Bored To Death And Blood Money

We’ve now returned safely from RIshkesh, where we felt happily Beatle-like and safe, despite the killer wild elephants stomping on cars, leopards haunting wherever we go, and mountain monkeys who size us up as potential targets for their gang related vioelnce. Dehradun is treating us to a baby monsoon, which we braved to visit our beloved cybercafé. Things have taken a turn for the better here, as we’ve stopped asking if they have wifi and just go for it.

Today we went to a mindbogglingly boring film called “Blood Money.” You’d think that it would be easy to make something vaguely interesting with a title like that, but the whole affair was weighed down by overlong conversations (again, half hindi, half english) and moody sequences between the TOOL of a main character and his spineless and useless wife. It was like “Blood Diamond” in the sense that there were diamonds, blood, and bad guys with all the power.

But this will win no Oscars, and I dunno if it even merits a rotten tomato. Better to just forget.

The next film we go to see will hopefully be the trashiest musical comedy we can find. We have a huge need to dance, even if it is in our seats. The girl sitting next to me answered her phone five times during the movie, and indulged in the kind of conversations that inspire murderous feelings in pacifists.

Otherwise, India is great. I’ve been daydreaming about an ideal world where I can bring all my favorite people from this year to Minneapolis, and keep practicing my spanish, french and basic portuguese (ai se eu te pego? e saudades...). A little less than two months to go, and then back to the states, for a dose of crazy crazies, dreadful accents and politicians whose plans for the future are likened to etch a sketches.

Love to you all!

Marielle and Jacqueline

Rishikesh

Darlings.

Pardon the absence, we've been staying in an Ashram on the foothills of the Himalayans, busy studying yoga, breaking various house rules, and scarfing up vegetarian food. And having deep, wise conversations with swami masters.

All around us is lush green vegetation, and the Ganges river which emits a hallucinogenic hazy blue color. There is thick jungle and hundreds of cows who amuse themselves by finding traffic to impede. Having been raised by a farm girl and nursed on horror stories of people being kicked, gored and trampled by these gentle creatures, I give them a wide berth. You might be a holy animal, but that probably makes you a cocky entitled jerk who will never get punished no matter how many americans you render... dead.

My macabre imagination is well supplied here, surrounded by a holy river full of laundry, trash and grandpa's half burned ashes, and gardens full of jumping snakes and pythons capable of sucking you from several feet away into their jaws. Or at least, this is what we were told by a very earnest student at lunch. Do you judge me if I believe him?

The Ashram itself is a very beautiful collection of cottages and well tended gardens and then a meditation hall, learning centers and a dining hall. There are also very attentive guards who rat on us when we sneak out to buy junk food after dark. Our first night here we took a self guided tour and ended up (by accident) in the guru's private quarters. He was very friendly, and kindly pointed us to less interesting parts of the complex.

Side Note: We are sort of like mischievous monkeys, so adorable that no matter how many filthy-yet-holy rivers we jump in, or how many times we forget to take our shoes off outside buildings, you must love us. We have yet to find a limit in this love.

Food here in ashram land is tasty indian veggie food, lots of dhal, curries, fried breads and pastries and sometimes lassis, sometimes salted warm milk.

Yes, salted warm milk. We decline such delicacies, like the terrible guests we are. My favorite food is the fried pastries we eat in the morning, to compliment our daybreak diet of toast and peanut butter. My mother told me as a wee anklebiter that I would have to go forth and diversify my diet. Apples, carrots, chicken fingers, peanut butter and pasta didn't cut it. I would "never find peanut butter in faraway places like Argentina, China or India."

I raise my Skippy peanut butter to you each morning! The wisdom of this message is not lost on me however. You can catch me eating everything on my plate (veggies, fruits, indian junk food!) except this garlic SUPER spicy sauce some sadistic person created as a torture tactic for persons of Norwegian origin.

One final note, with regards to our no longer secret language of french. It is a good thing we use Senegalese slang words, because there are lots of people who speak french here. It was a nasty shock when we realized our uncrackable and definitely private conversations were decoded by fellow francophones. Rage.

The internet is not good enough to upload photos, but they are pretty sweet and will be added when we are provided with quality wifi. Which will be a while.

Bollywood Re-Hashed

This evening we were taken to a Bollywood film, on the condition that we wouldn’t dance during the singing/dancing scenes. 

Public embarrassment for our chaperones thus averted, we were permitted to bob our shoulders and move our heads side to side and make general confused gestures. The film was, in the word’s of my darling roomie, “A really long, complicated music video.” We giggled through the advertisements (one DEFINITELY wouldn’t make it through the censor in the US. A man becomes a sperm donor, and has to explain to his fiancée and family. The motto was “make every drop count.”) and are coming back very soon.

Marielle’s Synopsis of “Agent Vinod”: Before I begin, you are invited to check my ideas on the internet, to see just how much I did or didn’t understand. My hindi is coming along nicely, (tum sunder ho) and I understand a lot thanks to copious usage of english. For example:

“Hin di hin dee three minutes till explosion hindihindihindi catastrophe-he hin hin hin DEE SIR WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

Did you catch that?

The film opens with a random scene in Afghanistan. Agent Vinod and his side-kick are entrenched in an enemy hideout/compound. After the secret exchange of a harmonica-cum-knife, Agent Vinod uses this deadly musical weapon to kill his attackers and blind the head honcho. They find a beautiful woman in a straw sack (what the what?) and run off in a truck. They explode/defeat their killer posse and the scene shifts to a train going through Russia. Sidekick is busy listening in on russian gangsters chatting about a suitcase bomb which has recently gone on the bad guy market. All of a sudden, super clever bad guy (who happens to be a health freak, or so he said in hindi) finds a bug (bug: slang for electrical device for overhearing conversations) in the saltshaker. Bad dude shoots the sidekick and chases him to an internet café where he was transmitting an important message (I didn’t understand) back to Delhi. He dies.

Agent Vinod then gets this message, is heartbroken about the death of his friend, but manages to make it to some random russian nightclub. He tracks down a gang lord, tortures him with headphones (it works) and finds out with his unusual methods that he has a flight to catch.

Once on the plane he seduces a gay indian flight attendant called Freddie M-something, and steals his identity. Jacqui and I were uber-confused about this turn of events. Is it normal in indian action movies to pull flight attendants onto your lap and compliment their man-perfume?

Anyways, our pansexual hero with a taste for workplace harassment made it safely to Morocco and in a sheik/oil baron’s house. He fails some sort of test, is knocked out and then injected with liquid (by a super sexy doctor) which makes him say “my name is Freddie M_____” in funny accents. I do the same thing upon occasion.

Not play at being a sexy doctor. Say things in funny accents.

Lot’s of things happen in Morocco, the long and the short of being that the bomb is bought by the sheik, sexy doctor who was on his side betrays him and there is a dance scene with the pretty lady from the first bit in Afghanistan. While Bollywood has mastered the super glossy delivery and has truly well made effects/presentation, the first half was a headache to follow. They should give their writers less artistic freedom, it bothers my sensibilities.

Yes, that was the first half. We had an intermission and got ice cream. Jacqui also got american style steamed sweet corn. No word on how it was...

Marielle: Hey Jacqui, how was the steamed sweet corn?

Jacqui: Horrible. Too much salt and butter. It was impossible to eat.

There you have it. The popcorn was fantastic, although when we asked for butter we were met with blank stares.

The second half of the movie involved the random gifting of a plane to somalian pirates, the transportation of the suitcase bomb, and then THE GIRLFRIEND DIES. My dears, the cardinal rule of any action film is that it must end with the hero sleeping with his pretty but fairly useless girlfriend. Short of necrophilia, this must always happen.

Anyways we pouted, despite the somewhat happy ending (she gave him the bomb’s disarming password before she died. Huzzah!) and discussed the significance of the film lacking any and all ugly women. Or the fact that the only people in the movie with real power were men. Or that in real life, the main characters are (respectively) a prince and his fiancée/scion of a famous film industry family. Their first film together... How cute.

Tomorrow we have a graduation ceremony for the 8th graders, and will be presenting our dances and tae kwon do examples. I am now going to sleep, and beg a cuddle from my lovely roommate.

A salaam maleikum, goodnight et bon nuit mes chèrs.

They Might Be Aliens

Mademoiselle “Adept At Crossing Busy Streets” speaking, newly zen from a realization that the vikram/rickshaw/car/scooter I am in/on will crash regardless of whether I am calm or freaking out. So I might as well be calm. Things have been going well here in Dooooon, sustaining only minor creepage from the local male population. As we walk down the street, stared at by everyone (blonde people!), I can’t help but exclaim, “DES EXTRATERRESTRES.” 

We are clearly aliens.

Such are the realizations one reaches here in Inde, land of hyperactive schoolchildren, a injured bird in our bathroom, and a roommate who speaks to lizards in french, arabic, hindi and english.

Yes, we have polyglot lizards hiding in our room. A sample conversation...

(Tiny lizard is crawling across the wall. It is probably five feet long, with giant poisonous fangs. I am cowering in the corner)

Jac: Bonjour petit reptile! Ça va?

*Silence*

Jacqui: Apke se ho?

*Crickets*

Jacqueline: A salaam maleikum? Can you hear me?

*Lizard scurries across the wall, closer to me, and with the clear intention of eating me and my physics-for-fun nighttime reading. I faint and am carried out on a stretcher. End scene.*

We left to eat dinner, and my multitalented bestie was laid low by a headache, stomach grumblies and a hard case of karma. This is what happens when you eat RUBBISH food all day. Seriously, who eats four bags of chips, a bag of peanuts and drinks a bottle of coke?? And cookies. Particularly after a week + half of uber healthy veggie food. My coloc is a child.

When we came back from dinnaaah this lizard was nowhere to be found. Side note: We left all doors closed. Conclusion: This savage beast is still among us. Jacqui attempted to reassure me by saying that it has probably been here for the past few days.

Marielle: But what has it eaten? Our hair?

Jacqui: Insects?

Marielle: Your cookies?

Jacqui: Probably the cookies. This is why I am sick.

Marielle: Lizard cooties! The lizard of karma!

Yes, my friends, we have the lizard of karma in our room. You too could have the lizard of karma if only you could come and catch it and take it far far away.

I live in fear.

For those of you who commented before on the injured bird in our bathroom, know that I am not a hero. My reptilian-hablante roomie saved this pigeon from murderous raven peckage and Ritz the cowardly guard dog (save in the face of helpless, injured pigeons), and placed it in a box in the room next door. I cowered and in my own useless way patted Jacqui on the back for a job well done. If there is a committee who gives medals for this sort of thing (PETA?), I elect my chhoti poilu.

Jacqui: But I don’t want a medal from PETA. They are cray-cray.

Marielle: Anyone who eats disgusting amounts of vegetarian junk food is in that boat and happily paddling.

Other Things I Can Share With You: Hmmmm.

We have been reading a body language book and have been entertaining ourselves by pointing out expressions of disgust on small children. Body language is a very useful idiom to be fluent in. I teach students who at best know how to tell me my headscarf is crooked and can have in detail conversations about their favorite football team. I lost brownie points when I said that I’d lived in Barcelona and never met any players. But I can read their facial expressions! I’m clearly a waste of space in their eyes. 

We are still recovering from that exhausting picnic, but at least have an idea of what we are teaching tomorrow. DANCE! That is, if we survive the night of the lizard of karma. 

Mother-Speaking-In-My-Head: But Marielle, he is probably waaaay more scared than you are. You are a thousand times bigger than him.

Marielle: Are lizards developed enough to feel fear? I doubt it. And plus, I am bigger, therefore I feel more fear.

Please pardon me for the lack of facts or concrete events in our lives. I recount not serious things in this post, only my reactions to them.

Code Messages!

Pickles, check your SPAM folder.

Nigel, you’re the best, thank you for for the promo.

Thi, tu me faltas.

Chuck and Cindy, I miss your commentaries!

Mr. Pieces, How go the shower parties? (Miss Jacqueline humbly suggests that you add Ciara’s 1-2 Step to your regime)

1P, you’re a very useful human being, despite your ice cream addiction

Romalicious, has my badly marked postcard arrived?

Ruthia/Fufu/BeeEee/EeeEee/Ruby/Uff, I dream of you and the Special K bars

Snack That (Up on that India)

Yes, let's stuff 50 adolescents with sugar and release them in a park!

Lakshmi Devi Academy, where Marielle and I are teaching, is the focal point of several distinct communities on the outskirts of Dehra Dun: to the immediate north, there is a colony for persons living with mental illness; to the immediate south, a colony for families touched by leprosy; to the west, a settlement of Muslim refugees from Pakistan and Bangladesh; and to the east, forest and smatterings of hill people. This means that the academy not only provides an education to a diverse set of students, but also serves a crucial role in bring the communities together in the name of their children.

To get to and from the school, Marielle and I have to take a vikram, or (theoretically) six-person bus, from our neighborhood to Gandhi Park, near the center of town. We then walk for about fifteen minutes before we find an auto-rikshaw, or three-wheeled taxi of sorts, which takes us to the bridge leading to the old slums. We then walk the next ten or so minutes to the school. This trip costs us fifteen rupees (thirty cents) each (unless we can convince a male such as Lalbahaddr our gardener or another LDA teacher to accompany us, in which case the ride is often free...for the lovely ladies).

Our entire Saturday was devoted to a field trip with the middle schoolers to a Sikh temple. On the bus rides there and back, Marielle and I learned a lot of Hindi vocabulary and tried just about every kind of Indian child's junk food under the sun. Tum tely ho, doom tum sunder ho (you appear drunk, but you are very beautiful). We were also introduced to the most popular singers in Dehra Dun: Shakira, Hannah Montana, and Justin Bieber. My favorite song, however, was a rendition of Akon's "Smack That":

Snack that

Upon the floor

Snack that

Gimme some more

Snack that

I need some more

Whooah

Fun fact: Akon is from Saint-Louis, Senegal, where I spent the past two months!

Marielle and I are both a bit (platonically) smitten with Dev, the fifteen year-old son of Devaky the cook. He humors us by coming along on long and apparently destination-less promenades, instigates balancing-things-on-head competitions with us multiple times per day, and five nights ago, instead of just telling us that dinner was ready, he came out wearing an apron, slammed his oven-mitted hands together, and declared "I AM GOD." India and Senegal have spoiled me for American senses of humor.

Some Wonderful Things:

-Although some of the teachers initially tried to split up our students so that only the boys would learn tae kwon do with Marielle and the girls dance with me, our amaji helped us to convince everyone of the importance of all the students learning everything. Very few things bring me as much joy these days as watching fifty young girls and boys punch and scream (or growl, à la Marielle's instruction) in unison.

-As of Friday afternoon, the garden just underneath our bedroom window is the favorite hangout spot of no less than one dozen baby monkeys.

-We taught the elementary school-aged kids how to play my favorite game, Pauvre Petit Chat Malade. The basic idea of the game is to not laugh as someone pretends to be a deathly ill kitten with attachment issues. Don't hate, appreciate. Anyways, the LDA teachers have all come to me with complaints of unprecedented meowing amongst the students. Oops.

Meow meow mrrrrraaaaooooow (until next time).

“I am your fabric man, I will make you dozens of beautiful clothes and we will be good friends.”

Sunday: Today we had our first big adventure with the internet cafés of Dehra Dun, enjoying blasting Indian gangster music (there is no better way to describe this) and a shopkeeper who had no idea how to turn off the notification sounds on his desktop.

Aside from pining for my friends and families in Nantes/Minneapolis/Barcelona, things are going excellently. We are gorging our suntanned and blonde selves on tasty vegetarian delights (Dharani, you are goddess, thank you for the suggestion of breakfast foodsies) and reading fairy tale and physics books during our lazy afternoons.

Today for lunch we had sambar (spelling?) and a fascinating history of the school we are going to teach at starting tomorrow! Started in the 1980s by Mrs. Lalita Arya, our “Amaje”, or host grandmother extraordinaire, the program began by distributing milk for malnourished slum children. Things progressed to hiring residents with a little bit of education to teach under trees, and after the family returned to the United States, funds were set up to start a nursery and primary school.

Today KHEL charities educates (on a shoestring budget, no less) around 250 children, male and female, pre-k (SUCH CUTIE PIES) to the first graduating 8th grade class, regardless of religion (more on that later), skin color, family background and wealth. Located in what used to be the slum area of Dehra Dun, the surrounding area has seen a marked rise along with the school. Mrs. Arya is a strong force for good here in Dehradun, and in story after story (lunch was a prolonged affair today) she demonstrated both a rare and insightful wisdom, and a tenderness for women/humanity to give them the help in orde to help themselves.

We asked her what the effects so far of this school have been, and across the board the quality of life for those touched have risen. Girls are now permitted to speak in their homes, are respected by their parents and their opinions are even requested occasionally. They marry later, and can provide better lives for their families. As a proverb from the Punjab region of the country goes, “Educate a man, and you educate only him. Educate a woman and you educate a village.”

Another example she gave was the lack of religious violence. Riots can spread quickly and touch all regions, particularly large and diverse cities such as Dehra Dun. Since the school has been officially founded, there have been no religious conflicts within the school community and quick action is taken when other regions succumb. A Parent Council formed of representatives of all sects, branches, types and variances comes together in times like these, to reaffirm that they are united, a community devoted to their children, their betterment and their neighbors.

If you would like to snoop for yourselves, I suggest you do so here or send me/Jacqui questions, which we will gladly attempt to answer.

 khelcharities.org/

It gives one heart to know such a wonderful organization, rooted and run by the communities which they serve, exists in this corner of the world. It will be a pleasure and an adventure to work with them.

ANSWER TO THE GEEZER MYSTERY: My grandfather, of the aerodrome fame, provided this answer to the puzzling question of just what would happen if we left the geezer point blasting.

“Hej Marielle,

The word "Geezer" in English and I guess Urdu/Hindi means a gas heater. Your message therefor meant " Don't leave the hot water running for 15 mins or you might have an explosion." P.S. geezer in cockney Argo/slang also means bloke/man.”

More News:

We have updated Jacqui’s nickname to “Chhoti Poilu”, which is a combo of hindi and french to mean “Hairy Little One.”

“Not because she is hairy, because we think it is a funny word.”

-Jacqui referring to herself in third person. An endearing habit of hers.

Now I’m probably going to get an addition a million times worse, along the lines of “Didi Degueulasse” or “Disgusting Older Sister.”

We are also very sleepy. This is not exactly the sort of news which will make the television, but it is very relevant to this blog post, as I will now go sleep. In Hindi they use the letter “Q” where we use the letter “Z” for the onomatopoeia for snoring.*

*This is a joke. Sorry if you got excited about this.

Monday: Today we started at the school, teaching a song and starting on the Tae Kwon Do lessons... Aside from forgetting korean counting after the number 7, things went smoothly. Shouting and gesticulating wildly always brings out the best in small children. Teaching correct posture and hand placement was less of a challenge than I expected, as most gestures are universal.

Getting TO school was an adventure and a half, as we took a Vikram (an autobus meets  taxi meets autoricksaw), which costs about 5 rupees a piece, and then an autoricksaw to school. In between we walked in the middle of busy streets, like everyone else.

After school we had a delicious lunch (all veggie!) and tea with these syrupy delights which are pronounced vaguely like “jelly beans.” Spelling? We then decided the market/town was calling, and caught a vikram (love em!) down to the complicated, busy, congested adventureland. We made friends with a fabric dealer who sold me two hand dyed scarfs and gave us tea and Sprite while we waited. Such a doll. He also informed us that “I am your fabric man, I will make you dozens of beautiful clothes and we will be good friends.”

While waiting for the fabrics to dry, we also wandered into a shop and were accosted by an English speaking fashion expert. Thank god we speak french together, because it was overwhelming having onesies and jumpsuits thrown with great speed, accuracy and commentary. Some quotations...

“In fact, you are nothing special to me, I get many tourists in here who don’t know much about fashion and I love to help them, we have a warehouse upstairs where we can provide you with the latest stuff.”

“We do not sell clothes, we sell fashion.”

“Feel this fabric. Yes it is a copy. Yes it was made in Mumbai.”

“We have every fashion name here. WE HAVE ZARA. You know what Zara is? WE HAVE ZARA.”

Tomorrow, more teaching fun!

Dur dur d'être Jacqui

Oh hey, Himalayas

The title comes from the song "Dur dur d'être Billy," (toutes les filles et toutes les drogues...) a song that people who understand French might possibly find funny. Or not. Marielle and I changed the song to include my name because it's so hard hard hard to be in Dehradun. So why is it so dur dur dur dur d'être moi?

We live in a very marble-y house in the foothills of the Himalayas. Included with said house are gardens, a meditation house, a library, and the tiniest/cuddliest guard dogs in existence (Smoky and Ritz). Marielle prefers cats, so that leaves me free to cuddle them to death. Marielle has forbidden me to cuddle any wild animals, including (but not limited to) donkeys, goats, puppies, cows, and anything else that might be carrying "deadly tropical diseases." The one downside of the gardens is that there is always the possibility of mountain monkey attacks. I do not entirely trust Smoky and Ritz to valiantly defend us in the event of mountain monkey attacks.

Lalita, our host grandmother of sorts, deals us equal measures of sass and pampering (well, maybe a bit more pampering). We call her amaji, which means "mother." I call Marielle diidi, meaning "older sister," and she calls me chhoti, meaning "little one." I am not terribly pleased with the latter arrangement, but then again, we live in a palace so whatever.

This morning we visited Lakshmi Devi Academy, the school run by KHEL Charities, where we'll be volunteering for the next two months (sidenote: KHEL stands for Kindness, Health, Education, Laughter and literally means "to play" in Hindi). The students are bright and adorable. They had prepared an elaborate welcome for us with marigold wreaths, songs, dances, a speech and Indian toffees. The eighth graders have invited us to go on a picnic with them at the local zoo. It looks like Marielle is going to be teaching a lot of tae kwon do while I do more music and science.

Things we are looking forward to: getting cotton shalwar kameez made for teaching at Lakshmi Devi Academy, finding a bookstore, hiking in the Himalayas, going to the grocery store with our amaji Mrs. Lalita Arya to pick out more yummy goodness, and going to Rishikish for a lights ceremony.

So yes, c'est dur dur dur dur d'être Jacqui.

Blasting The Geezer Point

I am suffering a bout of insomnia, and rather than waking Jacqui with my tossing and turning I've made the executive decision to write on the blog instead and break the cycle of mildly hallucinogenic spanish monologues in my head.

(The story behind the monologues is: I read that most people can improve or maintain their linguistic abilities in languages they don't regularly speak by having interior monologues. Since I only speak french and english here, save the occasional skype convo in castellano, when I find it hard to sleep I have banal gabfests in español, normally involving me "arguing" with a waiter in Barcelona. It allows for the maximization of my profane lexicon.)

About the name of the blog post, I have a delectable mystery for y'all. There is a sign in our hotel bathroom which declares "Geezer Point Can Blast If Left On For For Than 15 Minutes." What, my friends, is a Geezer Point, and what happens if it blasts? We've left on every switch in the bathroom in the hope that something will happen, but three hours into my sleepless wait NOTHING HAS OCCURRED.

"Indian English" is the most amazing dialect in the world. I entertained myself all this morning with the newspaper whilst waiting for Ms. Cosette and debating over whether to spare the $1.75 for an Indian omelet delivered to my room. You have headlines like "PM Dishes Out Snub" and an article about how a political figure likes her "elevensies." If you don't know what elevensies are, you have been missing out.

I also counted the number of times I was called "madam" while ordering bottles of water (eight) and was whole heartedly confused when the newscaster spoke hindi and english all mixed up. What does this meeeeeeeaaaaan?

I'mma go try and sleep for the next 45 minutes, wish me luck!

Namaste

India Gate

WE ARE TOGETHER IN DELHI!

This despite a nearer-to-death experience than Delta Airlines would be comfortable publicly admitting, getting stranded in Charles de Gaulle, getting stranded again outside of the Delhi Airport, and many other wondrous adventures that will hopefully be forgotten soon. Our grand reunion mainly consisted of crashing on the hotel bed and parceling out generous portions of chocolate from our combined stores. In the evening we went with our friends Keshav and Dishant to see the India Gate, and now we're getting ready to take a 6 am train to Dehradun, where we'll be living for the next twoish months.

Our (perhaps overly) sheltered Scandinavian taste buds are going through a sort of gastronomical boot camp. We blushed and gasped our way through a delicious dinner including peppery sweet corn soup, potato-stuffed naan, Kashmiri chickpeas, daal with red beans, cubes of cheese, cucumber yogurt, tomatoes, and anise with sugar. Keshav and Dishant judged us for our struggles.

The main impressions thus far have been the sheer force of such a large population (traffic, oh my god), the amount of English both spoken and written throughout Delhi, and the yummy food. I for one am homesick for my family in Senegal and also Odie Gandalf the Minnesotan dog/angel. However, I can't wait to see Dehradun (AND we've been told that there are four Bollywood theatres in the one city, all of which cost four dollars or less). Dance parties are imminent!

Watching Cartoons in Hindi

Currently enjoying immensely the strangest (and politically rather iffy...) cartoons in hindi. I can follow the plot only because every seventh word is in english. And some of the words are food, which I have down pat.

Jacqui, get heeeeeeeeeeeere.

In La India

Safely installed in my hotel, I can thus address you despite my famished stomach, and exhausted eyes.

After trying all my minor hacking techniques, Charles De Gaulle failed to share wifi with me, so I was left musing about what I'd write if I could.

On my flight I was next to a ear shattering snorer and an American man who quizzed me about how to fill out his landing card in the most condescending way.

Man: So what is this thing for? You look like you might know.
Me: It's an immigration form.
Man: What do they expect me to do with this?
Me: You fill it out.
Man: Yeah, thank you very much, but that doesn't explain what it is for.
Me: To enter foreign countries you often have to fill out forms to confirm visas or pass border controls. The instructions are on the back.
Man: Well that wasn't very helpful, but thanks anyways.

Any suggestions on how to be clearer next time I am faced with a particularly dimwitted fellow passenger?

Am now coming back from a quick chat with my brazilian sister (I promise I will not take a bath in the Ganges)  and will rush through this post because it is nearly 2am and I am CREVÉE.

One final note, on the traffic. It would appear than despite brand spanking new highways, the lines, traffic signals, fines and rules in general are very optional. I will buy a blindfold for the remainder of my journey. 

Killing Time In Charles De Ghastly

(Note, this was written earlier in the day)

Being a crisis prone, clumsy, “eternally causing a problem where there is the vague possibility of one appearing” person, I over-prepared for today. Instead of taking a train to arrive two hours before my flight, I caught one SIX hours beforehand. Having arrived on the only train in the history of French “arriving on time is over-achieving” Trains which got there EARLY (yes, two minutes early. I shook my fist at the conductor, don’t you worry), am now bored to tears sitting at my gate waiting for the flight to actually show up on the screen.

Speaking of tears, I’ve had a few of those. Having presumably freaked out a friend (brazilian, for those of you in the know) with a floodgate (fourth time in the last fourteen months, my weeping habit is nearly non-existent), yesterday, I still can’t quite get my head around saying goodbye (best friends anyone could ask for, well and truly).

Yes, I realize more of that phrase is in parentheses than out of them.

Such flood of emotion has shocked my anglo soul.

I joke (this is a direct translation from french, “je déconne.” Sounds better in the original version). Being the most enthusiastic person in the nordic capital of the United States, and embarrassing my british cousins with my self-expression (“M, you can’t love everything, and for heaven’s sake quit shouting about it”) doesn’t make me a stranger to my feelings (Remains of the Day, never eva).

Still, there is something special about the people in Nantes. My host family was DIVINE, and each of my friends were truly special, intelligent, kind and generous people. Darlings, PLEASE come visit, and should you be amenable, I will return the favor. 

CRYING BABIES ARE ALL AROUND ME. I count five. The parents must see me and think “wow, that girl looks un-traumatized and in need of some wailing cacophony about her peaceful self.” I’ve also made friends with a two year old who was so mal-nourished he attempted to eat my boot. Being rather short of shoes at the moment (I’m down to two pairs...), I gently shook my foot from his iron grasp before he could puncture the leather. He moved on to his own foot, and is now howling in pain (but still chomping down... this child is clearly exceptionally clever. Time for a joke about putting your foot in your mouth...). Babies two through five are still screaming their small bright red heads off, to the disregard of their parents.

I’m fairly certain my parents did a similar thing with me when I was a young warthog, usually to convince the people around them to do something (“waiter, serve us quickly” “can we please exchange seats on this flight?” etc). I wonder what these parental units want of me. Whatever it is, YOU CAN’T HAVE IT and I will prevail in a bad tempered way.

Stubborness, my friends, in the most pointless way.

Now, for some actual news, and not just griping about miniature demons.

Tomorrow I fly to Delhi, with my BESTIE AND SISTER AND CO-BLOGGER (who has been absentee on the blog, but still adventuring, never fear) to go work for KHEL charities. After the most complicated formation of flights, we will meet up (should all go well) in the aerodrome tomorrow (my grandfather called the airport this the other day*. No one since World War Two has called the airport an aerodrome, until now!). Once again, another parenthetically heavy sentence.

We will then have a night in Dehli, and catch a train a day later for the north of India to begin the adventures. Internet will be sketchy and probably involve chai coffees (I don’t like coffee, Cosette, so you’re on duty) and super fun cafés. I have no idea what to expect honestly. Everyone who knows the least thing about it tells me things change in the blink of an eye in the Tiger Country. My third world experience has been African and Central American countries as of today (tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow). Given that I get stressed out by crowded Barcelonen/Barcelonan/Barcelona/HOWDOESONESPELLTHIS? bars, I am in for a shock. Though my reaction was exacerbated by having wine spilled on me by a lady (a piece of work I would’ve liked to dump oily patatas bravas on) and my friend snapping her fingers at the bartender and insulting him. But India is probably on another level, so it is good I have Jax to hold hands with.

Those who know me, please take note of how I am now, and be sure to let me know whether I have devolved or improved post-India. In a flattering way.

The babies are now wailing in perfect harmony. I suspect a plot.

Miss you Thi.

*1P, note the CORRECT use of “the other day” in this sentence.

Arrogancia

I am currently preparing my bags and distracting myself with the hilarious blog of my French counterpart currently inhabiting my room. Such a wonderful blog moved me to literary action, and thus this bitty post comes to you and your reading pleasure.

While I can't quite match the jauntily arrogant tone he so artfully maintains (my ego makes itself apparent when you meet me and I brag about my mediocre dancing skills), I have been reading Dorothy Parker's book reviews in an effort to match such sass and wit.

This reading effort however has been cut dreadfully short by trying to see everyone in a far too time constrained week, my futile attempts to get home BEFORE the sun rises (I'm two for five at the moment) and trying to keep my head from falling off at three in the morning when I've been speaking spanish with colombians, spaniards and brazilians (see video below about how effing difficult this is), and then out of courtesy they switch to french. In which place I tell them I "comprends castellano mas o menos, tu vois."

There are many things wrong with that sentence.

Aside from battling the internet in a furious war to post my application video of me teaching a lesson on how to take european metro systems, and wandering the streets in a desperate hunt to see all of my friends before I depart (NO NO NO NO), I have bought a couple films to watch in La India with my sister/bestie IN FRENCH, and successfully gotten rid of half of my clothes. How, a politely curious reader might ask? Well for the first part I wasn't wearing them when I got rid of them (teehee) so the reception was less than enthusiastic one could say. Luckily my grandparents have trips planned to Les Etats Unis and have generously given into my requests for transportation of my beloved sweaters and such winter garb which is less than practical when faced with weather such as the following.

How many inches of frozen precipitation dost thou haveth Minnesnowda? Check me oooooooooout.

And now to take the salt and heat out of that wound, I present you with some spicy music I remembered from last night which tickled me in all the right places.

Ciao mi dearies, more constructive and educational things to come. Sometime soon anyways.

Bref, You See What One Learns On A Gap Year

It is as if I am standing between two cement walls and a floor of spikes. One minute I am banging my head against one wall (let's call it "French") and the next I am smacking my prefrontal cortex against the other (hereby baptized "Spanish"). When I tire of this horizontal sadistic amusement, I resort to impaling my skull on the spikes on the floor, those symbolic skewers of British English and American English.

Currently, I am watching the French version of England's "Question Time." This is much more polite, and without the snide comments about the professions of the other candidates' mothers. Sarkozy defends himself reasonably well (I especially appreciated the line about "reforme sans violence"), although it would take a particularly savvy frenchman or woman to catch the blatant Reagan/Nixon/American ideology references he makes. He referenced outright the "silent majority" and the campaign habits of Americans and their transition to France, piquing my forever aroused curiosity. He also has a clear crush on Angela Merkel, from the way he boyishly smiles whenever they mention her. Wie niedlich.

Other than enjoying the debate, I have fun predicting what party the journalists are from based on their body language. And making fun of the questions "If you win, where will you celebrate?" or "how do you justify your foul language?"

Naughty president.

Anyhow, I ought to catch up with all of y'all. You may have gather from my references to french television that I have exited Spain. This is tearfully true. I left Sunday on the bumpiest, windiest flight ever (I prayed the last ten minutes, as we hurtled comme n'importe quoi across the sky). Before on Saturday that I'd gone to a candy parade. Unclear why (not why I went, duh, why it exists), but anyone who goes to a parade in Spain should know that it is not like in the U.S. where we gently toss sweets to the masses.

Confectionary attempted murder is culturally acceptable in Barcelona. I have bruises where "caramelos" struck me with full force, and a mortal fear of streets full of sticky sugar, horse poop enhanced mess, ground in by trucks and thousands of people. Thirty minutes of grumpily scrubbing my boots, I have sufficiently recovered my sense of humor. It is now vaguely funny.

I also went to a short flamenco show (40 minutes), which was as tapas is to a full meal. Tiny, delicious, spicy and leaves you wanting more.

The first day back in France, I had a massive headache. I spoke in frañol, sometimes starting a sentence in spanish and finishing in french, saying "hola" and "gracias" and using "madre mia" in place of my favorite french muletilla, "oh la vache." My host family and friends are reasonably patient with me, despite me throwing the occasional cork at their face* when they kindly correct me (and take the mickey out of me and my suffering spanish).

Today I am chez Grandparents. We passed a lovely day trading clever comments and eating lunch with a bunch of fellow (except me) Guernsey-ites. Much conversation of boats, taxes and art. I got to visit the house and gallery of the most fantastic artists, and was given lots of teeeea. My granny was also given some presumably fascinating biographical books about some house cats. I mistrust such tomes, but such is my cynical, hating-on-badly-written-cat-books nature. With such an activity filled day, of course I have some quotes to lighten your day and un-furrow (de-furrow?) your beaten brow.

"We were so excited about your return, we bought a carpet." (This is how british people express their emotions. Furniture purchases.)

"They've sold their horrible horrible house... (pointing out a charming french maison) It was like that, but grotty." (Grotty=british slang for "grotesque").

"He's a very intelligent man, but he'll probably be wearing his garden trousers, and spills things all over his sweaters." (Clearly intelligence cannot shield a poor soul from adjudication against poor fashion sense and clumsy table behavior.)

Finally, wish me luck tomorrow as I film my educational video about how to survive metro and train stations in europe. I have an application due (rather soon...) and part of it is me teaching something I know in great detail.

Bref, you see what one learns on a gap year.

*Sorry 1P