VC as Crazy Bitch & the Grace Initiative

I should start this by saying that Egypt has been a very strange place in terms of emotional growth. I think I'm a more mature person than I was two years ago (thanks to aging in general, and thanks to my specific experiences abroad), but I also think that if I have made unambiguous cumulative maturity advances, I've also regressed in some ways that should be taken seriously, namely in the domain of romance and how I deal with my romantic partners.

I remember telling Desi, last year, that my near-relationship with Y and its ultimate (and final, thankfully) decline from rollercoaster romance to solid friendship made me realize the disappointing ways in which I was reverting to pre-Pookie romantic patterns.

Let's be clear: I was hardly the ideal boyfriend with Pookie. There were times, in fact, when I was so jealous and accusatory that, once I'd regained my senses, the rational/calm me was questioning of HIS sanity in staying with me.

To be tangential: I remember, once, going to Pookie's place, and on my way I was calling and calling...no answer...so then I ring the doorbell, as I knew he should have been home, already, from taking an ex-boyfriend to a Yankee's game...no answer...I ring again...no answer. Then, after about three minutes (which is actually a long time to get from the living room, two meters away, to the door) he answered and I was surprised to find his ex there with him and the air tense with what I perceived as post-fooling around guilt.

Now, one of the problems with being extremely observant, intuitive, and intelligent, is that you always think you're right, which is to say Pookie was tried and convicted before a word was spoken.

If you've ever seen the scene in Evita where she goes to Peron's house and kicks out his old playmate, then my attitude was not dissimilar. I think after a few minutes of saccharine sweet conversation my exact words were: "So where did you say you lived again?...Oh, so you live close to the subway; that's great...Well it was nice meeting you! Do you want us to walk you, now, to the subway, or you can make it on your own?"

He left and I immediately confronted Pookie with what WAS sketchy, but not necessarily guilty, behaviour. He explained to me that he didn't want to get up to answer the phone while X was in the middle of a rather serious discussion about his own life (Pookie is a regular screener, anyway, so I usually know it's unlikely that I'll get through), and that he wasn't going to be so rude as to leap of the sofa while his friend was in mid sentence to run to the door to see who was there.

To this day, part of me still wonders if there was something going on, but the fact is that then and now I found Pookie's sincerity convincing (even if small doubts lingered), and in reality, being in a relationship with someone means trusting him, and part of me growing up has meant accepting that, and not running around like a paranoid psycho worried all the time that I'm being lied to. I think Pookie and I respect each other too much for that.

Pookie, in the way that so far only he has been able to really do, diffused my paranoia and made me return to earth. He was neither dramatic in his affirmations (there was no "But you know I'd DIE for our love!" or anything so artificial as that) nor was he overly-harsh in his perry and riposte ("I have NOTHING to defend, here, and you are being a psychotic child in your paranoia")...he was just sincere ("Well Chunk, you're talking to me like a prosecutor or something, and I'm telling you nothing was going on...I'm not interested in him at all").

What was so amazing about Pookie is that he not only managed to calm me down, but he also managed to diffuse the post-fit shame. I suddenly realized that I was standing there accusing one of the best people I'd ever met, let alone had the fortune of dating, of cheating on me, and that I was doing it in an obscenely immature way, and all I could think was: "He's too good for this. He's too good for someone as ruined as I am..." I was so disgusted with myself for that, and yet he managed to say to me that yes, I over-reacted, but it wasn't something to break-up over, and all couples face these kinds of issues and move through them.

The guy is a gem.

I want to make a sidenote, here, about paranoia and cheating:

I think there's a lot of truth to the theory that people who are overly-jealous or paranoid about being cheated on are that way because they are the ones cheating, and it's their own transgressions that inform their imaginations.

That said, I think there is an alternative path to paranoia and jealousy, which you travel-down after being totally screwed viz. male rolemodels (ie: dad) and then having that trauma compounded by a first gay relationship at a destructiveness level that those who have been close readers of this blog know about.

Growing up, and I just realized this tonight (I'll get back to HOW I realized this, later), I saw a father that was the epitome of the swinging bachelor, and seeing his constant game-playing, lies, cheating, and trail of ruined women in his path, I don't think it was even possible for me to understand "male" (or more specifically: "boyfriend" or "sexualized male") and "honest" or "safe" as descriptors that could simultaneously be assigned to a man.

Part of finally understanding that you are gay, and finally allowing yourself to, in my case, let ANY man be trusted enough to even be your friend (I don't think it's a coincidence that I had an untrustworthy father and thereafter only had female friends), let alone your lover, is letting go of that fear that a man (even a boy...a schoolmate...anyone who will eventually become the lying, sexualized male) will do to you what your father did to others, and giving a man a chance.

We all know what happened the first time I gave a man that chance, and with my relationship with Pookie beginning (on 13 February 2004) barely more than 5 months after my relationship with the evil Russian ended, I think it's understandable that "damaged goods" would barely even begin to encompass what was going on with me, emotionally, with significant spillover effects into my relationships.

That said, a lot of what was healing about Pookie was that I DID trust him. He's wonderful. He respected me, was honest with me, and sometimes, to my disbelief, he adored me. Receiving love (or whatever it is he'd prefer to call it) is VERY healing, and it makes you value it so much that you want to give it back, and you commit yourself to loving and healing others. (but that's not the point, here)

Back to Cairo...

I think that the amount of dishonesty built into a society where men believe that their survival depends on lying about their sexuality (and, by extension, the survival of their families, their religion, their state...the sky would FALL if nature were so wildly violated as for homosexuality to exist and be acknowledged...it would be total anarchy -- or so they like to believe) is destabilizing for someone like me (for all of us, really). I also think that this directly contributed to certain backward-stepping, on my part, to pre-Pookie levels of paranoia.

I do not trust nearly as much as I did before I moved to Egypt. Not only do I not longer trust men as much as I did before, but I don't trust phone companies, waiters, landlords...I don't trust PEOPLE as much as I did before I moved here, and certainly not a man who will call me "habibi" or try to have sex with me.

That said, even if I understand this (and I've only understood it with this clarity for, like, 45 minutes, now), I don't like it, and I won't stand for it.

Why do I mention this? I had a date tonight.

Preface: about a week and a half ago, someone messaged me on MSN (Microsoft messenger...an email-based chat program structured according to "buddy lists"...not Man Search Now, or something, for all you straighties with wild imaginations) and said "I noticed that your are on my old email account, but I don't know who you are" and indeed he was on my list, and I didn't know who he was. We were talking, he was a 25yo painter -- aka: not my type -- and without any discussion of status or sex roles or anything of the sort (which would normally be the most important ingredients to a chat between two gay men in Cairo) we agreed to go to dinner. It was one of my first "normal" dates (I'm sure Desi loves the normative values reinforced throughout this entry lol) since moving to Cairo.

He's decent, polite, smart, and if not INCREDIBLY charismatic, and if not TOTALLY my type, and if not FULLY adorned with all the markers of success that would be important in a society like this one (where, for instance, the fact that he went to Cairo University and not a British or American school is only IN PART compensated-for by his BMW and summer studies at UCLA), he is (most importantly, I'm remembering) someone I just instinctively feel I can trust.

We've had three dates, all of which I can candidly admit were rather polluted by my Cairene baggage, and he's just NICE. We've never even kissed, never discussed sex, actually (and NO Desi, I'm not saying "We are BETTER for this, because sex is bad and I hate gay people," so get OVER your critique of me as a homophobe!) and in a way that is eerily similar to Pookie, he weathers my weirdness with surprising dexterity and tolerance (which is NOT to say he enables me!).

Tonight, though, I crossed a line. I over-reacted. I was immature.

He has a tendency to talk on the phone when we are together, which is a pet peeve of mine in general. I tend to think of myself as very considerate, as far as cell phone etiquette is concerned, and ALWAYS apologize to whomever I'm eating with (even platonic female friends) if I have to take a call while at the table, and I ALWAYS minimize the length of that call. That said, he usually does tell me "Sorry this is my dad, do you mind?" or "it's international, so just give me a few minutes, ok?" with a level of considerateness that FAR superceedes that of most Egyptians.

Tonight, though, as I said, I crossed a line. We left a cafe to go to a restaurant (what can I say? Sex-free dates are highly-caloric!), and on the street on the way back to the car I noticed him look up at the building we were passing, and open his phone. He told me to wait while he stood there and made a call, in Arabic, with no explanation (it was only due to my freakishly-good powers of observation that I noticed his eyes dart upward before making the call, so I could assume he was calling a friend in the building). He then, after telling me to wait, told me we could keep walking, walked me to the car, opened my door, and motioned for me to get in and wait. He expected to pace up and down the street, speaking to I don't know who in a language I don't understand, while I wait like a lap dog in the car for who knows how long?

Certainly NOT.

We were sort of joking in our gestures: My hands waving, shutting the door and not getting in "No, I'm not getting in. What's going on?" His body-language reply, smiling: "Just get in! I'll be right there!" Me calling him, half-jokingly, on the other line, to tell him to hurry up; him again motioning for me to get in the car....

Me feeling insulted and losing patience.

Me walking away and getting in a taxi while he was not paying attention.

Me forgetting my keys were in his car.

Me waiting on the street, locked out of my building at 2:30AM trying in vein to get ahold of him.

Him coming back. Us talking. Me trying to explain with a level of articulateness so incredibly low that one might think English was my third language. Him disarming me with a big smile and (out of his control) that sense that, as I said, he was trustworthy.

What happened, then?

I tried to explain to him that I knew I over-reacted, but that I thought he had been extremely rude. As he said, and as I acknowledged, I could have won (this connects to the idea of grace, later) if I'd just waited patiently and then said to him: "That was really rude." Instead, I lost all my credibility by over-reacting and having to be the one apologizing. I explained to him that it didn't matter to me -- winning or losing, looking crazy or not -- what mattered was that I felt disrespected and had to exit that situation.

Of course, part of it is that he DID fail to go through the usual motions of "sorry this will just be 5 minutes" or "a friend from Sydney...just wait in the car, ok?" or any of the things that would have increased my tolerance from a zero to a perfect ten, and part of it is also that when you combine the trust issues that have resurfaced in Cairo with the fact that he was rattling away in a language I don't understand, I am left feeling really uncomfortable and insecure.

The key, though, was that I didn't see him as treating me with respect, and the trick with this Chunk is that I have extremely high (EXTREMELY high) expectations of what respect means.

If you have won my trust and understanding, then I will be the most considerate and accommodating person you've ever met, but in this case, because he missed the step of keeping me in the loop about the call, I was intolerant and haughty.

An unfortunate result of the emotional conditioners I talked about, earlier (and not just seeing my dad, but the way my mother has also made various mistakes in her romantic arrangements) is that, as a protection against disrespect and abuse, I have to be treated like a queen...or, prince...or whatever reference to the monarchy suits you.

I have walked out of dates in Cairo (literally left money on the table and walked away with no explanation, at restaurants) for ONE mis-placed comment (in the particular instance I'm thinking of, a Libyan told me I was being rude...my blood sugar was low, it was finals, and I knew how totally polite and out-of-my-way considerate I was being to meet him at all, let alone have him lecture me about my Arabic, which is when I asked him to please talk about it after the food came, and not now, which is when I was told I was rude)...I have deleted phone numbers, emails, and people because of ONE unsolicited comment about my appearance or tasteless reference to a much-loved ex. Failure to give me the place I deserve -- not talking to me enough at the party you invited me to, not introducing me with any sense of my place of privilege within your romantic life being transmitted when I meet your colleagues from the embassy -- not deferring to me in all the ways I will of course defer to you, these are fatal flaws.

The problem, as I'm sure you can see as well as I can, is that my importance is so contingent upon the recognition of that importance by these men that my worth becomes, as one of my favourite singers says, "embarrassingly conditional."

I do deserve a throne, and I know for a fact that I'd not only occupy it with generosity and style, but that I'd also do everything I could to build a throne just as nice, if not nicer, for my partner. Mutual respect. Mutual empowerment. Mutual adoration, right?

Here's the catch: for someone who thinks of himself as possessing so much elegance and class, I haven't demonstrated very much grace. I have been, to quote the same singer, "utterly threatened."

I am right to feel entitled to good treatment, because I'm a loving person, a fantastic person, and because I give excellent treatment in return, but real maturity, and real security with myself, would mean reacting better and more gracefully (more tolerantly, more communicatively, and more generously) when I don't get the treatment I deserve. That is my next step, my new goal.

VC

Hingis Beats Venus

Wow that puppy sniffing the dirty socks really brought her some luck! Because Eurosport completely screwed-up the live broadcast of the semifinal matches, my pro-Hingis post didn't actually occur until AFTER she was already being totally demolished by Williams. I should have known not to trust the "live" times, because when I looked at the schedule on the Rome website, it looked like the match would be starting almost an hour before Eurosport's live broadcast would begin. Because it was SUCH a big match, though, I assumed that Eurosport wouldn't get it wrong, and I trusted the television start time and wished Hingis luck a bit too late. And it showed!

Hingis dropped the first set 0/6. I mean, it was a serious thrashing. She said in a post-match interview that she wanted to cry. Then, perhaps in part thanks to my late posting of the cute puppy photo (and my tuning-in to the European broadcast from Cairo), she totally turned the match around and won the next two sets 6/3 6/3!

I'm still worried about her form, because I think she's sometimes not selecting her shots well (which is really her strength), and is sometimes trying to go behind her opponent when she should just hit predictably into the open court, and I also think that she's making too many errors *when not pushing for power* (which is when I think it's ok for her to make errors), as I would encourage her to. The problem with Hingis would be that she'd win against most players making no mistakes, but her clean tennis approach wasn't working against more powerful players; the thing is: she CAN hit the ball, or at least hit it harder than she does, but then her errors increase and it drives her crazy. What I think she needs to understand (and I think she's starting to) is that she will still come out on top more often than not when she goes for the shot (she'll have more winners than errors), and her OVERALL result (winning against people she used to lose to) will validate the messier play. Anyway, the problem the past two days has been that she's been neither aggressive NOR clean, but both her opponents have been playing pretty mediocre tennis, too. I felt like she and Venus were both in pretty average form.

But congrats to her, anyway! She plays Dinara Safina, tomorrow, a Russian player who I really like (and not just because her more-successful tennis-playing brother USED to be hot, like back in 2002). Safina has had some REALLY impressive wins, this week, and I think it will be a good match.

Sticking to my theme, I'll post another photo of my stuffed puppy doing something cute to give Hingis the luck she was missing in that first set, today.

VC

Work It, Hingis!

Minutes away from her semifinal against Venus and I'm really nervous for her! I'm also perpetually sleepy because I'm malnourished and subconsciously stressed about my comprehensive exam, tomorrow. The only thing I've eaten for three days, now, is a medium pizza (the last two days, supplemented with two snickers crunch and two small bags of peanut M&Ms), and I think I really need to be physically healthy to be mentally healthy.

I'm going into hibernation mode, which I know some of you have seen (and maybe I've written about it?). Before big exams I sleep SO much, but it's like my body always knows when to turn on and use those sleep reserves.

It was weird, because I just had a dream, that I realized was a kind of repetitive/process-oriented dream continued many night before, where I keep going back to Afghanistan and India. At one point I was in an Indian river-race where we had to swim down this river, and at another point I was "home" in Afghanistan, which was oddly developed but still chaotic -- like imagine the kind of overbuilt chaos of Hong Kong transposed onto Afghanistan. It was really weird. I was SO tired when I got home (but was happy to be back, after my race in India), and I remember washing my face and almost falling asleep while washing it (in this weird sink that was too small and couldn't accommodate my washing needs, which was sort of a leitmotif that I can't fully explain) with a three-sided mirror. I remember looking at myself and saying: "It's been too many months since you went to the gym, and your body cannot keep up this life without conditioning."

The weirdest part of the dream was that I had this feeling of unease that occurs when you've been perpetually stressed and need to kind of decompress from the trauma. I was washing my face and frustrated by the size of my sink but felt like I needed to be cleaning my face in this little contained space...like I had become so accustomed, over the prior days, to being in survival mode doing all these rigorous tests in India and other parts of Afghanistan, and it was like I couldn't transition back, just yet, to my regular life again -- I couldn't let myself risk expanding into my space, if that makes any sense. I can't think of a way to properly articulate the feeling I had, but it was like if you had been serving in a war, and every day had to wash yourself using a small bucket, because it was not safe to go to the river to wash...and you get so used to your life depending on this restricted habit that when you return home from the war you can't so easily feel comfortable in some huge marble bathroom that asks you to spread out your life and regular activities into differently-compartmentalized spaces. That's the best I can describe it. I remember thinking: I am traumatized, but I will re-adjust, and I don't need to push myself now. The sink is ok for now, and I will sleep, and soon I will be back at the gym and using my shower and I will feel safe and strong again.

Weird, huh?

Here's the talismanic booty. [EDIT: Oh god! I can't get her booty image to load! Ok I'm going to upload a photo I took of my stuffed puppy sniffing my socks this morning...he's so naughty!...hopefully he'll help Hingis win!]


















GO HINGIS!

VC

Conceited: Hingis Update

I saw the funniest video on my Italian music video station that I watch (I've blogged about my top three stations, so read up if you don't remember RTL 102.5!). I don't know what it is about R&B but the more ghetto, the more I like it (I *hate* to dance to it, but I think the videos are funny to watch).

Check out some of these selected lyrics for "Conceited," by Remy Ma (I've put the funniest parts in italics for those of you who are too busy to read the whole song):

Damn, I look good
And can't nobody freak it like I could
Yeah, okay, I got a little fat butt
My shorty tell me he like it like that
I'm happy, another me there never can be
See, I'm so outstanding
Don't care if they can't stand me

See I look too good for this necklace
And I look too good to be wearin' this
You know I look way too good to be innocent
I'm conceited, I got a reason
See I look too good to be drivin' that
And I look too good to be buyin' that
You know I look way tood good to be tryin' that
I'm conceited, I got a reason

Now who's that peekin' in my window
Nobody cause I live in a penthouse
Baby I'm sorry, but I'm sexy
And all I want you to do is just bless me, let's see

Probably why I'm always gettin' hated on
Now shorty tryin' to push up on me like a wonder bra
Listen when I speak, I wouldn't want you to take it wrong
Now, number one, I don't need you
And it's true, I only see you when I see you
Listen, two, you could never play me (why's that)
Cuz I'm such a fuckin' lady
Three, it's all about me I don't wanna talk about it
If you love to hear it, here it go I wrote a song about it:

See I look too good to be fuckin' you
And I look too good to be lovin' you
You know I look way too good to be stuck with you
I'm conceited, I got a reason
See I look too good to be gettin whipped
And I look too good to be havin' kids
You know I look way too good to be in a crib
I'm conceited, I got a reason

Face down, ass up, on some new shit
I'm outta control wit it, dip it low, pick it up slow
Poke it out, now roll wit it
My thong showin', but it's cool, my shoes go wit' it
Now all I need is a room wit a pole in it
See I look good and I'm knowin' it
And I was never too proud to be showin' it
I'm conceited, I got a reason

****

Ok well if ANYONE has a right to be conceited then it's Martina Hingis because she demolished the chick who beat her twice in the beginning of her comeback 6/3 6/1. I think Martina Hingis redefines the meaning of the words "learning curve." She lost to Flavia Penetta twice at the beginning of her comeback, beat her last week in a tight two sets 7/5 6/3 and then today dismantled her in front of a home Italian crowd -- she even apologized to the fans, afterward, because in four matches she's taken-out three Italians.

Because I want EVERYONE to appreciate Hingis's genius the way I do, consider this:

Hingis is 25 and is returning to the tournament after three years of retirement (I know, the girl retired at 22...) and on the anniversary of her debut in Rome ten years ago. In her first trip to Rome, in 1996, Hingis, at the age of 15, defeated world #1 Steffi Graf and finished runner-up in the tier I French Open tune-up. A year later she won her first major, became number one, and by 1998 had become the first player to win every major event and tier I tournament minus the French (she was 17). People talk about Hingis bursting onto the scene, and I mean she REALLY burst. Most tournaments go like this: Hingis debuts still in diapers, is runner-up or makes the semis, and the next year wins it. It's like it takes her one try, and the second time -- mastery.

Her semifinal match is going to be against a spotty, but resurgent, Venus Williams, and after totally blowing it when she was up a set and 4/1 against Williams in Warsaw *and* Williams was cramping, we are all waiting with baited breath for the semifinal tomorrow.

I'm paranoid that I have to post another ass shot of her for her to win, so tomorrow before the match I'll send another blog goodluck note with a tushie photo.

Yay for Hingis!

VC

Reaching-Out to Ricco

A few of you have asked me why I haven't really spoken about Ricco, lately, and the truth is one that's too painful to tell...which is why I must tell it.

Shortly after his team relay gold in Torino, Ricco and I went to Easter Island to discuss our future plans amongst prehistoric monolithic statues (which we saw as symbols of the the atemporal and transcendent nature of our love, as well as our unwavering commitment to only each other).

It was all incredibly romantic until we were interrupted by a Spanish tour group.

The tour guide was speaking in loud Catalan Spanish about the statues, and while I couldn't make out everything he said, it was clear to me that his paleoastronomy was all off. When he told them that local inhabitants, at the time of the statue production, would have seen the thin crescent depicted on the statue, as "the Pleiades at 18 degrees above the horizon at the end of the astronomical twilight on hua, the twelfth night of the moon in the Rapa Nui month of Te Maro," I knew I had to say something (Ricco agreed). "Firstly, Hua is the EIGHTH night of the ancient lunar month," I said, "the night after the first quarter (Maharu), and that thin crescent should therefore have been a half-crescent."

The entire groups of Spaniards was stunned into silence. The entire group, except one: "Your analythith ith athtonishing," he said, "I am thurprithed you would have the cajoneth criticithe the work of Dr. Van Tilberg."

Ricco rose from the rock he was sitting on and the two men locked eyes. Looking directly at Ricco the man then said: "I am Victor Valdes." Then, turning to me: "You, will see me again." And the entire group walk down the path without another word.

I was surprised by Ricco's reaction: "He was flirting with you like a high-class lady of the night."

"What!?" I said. "I told you to stop watching Eurosport's poker coverage. You learn the weirdest expressions from those Scottish commentators. Besides, paleoastronomy isn't everything. It takes a lot more than a Spanish lisp and some basic knowledge of star placement to win my heart, and that you have already done."

I thought the matter was resolved, as Ricco cleverly masked his jealousy for Valdes in even more intense passion for me. When I came back to Cairo, though, and Ricco went home to Germany, I started to get increasingly obsessive emails from him. He apparently looked up Victor Valdes and discovered that he was the stunning young goal keeper for Spain's top football club, Barcelona, and that the tour group we ran into was actually a group of Barcelona players.

Although I did everything I could to reassure Ricco that I would never leave him for someone barely a month older than I am (even if Valdes has physical, professional, and paleoastronomical maturity beyond his years), there is no stopping Ricco when he becomes set on something -- those who love so passionately are often the most difficult to reign-in.

The tension mounting on the Valdes issue became unbearable when, a little more than two weeks ago, Barcelona won La Liga (the Spanish league) yet again, and at the end of the match, Valdes pointed to the sky and made, with his hand, the symbol of the half-crescent! Because it was thought by the right-wing conservative press and big brother counterterrorism analysts to be some kind of reference to Islam, it was never publicized that he did this, and all coverage broadcast of the Barcelona win was heavily censored, but because Ricco was watching obsessively in the crowd, he saw it, and I think it broke him. I received an email from him that he had to escape for a while and would be at an ashram in Northern India. Unfortunately, despite my searching, I wasn't able to find him two weeks ago when I was there.

Ricco, if you are reading this -- I LOVE YOU! Valdes was temporarily smitten, but I've learned to sense these quick loves and dismiss them summarily. I would never trade what I have with you for the easily-snuffed-out flame of the young Latin!

I've attached a photo that Valdes sent to me of himself after that La Liga win...one only knows how he managed to find me in Cairo *and* knew to deliver the photo in a FedExed Marc Jacobs Dark Chocolate gym bag (model C35320)! I wonder if he got it at the 385 Bleecker Street store (212.924.6126), located in the same zip code and literally just blocks from the residence of Pookie! How romantic worlds so oft collide...

Well I need to rest early to prepare for my long day of study, tomorrow. My comprehensive exam is on Sunday at 2PM and I still have a bit of reviewing to do before I am prepared.

VC

Hingis in Rome

My favourite tennis player (Martina Hingis) has a quarterfinal match tonight in one of my favourite cities (Rome).

In the spirit of wishing her luck, I am posting a photo of her booty.

I remember when I first got into tennis (how I miss Patrick Rafter!), and Hingis and Anna Kournikova were all over the magazines, because they were like these sexy teenagers amidst tons of scandal and a lot of good tennis, too (let's not forget that Anna was the #4 tennis player in singles, Martina was #1, and they, together, were the #1 doubles pair). There were some tabloid photos of Martina's skirt blowing up and I considered it vulgar -- isn't the Lolita thing played-out yet??

Anyway, I did a google search to find an interview for her and came across these photos, instead. Because her booty is SO good in this photo, and because she's now 25 (so it's only retrospectively pedophillic, and I'm gay anyway), I decided to post it as a tribute and wish her luck.

I'm ALSO defending her honour by blog-bashing this Hingis impersonator who is one of the top three images you get when you do a search for "Martina Hingis" in google (and not even in the image section!). Chech her out -- she actually has the audacity to say that she looks like Hingis!

As I just wrote to my hobby-soulmate in Amsterdam (we are both CRAZY about tennis, figure skating, singing, etc. and have constant cross-Mediterranean pow-wows about happenings in these areas):

"How confused IS this bitch? http://dvdentertainment.bizland.com/martina_hingis.htm

I'm sorry but NO one looks like both Rebecca and Martina. I'm offended that her face and her fake titties show up on every Martina google search.

GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR"

You'll have to excuse the naughty language, mom, but I was really burned by her sorry impersonation of Hingis.

Ok the match is on in 45 mintes. The pizza is ordered. The flat is cleaned (you know she'd lose if I didn't change the light-bulbs and organize my papers!). I have a feeling tonight is going to belong to Hingis!

Fingers crossed,

VC

Gender Update & pH-Balanced Shopping

No, not mine. That is not going to be updated, no matter what Afghan visa officials say (see former blog posting about how my second Afghan visa identified me as a business woman).

The gender to be updated (or: "sex," if we're going to be rigorous about it) it that of the Serious Law Student writer I mentioned, yesterday. He's totally a chick. I was thrown off by the Kenneth Cole thing, but I think the following quote (in addition to blog references where she refers to herself as a woman) kind of tips the balance from Ricky Martin to Martina Navratilova: "What we need is for the entire first year class to sit down, shut up, and all watch Fight Club."

Back to Kenneth Cole (the bag, by the way, she replaces when she realizes that she can't fit her law text books and her laptop in one messenger bag...): It's interesting, because when I imagined her as a gay man it made perfect sense that he'd be fashion conscious/feminized enough to carry the designer messenger, and then when I had to add boobs and long hair to the picture (you know, because my understanding of sex and gender doesn't extend far beyond the simple signs on most MacDonald's bathrooms) it made EQUALLY perfect sense for her to be butched-up by carrying the masculine black leather black bag.

Odd. It's like men and women, in my mind, are like acids and bases and their accessories alter their pH so as to move them either closer together or farther away from the basic level of concentration you'd assign to the typical man or woman. In this case, the Kenneth Cole bag is like water, because it makes both more neutral. It's like a ph of 7.

I bet in a place like Egypt you could totally make a killing off of assigning pH balances to clothing such that closeted men could buy all the tight, frilly t-shirts with weird slogans like "Pull you out from the inside" (I have seriously seen that one) that they want, as long as they never crossed a femininity line that, because we associate gender and sexuality, here, would make them gay. It's like risk-free shopping. You could even have a clever marketing campaign to the effect of: "Put this in your closet so you can stay in yours."

VC

VC Columbia Law Bound -- Back to Morningside

So most of you know already, but I've decided to commit to Columbia.

I've talked about this with a lot of people (including a rather unpleasant woman at NYU) and I think, in the end, Columbia is a better choice, mostly because it's more or less a tie (with things like Columbia's Ivy League status and NYU's stronger human rights program all kind of washing each other out) and Columbia offered me a lot more money and better housing. To be clear, it's not like I made this decision based on housing and money -- I think that Columbia's Human Rights Internship Program (HRIP) is competitive with NYU's and that was THE most important consideration -- but money did help break the tie (which was, money and housing aside, originally tipped in NYU's favour).

Moving on, I've spent the past 22 hours since I decided, well, not doing much CLS-related stuff, but I have found a couple blogs by Columbia Law School students, and I wanted to share a few words from the Serious Law Student blog. It's the earnest, and in my opinion quite helpful (in terms of anticipating starting at Columbia) blog, written by a Korean-American gay NYU graduate, who I really like (so far) but who I think is very intellectually different from me.

A few quick things:

1. The description of having to fill-out Columbia's grant recipient bio is HILARIOUS because he's so intimidated by the sample bio they give (and those of us who have even briefly contemplated things like the Rhodes and have read recepient bios can totally sympathize):

I've finished the bio part for my Grant Data Sheet, so I figure I'll post it
here. I felt ridiculous writing it, especially since I had to use
third-person narrative, and the example bio they give you is so
intimidating. The sample bio is of some girl who has a master's from
Harvard's Kennedy, worked in international banking, speaks three foreign
languages fluently, plays classical piano and kickboxes, went to Zimbabwe for
public interest work, etc etc. This girl cannot be real. Jesus, I
bloody hope this isn't going to be all of my classmates. I had so much
difficulty writing mine, because honestly, what have I accomplished? I've
led such an unremarkable life, what is there to tell of it? I'm just
thankful I got into Columbia.

I think that, in addition to us just being different people and having different intellectual approaches to our surroundings, a huge difference between us is that he is straight out of undergrad, which I think leads to a lot of worry and insecurity (some if it well-placed) that I don't have, not only because I am just older and have more experience (and perhaps feel more entitled?) but also because I've now known SO many people in and out of the law school system (and have had the opportunity to learn more than a fair bit about the academic/professor/hiring side of law schools) that I feel like I'm going in as prepared as a person can be.

2. Another thing I found HILARIOUS on the blog was the following observation about Columbia's orientation gifts:

Orientation began Thursday morning with packet pick ups at the law school.
I was given enormous packets of information in a cumbersome Columbia Law School messenger bag that evidently they hope the incoming 1Ls will proudly display. I think I’ll be sticking to my Kenneth Cole leather messenger, but I guess you can’t say no to a free bag.

Spoken like a true queen lol. Replace Kenneth Cole with Marc Jacob (ok he doesn't really do messengers, but one can dream) and I am RIGHT there with him!

3. It feels odd to be reading this blog, at times, because it begins the summer after I graduated Columbia and started at HHR, and ends now (well it's still going...but the person is graduating).

The first day of orientation was the day of the 2003 New York blackout. He writes about going out with fellow Columbia students to a local night spot and then walking on the street late into the night and seeing families on their stoops and people all over the street.

I was one of those people.

I'd walked from the financial district to Morningside (the longest walk of everyone on our team, except I only had 12 flights of stairs to go up, unlike poor Juicy! and since we were not in a high-rise, as 12 floors in Manhattan is NOT a high-rise lol, we still had water) and was, of course, greeted by my pernicious first boyfriend (let's call him: Ivan the Terrible). I was struck, when reading this blog, because it brought back so vividly what I felt that night, which was one of our last nights together (I made my clandestine escape on 6 September).

The night was a gorgeous night, but not for me. The streets *were* filled, and although there was that feeling of tension, or mischief, that you get in any setting where alcohol might be flowing a bit too freely (as it was with many of the stoop-sitters), there was still a sense of community, relaxation, and resignation to something bigger (the City) that I hadn't felt since the days after 9-11.

For me, the night highlighted a fact about my life, then, my split life, which is that when your life is split, one part is (more or less) invisible. Because of the late-night confession to my mother about what was going on the day before we flew to Bulgaria in July, which retrospectively explained what it was I couldn't explain in the weeks leading up to graduation, my life was not entirely invisible. It was in the files of Dean's offices, different John Jay Hall health offices, and there was a former TA/mentor (who is still a valued friend -- more like family, in a way) who was the first person I told about what was happening. Beyond that, though, there were my Columbia friends who, all but one, I'd cut out of my life with one email from Macedonia (even at the time, I understood that I was hurt that they couldn't figure out what was happening without me telling them -- I couldn't tell them, but I needed so much for them, for someone, to know), my law firm, where I could sense everything was going great (especially with my teammate, who has become one of my most cherished friends), and what was an ostensibly functional and healthy life that was very much not the reality that was most relevant at the time.

I don't want to give the impression that it was the darkest time for me (and I don't intend that to be a pun on the blackout lol), because that darkest time was, without a doubt, before graduation. Looking back on my first meeting with someone from Columbia to discuss my situation, I realize how lucky I was that I said something (funnily-enough, it was because I felt like I owed an explanation to my professors about why I had stopped coming and couldn't complete my semester work), because finally something that was, to that point, 100% invisible was put, if only very slightly, into relief.

That said, it was still an extremely difficult time, because I had to be so patient and calculating in my plans (I just wrote an entry about my leaving him and moving out, but I've saved it for later, if I feel like talking about it, because I think it would be WAY tangential for this blog entry). I couldn't ask for help, so I needed to wait. Save money, find a flat, and wait.

The waiting was particularly difficult, because the invisibility of what was happening in my private life made escaping from it all the more difficult. The fact that I could STILL walk down the street with him, in the dark, towards Central Park West (we even walked down the street where Curie's aunt and uncle live, and where I'd been so many times) in tears and not be seen made me feel, as I had before, like that was the life I was bound for. He could berate me in the street where I'd walked with my best friend and her family, and were I'd run on so many days before, people and candles all around, and I could be totally broken-down in tears but still walking with him, and it was like we were any other couple walking on the street. That night, and I can recall with photorealism where we were on the street when he was saying these things, he was explaining to me why I wasn't an equal in the relationship and why my voice was less important than his, indeed not one he needed to take into consideration when acting, because he was so much older and was therefore more valid. There was only one valid person in the relationship and it was not me. It was not a dispassionate theoretical discussion about inter-age dating, I assure you, and I asked him at one point what he thought people were thinking, around us (the ones who didn't see us), when they saw him saying these things and they saw me crying. He told me what he had told me before: when people see us, they can see that we are truly in love.

I like thinking about that night as something different than it was. Maybe it wasn't my night of inequality, anymore, of crying on streets and near a park that I loved, and of being invisible. Maybe it was the exciting first night of law school for another young man who walked home that night with his friends in awe of the ambiance created by one of those rare instances in which the City stops and makes everyone appreciate its hugeness.

VC

Law School Considerations

I'm plagiarizing an email I've just sent to Pookie, because I think it's good for people to know the decisions that I'm balancing, and also have enough info to give their input:

*********************

Ok so you have asked a few times about Columbia vs. NYU in the rankings, and I keep forgetting to reply!

Basically they are neck and neck and ALWAYS occupy 4th and 5th behind Yale, Stanford, and Harvard. NYU tends to take 4th over Columbia more often than not, and NYU is *always* ranked #1 in the specialization in international law category, however guess who's #2? lol Yes, Columbia.

The thing is, Columbia is much better reputation-wise (eg: in securing clerkships), but I feel like the whole "internatinal law #2 behind NYU" thing is deceptive, because Columbia has cultivated a strong specializatin in East Asian law and internatinal commercial law (neither of which interest me at all), while NYU's strength in international law comes almost directly from its committment to internatinal human rights law (IHRL -- which IS what matters to me).

Columbia, hands-down, has better housing.

I could never get into Columbia's business school if I wanted to do a joint JD-MBA.

(sorry I'm going throught the lists of pros and cons in case you didn't catch-on, lol)

In terms of summer support, Columbia has a FANTASTIC "HRIP" (human rights internship program) where you are hand-placed in amazing organizations AND funded, and they recommend people serious about IHRL do the HRIP in their 1L and 2L summers. The catch? You have to apply, and only about 50% of the people get it (even though who are we kidding? I'd totally get it ;p). NYU, on the other hand, does not have as many DIRECT "you will take NYU interns every year" agreements with top UN organizations like Columbia does, BUT it has GUARANTEED (eg: no competition) funding EVERY summer that students want to work in public service.

About the law repayment programs, they are both good (two of the top in the nation) but compared to the ACTUAL top repayment programs (eg: Yale and Harvard) they are disappointing in their inclusion of caps/stricter regulatins about what kinds of employment count. It's a complicated comparison (although for both, the general system is that they calculate how much you owe your loan people each year, and cut you a loan check for a percentage of that each year depending on how much they think you can pay, given your income...after a certain number of years in the program they start to forgive the checks they've given you):

• NYU begins forgiving the debt after 5 years in the program, whereas Columbia does not begin until after 7 years
• Columbia does not have an income cap, but NYU does: $30,000 above the base qualifying income (so $44 + $30k = $74,000 currently)
• NYU takes a higher percentage of your income, but it doesn't start counting your income as take-able until a higher dollar amount (eg: Columbia says 15% of income greater than $25k and less than $40k, and 34.5% of income above $40k, whereas NYU says 40% of income up to $20k greater than the base, so 40% of income greater than $44k and $64k, and 50% of income for the last elligible $10k, since the cap is $30k above base).
• If you compare the two for an income of $70k, then they are almost the same, but you can see that they are sort of tricky to compare.

In terms of what they are offering ME, NYU offered $30k (or $25k if I summer at a firm), whereas Columbia offered me $35k PLUS that $25k scholarship for alums (that I could theoretically win each year, but I think is unlikely), which means max. from NYU is $30k and min. from Columbia is $60k.

I know that, in the grand scheme of things (ie: having like $200k in debt), $30k difference isn't big, but it is still $30k, and I feel like the fact that Columbia has doubled NYU's offer (even if doubling something small still leaves you with something just slightly less small) feels significant.

I emailed NYU and told them I wanted to go, but Columbia doubled their offer. Let's see what they say!

XO

VC

Responsible Decision-Making

So I'm sitting here doing research for the course I'm TA-ing on Darfur, and thinking: I need a new computer...I'm going to go buy one for like $900 (two of my closest friends in Cairo, actually basically the only two lol, have just bought good, new laptops for less than $1000), and then I realized that it was low blood sugar (I woke up at 10AM and it's almost 6:30PM and I haven't yet eaten) that made me transform a cell phone search into a lap top search, and I need to shut up, go eat some pizza, and move on.

That said, I'm not sure how I'll make it through the rest of May without a computer, since I'm presenting two papers at a conference in Jordan in June that will require a LOT of work between now and then.

Glam wants a new laptop, so I supposed I could buy one and then resell it to him for like 75% of the price, and thereby not lose too much money, but I need to think about this after I eat something...and buy a cheap-but-functional phone.

AH!

VC

Peeing in Typewriters

Back in Cairo safe and sound, and slightly afraid of all the things I will have done (or failed to do) before leaving near the end of June, but happy that each thing I cross off my list, at this point, is once clear step closer to getting me home.

As you all know, I'm currently phone-less, and I am thinking that I will need to just wait until I come back to the US for a phone, and take advantage of the huge discounts you get on nice phones when you subscribe to a new cell plan (which I'll have to do, anyway). The problem is that the US cell phone market is PATHETIC (example: I've already now had, and lost, two Motorola V3 Razr phones -- one original, and one V3c; there is now the v3m AND the v3x, but if you look on the US mobile sites, they are still selling the V3c like it's the latest thing...SO been there done that lost it lol).

Daydreaming about giving the Razr ONE last chance (I didn't like my second one, anyway, because of the internal design that comes with the black handset, which is nowhere near as gorgeous as my original silver one), I have been researching the V3x, and I found the most INSANE website! You have to see this. This website, Mobile-Review, is written with unbelievably bad English and unbelievable good information...I mean it walks you through ALL the phone menus (showing them to you), all the camera options (with multiple test shots), and even disects the MATERIAL that the screen is made out of and the way the keypad is assembled. I was blown away. I think it's really useful, too, when they add comments, about things like the software, and reveal that in certain aspects the developers were rushed and couldn’t work out solutions to certain problems in the development of the programs being used in the phone (how did I become such a mobile phone nerd?).

I also found this REALLY good website, called ConsumerSearch, that has great info and links about mobile phone plans in the US. I think that, since I don't want the limitations of a phone that will only work in the US (otherwise Verizon is great, I know), T-Mobile is the best option.

For laughs, check out this comment on the new V3x by one of the Engaget readers:

"The new V3X has a built in litho-nomylar plubium helix. Its great for those rare moments when you need a quantum tetranose boost. The only draw back is the unusually large quantity of fiscodiamium soft peed that it leaks during alpha phase 1. Never the less, studies have shown that most test subjects do not notice the cortical rot that this might induce until near end of life term. Have fun in any case."

Wouldn't it be funny (except not) if we discovered that the reason I keep losing cell phones is that I have experienced so much brain damage from talking on the phone all the time that I'm physically incapable or remembering where my phones are, so with each new mobile I'm increasing the chances of rotting my brain more and losing it again?

IT'S A CONSPIRACY!

On a kind of unrelated note, so many people I've met have commented to me, when they saw one of my Razrs, that "Motorola is SO American," which I think is ridiculous since, as I've just said, the US doesn't even HAVE the latest Motorola phones, and everyone knows Americans are whores for Nokia (as are Egyptians, incidentally).

The subject line for this blog entry, though, is actually meant to reflect (very briefly) on why it is that I might lose my phones. In India, although not totally sober, Desi accused me of having a psychosis related to mobile phones that, he says, is also connected to me being destructive and anti-gay (his words).

I have been thinking about why it is that I lose phones, and while I think that the solution is actually pretty simple and non-Freudian: I am absent-minded and lose WHATEVER is in my hands (Dr. Juicy was the one who solved this problem, as I think I may have blogged about, before, by mandating that I was not allowed to carry ANYTHING, a requirement that she facilitated by buying me a nice Tumi messenger bag [note: I then didn't lose any more wallets or phones for the next several months in NYC *and* my first 6 months in Cairo, until the bag was stolen out of a friend's car on my birthday!].

That said, a search for deeper meaning has led me back to the second grade when I, as a seven year-old (maybe six) received the present of a very nice, new typewriter from my mother. Things were NOT easy, financially, and I knew that for a long time she'd wanted to get me one. It had greater meaning for her, too, because she always wanted a typewriter as a kid (a candy apple one, if I recall the story I was told seventeen years ago, correctly) and was told she could only get one when she passed Algebra, which she went to summer school and did. My mother has ALWAYS been unwilling to think of money well-spent on a child as a "waste," and was never the type to think that buying a set of books, or language tapes, or computers etc. would be wasted on a child who couldn't fully appreciate them, and it was in the same spirit that she bought her seven year-old a typewriter (which I, to this day, think was a great idea...remember, of course, that people didn't really have home computers, in those days, although it rapidly changed and by the time I was 10 I had one of those, too!).

I really enjoyed the typewriter, for a few days, and I remember using the white-out and italics features with such delight, typing all kinds of simple declarations -- the kind you type when you sit down at a new computer that's off and let your fingers take-off: "My name is VC and I'm happy and my mother is so elegant but Cairo sucks." Just stream-of-consciousness stuff. I remember surprising myself, even, with some nice words for my brother who I generally considered to be too abrasive to deserve the same accolades as my sister and mother.

The reason I bring up the typewriter, though, is (as you can imagine from the title of the blog entry) that I peed in it.

Now, those of you who know me (even Desi has given me grief for this) know that I am NOT someone who is very public about bodily functions, and yes I DO close the door in my bathroom at home when I pee and I used to even lock the door (some kind of metaphysical containment of the taboo, I suppose), so you can imagine that, especially at the height of my perfectionism (up to, say, the age of 11 or 12...or 18 lol) for me to urinate, in my bedroom, was something that was VERY against my nature. It was against my nature (and still is) to be destructive and disrespectful of things in general.

So why did I do it?

I remember feeling, and I remember telling my ANGEL of an understanding mother this (people, today, would call her "permissive," but there is a difference between blind permissiveness and properly-directed, almost miraculous empathy, and to this day I think she understands me almost totally when I tell her how I feel about something or why I'm doing something, as she did then), that I liked the typewriter, but I had the urge to do it, and I didn't really know why, but I remember feeling like, for some reason, it had to be destroyed...maybe not destroyed, but tarnished. I think, perhaps because I knew the sacredness placed on it by the financial burden it represented (it was important because it was costly, or so the equation tends to go), and because I was so resistant to that kind of sacredness (even at a very young age, and I remember my mother telling me about my attitude, in this regard, towards money, when she and my father were divorcing: "I hate money," said the five year-old), I needed to reassert our control over it.

I remember my first pair of Prada shoes. I bought them two days after, in crisis and alone during Christmas my last year at Columbia, I buzzed all my hair off (well first it was: cut your own hair so that it's so badly mangled you HAVE to buzz it off...you know you'll have to), so I went to Saks and bought a GORGEOUS black pair of Prada sneakers (funky, at the time, for their Velcro, but since much-copied). I really loved those shoes (I even brought them to Cairo, before, a few months ago, giving them to the maid to give to one of her sons...the leather was getting faded and rubbishy, but the soles and everything were still in near-perfect condition), but I remember the surprise of a colleague, at Columbia, who, walking back from class with me in the middle of a small blizzard, looked down and said: "You're wearing your Prada sneakers through the snowstorm!?" Now, he had a few pair of his own, but he would never put them at RISK by exposing them to the elements. They were for sunny days where you could be seen with clarity, as far as he was concerned. I remember thinking, then, and I feel this way, now: do not buy something you cannot afford to lose or ruin.

I think that when, as a young child, you are constantly (and it is CONSTANT) subject to/aware of financial stress, you see how things that should mean so little (buying a bus pass, or a new jacket) acquire such importance because they are irreplaceable in their expensiveness: You have ONE bus pass for the entire semester (or year, if you could afford to pay that much up front, which we, back then, couldn't), and you have ONE backpack, and while my mother was never one of these types to tell you how much these things mattered (there were no desperate searches, when it got cold, for the heavy sweatshirt that thank God I didn't lose), I could sense it, and I could also sense that these material things should not be as valuable as we make them.

Fast-forward to a time of more comfort, and while people think that my losing things (and not crying about it) represents me not knowing what things are worth (well when he loses that camera he'll be sorry, and THEN he'll stop losing things), I think, on the contrary, I know exactly what things are worth, and most things are worthless (compared to people, I mean). I can be upset by the inconvenience of something (eg: my computer being broken and me not being sure if, preparing for law school, I have the money right now to buy a new one), but I am incapable of being UPSET over it. I would also resist criticism that this is about me asserting financial dominance over these objects, and by losing things and buying new ones I’m confirming for myself that we’re not as poor as we were when I was seven, because that would imply a feeling of continued financial insecurity which I no longer have. I think that part of maturing and understanding what financial security means, and learning when to be afraid (of grownups, of men, of money…) is a process of being realistic, and so while I can’t afford to lose 50 phones, I can know (and don’t need proof if it by doing it over and over) that I can lose a phone once in a while and know that I’m ok, and everything is still ok.

I loved those Prada shoes, thought they'd come through the snow ok (and they did!), and knew that if they didn't, my enjoyment of them would be curtailed, but it would be no tragedy. If one pair of Prada shoes means SO much to you that you can't afford (be it financially or emotionally) to have them lost or ruined, then it's not a responsible decision to buy them in the first place.

Back to the typewriter: I don't think that by losing these phones I'm continuing to pee in that typewriter (and I also don't think you can make it about me cutting people, numbers, etc. out of my life), but I do think that my response to my absent-mindedness (placid acceptance, combined with concerted, but failing, efforts to be more focused on what's in my hands) demonstrates a HEALTHY understanding of what things in my life actually have worth and what things don't, and I think that understanding was worked out, albeit in an act that was irresponsible and destructive (physically, not emotionally) in my early childhood.

This is not to say that we should NEVER respect the value placed upon certain things, even when that value is VERY out of synch with what it SHOULD be worth (according to our "people are valuable and Prada is not" understanding of the world), and I think, for example, that the fact that I never did lose my bus pass, or that, at 10 (and needing a computer for the ridiculous presentations that were the obsession of Orange County public schools, which I SHOULD blog about another time) I made SURE that my computer and printer were well-taken care of (even if people shouldn't, under other circumstances, necessarily have anxiety over such things), but I think that it's important to recognize when to give-in to anxiety over material things, and when not to. I will not be a prisoner to my watch, worrying if it’s been scratched, or to my phone, worrying if it’s in my sight at every moment – I will try not to scratch my watch, because I like it, and will try not to lose my mobile, because it’s terribly inconvenient and represents a real opportunity cost (eg: a plane ticket to Lebanon), but I will not walk on eggshells because of my possessions!

That said, I'm going to try very, very hard to not lose whatever phone I buy, and I'm quite happy that I've made it through Afghanistan, Dubai/Sharjah, Pakistan, Turkey (ok, I didn't take it to Turkey, because, not realizing that I just needed to charge the battery, I thought for about 5 months that it was broken), Israel/Palestine, India, AND the rest of Egypt without losing my current camera.

Without any plans to pee-in or lose "valued" electronic devices anytime soon,

VC

On The Road Again

Ok well it's my last night in Delhi, so I'd better get to updating!

Working backward, I've spent a scandalously-relaxing last day in Delhi. It was one of those mornings where I let myself sleep and sleep, to the point where I was convinced that when I looked at the clock it would be like noon or 1PM, but as it turns out it was 10AM sharp when I finally got out of bed! NICE! :)

My only goal for the day was to buy people's presents, and I have to confess that I've failed miserably. The basic problem is that my requests (other than the one for a white elephant...I'm still hopeful...) were for fabric or jewelry, and you really CAN'T be a stupid guy who knows nothing about fabric OR jewelry shopping for these things alone in India. I kept thinking how much I needed my mother here to look at the fabrics (she's one of those touchy shoppers), and Birthday Girl Juicy MD for the jewelry (I have been to jewelry shops with her in Manhattan, and either the girl knows her stuff, or she says "no" with confidence lol).

Anyway, I feel a LITTLE less guilty, since I bought everyone things in Afghanistan, but it is disappointing that when you do these flash tours of countries, with one tiny bag, it's hard to buy all the things you want for people (it looks like I'll leave both India and Israel/Palestine virtually giftless). I keep my eyes open for things for my nieces, or magnets for my sister, and I'm a constant necklace hunter for Shakira and my sister and mother, but in the end I'm sort of clueless, without very much free time (apart from today), and VERY space-restricted.

Sorry.

SO, yesterday was one of those 110+ degree days (YAY!), and what I've realized is that I am VERY affected by humidity, and not that affected by actual heat. For me, 112 and 90 feel pretty much the same, but 90 with humidity is WAY worse than 112 and dry (and Delhi is pretty dry). This allowed me to be an insanely-efficient tourist, yesterday, despite the heat, and because I didn't stop for food or drink ALL day until dinner at 8:30PM (minus ONE bottle of watter when I was done with it all at 5:30 and went back to the guesthouse to await dinner plans), I was able to check three important sites off my list:

First, I went to the totally-disappointing Masjid Jama. It was one of the last things built by Shah Jahan, and really, it was a letdown. I have to admit that my attitude was coloured by the guys at the door who tried to scam me 50 rupees for taking my shoes, but when I started yelling at them about how this is a mosque and they should be ashamed and they probably aren't even Muslim (as if I'm so much better just because I can make out the "Mohammed" carved on the wall in Arabic...or Persian as the case may be...) they were pretty apologetic. I don't have a lot to say about it, except that it was SO underwhelming that I didn't even bother to climb the minaret for the city view (and those of you who have toured places with me know that I'm TOTALLY the type who climbs into and up and through EVERYTHING...I can think of more than a few adventures with Curie in Spain and Portugal where I managed to climb into places I shouldn't have really been!). There isn't really any great tilework, painting, or calligraphy to speak of, and I'd say that the mosque at Fatehpour Sikri, as god-awful as that city is, was MUCH better (although at least in this one I wasn't harassed into buying mini chess sets where all the pieces are these nubby nondescript pawns!).

Knowing that I needed to calm down, and confident that I could find respite with the Sikhs, I then went to the Gudjwara Bangla Sahib, which although nothing compared to Amritsar's Golden Temple, was still quite nice (I'm such a sucker for good singing and huge pools filled with dirty, miracle-inducing water!).

The thing about Sikh sites, and my dinner companions last night agrees, is that you are really taken care of. No one is harassing you, no one is begging, and no one is trying to screw you for your shoes. In stark contrast to the Masjid Jama shoe extortion incident, the Sikhs *of course* took my shoes for free, and even blessed them before handing them back to me when I left! I just sat for a long time and listened and thought, and even gave a donation because I so much wanted to encourage the kind of environment I was enjoying, and I decided that if I were: 1. Capable of believing in any kind of doctrinal religious law (which I'm not), and 2. Capable of growing my hair and beard out and wearing a turban (which I'm not), then I'd totally be Sikh, because I really like them :) [ok and yes they are kind hot lol...in fact the most striking women I've seen in India have all been Sikh, and I think I've gushed enough about the men...or did I not yet talk about Chandigarh? lol]

After the Sikh temple, I went to the Indira Ghandi memorial. I wasn't originally going to go, but after having seen the Nehru family home in Allahabad, and having sort of been immersed almost as much in the history of that family as I have been in the Mughal line, since coming to India, I decided I should pay the spot of her assassination a visit (to be gruesomely honest, the fact that her bloody sari is on display, there, and you can see the path where she took her last steps before being shot by her, um, Sikh bodyguards, had a huge appeal!). It didn't have the same serenity as the home in Allahabad, but I still really enjoyed it, and it was EXTREMELY well-curated. When you walk in the door, you immediately hit a class display column in which there is a photo of Indira Ghandi in her later years watching a young child standing in the doorway; what you then realize is that you are standing in the same spot as the child, and although you are here to watch Indira, she is really watching you -- really good curating.

Since I'm SO time-limited (I have less than another hour to tell you all about the things I haven't, so far!) I won't go into my thoughts on the fact that none (ZERO) of her personal letters (and I knew this from seeing them in Allahabad, as well) are written in anything but English (with some French, mostly to be cute, when she wrote home to her father), and while I agree with people who talk about the adoption of English as an INDIAN language, and ... wait ... I just said I'm not going to talk about all this. Well fine, if you want to know my thoughts on languages in India and the tense space that English occupies, then call me in Egypt and ask me, or invite me to lunch when I'm back in the US and ask me, there :) And while you're at it, you can ALSO ask me what I think about these political dynasties that are so often set up by neo-Communist elites, who write endlessly in non-native tongues from their country estates about the need to reclaim national sovereignty, shed the colonial yoke, and promote an equitable distribution of resources.

I had dinner at my favourite-ish restaurant (the one with the amazing garlic bread in Saket, Azurao) with the friend and his boyfriend Desi introduced me to, and the date who was assigned to me, a Parsi puppeter (a rare find in both senses!) who is apparently from a really old family now living in Pune. From Degas to the Parsi puppeter, it's always the ones who are inheriting who feel the need (ie: have the freedom) to be artists...anyway, he's apparently one of the top puppeters in India, and is always jetting around to do shows ranging from HIV/AIDS awareness themes in slum areas to Indian classics in Singapore, and I think that it's pretty cool. That said, the dinner was TOTALLY unromantic, and when he asked me when he was driving me home if we were going to my place or to his, I had to politely explain to him that I don't transition that easily from absolute non-romantic mode to "ok, your place," and he understood (although he did try to sneak a kiss that came off very awkwardly outside my guesthouse). In all, and nice guy, and we might all have dinner again, tonight, but not the Indian romance I was looking for (poor Pookie probably has fingers crossed on every trip I go on that I will set my sites on someone else! lol).

Speaking of romance, I guess I should take us all back to my cliffhanger about the Punjabis in Chandigarh. Well despite my mother's slightly disturbing email wishing me "sweet nights" (ewww!), I'm afraid that despite Desi and my obvious popularity amongst the Punjabis, we still slept alone in in our hotel in Chandigarh lol (sorry for the multi-day cliffhanger). After we toured the Corbusier-designed high court (I think I wrote about that?...yes because I told you about the Sikh desk attendant) we went to a "fantasy rock garden" (I think I also wrote about that? Desi's compulsive indexing of each of the equally non-fantastic humanoid rock formations?), and then to the lake. As much as I don't consider myself a water person, a nice waterfront REALLY does make a place so much more peaceful. We strolled up and down, were accosted by Punjabis galore, and witnessed (and then fought over our interpretations of) an interesting mixture of family relaxation (swan-shaped peddle-boats, ice cream vendors, etc.) and mischievous youth cruising ground. After having dinner at a restaurant that I fell in love with while Desi was using the toilet, there, earlier in the day (and then, not realizing the name of it, read about it in Lonely Planet to Desi and said: "Ok, well if we don't go back to that one earlier, then I want to go to Picadilly's Blue Ice -- it sounds really cool, and a lot like the place we saw earlier" Desi was like: "That WAS the place we were at, earlier.").

The dinner was sort of interesting, because there was a couples-only policy for eating upstairs, which was weird because it only made the cruisey-eye of gay-friendly clientele all the more efficient in its search downstairs! Things got a bit out of hand when the manager/owner/something (we have the same in Egypt -- groups of mid-20s boys whose families have too much money and so they engage in the entrepreneurial pursuit of opening a poorly-managed, but still chic and cool for the location, club/bar/restaurant) came over to us (after having already drunkely wandered by, once, on his way to the restroom, telling the waiters to "give us the best shit") and encouraged us to come to some rave in a hill station, somewhere, where, he bragged, there would be people on crystal meth, ecstasy, "liquid pot" lol...one pretty awkward moment occurred when, after having brazenly commented to his friend about how they would split up the chics upstairs, one of whom, he told us, was from Chicago, OR just share the Chicago one in a 3some, we were asking his friend where there was to go at night for fun, and this guy BENDS OVER, and, pointing to his rear, tells his friend that "that's the only fun he's going to get tonight"!). I can't stand these drunk, aggressive, homophobic closet-cases (aka: all of Egypt's upper-middle class and elite male youth).

AH! My account is running out! Despite having more than 30 minutes left, an annoying message keeps coming up every minute or two warning me that I have "approximately 15 minutes left" and I need to recharge. Um, no.

Anyway, the dinner ended with multiple people taking our photos, getting our contact info, etc. (bordering on what Desi calls "critical pundi," where the pundi -- or cruiseyness -- of a place gets near explosion) and as the chaos mounted and became a bit awkward, we left for a lakeside walk. We ended up meeting a score of university students eager to tell us all about the different sports they specialized in (I have to tell you: it didn't show), and after being bitten by about 100 mosquitoes while with them by the lake, and narrowly avoiding what would have no-doubt been an unwise invitation to spend the night in the dorm, Desi and I walked ALL THE WAY across Chandigarh to get back to our hotel.

Well I'd better go, but when I get back to Egypt I promise to tell you about Amritsar (not much to tell, but I really enjoyed it there!), my thoughts on the book I'm reading (City of Djinns...about Delhi), and give you my list of rail station offices (I copied them down, before coming back from Allahabad, because I didn't think you'd believe me about how absurd they are!). Here's to wishing everyone a happy blog read, and I'll be in touch probably on 7 May, when I'll be back at AUC (booo!).

Wanting nothing more than to be done with Egypt and on a plane to the US to see my Moo,

VC

Happy International Birthday, Juicy!

Ok everyone, I know I said I was done for the night (it's almost 9:30PM and I have had a bag of chips and a hash brown to hold me for the past 30 hours!), but before I disappear into the night in Allahabad, I want to wish Juicy, MD a really special birthday.

Now, as everyone who reads this knows, I'm terrible with birthdays, so true to form, I totally missed hers (TOTALLY meaning by 3 days), and while I did email her NINE days early, in anticipation that I would, on the occasion and delusional from Indian heat (and probably dysentery), forget, I now remember that I've forgotten (how is THAT for post-modern!?), and want to belatedly, and repeatedly, wish her a happy birthday.

In the Pizza Hut's in India (at least the one Desi and I went to in Amritsar and the one I went to, um, TWICE in Agra) they have two very important traditions: 1. You ring a silver bell on the way out of you had a good time; 2. You do an elaborate birthday song while the birthday kid stands on a chair and you clap and refer to the person as "Miss" or "Sir" and sing both the American version and the Indian version (which is weird, because it's in English and is about God blessing you...or something).

Anyway, I'm putting Juicy on a figurative chair, singing her happy birthday, and ringing ma bell (in the words of Donna Summer...which I think was a dual reference to picking someone up/visiting for a date AND clitoral stimulation...but we're forgetting that and co-opting it for a birthday).

UGH, her other gay friend in med school is SO making ground on me with this one! I hope he sucks at remembering birthdays, too!

More importantly: I hope she has had a wonderful birthday (and rocked all her exams).

Effusively and with birthday cheer,

VC

From Varanasi to Allahabad

I'll start with my haiku for Varanasi:

Salvation no more
Shiva shamed in Ganges ghats
Sandalwood wasted

To get you to speed: Varanasi is SUPER holy, the city of Shiva (the god who is both destroyer, in this firm, and creator), and place where people come to cleanse themselves in the Ganges (cleanse in the spiritual sense -- no one is getting any cleaner in there, since the river contains 3,000 times too much fecal bacteria to be considered safe to bathe in, if you crunch the numbers in Lonely Planet), and also cleanse the bodies of their dead relatives before setting them on fire in the river. You can read about the rituals and their significance yourself, but what you can expect of the city is that it's holy, hot, contested (Muslim mosques built atop Hindu temples, and vice versa), filthy, and contains a good many burning corpses.

Because a few temples of greatest interest me are totally closed to the public, I followed my brief (not THAT brief) episode of being lost downtown (the auto-rickshaws are not allowed to go all the way to the water) with a long walk along the entire length of the Ganges ghat (think: dock for cleansing people) area (a couple miles).

I don't have a lot to say. It's beautiful, and I was lucky to go when there weren't any crowds at all, even at the most famous cremation ghat, and it was a nice walk (even though I was so sweaty it was like I was in the shower). The problem, and the problem with Agra and Fatehpour Sikri, as well, is that you are under SUCH constant assault from people offering their services (in Varanasi they are offering to take you on a boat ride or to a guest house) and they are SO aggressive that it's quite miserable. I mean, in Agra you have 5 year old girls chasing you SCREAMING, as you are entering the ticket line for the Taj, the price of admission...like you didn't know, or couldn't figure it out, and like screaming un-needed information at someone, repeatedly, while chasing them down the street is a form of employment or deserves compensation. My problem is not being watched...in Afghanistan I was VERY much watched...my problem is having someone else in my face constantly...it makes me an unpleasant person.

I actually got in a bit of a fight with a guy at the Manikarnika Ghat (according to LP: "The most auspicious places for a Hindu to be cremated") because I was watching, from afar (like from quite a ways away) and when I kept refusing to let him take me to the family's ceremony (people DO watch, but it's considered rude to take photos) and I told him in Hindi, with a definite mixture of dismissiveness and aggression, to "go," he said that I had no business talking to him disrespectfully in "his palace." I told him that this wasn't his palace, that it was every one's palace, and that I wanted to THINK (this has being something I had to repeatedly tell people in Agra -- I want to THINK, and I don't want some one's endless chatter or nonsense...some of the places we are at are HOLY SITES, and I want to be CONTEMPLATIVE when I am in them!), and that HE was disrespectful to break my silence. Oh! That reminds me -- I also got a "fuck you, man" from a guy who tried to harass me on the street. Story as old as time...or at least as old as India (which is to day: about six decades): I was walking on the street, ignored him when he stepped in my path and asked me where I was going, where I was staying, did I need a guest house, a boat, good price, hello, hello, hey sir, good discount, the temple is that way, the ocean is that way (it's not even an ocean!), etc. and I told him "no" and to "go" and he continued, unrelenting, so I steadily pressed his chest away from me (which Desi has observed is quite effective -- you are walking, and someone is rushing next to you, and without a word or a look, you just push them calmly back), but he grabbed by arm, and I said to him: "Do NOT touch me," and he said "don't touch ME" and followed up with his f-wish. Oh well!

Long story short: I did the ghat tour of Varanasi and more or less avoided the contested temples (there are only two), although I did observe the Alamgir mosque, which I was drawn to by some weird school (I got a photo) above the Panchganga Ghat (the ghat where five rivers, which ones I don't know, supposedly meet) which seemed to be some kind of an exercise facility for muscles and scantily-clad half-Hindu/half-Buddhist monks...I mean it was really weird. I was standing there, above the river (or five) and there was just like FLOODS of men coming from this white metal cage of a building...I hiked the steps (and they are so steep and it is SO hot, and there is SO much fecal matter and urine in the air that even I thought I might be compromised, in terms of my normally-hardy spirit) towards it and ended up, to my left, at Aurangzeb's mosque.
North India monument rundown: everything is built by Akbar, as well as his son, Jehangir, and HIS son, Shah Jahan, who was killed by HIS son, Aurangzeb. You actually sort of start to feel for the personalities involved: Akbar's religious tollerance, Shah Jahan's love for Mumtaz (for whom he built the Taj)...you start to think about his gentle love of white marble and Aurangzeb's greed...

ANYWAY! I got on the bus to Allahabad, which only took 30 minutes longer than Lonely Planet said it would, and after an initially negative encounter with SWARMS of rickshaw drivers (all cycles, unfortunately), I finally got my bearings (the bus, of course, dropped us off in the middle of nowhere, NOT at the actual bus station, but I knew we were within walking distance of the Hotel Milan Palace...no hot Italian men staying in it, for those of you who are wondering, and the bell boy does not wear Prada) and made it to the hotel. I'm pleasantly surprised by the room.
UGH my blog stamina is decreasing really rapidly.

Ok finish Allahabad -->

I forced myself out of my room, even though I have not been THIS dirty and exhausted in a really REALLY long time (I just ache, and by the time I checked-in to the hotel and went to my bathroom, I physically had dirt SMEARED on my face, like I looked like a chimney sweep!), and went to one of the most enjoyable things I've seen on the trip (thereby making Allahabad worth it), which is the Anand Bhavan -- the home of Motilal Nehru (Congress Party guy who worked with Ghandi as the first Prime Minister of India and who, against Ghandi's wishes, moved for partition and the formation of the separate state of Pakistan)...he's the father of Indira Ghandi (not related to the GOOD Ghandi lol), which is the one you read about in Mistry's "Fine Balance," and who, herself both tyrannical and revolutionary, gave birth to two sons, one of whom scandalized himself by continuing HER forced sterilization campaigns, and who was assassinated, and the other of whom innocently married an Italian woman (Sonia) while he was an Air India pilot in Italy, and who, when his brother was assassinated, reluctantly took charge (he was ALSO assassinated, and it was his wife, Sonia, who was famously declined the Congress Party's push to make her PM, because the BJP and other Hindu nationalists threatened riots and self-immolation if she, a foreigner, became PM...she's fascinating, but I don't know much about her).

ANYWAY, it was such a great place to visit, not only because you get to see the bookshelves and personal belongings of these people that are so much more vivid to me, since coming to India, but also because it's this really relaxed, beautiful, tourist spot for families looking into the history of their nation. It was just so family-oriented (in a non-annoying way) and peaceful, I was really enjoying it.

Things got a BIT stressed, but also, in the end, pleasant, I guess, when an Indian tourist, maybe 17 or 18, approached me and asked me to take a photo with him. He then INSISTED that I give him my email AND phone number! Because I was SO frustrated by scammers, I guess I was heartened by his kind of naive engagement with "the foreigner," so I played along. We ended up going to the on-site photo exhibit together, and then he came with me to the Allahabad library (this gorgeous late 19th century structure). He confessed that he had NEVER spoken to a foreigner before (and had seen only a few in his life EVER) and that this was his first trip outside his village, 60km away, in celebration of the completion of his 12th class exams. I knew where it would go (ie: he'd cling), but I let it take it's course, which meant NOT dodging him when he asked if he could see what a "nice" hotel looks like, and not shaking him off when we asked if we could go to McDonald's. Well it was a day of firsts for him (NO GIGGLES! You know I don't like younger guys, and EWWW I'd so NEVER do that!), as I also learned that it was ALSO his first time to ride in a lift (he was SO enthused by the elevator in the hotel, even though it only goes up three floors!), and his first time seeing, let alone eating-in, a McDonald's. I got him a McVeggie with Cheese and a coke, and we parted with promises to email each other the photos we took. I made a feeble attempt to be generous, warm, pro-education, anti-caste (it's hard to impart all these things on a youth in a few hours!), etc. and I think, or at least I hope, that he left motivated to really work hard for his CAT exam (their general university admission exam which he told me he'll take THREE YEARS after graduation to prepare for), and understanding that while I'm nice, not everyone is, and it's possible that even nice foreigners he tries to talk to will be so warn down by India that they might prefer privacy.

So ends my day in Allahabad!

I owe you: the rest of Chandigarh, Amritsar, our return to Delhi, and my time in Fatehpour Sikri and Agra....

Gosh the to-do list is mounting!

XO

VC

VC's 36-Hour Day

Well I'm in Allahabad, and rather than going ALL the way back to the Punjab to pick up my blog in Chandigarh where I left off, I'm going to give you a taste of the disorientation and exhaustion that I'm feeling by jumping around, backwards, from city to city, starting where I am now and ending up at Chandigarh.

The past 36 or so hours have been very, very difficult.

In general, I haven't had the easiest time since parting with Desi (and the poor bab has been experiencing drowning and teeth falling out nightmares, and was vomiting the day I left Delhi...although not in a tragic Greek sort of way...he had just had too much to drink the night before lol, but still -- it's hasn't been an easy 2 days for either of us).

I think I already hinted that Fatehpour Sikri and Agra were not easy places to be in, but WOW did the difficulties only START, there.

I may have mentioned, before, that when Desi and I went to the office in Delhi to book the train tickets for the rest of my stay in India, I couldn't get the ticket from Agra to Varanasi that I wanted. The train booking guy told me that the ONLY train I could take, overnight, to get from the corner of UP (Uttar Pradesh -- formerly "United Provinces," under the British, the initials saved in spirit of India's LOVE for acronyms!) where I was in Agra to the total opposite corner, where Varanasi is, was on a train from a place about 30km East of Agra called Tundla. According to him, many tourists leave from there, and it's not a problem to get there.

RIGHT.

I should start by saying that it's not even easy to figure out, when you are in Agra, how to get to Tundla. Although they are connected by a rail line, I learned from the station guy in Agra the night that I arrived (who at first refused to even speak to me, because they were no longer SELLING tickets, they were only EXCHANGING tickets) that I needed to take a bus from the Agra Fort bus station (it's interesting, in India, that it doesn't matter how many times you tell a rickshaw driver which specific bus station you want, he will insist on knowing what city you are continuing on to to make sure that you aren't an idiot and going from the wrong station...a nice service, I guess, but I'm not sure I trust the rickshaw drivers to have the departures of every station committed to memory!).

Because my train from Tundla to Varanasi was not scheduled to leave until almost 9PM, when I went to the Agra Fort bus station yesterday morning *before* visiting the Fort or the Taj, I was expecting to be told something like "You pay X amount and it takes Y hours, and you'll catch the bus at Z time right over there." Instead, it was more of a woman behind the counter NOT speaking English and being TOTALLY shouted over by scheming rickshaw driver/bus ticketer/khiladi (see former blog in Pakistan/Afghanistan for the meaning of Khiladi!) THINGS who had the attitude that, although they were not the ones in the information booth, because they were men and because they were hustling, they knew better than I or she what I needed to do. I think it surprises people when I say things to them like: "I am not TALKING to you. You don't WORK here. I'm talking to HER. SHE has the job. You don't" etc., but things were eventually under control and she managed to tell me (when it turned out that she did speak English so long as she felt like it) that I needed to return to the bus station at 5:30 or 6:30, stand in the dirt(y) lot, should the name "Tundla," and then be whisked away to the city for an unknown price and with an unknown arrival time. Fine. This was WELL within my range of expectations, so I could cope.

You'll get to hear about my day in Agra and the Taj later (we are working backward, kind of, remember?), but let's just say that while my getting ON the bus to Tundla was not problematic, everything else since checking in to my hotel in Allahabad has been.

The bus ride, again, was unpleasant but well withing my expectations; meaning: I was taken to by a boy in his late teens/early twenties who decided to sit next to me/on me and make conversation with me (I use the word "conversation" generously). I was direct enough, when there were still open seats on the bus, to ask him to not sit RIGHT next to me, because it was too hot to have bodies touching (see! neurotic type A's can TOTALLY survive in India!), but when the bus filled up (as they all quickly do...and don't worry...you will stop at EVERY fruit stand and beverage shack along the road until you pick up enough people to fill the seats) he persuaded the guy sitting next to me to trade with him and thereby cement our friendship.
They dropped us off in Tundla LITERALLY in the side of an unmarked highway, but I was not YET too upset, as I had more than 2 hours before my train, and knew that if I wandered around long enough I'd find a rickshaw who, even price-gouging me, wouldn't not get more than a dollar or two to take me to the rail station.

Let the hell begin.

Ok, so the rail station was what I predicted, but what I did not predict was having to wait there for 5 hours under constant assault.

I had seen other rail stations, and I have pretty realistic expectations about facilities, here (in fact I've been more pleasantly surprised by our hotels, for example, than disappointed, my hotel in Allahabad included), but my ability to cope is VERY contingent on how long I need to exist in certain environments. In other words: an hour or two in the train station would have been fine...three was unpleasant but I hadn't cracked...FIVE HOURS and I was going mad.

The main problem was that I didn't not feel physically safe in the station. Not because of thieves and assaulters (whose photos are posted outside the Chief Inspector's office...one should do a study of the strange offices you find in Indian rail stations, and EVERY station, no matter how small, it seems, has these offices, each with clearly-bureaucratic but functionally-empty names like "Chief Ticket Inspector" and "Deputy Assistant Rail Manager"), but because of the bugs, rodents, and other things constantly threatening attack.

Of the things which tried to variously defecate on me, suck my blood, eat me, or in some other way make me want to throw myself on the tracks were: stray dogs, THOUSANDS (no exaggeration) of well-fed pigeons, grasshoppers (I have NEVER seen so many!), moths, flies, mosquitoes, roaches (the tiny fast kind and the HUGE fast kind), and lizards. Seeing respite in the First Class Lounge, I quickly learned that all that keeps out are the dogs and pigeons, and the rest are given free entry.

It was puzzling to me how people in that lounge (think: Orange County beach restroom with wooden benches and odd colonial-style paintings of the Indian countryside) could sleep with roaches, moths, flies, mosquitoes, and grasshoppers ON THEIR BODIES. I was totally unable to concentrate, for the most part, on Toni Morrison's "Love" because I had to track: "Lizard has moved behind third bench on the left, while moth remains steady on foot stool, and roaches alpha and beta divide and conquer painting area." I left the lounge in frustration, once, but returned after one of the screaming birds managed a bulls eye on my book (it would turn out that the book would get MUCH more on it than that). I wanted to make a video with my camera, but it would have eaten too much memory (and since the card I bought in Delhi had a fake 1GB ticker when it was really only 50% of that, I didn't have memory to spare!), but these birds were INSANE. I mean it was so loud in the station that the echoes of their chirps made it virtually impossible to hear the announcer or other people (only in the respite of the "lounge" could you hear someone talk). I was finally forced out of the lounge a second time when one of the largest roaches I've ever seen landed on my sweater, so, while eagerly watched by a little girl and her brother (and everyone else in the room) I swatted it off the Donna Karen with my book, both fell to the floor, and everyone proceeded to laugh (the girl giggled for about 5 minutes, and I was happy to bring them some levity, but in the end there were too many bugs in the lounge, and I thought I'd do better outside).

So while my train is running three hours late, the station power is cutting in and out (pros and cons: when the lights went out, and it was PITCH BLACK, the birds would shut up, but then the bugs would seek hot things rather than bright things, and their taxis was directed RIGHT at me). EVERYONE was confused about the train (would it STILL arrive on Platform 3?), and even the mother of the lounge (she really is that...this old woman in a bright blue saree who doesn't inspect people's tickets, but just questions you about where you're going, sizing you up as first class material or not, and waking you up to run to your train -- or what she believes is your train -- when she hears it coming).

I'll skip the disturbing homosocial space of the lounge, the guy who I think tried to pick me up, and the boy (I say "boy" but he was at least college age) who I am convinced was more or less masturbating in public (he and his friend were making all kinds of jokes and joined each other, legs entwined, to cuddle on the bench before one of them got a little TOO excited).

I found a straight line on the platform that had little enough light so as to not reflect TOO much on my book and thereby attract bugs, was pigeon free (although it was like walking a balance beam!), and where, if I kept pacing, I was too much a moving target for a grasshopper. I paced along that line, about 4 meters in length, for nearly 3 hours, in and out of darkness and without food or drink (like I want samosas cooked with bird crap for sauce, and the beverage guy didn't have change and wasn't interested in the lost business by not getting any), covered in sweat, with my stuff, before the trains came. Finally, at almost 11PM, some trains started to come, their presence announced BEFORE a horn or light by the HUGE amounts of dirt and trash that swirled around the platform before they rolled-in.

It was a truly awful few hours. I actually borded the wrong train because TWO different TRAIN ATTENDANTS told me it was going to Varanasi, but then I found a guy who told me the NAME of the train (since, although they all have numbers, the key is the name), and I got off in time to not end up...not here. I knew inside that, no matter how late a train was, it was likely to always come on the platform it's supposed to, because a track switch would probably require a lot of paperwork, stamps, and the faxing of the ministries of transportation and of the interior.

When I got on the train, three hours late, the cabin was already closed and I assumed my lower-berth sleeper in half-light, while the two guys up and across from me (there were two sets of bunks in my little mini-compartment) negotiated with the ticket inspector to let them sleep together, meaning: not give a shit about the other three of us sleeping and talk all night. It was not SUCH a problem, their talking, because as soon as I sat down a roach crawled across the fold-away table next to my pillow, and so I knew I was on bug-patrol. By the end of "breakfast" in the morning (you aren't served food, like on the nicer, faster, on-time and bug-free trains Desi and I took, so breakfast is whatever food you decide to buy from the people walking the aisles with tea, hashbrowns, or samosas...) I had killed 4 roaches next to my pillow or on the wall next to my bed, and was thankful that Toni Morrison not only wrote a great book, but also chose a soft back print with an easy-to-wipe cover!

[For future blogging: I read Kundera's "Ignorance" and, as an ironic match in terms of title, Morrison's "Love" on this trip, and really should give my thoughts on both, if I ever get the chance]

It was a relief to get off the train in Varanasi, even though I knew that THIS was the city so many people (including Desi) described as being one of the worst they'd ever visited in their lives, and once I was resolved to carry ALL my stuff rather than try to stow something at the train station and waste time, having to come back to pick it up before going to the bus station to go to Allahabad, I was on the road and ready to see the city.

VC