Helpful Household Hints from "The Hard Way":

1.  If one does not want to clean caked-on oatmeal off a porcelain bowl, simply let full contents of said bowl slip through one’s fingers causing porcelain to shatter with oatmeal; scoop shards and oatmeal into plastic bag; repeat as needed.

2.  If one runs out of face powder in humid climate, one can try any number of substitutes—corn starch, for instance.  Baking soda, however, is not advisable.  While useful for deodorizing, teeth brushing, baking, cleaning, and acid indigestion, baking soda, when used as facial powder, has an exfoliating effect akin to sandpaper. 

3.  Strong “dust tea” does not simply require brewing, as indicated on nondescript instructions.  Contrary to popular folk wisdom, tea dust does not dissolve in hot water.  To drink contents in absence of sieve, simply purse one’s lips and strain said contents through teeth.  Resulting grit is useful for teeth brushing.

4.  When using taper candles to see by during power outage, it is useful to craft stand for candle resulting in stable base.  One can fashion origami-like stand in the dark using stiff cardstock by folding notecard-sized stationary up at each corner resulting in “legs” for candle base, then shoving candle through middle and lighting.  It is best, however, to approximate middle of holder by feel to keep candle upright so that candle, when lit, does not tip hot wax onto graded papers.

5.  When one has an emergency light for power outages it is useful to charge it.

6.  When one does not want to attempt killing flying cockroach during power outage, simply pray, wait for cockroach to settle, and set overturned tea cup on top.  Wait for cleaning man to dispose of.  (Hint—it is useful to learn the word “bug” in Hindi before allowing man to lift cup.)

7.  If one makes oft-repeated mistake of opening an unscreened window at night with fluorescent room light on, it is useful to remember all flying insects are attracted to light.  In event large wasp flies through open window and settles in one’s wardrobe, simply close wardrobe doors, trapping wasp inside.  Write sticky note with words “Mind the wasp” and affix on wardrobe door.  Leave on holiday for three days, giving wasp sufficient time to asphyxiate.  On return, remove sticky note and pry clinging wasp corpse off favorite blouse.

7.  When drying one’s laundry on roof, it is best to rescue clothing as soon as possible before impending storm.  However, some may prefer aromatic scent of mildew on knickers; in this case, rinse and repeat.

8.  When hanging pictures in absence of hammer, a sturdy mug works better than a sneaker. 

9.  When climbing multiple apartment staircases in the dark it is useful to insert house key in one’s own door instead of one’s neighbor’s.  This adds credibility and detracts from notion that one is a hooligan when said neighbor pokes startled head out of front door.

10.  In absence of Clorox Ready Wipes, spit is a natural solvent.

Bring It.

It's time I wrote this blog.  High time.  It's been brewing in my head the past month at least.

I want to tell you all that I have been giving you only one side of my story.  The side I've presented is dessert; the side I'm about to present is a tough piece of steak that requires persistent chewing. 

I have had a relatively easy, cushy existence most of my life--true, not without its emotional difficulties and heartaches, but otherwise, pretty cushy.  I've lived in--let's face it--an insulated, homogenized culture that's really required nothing more than sameness and the usual admonition to "follow your dreams."  Who knew that following your dreams could be so hard?  I know now that it is. 

I've wanted to live overseas for many years now and always yearn to go to the next country, experience the next new thing.  I have dramatic desires to "immerse myself in culture" and get to know the "real (fill-in-the-blank) people" of wherever I am.  This is all still true.  It's just that I now know what that's like.  It's darn hard. 

An introvert by nature, I find I'm constantly having to "put myself out there" when it comes to living and working in India.  There is no real system or structure here.  All things coexist, from beggars to businessmen to cabs and cows, mom-and-pop one-room stores to multinational IT companies.  As a result, I find that when I walk into a business situation, I do not have a neat little "slot" to fill as the customer.  I have to assert myself to get what I want done, and how!  The Indian style of thinking and doing business is not linear, but circular (or, more like a tangled ball of yarn).  As a result, there is no clear process in business, speech or otherwise to get from beginning A to end result B.  Enter, me.  Unlike my younger days, I have become much more straightforward in my thought processes and speech.  I can parse apart the steps that I need to take or say to get things done.  Simple--at least, simple in America. 

Imagine my frustration when I try to have a conversation with a coworker about a straightforward lesson plan for teaching and end up hearing about their pet dog, what they'll have for dinner, and about a student I've never heard of, all interspersed by five interruptions by various people who do not view themselves as interruptions.  Multitasking is an art form here which encompasses conversations, leaving me struggling to hold onto my original thread of thought in what has become a snarled bundle of nothingness.  But I digress--back to the assertive bit.

I have had to get up nearly in people's faces and hound them just to get anything done business-wise here.  As example, I had to get new cell service because the one I started with went bogus and shut off my phone (long story), so I switched to another provider that I had heard good things about.  The important detail the salesman didn't think worth explaining to me was that they had to physically come to my house to establish my residency (for cell service).  Hence, I waited for days before going physically back to the sales office to see why I didn't have service yet.  I found out that a lone man had simply shown up at my door one morning to verify my place while I was at work.  He shrugged his shoulders and told his uppers that oh well, she wasn't there.  Had I known he was coming we could have arranged a time to meet.  I'd had to give my friend as a reference for me, so the cell provider took to calling her since they couldn't communicate with me on the phone; they said they'd send someone out again, and didn't.  I called back through my friend.  They said they'd send someone again.  They didn't.  This went on for several more days.


 I finally went back to the sales office for the last time and gave my salesman what for.  I said, "Can you guarantee me that someone will come down to my house today and that I will have cell service tonight?"  He said, "No, we don't guarantee anything."  I pounded my hand on the table and said, "Then what good is your word?"  He said, "No ma'am, it's not my word."  I said, "I mean, the word of your company and your business reputation!"  I went on, "This is basic customer service, sir!  Make it happen!"  He went on and hem-hawed about waiting for a report, and I said, "Make it happen!" a few more times till he finally said, "Ok, ma'am."  I huffed off and left my only sunglasses at his counter.  Dang.  I charged outside to hail a rickshaw, and the man wanted to charge me way more than the ride was worth.  I was in no mood.  I snapped, "Don't waste my time!" and went on to the next driver and then another before one agreed to take me home for the fair price.  Several more days later when I'd completely given up hope of ever having cell service, a lone man with a backpack and a clipboard showed up at my doorstep.  I said, "I've been waiting a week and a half for you!  This is very bad customer service."  All he said was, "Sorry, Madam."  He spoke only broken English, so I reiterated "very bad!"  another time and gave up.  After he left, I finally got cell service at about 11:00pm that night, a week and a half after it was promised. 

I do not tell you that story to say I was right or good.  I was really a ticked off expat who couldn't understand why it was so dang hard to tell someone all of what their new service entailed for setup, have someone show up when they promised, and follow through! 

Many if not all of my multiple needs to be strong and assertive revolve around this idea of time.  Like the circular thinking and relating style, time is a very circular thing here.  Getting to places on time, saying you'll be somewhere at x time and then showing five hours later, and just simple follow through are really mere guidelines than the way life runs here.  The Southern Indians I've encountered are so laid back (mostly the men) about time that it's maddening.  Just today I had to call a repairman about 10 times for my new AC unit that's already broken twice to send his technician when he said he would to get it fixed.  Thus, I waited at home all day, being promised every time I called that the repairman was "in my area", would "be there in an hour", etc.  I finally had to say, "I've been waiting for your repairman all day.  He needs to come now!" 

It is really challenging for me to be Christlike in this environment.  I want to get angry at everything right now because it all runs counter-clockwise to the way I've lived life up till now. 

Aside from being assertive and struggling with anger, I've had to fill a role at work that I've never done before.  Though I have the schooling, I've never formally taught.  Now, I'm teaching advanced-level English language and literature to kids from all over the world and doing my best to live up to the standards of my employer.  All the other teachers have been doing this for years, and I am ever-conscious that though many things do go right, there are many things I simply don't know how to do.  It's a new curriculum this year on top of which, and so we're all trying to figure it out.  I know how to teach a lesson and get my point across, but boy am I struggling to deal with all the processes involved in teaching--paperwork, interpersonal communication, meetings, incorporating holistic teaching methods, thinking both inside and outside the box, dealing with discipline issues and parents, and planning and grading for hours on end every night.  It's really the same intensity level as being in college in a demanding degree program.  Thus, I tend to not even be able to keep up with personal email. 

As of a few weeks ago I was required (along with most teachers) to add on two extra-curricular activities to my teaching docket.  They are fun ones--creative writing and a singer/songwriter workshop.  I haven't sung since I left Austin, and now I am teaching kids how to sing and compose along with a fellow co-teacher.  Most if not all of these kids have never composed and don't know how to go about it.  So, that means I have had to begin modeling it for them.  I still have a tendency to be shy about singing even after doing it these many years, but I can't be shy in this case.  These kids need me. I just need to bring it. 

In all of these things and many more I'm realizing the power of that phrase--Bring it!  Heretofore I've hidden in a lot of ways--tucked away my talents, covered up under the guise of professionalism, and put on a poker face. Not so anymore.  I can't.  I'm learning that I have to bring all I have to bear to the table and hold nothing back.  This is life.  It is happening.  I can't walk forward in this new, bewildering environment and handicap myself by only giving a little bit of me.  I have to bring all of me and trust that God will be happy and honored by my efforts and fill in all my gaps and support my weaknesses with his strength.  I have to learn, also, to lean on him and let my strong efforts be tempered with gentleness and kindness.  On top of all that, or, rather, supporting it all, I have to learn how to trust.  Sometimes I wonder why I tend to choose the hard way, but it seems I'm reaching for something that needs all this effort to come forth.  The Lord has also told me he's building something in me and preparing me for something, and that patience has to have her perfect work...

I want to leave you with a quote I've grappled with for many years that I still love.  In these recent hard days I've had echoes of it in my mind:

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, 'Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?' Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”
― Marianne Williamson, Return to Love

If I do nothing else in all this venture, I hope to learn this and truly become all of the child of God I was made to be. 

Pix

This was at the Lalbah Gardens in Bangalore.  Birds of Paradise are like daisies here--they're everywhere!

 Rooster on the balcony!  I named him "Angus."

 Artwork at the Gate--you see this chalk artwork laid down every day at the gateposts of homes, then washed away the next day for new artwork...

 Architecture in my neighborhood--this is my favorite home.

 Indians love their flowers...and their temples!  This was also at Lalbah Gardens.

 Flowers Among the Trash--Beauty and decay mix every day.

 My phrasebook--Which I lost!  Help!

 The Indian "flag"-- (I didn't take this one, but this is what it looks like!)  The door decorations are marigold garlands.

The daycare right down the road from my house.  Wonder what "Pre-nursery" is-- the womb?

 Chalk work at a "ritzy" gate.

Geetha, my neighbor.

Rickshaw!

One word sums it up--

If you want to experience the real India, hop inside an auto rickshaw (as opposed to the man-powered variety.)  These tiny, death-defying, mind-numbing, advertisement-tattooed vehicles with maverick drivers from old to young will test your mettle and your fortitude. 

Say you played the game of "chicken" when you were younger--here's your chance to relive your glory days!  One youngish driver I hopped a ride with seemed heck-bent on speeding up within ramming distance of vehicles, old men, and goats, then passing them within centimeters of their finite lives.  At one point he and an oncoming motorbike sailed towards each other at mach speed!  I squeezed my eyes, arm rail, and water bottle tight, internally yelled "Chicken!", and blinked to find myself still in this world.  Away sped the motorbike while my driver drummed his fingers on the wheel and mindlessly hummed the Indian version of "Dixie."

When riding rickshaws you not only get to defy death, but also test your bargaining and anger management skills.  Every driver worth his salt will attempt to charge you double to triple the going rate just for being foreign; in my case, foreign, female, and white--a triple strike to up the ante.  Mind you, every rickshaw is equipped with a working meter which functions as a nice decoration.  When I ask to turn on "meter" and pat it for good measure, many drivers want to charge me the equivalent of my entire ride as a "service fee" just to turn it on!  Never mind, I'll bargain!  So begins the dance of the lie.

In America the customer is always right.  In India, the customer is an ignorant nuisance with money.  I, as an ignorant, foreign, white female customer, must convince the nice man in front of me with five teeth that I will not be cheated.  In some cases I can work the driver down by a third; in other cases, by a fourth; in many cases, not at all.  My bargaining skills stand or fail based on how much energy I have after carrying a purse, water bottle, and three massive bags of groceries while pretending I don't see the men turning to stare at me through the sweaty streets.  If I am still cheerful, it's cool out, and I am well-rested, I get a decent deal.  If I am hot, tired, and thirsty, the driver might as well just take my rupees and cheat me. 

Still, God works in mysterious ways.  Until a few weeks ago I had visited a new church every weekend without finding one that felt like "home."  The fourth weekend here I had researched two more churches and opted for the one that started at 10:00 a.m.  I found a driver who would take me there for only a small "service" fee to turn on the meter.  Oh joy!  I was on my way to church...or so I thought.

The church, which met in a hotel, was only about 30 minutes away, the standard length of time to get anywhere.  The driver did not know whether the old or the new road led to the hotel, so I called the hotel lobby and had their agent speak directly to my driver to give him directions in Hindi.  My driver confidently took off and eventually spit us into what seemed like the general area for the hotel.  However, he did not know more than that.  He stopped and asked for directions from a man on the side of the road, drove 50 feet, stopped again and did the same thing.   He varied his approach, though.  He drove up next to a moving rickshaw and yelled for directions--the driver next to us gestured for us to follow him.  My driver did not give chase, but rumbled along at a snail's pace, determined to stay lost.  He wound us down alleys and byways, randomly pointing at any ramshackle building that contained the word "hotel."  About this time I really began to wonder if I wasn't literally and figuratively being "taken for a ride."  Just as I felt myself beginning to get ferklempt I looked up and directly in front of us was a rickshaw whose slogan read, "God is watching--Have patience."  So, I took a deep cleansing breath and said, "Okay, Lord, I'm trying."  The driver continued winding us down alleys and random roads until finally, during one of his stops to "ask for directions," I told him I'd had enough and was getting out.  That young man smirked and had the audacity to demand "Hundred thirty rupees!" though he'd taken me nowhere.  I paid that unscrupulous rickshaw driver his money, grimly shouldered my Bible and marched into the nearest building.

As I thought about it, I realized the church service I'd wanted to go to was half over by now, but the other church I'd researched started at 10:45--I could still just make it!  "Darn it, I didn't go through all this not to go to church," I thought to myself.  I asked the man at the counter the location of the other small church, which also met in a hotel.  It was only 3 kilometers away.  I hailed yet another rickshaw driver, bargained again, and off I went to the Lemontree Hotel which housed the small congregation of Ashraya.

"Ashraya" means "Refuge" in the local language.  Immediately on entering the hotel elevator I met another expat woman who, it "turns out," was the one who had relayed to my other friend the info. on Ashraya that my friend relayed to me in the first place!  As we walked in together, the place held such a welcoming spirit and the presence of the Lord.  I truly felt like I could rest and breathe.  The same lady and her family as well as another couple and their kids took me out to lunch right after service.  Mind you, feeling lonely, I had just prayed before leaving my flat that morning that someone would take me out to lunch after church. 

I've been attending Ashraya ever since and have been growing in the hothouse of love and worship I experience there.  Every week I go out to lunch with a different group of folks my age and still pray with my expat friend from the first week.  God knew.

For every rickshaw wheeling around in circles coughing noxious gas fumes there could be an unseen finger steering that little game piece home.  There certainly was for me.

Colours

I've had so many experiences of late that I've been looking for little gems I could polish up for you to add to your "jewelry box" of India.  I thought of colour.

In America we have the saying about our flag that "these colors don't run," meaning that our patriotism, our country's values, and our freedom will not fade away. I like that saying, though here in India, I've had a paradigm shift with colour.

My first week here I went shopping with some colleagues who took me to Commercial Street, a shopping district that makes Times Square, Chinatown and a Turkish bazaar look like nothing more than a daydream.  If you want shopping, ladies, come to Commercial Street!  Not so much a "street" as an intricate labyrinth of alleys, side roads, and shops selling everything imaginable in spaces so small you wonder how anyone breathes.  Every square inch of street space is utilized, lit up, assaulting your ears and eyes with sounds and colour--a teen hawking little whirling things, a scarf man flirting with the crowds and capturing you in fabric folds, and salespeople that hover, hover, hover, over every kurta (tunic) you try and every shoe you touch.

We enter one slightly nicer store with beautiful fabrics so I can try on some kurtis, shorter hip-length versions of the kurta tunics, which tend to hit my calves as I'm not very tall.  (It's all about proportion in fashion, ladies--dress for your body type!)  Anyway, I tried on a gorgeous deep turquoise kurti with gold rick-rack trim at the neck and sleeves.  It fit perfectly, so I took it.  The first day I wore it I felt beautiful, dressing like the locals.  Come bedtime when I pulled it off I discovered it had dyed my armpits a gorgeous shade of bright turquoise.  That took about two days of serious loofah. 

Colour is everywhere.  As you bump along through traffic your eyes dart to houses painted striking hues of terra cotta, red, cerulean blue, deep sage,--even purple.  In the Hindu religion the entrances to homes (be they gates or doorsteps) are decorated with garlands of marigolds and tropical flowers, while in front of the entrance intricate chalk designs are traced in white and filled in with a brighter shade or even fresh blossoms.  Every morning the front entrances are washed, sweeping away yesterday's beauty with the promise of more to come.

I cannot escape colour even while eating.  Many dishes are eaten with your hands by wrapping the sauce in naan, or other flatbread.  After any curry dish my nails are stained a bright shade of turmeric, a hue somewhere between mustard and chartreuse.  It lends some gypsy to my look.

Enter my home--the painter who ended up coming to paint over the mess the contractors had left asked me to help him choose the paint shade.  Being American, I immediately thought to match the existing wall colour, a light beige, to preserve the apartment's retail value.  After deliberating I chose what appeared to resemble beige.  When I returned home to see the painting progress I was surprised and delighted to find the colour I had chosen was actually palest pink, the inside of a sea shell.  As each room was completed I found a smile creeping up my face as the rooms took on a warm, rosy glow.  When I told a colleague about it, she said that it was a good thing because I needed a little romance in my life and that colour was one way of adding it.  Maybe I do need a little romance.  While I pity the gent that gets this place after me, I don't even care because it's just so darn pretty.

Fabrics run.  Towels shed.  I bought this soft new set of cobalt blue towels for my bathroom and discovered that the more I wash them the more they coat everything they touch in deep blue fuzz.  My floor is fuzzy.  I am fuzzy.  I pick the lint off my face and use an old t-shirt to dry my hands.  Maybe on wash number three I'll achieve a state of colourfast.

Speaking of washing, there are no dryers in India.  I have a clothesline on the roof terrace which commands a view of all the neighborhood's rooftops adorned in brightly-coloured, drying clothing.  I clothespin on my pieces of  rooftop decoration and smile, thinking that the true flag of India is really a patchwork of coloured laundry.

"Queue-less"

Oh boy, have I had some adventure doozies this week!  They are too numerous to write, but I'll just highlight one:

The FRRO--This should be written in scary monster script if I had access to it.  This is the Foreigners' Visa Registration Office where every immigrant, employment, student, and extended tourist visa holder must register to do anything in India besides buy milk.

Picture a hole in the wall with an armed guard toting an old-school rifle and sporting a safari hat.  As you enter, you imagine hearing distorted strains of "It's a Small World After All" as burka-clad women, raastas, businessmen, Africans, and worried-looking anglo's funnel in like ants.  My companion, the HR lady, is ordered to leave because only foreigners are allowed inside; after much polite protest, Rifleman tells her to go sit in the furthest corner and wait.  Apparently, the fun is turning a bunch of foreigners loose with everyone speaking different versions of English and seeing what ensues.


Visit One:  I get in the queue and get my mugshot taken.  I look drunk.  I get to the first lady who tells me I have the wrong checklist form, which changes every 6 months.  There are several new documents that I need.  We leave.
Post-visit:  The HR lady drafts more forms while a driver is sent to procure one piece of 100 rupee "special" paper to draft one of them; It's sold by the sheet under protest.

Visit Two:  I get back in queue and get equally bad mugshot #2 taken.  I make it past desk one and am ushered upstairs to The First Floor after a 3rd review of my passport/visa 20 yards from the main entrance where I've already been checked.

The First Floor:  Picture Noah's Ark as a 60 ft. square box containing, not animals, but people.  Every tongue on earth is being spoken at once and queues occupy every square inch while strays languidly slouch in queue-less chairs.  I sit in the middle like a good little doobie and wait my turn.  Nothing happens.  I gather my bearings.  I am sitting in the reject pile when I should be in the queue for the Scrutiny Desk--silly foreigner.

The Scrutiny Desk:  There are about 5 people from all over the world in front of me who have no concept of line progression.  Normally, someone leaves, you inch your butt forward, and gain the illusion of progress.  No dice.  I make hand gestures and motions for the jumpy guy in front of me to move forward, and he finally understands.  We begin to move.  Two men from Ghana sit next to me and one of them hits on me.  Finally, it's my turn to be inspected.

I take deep breaths and try to look nonchalant as the Indian man behind the desk scans through my papers.  Because of the slow progression of most things here (affectionately known as "India Time"), the owner of my new apartment has not provided a rental contract which proves my residency.  The HR lady, waiting dutifully back in her corner downstairs, has instructed me to smilingly plead for a permit anyway with the promise of submitting it later.  This is the grand plan.  The man does not buy my smile, my carefully articulated English, or my pleading.  I am sent back downstairs with a stamp on my mugshot telling me to come back with a contract later that day or, at the latest, by noon the next day, or I start the process all over again.

The Director:  Back in her corner, the HR lady and I talk strategy.   She says the school "knows" the Director, and to go do the smiling/pleading bit with him upstairs and see what happens.  I am a stooge.  Still, anything's worth a try.  I stand in another queue and finally am admitted behind The Director's glass doors.  The man barely glances at me as I again explain my situation, namedrop my school, and ask for a permit with the promise of a rental contract later.  He points his finger and blurts, "Go to that lady over there!"   He has apparently overestimated my powers of telepathy--The room is filled with ladies.  Determined to risk being stupid, I ask him several times to be more specific about which direction his finger is pointing and am rewarded by yet another queue.

The Lady:  There is no real line around this placid woman who is the unspoken matriarch of the FRRO.  Everyone simply swarms her desk as she smiles like the Mona Lisa and keeps on typing.  Jumpy Guy from the Scrutiny queue cuts in front of me in broken English and I let him because he looks scary and I don't really care at this point.  The Lady doesn't even speak--she has two oracles next to her who do all the talking and slip her our papers.  I explain to Oracle #1 my situation again, who explains in her language what I am about.  If I get something in writing between the apartment owner and the school they will issue me a short, three-month residential permit.  I thank him for the crumbs, and leave.

Back downstairs, the HR lady tells me from her corner that this will not do, as three months later I'd only have to go back through purgatory.  We leave.

Day 3:  Next morning, I wait with the HR lady while the facilities manager physically brings in the apartment owner, who's flown in from the country of Bahrain, to the business office back at the school to sign the contract.  He does not even live in India.  I must have the contract at the FRRO with my decrepit mugshot by noon or I am toast.   The two men leisurely discuss the contract over tea while I try to distract myself with  some new tricks on the computer.  It is now 10:30 am. 

The Ride:  I try to remain calm as we walk to the school van set to take me to the FRRO office yet again.  The facilities manager and the apartment owner, who's along for the ride, saunter languidly to the car.  I do a double-take internally:  "Am I missing something?  Don't we have a deadline here?? Chop-chop, people!"

All week, mind you, I've had a good combat driver who fights through Bangalore traffic like a guerrilla, dodging and weaving at every turn.   Previously he'd squeezed our tiny van in between two rickshaws and grazed both their sides unfazed.  This morning, however, he has decided to come clean, be a good citizen, and drive like Grandma.   What a morning to develop a civic conscience.  The next surprise, according to a third man who's joined us, is that we still have to stop and get the dang contract notarized on the way.  Yup.  At this point it's almost noon and I know I'm doomed apart from the grace and mercy of God.

I reach the Scrutiny Desk at 12:10 pm and wait for four very excited African men who apparently cannot each get their permit without the communal conversation and effort of the others, to move.   Thankfully, the man behind the desk is not aware of the time and says I now have all my necessary papers.  But wait--there's more!

Now I must go back to the Mona Lisa Matriarch to get her approval signature. (If Momma ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.)  She gracefully makes her swishy signature and I think I'm finally free.  But no, I must stand in one more queue for the person who now actually enters all your papers into the big computer and takes, guess what?--another mugshot.  I reach the desk and smile hopefully at the girl behind the counter.  She stares back with glazed eyes over a shifting pile of paperwork and says, "Come back at 4:00."

3:30pm:  Apparently everyone has to come back at 4:00.  The facilities manager has said to come back early so I have a running start for the final dash.  Once inside, the man who guards the staircase to the 1st Floor will not let me in early.  I sit.  Ten minutes later I see the staircase guard bobbling his head and letting foreigners in early.  After he lets in a skater dude with bedhead and a friend who looks like Rizzo, I stop being good and head for the staircase. 

I reach the final desk, am handed The Permit, and I swear the heavens open and angels sing.  I vow to get it laminated and hang it on my wall.

Impressions

Hello from the middle of the globe!

I hope you've read my first blog, Interstitial Stitches, to know what's going on and how I got here.  I'm in Bangalore, India getting ready to begin my first teaching assignment teaching English Literature to international high school students.

Having been awake nearly 48 hours with only knee-jerk catnaps, I will take a stab at my first impressions:

Exotic birds and statues to the Hindu gods in the airport and everywhere--we're not in Kansas anymore, Toto.

Indians like to head-bobble.  Constantly.  I don't know what this means yet, but it must be something smart.  They shake their heads from side to side when they say "yes" and nod their heads up and down when they say "no."

I am very white.

I'm staying in the school dorms for a few days while they finish my apartment and right now am the only female in the girls' wing.  The shower consists of a spigot and a bucket right by the toilet.  I try not to curl my toes.

Hospitality:  The head of facilities personally picked me up from the airport at 3:30a.m. and showed me everything about the dorm flat.  They'd provided bread, cheese, milk, fruit, eggs, and a huge drum of bottled water, for which this thirsty girl is very grateful.

The campus is absolutely shiny and beautiful.  Exotic flowering trees abound and palm trees that tower and plume out in a flat shape like a giant fan.  Manicured fields and campus guards every 50 feet.  They salute their manager, as is the custom.  Very refreshing, I must say.

The beautiful and warm HR lady showed me around and she and the facilities manager took me out to a KFC that cranked out club music like "Night at the Roxbury," except in Hindi.  Very strange to imagine strobe lights while eating a chicken burger.

Nausea setting in from lack of sleep and motion sickness.  I nearly urp in the school van bouncing around rutted roads and construction sites while avoiding rickshaws, buses, motorbikes, pedestrians, cows, and stray dogs.  Everyone here honks.  It's the thing to do.  You do this every time you weave around a person, animal or moving object.  A piercing siren sounds at stoplights when the light is about to go green.  I think it's the police and give my companions a chuckle.

The women wear possibly the most comfortable clothing on earth.  Tunic and pants--easy, breezy, beautiful-- in as many colors and patterns as the little dots in front of your eyes before you go to sleep (anyone else but me?)  Saris--gorgeous as well, but midriff-revealing; I'm not willing to expose my white underbelly to anyone just yet.

My apartment--I got to view it in progress and it is a lovely little place on the top floor with easy access to the roof where I'll hang my laundry.  It's all glossy and new and I can't wait to make it my own.  As for my promised "enclosed" shower--the spigot and bucket are surrounded by the four walls of the bathroom.  Enclosed, no?  I have floor to ceiling French windows that I will be getting screens for pronto to let in the breezes.  I have a spare room for visitors (hint hint!)

Well, I must off to bed before I turn into a pumpkin, as my Dad says.

Write me!

Love,
Jessica