath as a small child is pulled from unhesitating traffic and a goat jumps into the meridian with inches to spare. I myself am suffocated merely by the sight of public buses, each packed so full that I imagine not a square inch of your body is untouched by a stranger; so full that people and children are hanging out the windows in desperation for air. Lining the streets are kiosks stacked high with fresh fruit and bright fabrics, all being defiled by diesel smoke, dust, and pollution. We pass a man who has curled into the fetal position for a nap on the cement wall running parallel to the street. Everywhere I look there is glimmering jewelry- rings, bangles, nose studs, necklaces- these people appreciate beauty. All around, horns are honking incessantly, people are shouting, and stray dogs are barking in glee at the discarding of an apple core.
Amidst the confusion, a complacent old ox traipses past our car, pulling a cart, as if he too is a Ford Fusion and has just as much right to be on the street in a city of 6 million. This entire time, my fellow passenger - a native to India - is reading his newspaper, seemingly unaware of any of this.
SOME SIGHTS
Finally, today, we went on a tour, away from the hotel and office whose compounds have created claustrophobia in this Bedouin free sprit. Our sightseeing, however, was overshadowed by poverty as new to me as snow would be to these locals. Even the hoards of monkeys playing at our feet could not distract me from the despair bombarding my every sense. Beggars and street vendors congregated in the area, in a quest to exchange money for jewelry, carvings, sandals, trinkets. My entourage pulled at my clothing, repeating their offers, refusing defeat. As the situation is unavoidable, we walked on ignorantly. To say no is futile, but to say yes would be suicide. My heart ached for them in a depth I didn’t realize existed; still I regrettably confess to feelings of panic and discomfort as I cruelly forced their hands from our car door in order to shut them out. The memory of it will bring tears to my eyes for months to come.
I doubt that I will ever forget one little girl, who was trying to sell me beaded necklaces. My mind burns with the memory of her filthy teeth, her fingers-to-mouth hand motions, her eyes that I sensed were fully aware of everything I had grown up with. She stuck to me for several blocks, saying "Please help me, Mama. So hungry, Mama." ... over and over, in an eerie, heart wrenching, sing-song voice. Hours later, days later, her voice continues to echo in my head.
What a horribly dismal world we live in.
BIG BUILDINGS
The lack of air conditioning in many buildings has created in me a new appreciation for the sub-zero temperatures maintained in the office and hotel. I got sick, and was taken to the hospital to ensure I didn’t have an infection of some kind. (Clearly the Indian people have antibodies that mine could never conceive, and American illness is not taken lightly.) The office was phoned, the hospital forewarned, and all seemed on red alert of my impending arrival. I was whisked past throngs of people into the emergency room, gawked at the entire time.
A trait of the Indian people, which I witnessed that day, is their hospitality. They will do whatever necessary to show their appreciation for a visitor. While my hospital trip cannot be portrayed as pleasant, by any means, I must acknowledge that the people astounded me with compassion and special treatment. I was told to remove my shoes, and walked barefoot into Emergency where I was surrounded by teenage boys with curious and confused expressions who seemed to be working there. This was the first building I’d been in not to be air conditioned, and it was hot; windows were open and I could hear the abnormally close murmur of conversation in the alley outside and watch the flies coming in. My doctor, a stout man with reassuring eyes and a supremely relaxed ambience, introduced himself with comfortingly good English. He wore baggy torn jeans, old sneakers, and a yellowing lab coat. I was offered a rusty, stained and creaky bed that reminded me of something in an orphanage on old movies. Sitting there imprisoned in a circle of filthy curtain, a fan blowing at my face, I rested my chin on the knees clutched to my chest, feeling small, insignificant, distant, alone.
If I thought the hospital was hot, I had seen nothing. Later some locals would take me to the Mall to do some shopping. Who hasn’t heard that some stellar purchases of jewelry, carvings, and silk pashminas can be made in the dollar-rupee exchange? As we walked through the doors, the tie-down resumed it’s restriction on my chest, as I struggled to breath and maintain composure.
Again, no air conditioning. This time, combined with dense and inconsiderate crowds that walk the way they drive. To add to the discomfort, the mall had low ceilings, dark lighting, and sporadically placed fans like propellers on the Titanic that not only blow your hair back, but nearly blow it right off your scalp. More offensive and domineering than the heat, was the smell. A mixture of food court spices, body odor, old recycled air, humidity- did I mention body odor? It is the only time in five weeks that my attempt at open-minded acceptance nearly dive-bombed to oblivion, so strong was the urge to run back to the car and grasp desperately to my Westernized obsession with sanitation and cleanliness. Needless to say, I didn’t buy a thing and would come home with no souvenirs.
Finally, the Airport. In my mind, this is neutral territory, impartial to the country in which is resides. You are No Where, because the Place you are is In Transit. Not so in Chennai. Here you don’t quickly forget that you’re in India. Security is aggressive, over-the-top redundant, and the only place I’ve experienced The Pat Down. The building is hot, crowded, and filthy.
Monsoon rains flood the city, oftentimes not cleared by car doors, and still incapable of slowing traffic. (I couldn’t help but notice that even unrelenting torrents of rain could not obliterate the flow of pedestrians and cyclists, now with plastic bags squeezed tightly onto their heads, most pushing their bikes rather than riding.) My driver took me to the door of the airport, that same crowd that panicked me the night of my arrival was again waiting for me, and I left with him all my remaining Rupees. He held an umbrella over me just until I reached an unsheltered lineup of people still being assailed with rain, and then he returned to the car, as I watched the umbrella go and anticipated the joy of a 24-hour journey beginning with damp clothing. Eventually I found my way to the PROPER line up, and required all documentation to even enter the building.
Now, not only hot but also giving reason for the existence of the word “humidity,” coils of normally pin-straight hair sprung to cling to the back of my neck. I’ll reserve details, but to use a bathroom consisting of wet floors and a mere hole in the ground, with no toilet paper or place to set your 10-pound backpack, that is India. And THAT is why you should do squats and lunges in preparation for your visit.
A CANADIAN GIRL: SCARRED
I have been home for a while now, and think it undeniable that the greatest effect of a visit to the developing world hardly begins until you return home. It’s Christmas-time; everywhere I look I see abundance, wealth, waste, materialism. I hate the country I grew up in for this, and not because it is our country to blame. India has scarred me, it has warped my perspective and thrown up a film over my eyes which alters what I’ve always seen but never Seen. I anxiously flip the Calendar to January, in anticipation of my faux enthusiasm for the season being granted leave.
Even after being home just a couple weeks, I am filled with wants, for the Things for which we feel we somehow deserve. I hate myself daily for this quest I am on; this quest for the acquisition of whatever it is I desire. I am selfish, unappreciative, demanding, a 2-year old yet to be trained in self-control.
Already India is a lifetime away, but an experience I will never forget, and likely long to relive. While I was indeed challenged and discomforted by the poverty and unrest of the country, it is also a place I learned to love. The day I flew home, there were terrorist attacks in Mumbai, targeting people just like myself, staying in places exactly like we stayed. This only served to add to the overall theme of this trip: GRATITUDE.
In Canada, the news is dominated with stories of the dynamic government, the crashing economy, the crime and cold weather. In India, people are starving everywhere and surrounded by death, citizens work harder than any Canadian I've known, police and government are corrupt and feared, children are stolen and maimed to earn a greater income in their lives of begging for which they are allowed no proceeds, men abuse their wives, all live in fear of invasion by Pakistani & Chinese armies, stray animals are unloved and surviving on garbage ... but people are appreciative. They are grateful for every blessing they have, as they witness daily how many are without. Their smiles openly express pure joy, which seems to come through their eyes as if a light from behind.
I may have returned to my materialistic and self-centered lifestyle, but no effort could force from my memory the impact that India and its beautiful, generous, hospitable people had on me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)