Meeting it halfway

Well, it's been a little while. Much like India, this blog feels unreal to me. I haven't dared to read over everything that I've written yet. I've been home for a little over three weeks, and I'm still waiting for that big culture shock. You know, the overwhelming wave of feeling out of place in your home country. Or maybe it's that flash of anger you're supposed to feel at the materialism and commercialism of America, especially during the holiday season.

But I haven't felt any of that. Nothing at all. The strangest moment I had was when I found myself staring at a bunch of bananas in our fruit bowl, all huge and perfectly yellow without a spot to be seen. I started thinking about the little finger-size bananas we'd buy on the street, all covered with brown spots as flies circled like vultures. That, to me, was real. These polished impostors couldn't have passed for even the most distant relative of our kaylas.

Honestly, "shock" would be the last word I'd use to describe my time home. If anything, it's felt too normal. I talked with some friends from the trip about it, but I feel as though India was some strange, feverish dream that I had a few weeks ago. It couldn't possibly have been real. I know that the past six months have changed me, and as I predicted earlier, I'm able to see the changes now that I'm home. But it scares me to think that the only things I'll carry back with me are personality changes that I can adapt to American life. Where did India go? Why don't I miss it?

When I was there, I definitely felt moments of panic in which I wanted nothing more than to liquidate my assets (right.. like I had assets...) and fly back home. But that was rare. Most of the time, even though I looked forward to returning home, I was truly living there. Sometime during the first few months, it ceased being a carnival ride that made me clutch for stability and started becoming a life. So, then, why don't I think of it? When I talk about it, and I mean talk about it, it comes back. Just a little, but it's better than nothing. I'm not talking about the awful "Oh! Sarah! You were in India, right? Did you have fun?" "Oh, yeah, it was great" exchange. I've had about enough of that. But when I can really sit down with somebody who I care about and trust to talk about the realities about it, I can see it a little more sharply. For a few minutes, the thousands of pictures that clutter my hard drive really did come from my camera. The shawls and statues that keep me company really did come from the other side of the world. But when the conversation ends and I hop into the heated, insulated car to drive across the frozen rain and snowy ground, it vaporizes.

And I'm not sure how I feel about that.

Love,
Sarah!

iPod: "Halfway Home," Jason Mraz

I'm home

It's early morning in Minnesota on December 11th. It's still completely dark outside, and I can hear the water running as my little brother takes a shower before school. I'd say that my mind's a blank, but's it's not true. Traveling home was such a swirl of emotions; sometimes I had no idea how I felt about anything. Coming into Chicago, I had to run to make my flight, which was pretty funny considering that I had two huge bags and no luggage cart. But I made it to the gate, and once I stopped long enough to look around me, it was so strange. For some reason, the London Heathrow airport hadn't bothered me, perhaps because I had no expectations for what it'd be like. But this was Chicago, and it stunned me.

Everybody was on cell phones, sitting a healthy distance apart from everybody else, lest an accidental brush of jacket sleeves occur. Outside, the airport was bathed in the pinkish glow of a sunset (yep, at 4 PM), and there was so much empty space I wasn't sure it was real. Getting on the plane in total darkness, I wasn't really sure what to do. I couldn't read, and listening to my iPod threatened to pull me into total emotional disarray. So I just sat.

Once the captain infomed us that we were beginning our descent into Minneapolis, I looked out the window. We'd just broken through the cloud cover, and everything down below was sparkling and shimmering as porch lights and headlights broke through the night. The entire ground below me was lit up with lines of light, and it looked a bit like the side of the world's most intricate Christmas tree. Downtown Minneapolis came into view, with the Wells Fargo tower and Metrodome alive with lights of their own, and everything slid into place. I wasn't panicked anymore. I wasn't angry that people looked and interacted differently than I'd remembered. I was coming home, and I couldn't wait to see my family.

Striding through the airport, I was a woman on a mission. I came down the escalator and saw my Dad sitting in a row of benches. I was about ten feet away before he recognized me, which is more than understandable considering I had about a foot more hair when he last saw me. We hugged, and only then did I start to cry.

Driving home was... well, driving home. There were a few seconds when I was confused about why we weren't on the other side of the road, but otherwise it felt strangely normal. Getting home, I was only excited to see my family. I wasn't nervous; I wasn't anxious. Everybody looked a little different (God, Harry's so tall!), but they'll always be my family.

Just as I was getting ready for bed, things swung back the other way. I've been battling God-knows-what-kind-0f-amoeba-or-parasite for the last few weeks, and I thought that I'd beaten it. Oh, no. I couldn't sleep, and my skin was all itchy. I felt helpless. I had just wanted to come home, hug everyone, and go to bed, since we'd been traveling for almost forty-eight hours. I started to cry, and as I had many times while in India, I wanted my Mommy. But she was right in the next room, and she came in and hugged me. Eventually, dazed and a little feverish, I fell asleep.

And now I'm awake, having risen from my marshmallow of a bed. My mind is full with what the coming weeks will bring, with everything that I'll get to do and all the people I'll get to hug. I have no obligations; I have nothing on my plate that I'm dreading. I know I won't be on this constant high forever, but for now, I'm flying.

Love,
Sarah

In your darkest time, it's just enough to know it's there

In four hours, I'll be on a bus to Mumbai on my way to catch a flight back to the US. It's a little strange. Ok, it's really strange. Ok, fine; I'm scared to death. I've spent so much of the past few weeks preparing to leave... getting things in order, packing, and saying goodbye to people. But it didn't really sink in until last night. I'd thought about the coming home part, but not about the leaving India part. I don't really know what to think. I've swung back and forth so many times between loving it here and not being able to wait to leave. There are so many things that I miss about home, but there are certain things here that have become a part of me. Sure, I'm pretty emotional, but this is ridiculous.

And it's not just being sad to leave India... it's being afraid of coming home. I realized that whenever I've thought about coming back home, I envisioned picking up right where I left off. I'd go to the same restaurants, be friends with the same people, regain the relationships that I'd lost. And to be honest, I really want that right now. But it might not be possible. I know that I've changed. I know it more now than I ever have before, and even though I know it's positive and necessary, not knowing what to expect when I get home is terrifying.

All that I've wanted over here is reassurance that things will be the same when I'm home. I need the knowledge that my friends are still my friends, that the city is still the way that I remember it, that I'll want the same things that I did before I left. I've been pursuing that through letters, through e-mails, through maintaining as many connections to home as I could. But I couldn't find that reassurance, because it's not guaranteed.

I've been craving a sense of security and stability over here, possibly because it's something that I haven't been able to find at all. I've made some friends over here, but I'm the most alone over here that I've ever been before. It sounds depressing, but it's really not. It's stretched me to find strength within myself that I didn't think was there. But either way, since I haven't been able to find consistency here, I've focused on home as being absolutely stable. It always has been before, so why shouldn't it now? And I know that some parts will be the same... It's not like nothing will be familiar. But I'm going to see some things differently. I might not connect with some of the same people who I've missed so much over here. And the most frustrating part is that I won't know how things will be until I'm actually there. I can't plan this out. I can't predict what Sunday will be like, or the following week, or next year.

And that really scares me.

Love,
Sarah

iPod: "Polaris," Jimmy Eat World

Indelible

Things that I'll never forget about India, whether I want to or not...

-Bhajiwallas pushing their carts in the morning, calling out their wares
-Women in bright saris clustered around tables of bangles in Tulsi Bagh
-Rickshaw-scooter confrontations with inches to spare
-Interrupting a nightly cockroach party when I go in to wash my feet
-Watching from my window as packs of dogs roam the street
-Shirtless, shoeless children grabbing at my arms while waiting in a traffic jam
-Riding on the back of a scooter, holding my breath as we nearly collide with a bhajiwalla
-Walking to yoga at night, passing tea stands and fruit vendors
-Kiran's flat in Mumbai with the marble terrace and perfect view of the city skyline
-Fish spread out in Varkala
-Non-A/C trains with people packed in every possible space
-The sea of bangles on Laxsmi Road
-Nightclubs that made me think of middle school dances, with guys and girls dancing with a foot of space between them
-Pirated DVDs, books, CDs that cover tarps spread along the sidewalks
-Going to wash my hands in the sink and seeing a pair of two-inch-long antennae waving at me from the drain
-The hissing noises that pass for catcalls
-The sound of the woman next door slapping the chapatti dough over the fire
-The smell of cooking food mingling with burning trash
-Men, women, children, and dogs napping wherever they find space, whether it's in the middle of the street, in a rickshaw, or on a bench
-The herds of goats that run around everywhere, eating garbage and blocking traffic
-Street food... roasted corn, guavas, roasted nuts, wada pav, juices, pani puri....
-Watching a man push giant stalks of sugarcane through a pulping machine
-The explosion of lights and colored fabrics that mark every festival
-Dancing in the street at midnight
-The Arabian Sea, as warm as a bath
-The crowds of men that I had to walk through to get home every day
-My next-door neighbor playing Hoobastank's "The Reason" every night for about half an hour
-Movie theaters with cell phones ringing and people moving around
-Opening my curtain one day to see a giant monkey watching me
-Hearing college boys talk in Marathi about us and then turning, glaring, and saying "Mi marathi bolte... za mur!" (I speak Marathi... go die!)
-Six bananas for eight cents
-The sudden, unexpected downpour or power outage or riot that would stop the city

Love,
Sarah!

iPod: "If You Don't, Don't," Jimmy Eat World

Middle Berth, completed

So, the play's officially complete. I put the finishing touches on it yesterday morning at my trust internet cafe. I actually cried a little, if you can believe it. I know... Sarah Lee, emotional? What is this business? It was an amazing feeling, actually. I hadn't realized how much of myself I'd put into this project until I finished it. It took up a lot of my time here, sure, but it took a piece of my heart to work on it as well. As I wrote in my introduction, the moment that I decided to interview women to write a play in India, I made the commitment to enter into others' lives. I start to believe in characters in novels that I'm reading, and they aren't even real. Well, debate's still out about Harry Potter, but I'm guessing you see what I'm saying.

Writing this was one of the most difficult things I've ever done. I sat for hours in our little ACM library, holed up with the door shut and the tape player on. When I'd been conducting my interviews, I figured that I was getting the hardest part out of the way. I asked the difficult questions, I tried to push through the language barrier, and I tried to capture each woman's story the best I could. But sitting in that room, listening to the disembodied voices pouring out their life stories, I almost couldn't do it. Some of my interviews had been surface-level and provided me with a comfortable distance. But others were honest, and they cut deeply.

One of my most intriguing interviews happened at the start of my project. I'd written a bit about my first weekend in Mumbai (I believe it was a "Part I" that I never added a "Part II" to), but I haven't really mentioned this interview. I'd gone to a flat in the city to interview a serial (soap opera) actress, and I'd met her mother during the process. Her mother, Anjalai, asked if I would like to speak with her as well. I had another hour or so left in my time there, so I put a fresh tape into the recorder and sat back to listen. She spoke a bit of English, a rare thing for a woman over seventy. I asked her to tell me a bit about her life, explaining that if she spoke in Hindi or Marathi I could get the tapes translated later. To me, the most important thing was that the women could feel comfortable expressing themselves.

With that cue, she began to speak. She started out in English, telling me about her work for the Indian government and her marriage to her late husband. After about five minutes, her eyes took on a faraway look as she slipped into Hindi. For the next hour and a half, I sat mesmerized as she told me her life story. She'd laugh and then become suddenly serious, at one point furiously wiping away tears. The entire interview (not that I asked questions, really) was in Hindi, but I was spellbound. Afterwards, she hugged me and thanked me, telling me that she had never told anyone what she'd just revealed to me. I had met her less than an hour earlier.

It was moments like that that instilled a fire within me. Sure, this was a fun project, but it become something so important that I was terrified of messing up, of not doing justice to the women who took the time and the faith to tell me about themselves. What I ended up writing could never be perfect, but it feels right. As I mentioned before, the process isn't over. I'll be returning to India whenever I can scrap the money together, because I have so much more to learn and write.

But so far, it's off to a good start. Since my interviews were with mostly middle- and upper-middle-class women, I chose Middle Berth as the title for this play. Once I get the copyright straightened out, I'll put it on here. Until then...

Love,
Sarah!

Thanksgiving?

This narration will be a bit late, but it got almost forgotten in the chaos and weirdness of these past few weeks. On Thanksgiving, a few of us left for Goa in the evening. There's an overnight bus from Pune, so we left around 9 PM and got in around the same time the next day. However, even though we would be spending the holiday on a tropical beach (muahahaha), we decided to do something before we left to honor the fake turkey that we would not be consuming.

In ACM, we have a tiny little kitchen with a camp stove and a fridge full of bagged milk (we have tea every day during break). However, there's a girl on our trip who's been missing American food even more than I have been, so her boyfriend sent her a huge box full of macaroni and cheese (!!!), instant mashed potatoes, Spaghetti O's, and the like. So, the spirit of bounty, four of us got together and made kitchen magic for the holiday.

We feasted on two boxes of mac and cheese (I know, we're crazy) and instant mashed potatoes. Now, I'm not sure how this is possible, but I'd never had instant mashed potatoes before. We stood in awe as Emily dumped the flakes into water and they instantly became potatoes. Hence the name, I suppose. Emily and I looked at each other. "They're potatoes from space!" she exclaimed. Space, or Betty Crocker... both are equally magical, in my opinion.

So there we sat, plastic bowls full of carbohydrates, collapsed in folding chairs or just leaning against the wall. We went around the room in true Midwestern fashion, saying what each one of us was thankful for. It was funny at first, but then we really started thinking. We ended up with a few happy tears dripping into our mac and cheese (as if it needs more salt). All in all, it was a nice moment.

And I got my macaroni. Perhaps it'll become a Lee Family tradition in the future...

Love,
Sarah!

iPod: "Losing My Religion," Scary Kids, Scaring Kids

More than words

It's sort of funny that I'm writing about this, since it sort of defeats the purpose the the entire train of thought. But it's Saturday, and my day is packed with wandering around Pune, my dwindling rupees not burning a hole in my pocket. So here I am, in typical form.

I wrote an entry a few days back summarizing everything I'd been thinking about over these past few weeks. It didn't post correctly, and I ended up losing everything I'd written. At first I was annoyed, but then it started to make sense. I have a bit of a problem, and this blog is evidence of it. For most of my life, I've been obsessed with words. Reading them, writing them, speaking them. I grew up with mountains of books by my bed, notebooks full of short stories and poetry packing my bookshelves, and a mouth that wouldn't stop moving. I came to trust words and sentences and feel like there wasn't anything that could elude their power to bind and condense even the most complex topic. No matter what the issue at hand was, talking it out and writing about it could fix it. As a result, I've become a pretty good communicator. Too good, to be honest. I talk everything out, and I mean everything. It's useful most of the time, but not when answers aren't easily ready or even possible.

And it's true... you can't always talk an issue to death to force it to make sense. I decided years ago to err on the side of saying too much rather than not saying enough. It makes my life easier. Instead of letting little things build up and affect a relationship negatively, I say what's on my mind as soon as I feel it. If anything, I over-think and over-communicate. But that, to me, is infinitely preferable to painful silence. Sometimes it gets me in trouble, but it's been worth it.

I'd never thought of it as a luxury. It was just how I was, for better or for worse (depends on who you ask). But here, it's not that easy. Some things that I've been noticing here just don't make any sense. I've talked it out with myself, with friends, on this blog... but there aren't always answers. And I don't like that. It's uncomfortable, not finding a solution. In my mind, if I can articulate something, then I can fix it. Noticing a problem and then leaving it undiscussed drives me crazy. But I'm not in Orono, Minnesota anymore.

And then there are factors that I talked about yesterday. I can't always say what I think because of what would happen if I did. I know that there are consequences to being too open; I just don't think about them until it's too late. My mom called me last night after hearing about the riots in Pune and then after reading my blog, and we talked about it for a while (ha). I've taken for granted this freedom of expression, whether it's in a poli sci class or just talking with people who I love. It's a strong part of who I am, but it's not unconditional. It's ridiculous to me that I never realized it before. I'm not going to change, but I'll think about it more.

Somewhere, in the midst of one billion people speaking languages that I don't understand, I learned something about silence. Probably about time, I suppose.

Love,
Sarah!

iPod: "Hum Along," Ludo

I saw red.

I do believe that yesterday was my low point in India. There have been too many high points to count and mostly just awkward points that lie somewhere in the middle. Honestly, I haven't been so angry at another human being since... well, probably since I was about five.

I know that I've written in here a bit about my host family, mostly earlier on in the trip when my comments were general and cultural rather than specific. I guess I didn't really want to get into it, since even though this started out as a journal, it's public. But right now, I just need to write about this or I'll go crazy. OK, crazier.

Things have been up, down, and all over the place since I've moved in. There have been some amazing experiences when I've felt close to them. Most of the time it's just weird, which is understandable given the cultural and language differences. Sometimes they won't speak to me for a day, and I'll have no idea why. When they have guests over, I'm usually told to remain in my room. It used to bother me quite a bit in the beginning, but I'm fine with it now. If nothing else, I've learned to toughen up and when to shut up. I know, I never thought I'd see the day either. Normally I say what's on my mind, usually as tactfully as possible. But here, I don't really have that luxury. Technically, I have the freedom to say what I want, which I have a few times, but a person can only take so much of the silent treatment that inevitably follows. So usually, I just sit back, smile, and think about something else.

But last night I just couldn't. I'd been feeling sick for a few days but chose not to go to the doctor. I'd feel better each afternoon and figure that I could tough it out, but then in the evening I'd get pretty sick. After a few months here, it didn't really seem like a big deal. I'd been sick before. I'd planned on going to the doctor yesterday, but there were riots all across Pune (all across Maharashtra, really) as the result of the defacing of a Dalit statue. The Dalit (previously called Untouchable) caste still faces a oppression from everyone else, even though the caste system's technically illegal. But it's sort of like outlawing racism or sexism... it doesn't root the problem out, just officially covers it up. So there were riots yesterday around the city that eventually spread to the rest of the state. Protestors were running around certain areas of the city in mobs, and several trains were set on fire. I was in a safe area, but ACM still told us to stay in the Deccan area and not go to shops or businesses. I went over to my friend's house in Deccan, supposedly to study Marathi, but really to watch some episodes of Friends. I'd never seen it before, and it definitely hooked me. But, regardless, businesses were closed, and there was no way I could've gotten to the doctor. Besides, I was feeling better.

At dinner that night, my host parents asked me why I hadn't gone to the doctor. I explained the situation with the riots, and they didn't really want to hear what I had to say. My host father started berating me for not going, which I kept telling myself was just his saying that he was concerned. I told them that I appreciated that they were looking out for me.

Somehow this led us to the topic of one of the other girls in my program who had switched host families a few months earlier. She hadn't been happy with her host father, but she stuck it out and hoped things would get better. They didn't. Her host father made blatant sexual advances at her, and she moved out. She is one of the strongest people on the program, and probably put up with it longer than she should have. But my host father started talking about how you "can't clap with one hand," and how the girl had deserved the advances. It takes two to tango, even if the tango involves unwanted sexual advances from a married man who she's supposed to see as a father figure. My host father had met this girl once, and apparently her body language and way of talking justified such behavior on her host father's part. She'd asked for it, apparently. Nevermind the fact that she was living in this man's house with his wife and two children, and that the man was more than twice her age.

I just sat there at the dinner table, not sure whether I'd start yelling or crying first. He then had the audacity to tell me that surely, I must agree with him. I just didn't know what to do. Every inch of me was screaming to set him straight or at least to politely disagree. But I just couldn't take what I knew would follow. I'd seen him argue with his wife, and he would never admit when he was wrong. I knew that if I voiced my opinions, there was no way that I'd escape the dinner table with any sort of composure. And I would not cry in front of him.

So I just sat there. "I see what you mean," I said, and betrayed everything that I believe about standing up for yourself and what you know is right. Certain cultural things cannot be challenged, and I'd let a lot of potential arguments go because of this. But this is a family who has hosted dozens of students before. The father has traveled all over Europe. They have a son who loves watching American movies and the latest Bollywood production. And this was wrong. I don't give a damn if it was cultural or not.

After what seemed like an eternity, I excused myself and crawled back into my room. Blasting the angriest music that I own on my iPod, I sat seething, both at him and myself. I picked my my phone to call a friend before remembering that there's no place in the house you can talk privately. India has taught me when to keep my mouth shut, and I know that this can be valuable. But there are lines you just don't cross, and this was one of them. Even now, I wish that I'd said something. I wish I'd told him exactly what I thought and not cared how he reacted. I'm only here for a week more. It may not be constructive, it may not be wise, but at least it would've been right. I've had enough.

Love,
Sarah

iPod: "Gun In Hand," Stutterfly, "Cross Out the Eyes," Thursday

Pictures from the North

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Rupees and Guilt

So, here's an original post from an American abroad in India... Lately I've been feeling guilty. Not just sort of, "Oh Gee, I sure come from wealth" kind of guilty. It's the sort of guilty that makes me feel that maybe, just maybe, I've been wrong.

When I decided to come to India, I decided to prepare myself by reading every possible source I could find. I read fiction, history, and those infamous guidebooks/survivial guides/rough guides/tourist guides. At least one section of each tourist guide talked about beggars, explaining that giving money only perpetuates the cycle and that donations discourage them from finding jobs. I was able to sort of process this back before I left, sitting in my cozy, air-conditioned room. It made sense, I supposed. Apparently, the only way to make it through a semester would be to become jaded, which I didn't want to do. I'd been warned by nearly everyone who I met that India would be tough on me, mostly because of what I'd see in my everyday encounters. And it's true. Things upset me easily, especially seeing other people suffer. So, I'd resigned myself to getting upset over here.

But the blinders went up. When I first arrived, I couldn't fathom the way that Indian citizens were able to ignore legless women sitting on the curb and starving children pulling at their shirtsleeves. It seemed callous and inhuman to ignore it. I didn't know what I should do, exactly, but I knew it had to be something. The months went by, and I started to get less and less upset. I'd read articles in the Indian Express about beggars who were offered jobs but turned them down because the jobs paid less than a day of begging. An amazing girl on my trip, Sara, came up with the solution of giving food to children instead of money. After a few times, we noticed the children tossing the food to the ground as soon as we turned our backs. It was disheartening, to say the least. I believed, and possibly still believe, that giving coins to children doesn't help. It goes to their families, who are then probably encouraged to put their barefoot children back on the streets to weave through traffic. But then, what do you do?

I started ignoring it. It makes me feel horrible to say it, but that's what I've been doing since October or so. Telling myself that I couldn't really do anything, since food was wasted and money would encourage it, seemed to help. But, to use an already overused expression, it was like putting a Band-Aid over a bruise. When the logical disconnect of hanging up my cell phone to deny a rupee to a beggar started to pick at my brain, I just shut it off. But I don't know if I can do that anymore.

The last thing that I want is a few nice, cleansing, alleviate-my-guilt-from-white-priviledge paragraphs followed by months of inaction. That's not going to cut it anymore. The truth is, I do next to nothing to help others around me. I make some money at campus jobs, but I donate next to nothing of it. I spend hours reading Stephen King, but no time reading to children. Why? I don't want to think that I'm so selfish. But maybe I am.

So, what brougth on this surge of confusion and waking up? I wish I could say it was a poignant, Hallmark Channel-worthy moment with a little girl. Nope. It was reading John Grisham's The Street Lawyer. Figure that one out. Now that I've acklowledged my self-inflicted blindness and justifications, I need to do something about it. If I don't, then thoughts like this and writing like this are pretty much worthless.

Love,
Sarah!

iPod: "Pain," Jimmy Eat World; "23," Jimmy Eat World

Awkward Turtle

The Urban Dictionary defines "awkward turtle" as "[a hand motion to use] when in an awkward moment. Place your hands on top of each other, and spin your thumbs forward. Thus creating the creature know as awkward turtle."

I first heard of this concept through some friends at CC, and I've grown to use this motion in tense and/or awkward situations. These situations ranged from simply funny to really rather uncomfortable. However, I had never known the true meaning of an awkward turtle situation until yesterday.

I'd spent the weekend in Mumbai, shopping, sleeping, not working on my project, and shopping a little more. After an exhausting weekend of the previously mentioned, Tim, Gemma, and I hopped onto a bus to get back to Pune. The easiest (and quickest) way to get back is via AC bus, a coach-style contraption with windows that don't open to the muggy air outside, hence allowing for the maximum cooling factor. I'd been feeling a little off all day, but I'd just assumed it was from staying out late the night before. I'd been joking for the past few weeks how remarkable it was that I hadn't been sick yet in India and that my time must be near. But as our bus prepared to get on the Pune-Mumbai expressway and my mouth started to salivate, it wasn't so funny anymore.

The bus stopped quickly to pick up a few last passengers, and I ran to the front. The driver had just closed the doors and couldn't understand why I was trying to get out of the bus. It took several seconds of pantomiming what was about to happen before he grudgingly opened the door. I leapt out into the busy streets of Mumbai, knelt next to a pile of trash, and "lost my lunch," as they say.

Stranger things happen on the street every day, and nobody gave me a second glance. I sat there, trying not to faint, and realized that the bus driver was honking at me. I suppose he wanted me to hurry up and finish vomiting so we could be on our way. A stray dog came over to sniff me, and I looked at him weakly. Hey, buddy. Got a napkin?

Awkward, yes. But I feel like it's important to balance out my meandering poetry about pretty mountains and spiritual moments. Such is life, right? At least it's funny now. Oh, by the way, the play is coming along nicely.

Love,
Sarah!

iPod: "Polaris," Jimmy Eat World

Brangelina in Pune

Just when I think I'm done writing for the next month or so (um... six entries in about two days?), something else happens that I just can't ignore or skip writing about.

So, I've alluded briefly to the Angelina Jolie film, A Mighty Heart, that's been filming in Pune for the past few weeks. The buildup alone is worth writing about, actually. I've heard some people tease Americans about being obsessed with Hollywood and celebrity lives, but for the entire week before Angelina and Brad's arrival in Pune, the Pune Times couldn't write enough about the couple. One day in early October, the entire front page was covered with articles about the food that they'd be eating, where they'd be staying, which movies we'd recognize them from... basically everything but the plot of the movie they were coming here to shoot. But hey, I'm glad it was seen in a positive light.

A few months ago, we'd had auditions for roles of extras in the film. The audition consisted of showing up, smiling for a Polaroid, and writing down our contact info. We hadn't heard anything by the time we left for our Epic Trip, so I figured I'd better just forget about it.

The day before we returned to Pune, a few of us received e-mails letting us know that our presence was requested on the set the next day. Well, sure! Over the next two weeks, I ended up going to the set five different times to be a pushy reporter. The scenes were shot in the Sindh Society, one of the ritziest areas of Pune. At the start of each day, we'd be ushered to the "cast house," a sort of giant green room filled with costumes and British people in equal numbers. After the quick glance-over and addition of a scarf by the costume directors, we shuffled off to the set, cameras (without film, of course) and press badges in tow. We'd shoot for a few minutes, usually screaming "Just one question, Miss Pearl!" or "Over here; just one minute of your time!" before being told that the energy was too high, too low, or both at the same time.

Many of the scenes were miniature battles between the Pakastani Army and the "International Press," aka any European-looking people the casting director could dig up. We were supposed to try to get a picture of Mariane Pearl, aka Miss Jolie, and the guards were supposed to stop us. I quickly figured out after being on the set for three weeks, the actors playing guards forgot about the acting part. They constantly chided us for talking and would yell, "Back, madam!" whenever the director walked up to talk with us. Once I told them off with some fractured Marathi, they just laughed instead of pushing us back. Much better, in my opinion.

The first day on the set was fairly ridiculous. Our call time was one PM, and we finished that night around ten-thirty. The actors playing guards got fairly enthusiastic about keeping us at bay, and I have the bruises to prove it. I even bounced off the trunk of a parked car once. However, it was worth it for me just to be in the proximity of film in the making. And then there was the minor detail of Angelina being inside the car window that I was scrunched up against. I tell ya, if there'd been film in my prop camera, I would've gotten the shot of the day.

After a day of filming, we'd walk over to the production house to get paid. After our second day of work, I was just stuffing my thousand-rupee note into my purse when I realized that the girls who lived in the house next door to the office were screaming their heads off. I looked up just in time to bump into Brad Pitt, who was heading into the production office as we were leaving. Right... what just happened?

During my time on the set, I was elbowed, pushed against cars, used as a subject for camera phone photography, and laughed at as I tried to speak Marathi. I also got to see the inside world of film production, learning about different camera lenses and speaking to the art director, Mark, about film and life in general. It was one of the best weeks that I've had in India. I hadn't realized how much I missed drama until I got onto the set again. I hadn't done much work with film, but I got the same feeling there that I do whenever I'm on stage or working back stage. I need one of these experiences once or twice a year to keep me on the course that I'm on. It reminds me how much I love theatre and film, and reassures me that it'll all be worth it in the end.

So, when A Mighty Heart comes out, look for an awkward girl with short blonde hair yelling at a car. That'll be me.

Love,
Sarah!

iPod: "Work," Jimmy Eat World

Intimidation, Part Seven: The End?

Whew.. almost done. After this post, the memories of 5 October- 29 October will be forever preserved, or at least until the Internet disappears. You never know.

Our last stop was Varkala, a touristy but supposedly beautiful stretch of beach south of Aleppy. Our plans after Kanyakumari were open-ended, and after the chaos of the previous three weeks it didn't take much convincing for us to decide to lie on the beach for the last three days. Since Gemma and Zach had gone ahead, our hotel was already reserved and all we had to do was show up.

We arrived at the Dream Shore Resort, driving up through palm trees to a immaculately painted, deluxe-looking hotel set on the edge of a cliff overlooking the ocean. With our budget of Rs. 200 per night flashing warning signs in my brain, we agreed to look at the room. Our philosophy for hotels was basically "the cheaper the better, as long as the cockroach-girl ratio didn't exceed 10 to 1. However, the low price of the room was only the first of many pleasant surprised we'd receive in Varkala.

After checking in, I walked up to the cliff's edge. From the hotel, it looked as though we were the only people around for miles. When I reached the edge of the cliff, I looked to my left and was shocked to see an endless line of restaurants and stores advertising Mexican food, American breakfasts, real coffee, cheap necklaces, and everything in between. To my right was nothing but pristine black sand and endless ocean. Awww, yeah.

The next three days were a blur of excellent shopping, lying on the beach, reading in a hammock, getting pounded by huge waves, dancing the night away, and good American food (don't get me wrong; I love Indian food as much as the next person. But we all know how I feel about pasta and bean burritos). Every so often I'd look around and ask myself how the heck this had happened. I know that what we were seeing was a tourist-censored, overly clean and artificial version of South India. But Varkala really gave a new meaning to the concept of "vacation." There was a different pace of life here. Nobody was in a hurry about anything, which definitely included the restaurant staff. Anywhere else, I would've been agitated about a two-hour-long dinner, but I couldn't object to lingering over dessert while looking at the ocean.

Our last day, I decided to glue myself to the beach. I read in the sun and fell asleep until a giant wave swamped me, sending my book flying and solicited a giant, comical squeak from yours truly. Clouds had descended on the beach while I slept, and I could feel a storm brewing. Most of the other tourists had left for more sheltered quarters, and after a few minutes I was the only one left. The ocean turned the indescribable pre-storm color that I love so much, and I walked out into the water just as the rain started to fall. It felt like a bookend to the Om room and the way that I'd felt... so alive and awake and me. Varkala had come in like an impossible illusion and come out with beautiful meaning. Such is India, I suppose.

Love,
Sarah!

iPod: "Goodbye, Goodnight," Mae

Intimidation, Part Six: The Ocean and The Spirit

From Kumily, we traveled by bus to Aleppy, also known as Alappuzha. Since the second is nearly impossible to pronounce (go ahead, try it!), we reverted back to the British, pre-Independence name. I felt bad, but after the first few stumbling Ah-la-um...-poo-tsa...um...s, Ah-lep-pee won over. Normally pronunciation is easy now that we know how to read the script. Instead of our insane Roman characters that have a dozen or so different sounds apiece, each letter in the Devanagari script has just one sound, or "one sound only." However, in the south, that script isn't used. I didn't realize how much we relied on being able to read the street signs until we arrived down here. Instead of confidently striding to the correct bus, we now relied on a shaky network of "English" and the kindness of strangers.

Nevertheless, we found our bus. After the usual flurry of stuffing our (ok, my) overly large bags under the seats and scrambling for sitting space, we set off down south to Aleppy, a major backwater cruise hub and casual beach town. I already mentioned how much water dominates the landscape here, but before this bus ride, it was limited to snatches of ponds and shallow lagoons. Here, we were driving next to the ocean, which came to life as the sun went down and the palm trees cast tangled shadows into the water. Listen to Mae's live version of "Sun" and you'll get the same feeling of beauty and awe.

Needless to say, our first stop after getting off the bus was the beach. The hotel manager directed us down a side street bustling with fish sellers and children hawking shell necklaces. Arriving at the beach in total darkness, we ran towards the sound of lapping waves. I ran knee-deep in the water the temperature of bathwater. Now, when I say "bathwater," I mean bathwater. My dad's (in)famous for plunging into frigid lakes and insisting that the water's balmy. Sure, Dad. Growing up on the edge of the Pacific, I learned that oceans aren't ever really warm. Apparently I'd never been to the Arabian Sea after the monsoon season.

After splashing for a few minutes, we wandered down the deserted beach towards the activity a hundred yards down the shore. Little crab shadows scampered out of our way as the breeze blew salt against our faces. Shop lights and the glow from beach fires bobbed up ahead as we walked, searching for our friends in the clumps of people up ahead. Somehow we'd stumbled on this perfect stretch of deserted beach. We'd find out the next day that we'd been frolicking in Aleppy's public latrine, but for now, ignorance (not to mention a strong breeze) was bliss.

We found our friends along the road and found our houseboat the next morning. Alex and Gemma had already bartered for the boat a few days earlier, so all we had to do was hop onto our drifting palace. The houseboat was absolutely huge, with cavernous rooms and a staff of four to cook for us and navigate the boat. We drifted down canals flanked by palm trees, watching dhobis (clothes washers) beat the living daylights out of dirty clothes on rocks by the river. That evening, we were treated to another blazing sunset cut against palm trees and power lines. The combination was strangely beautiful, actually.

After our boat journey, half of our group headed down to Kanyakumari while Gemma and Zach headed for Varkala, our final destination. Kanyakumari, the southernmost part of India, is located in the neighboring state of Tamil Nadu. The first morning we arrived, I decided to be ambitious and get up at five AM to watch the sunset with Sara, Danielle, and Alex. We headed down to the breakwater that marks the last bit of southern land before Antarctica as the first bits of light stretched over the horizon. Those bits of light were the extent of what we'd see, as the morning sun turned into a drizzle and then into a squall. We retreated back to the hotel for another few minutes of sleep (ok, I'm the only one who went back to sleep), and by the time I'd gotten back up an hour later, the air was clear again.

Kanyakumari is a tourist destination, but only for fellow Indians. It's a site of religious pilgrimage, so even though the area was choked with tourists, we still stood out. We took the short ferry ride across choppy waters to the famous ashram on an island. Walking through the temple was interesting but strangely uninspiring. That's what I've found with most temples over here, actually... the ancient, historical temples are beautiful to me, but I don't really find much of a spiritual connection there. In the old but still used temples, the crackle of burning oil and soot-smeared walls are more palpable, more real. In this pristine and eerily silent stone temple, I looked around politely before exiting out the back. On my way out, I passed a sign near a narrow door listing about fifty different rules. The door led to a mediation chamber, and the rules demanded silence and focus. Danielle, Sara, and I looked at each other nervously before tiptoeing in.

As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I could see the hulking shadows of a dozen or so people sitting cross-legged on a thin carpet. The only light came from a glowing green "om" in the front of the room. "Om" is an essential part of Hindu spirituality. I'd try to explain it, but I don't fully grasp it myself. After a class on Indian philosophy and almost half a year in India, it's still a fluid concept. Meditating on "om" is supposed to be powerful and a strong way to focus. Back in my class at CC, we meditated by speaking/singing the word, but this room was silent. I figured I'd give it a try, anyway.

After my breathing slowed to a constant rhythm, I realized that the room wasn't silent after all. Very soft, subtle tones rose and fell with the sound of the waves outside. I'm not sure exactly where the humming sounds came from, but I was reminded of a place in San Francisco that my parents used to take my brother and me when we were younger. There's a place called the wave organ settled within some of the rocks on the coast where cement pipes have been placed. If the weather's just right and you're quiet enough, you can hear the ocean air and waves blowing through the pipes like the sound you make blowing across the top of a glass bottle. The result is an eerie, beautiful piece of music. I haven't been back to the wave organ for half a decade. In the Om room, I heard those sounds again.

I'm not sure exactly what happened next, but I know that sitting in that room, I felt a peace that I hadn't experienced before. The wave organ and the glowing Om settled into one, and everything just left me. The trip had been an amazing experience, but traveling through and living in India had tensed my muscles. In that room, I realized what I'd been doing the past few months. Somewhere in the last month or two, "living in India" became just "living." I've talked a little about how things that shocked me in the beginning seem normal now. I suppose it's a sign of adjusting and assimilating into the culture, but I'd almost forgotten what I was doing here. My casual acceptance of the differences had led me to forget how amazing it is over here. I'd almost adjusted too much, to the point of apathy. But in that room with the waves crashing and singing around me, something brought me back, and I was in awe.

Love,
Sarah!

iPod: "Sun (Live)," Mae, "Embers and Envelopes," Mae

Intimidation, Part Five: Jungle Trek

After a fitful night's sleep, we woke up at the crack of dawn for a jungle trek that we'd scheduled. The hotel owner's uncle offered to take us on a trek on the edge of the sanctuary, away from the other tourists (read: illegal). He greeted us in the morning with khaki-colored knee socks, which we were to pull on over our pants and under our shoes. Once we reached the edge of the jungle, he pulled out a bag of what looked like powdered cinnamon. He pulled out pinches and flung them over the khaki socks, saying only, "Leeches coming." We gathered that the powder would keep the leeches from coming, at least somewhat.

Our guide (I'll call him Stan, for simplification) then proceeded to act like something out of an Indiana Jones movie, tiptoeing and then leaping from place to place. He spotted a tree with bark scraped off and jumped over, wiping his finger in the sap and sniffing it suspiciously. "Elephants coming," he whispered. A few feet farther, we found elephant dung near a pile of fallen branches. He reached down, his hand hovering milimeters from the dung. "Elephants, evening," he informed us before striding silently ahead. We all exchanged looks and followed.

Walking through the jungle catapulted me into a time and place that seemed familiar yet surreal. In the six AM sunlight that filtered through the canopy, we could see endless trees and vines covered by a thick mist. The only sounds were insects and howler monkeys up in the trees, sounding like ghosts as they called out to each other. The only movement was Stan ahead of me, pointing out a footprint or a colorful spider to my left. For the first time since Jibhi, I felt a sense of solitary calm.

Five minutes later, I ran straight into Stan as he suddenly stopped and motioned for us to listen. Straining, I could hear leaves rustling about a hundred meters away. He raised one finger to his lips and whispered, "Problem elephants. We coming." A three-hour-long cat-and-mouse game ensued as we tried to catch a glimpse of the elephants without them knowing we were there. A month ago, several people had been killed by elephants near here, he informed us. Most elephants are peaceful and relatively silent, but "problem elephants" scrape the bark off trees and crash through the underbrush.

We had been perched in one area for about fifteen minutes, and I'd started staring off into space when suddenly a giant bottom appeared through the mist. I held my breath as the bottom turned into an elephant flipping her trunk over her shoulder. Seeing the elephants the day before had been powerful, and this nearly knocked me over. There were four of them all together, casually munching their way through the jungle. Once in a while we'd hear a snurffle as one would sigh, the air blowing out through his or her trunk. In that moment, watching the elephants with the mist swirling around my legs and the howler monkeys' soft hooting above me, everything was as it should have been.

Love,
Sarah!

iPod: "Table For Glasses," Jimmy Eat World