Like Obama?

This is from a December 2008 letter I wrote soon after now President Obama won the election. I wrote it while returning from Thailand:

[Editor's note: A tuk tuk is a small, three-wheeled passenger vehicle that serves as an alternative to a taxi in Thailand.]

Now that Obama is president-elect, people seem ready to believe that black people really do come from the U.S. too. It's kinda nuts.

Typical exchange:

Tuk tuk?!

No thank you.

Where you from? (South Africa?)

America.

America! Like Obama?!

Yes! Like Obama.


Typical follow up exchange for remainder of trip:

OBAMA!

Yes. Obama.

My first music festival (with gravy!)

Outside Lands! Ken and I had an awesome time in San Francisco. This was my first music festival. The bands I saw (Beck, Cake, Kaki King, Lyrics Born, M. Ward, Radiohead, Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers) were so enthusiastic, engaging the crowd and showing true gratitude.

Despite the weather requiring a few extra layers, Golden Gate Park was a lovely venue. The six stages were divided among three tree-lined meadows. The occasional sound problem, didn't phase me. Festival organizers are people too. From curry to ribs and beer to soju cocktails, there was plenty to keep us eating, drinking and making merry.

I only have two regrets: 1. Missing Cold War Kids and Manu Chao. The buses going toward the Park were packed. Since we were forced to catch a bus going in the opposite direction and ride most of the rout in order to reach our final destination, we got to the park too late to see them. 2. Not being able to stay for Sunday's performances. Alas, real life called, and Professor Ken had to get back in time to start teaching on Monday.

On the accommodations end, Luke (who also turned me on to Outside Lands) recommended The Phoenix. Great call! A post-war motor lodge renovated with a tropical vibe, The Phoenix provided a comfortable, laid back base of operations. Complimentary breakfast and parking didn't hurt either.

The icing on the weekend's cake was getting together with my friend Jaime from Yale. We hadn't seen each other since graduation. It was absolutely wonderful getting to spend time together again. We had brunch in the Bistro at the Cliff House overlooking the Pacific and Ocean Beach. A weekend of firsts, I partook of my first popover and periodically daydreamed about the pastry's airy, buttery goodness during the drive back to Los Angeles.

The entire trip was a fantastic last hurrah for the summer. Ken was more relaxed than I'd ever seen him. The two of us chillin' in the grass listening to music was a delight. My favorite festival moment came Friday when I broadened my focus from the audiovisual spectacle on stage to take in the entire scene. Here we were, surrounded by trees, thousands of people, our diverse life paths converging in appreciation of the same music. For one tiny segment of humanity, it was a genuine moment of harmony. I wish that moment for the world.

There she 'fros

When India and The Afro meet, it can be an endearing, annoying and amusing encounter.

"Oh soft!" and "Nice!" have been the responses of sweet spa employees upon tactile introduction to my noggin. Stymied security guards stare helplessly at the 'fro. To frisk or not to frisk? Only one airport guard gave my locks and their attendant scarf a furtive pat, and then only after I volunteered my head for the once over.

My neighbor Carl warned me that my wooly coif would be a curiosity. Apparently, his travels on the subcontinent included a fair amount of offering his cranium for inspection. That said, I'm pretty sure his closely cropped do did not endanger the lives of innocent, unsuspecting commuters.

My adventures in Varanasi run like a cautionary tale cum comedy of errors. Much like driving while talking on a mobile phone, my hair should be banned from the roadways of the City of Light. It is sheer negligence on my part of allow my hair to be out and about during rush hour. The 'fro nearly caused several traffic accidents as rickshaw drivers (and their passengers), cyclists and pedestrians stopped watching the road to take a very long double take at the sight of my fluffy head making its way down the street. (Minimal traffic does not require the double take as doubling back for a second look is as easy as making a U-turn in the middle of an empty street). The Varanasi traffic police would have made a mint if they had found a way of charging me with reckless DNA.

One elderly denizen of Varanasi's Old City stopped dead in her tracks, mouth gaping, as I approached, passed and ascended a flight of stairs. She might still be standing there. I'm sure I owe her family some compensation as no doubt she will eventually have to be treated for shock.

Kolkata has given the 'fro a less than heart-warming reception.

Staring, snickering boys (the type that would laugh at someone with a speech impediment or physical handicap) seem not uncommon. I am normally in the habit of returning shy, curious glances with an open smile. In return, I usually receive an equally warm expression, and instantly, where once there was a cultural boundary stands a bridge. Not with these delinquents.

Perhaps I am being too harsh, but these juveniles' unchecked behavior makes me want to abandon my normally pacific nature and scare the, well, you know, out of them by turning on their punk asses with a vicious shriek like the terrible, black-skinned goddess Kali, eyes wide, tongue lolling and dripping with blood. My desire to be a respectful guest in this country and not be ejected from the restaurant before finishing my sweet lassi does not quell, but at least curbs this impulse.

Lest it seem like the 'fro has brought nothing but frustration, rest assured that it has given me at least one great advantage: easy entree into the delicate matter of Indian social etiquette. While reading over my shoulder as I write in my journal, demanding that I share my magazines during a train ride (then trying to take off with one) and prying into my personal finances is not considered rude or an invasion of my privacy, inquiry into whether my hair really does grow out of my head like that is always preceded by a quiet and respectful, "May I ask you a personal question?" Apparently grooming and genetics are not subjects to be broached lightly.

I realize that I must take at least partial responsibility the difficulties caused by the 'fro. To the city of Varanasi, I am truly sorry, and will do my best to limit bad hair days in the future. As for the snickering boys of Kolkata, watch out. Kali is coming!

Varanasi ingenuity

Until now I could not have any food in my room. My 50 or so roommates (read: ants) would always get to it before I did.

Problem: The medicine I am taking requires honey. Ants like honey.

My solution: Put honey in a ziplock bag. Take that ants!

Problem 2: How do you say ziplock bag in Hindi?

My Hindi teacher's solution: Put the honey in a dish filled with water. Ant's can't swim.

Lesson: Sometimes the most low tech solution is the best. Thanks!

Fire alarm?

An open fire, no matter how small, inside a jewelry shop should at least give someone pause. Not in India.

While purchasing a pair of earrings for my mom-in-law, I turned to notice a small fire burning under the showroom stairs. I was the only one who seemed remotely alarmed by our ability to make s'mores while perusing fine jewelry.

Having been here a few weeks, I have learned to go with the flow. So, rather than make a mountain out of a briskly burning molehill, I turned my attention to my purchase.

The clasp on one of the earrings needed adjustment. The resident goldsmith was summoned, retrieved the earrings and disappeared to make the repair. A few moments later he reappeared to say that the adjustment needed to be made offsite. I agreed to pick-up the earrings the next day.

As I left, I was startled to see the goldsmith comfortably squatting beneath the stairs. What I had thought was an errant flame was in fact a rudimentary forge. Of course. Silly me.

Vishnu, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore

This is taken from a letter that I wrote to my mother:

Mommy, I love India. I'm so excited to be here. At times, I can't even wrap my head around the fact that I am here after wanting to come for so long. This place is crazy and wonderful. You can practically tell the time by what wildlife is about. Sunrise belongs to eagles and other birds. Around 7 a.m. the flies get humming.

Mid-day is too hot for anything but tourists and livestock. Cows are everywhere. The dogs are next in terms of population size. Goats and pigs also make the scene in more rural areas. They all share the road (and any other thoroughfare) with cars, bicycles, rickshaws and pedestrians.

Early evening belongs to the monkeys, literally. They are pretty territorial. Any territory they are in -- regardless of whether you were there first -- is theirs.

The people here are amazing. Full of color and contradictions. I baffle them. A five-foot, nine-inch tall Indian woman with an afro is a rarity to say the least. I've started parting my hair in the front and putting red make-up in the part (a symbol of marriage like our wedding band) and that seems to both further confuse and elicit respect and appreciation. When I wear Indian clothes all bets are off. I don't appear to be Indian, but what else could this non-Hindi speaking, yet not clueless tourist person be? Despite their befuddlement, everyone, for the most part, has been very respectful, kind and helpful.