Dirty

Last year I was fortunate enough to travel to India for work.  I only had about one day of sightseeing during the whole trip.  It was a difficult trip emotionally and professionally – I lost an employee to suicide and found some employees who didn’t feel they were treated fairly.  Unfortunately all in a day’s work for an HR Director.  But there were a lot of things I was beginning to love about India. 

The driving - why sit there backed up in two lanes when 5 cars can easily fit?  It actually makes sense to drive outside the lines.
The drivers - because I can't drive like that – they drive on pure faith. 
The sexism - women get their own lines for airport check in and screening, buying tickets to temples, etc. and since there are no women, no waiting!  I just zoom right in! 
The unnecessary concern for my personal welfare - "Please, ma'am, put that barbell down!  It is too heavy for you!"  "Please, Ma'am, I will drive you, it is not safe" "Please ma'am, take these water wings if you are going to swim in the ocean!"

Wait, wait, wait - what?  Water wings?  I grew up in Hawaii.  I could swim before I could walk – we all could.  Just toss us in and see what happens!  I don't think I need water wings.....unless I am required to swim in a full length dress and pants.

One of our staff was kind enough to take me sight seeing on the day I had free. Bless her!  We hit temple after temple on our way to Puri - a Hindu holy sight and beach town.  We stopped for fresh coconut on the way (guy takes a machete, chops the head off the young coconut, slaps a straw in it and when you are done, pops the whole thing open and scoops out the meat with the back of the shell - yum!)  and then stopped for Chinese food. 

I figured I would get a life threatening illness from my dirty activities that day, but it was FUN!   Machete wasn't so clean and neither was the guy, but he really wanted his picture taken and it was so awesome to just toss my leftover coconut and plastic straw over an embankment........wait, that part freaked me out because I live in Seattle and would probably be kicked out of the neighborhood association so I kept the straw in my bag the rest of the day looking for a plastic recycling bin.  They don’t really have them in India, so I carried it a long time. 

We drove into the beach town of Puri and it was HOT.  We rented two plastic chairs under a tarp because Indians are somewhat obsessed with pale skin and my guide didn't want to get any darker.  We had a giant argument about which was better dark or light  (growing up in Hawaii doesn't make you value pale skin, we call that "shark bait").  I took off my shoes with the intention of just wading in the water because I couldn't find a place to change out of my salwar suit into a new one if I got it all wet.  Everyone already told me to NOT EVEN THINK about wearing a bathing suit or even shorts and a t shirt because it would be vulgar - everyone swims in saris or salwar kameez.  Right!  Like I am swimming in a dress and pants - this isn't the rainbow gathering! 

As I got closer to the Pacific, I saw the sweet, sweet shore break.  It was hot, the ocean smelled so salty and cool, there was hardly anyone in the water (we will find out why later!) I was physically called to dive in, dress and pants and all.  Swam out past the break which was decent when all of a sudden, some guy in a pointy hat shows up next to me and hands me an inner tube thingey.  I was like "who are you and why are you wearing that hat?  I am wearing the damn dress and pants, now I have to wear a tube?   What is with this place?"  Apparently, it was a lifeguard and they were concerned that I was drowning.  So much for learning to swim before I could walk.   I swam in and asked my colleague to explain to this guy to leave me alone so I could swim - I promised not to drown.  He finally relented and I went back out for a good 30 minutes of uninterrupted body surfing.

It was pure bliss - I miss the water.  I miss the feeling you get when you dry out and salt covers the hair on your arms and you are slightly burnt and feel like you know what a roasted peanut feels like before it is put in the can.  I love that feeling.  But we had to go, so I headed to the public shower.  Yeah, you know where this is going, don't you?

I paid a few rupees for a spigot 3 feet off the ground.  Problem was, I was blasted with sand - it was everywhere and still is.  So I washed off as best I could and then headed back to dry in the sun.  The water was dubious the shower pretty funky, so I did what I could and got back to the beach.  Salwars are pretty light material, so I figured 15 minutes would do it.  I even changed into a t shirt and wrapped myself in a scarf so as not to appear indecent while my dress dried. 

I guess a lot of women don't sit in the sun drying their wet clothes so they can hit the monkey temple (monkey temple!  I know!  I know!), so we attracted quite a crowd.  I had a guy singing some Bollywood love song to me while these other guys kept walking by and clandestinely taking my picture.  If I pass for Pamela Anderson here in a wet pair of pants and half burka, I am kind of thinking about staying.  Except the singer guy was clearly batshit crazy and the camera guys looked like a frat boy assault team "dude, you know how my dad owns the Ford dealership in Udiapur?  Well he got me a sweet deal on an F150! Did you see that chick in the wet burka, she totally wants me, dude."

We finally left and headed to the world's coolest temple.  There are all kinds of carvings from the kama sutra on the temple because it is supposed to distract evil spirits from entering the temple - I guess they just stand outside and "enjoy" themselves.  Works for me, I didn’t leave for a good 45 minutes. 

The next day I was off to Calcutta to hunt for the market that sells Bollywooded Che Guevera shirts which means he is glittery and wearing eye liner. 

I love India.

The Intimacy of Strangers

Flying from Seattle to LAX, falling asleep on the floor and nearly missing my flight should have told me something.   I don’t know what, but something. 

The day before my flight, I spent freaking out.  Like really really freaking out.  Like calling my dad and begging him to come get me and take me home.  I called everyone I knew, they all told me I should in fact be freaking out, that was expected after one quits a perfectly good job without another one and decides to head to Indonesia to write a book.  Now, you are probably thinking, “who does she think she is?  Elizabeth Gilbert?”  No, I actually think I am Barak Obama.  We were born a the same hospital, lived 2 miles apart, apparently aren’t really REAL Americans and like to hang out in Indonesia.   I was thinking of a more punk rock spiritual enlightenment kind of trip like Chelsea Handler meets Guru Gurumuk and then beats her up. 

I had been in an overly friendly mood on the way to LA to catch my connecting flight to Seoul and decided to set myself down between two other passengers in a row that wasn’t mine - at their invitation.  They were adorable guys - early 20s, and had just returned from a bender.  Fan-tastic!  I was in the party row.   We had some fantastic conversations and it made an otherwise uneventful flight bearable.   

Unfortunately, the flight had a lot of turbulence so we had to party with our own personal chemicals.   The ones in our brains, not the fun ones you get for $20 a pop.  Or $10 if you know the right people.  They were best friends from elementary school and were working as nurses in San Diego.  They were perfectly lovely, but they did wind up getting me drunk.   I am perfectly capable of doing that on my own, but I guess chivalry isn’t dead – thanks guys!  In LA, I raced around franticly looking for the Korean Air counter.  I couldn’t find it to save my life.  When I finally got there, I was 10 seconds from missing my flight and the counter lady made me ride on one of those fat people carriers.  It was humiliating, I could have run.  In heels.  It wouldn’t have been the first time I jumped into the wheel well while the plane was taking off. 

So where are we going here?  To Seoul first (does it count as visiting Korea if you change planes in Seoul?).  The whole point of this whole stupid thing was to get some time off, recharge, shut the fuck up and figure out what to do with my life now.  I had blown a dream interview earlier in the day due to my extreme anxiety.  Blew it hard – like a 25 year old sorority girl.  Oh yeah, where are we going here? 

The intimacy of strangers on planes.  It is oddly intimate to sleep next to perfect (imperfect) strangers on airplanes and you wake up to find yourself kind of cuddling next to a Marine Corps Officer.  Or having a row party with two kids from San Diego.  Or sharing a bathroom with the 150 random people on a plane.  It is closer than I get to my family. 

My friend Max always reminds me that I don’t have to like my real family (I do, very much, so don’t freak, y’all), but that I did have to like my chosen family because I picked them myself.  Out of a dumpster or Value Village, but I picked them.  All by myself. 

For some reason, this trip reminds me slightly of the phone call I got from my friend J one morning.  “Jen!  Shit, J2 left me at the airport and took my wallet and my hair is covered in frosting and they won’t let me on the plane because I don’t have an id or boarding pass and I think we were at a strip club playing blackjack and eating cupcakes, but I can’t be sure.  Can you come get me?”  He was in Vegas. 

I have never found that place to be very appealing.  It is kind of like Burning Man (I say as I prepare to be shunned by my entire community of friends who will likely unchose me) where everyone just recounts the things they did at Band Camp over and over and over and over and over and over and over (yeah, it gets boring).  I mean, if you can’t spend your weekends getting drunk, painted blue and hitting the goth roller-derby opera, where the hell do you live?  And why do you still live there?  The housing is cheap?  It is close to your parents?  You live right around the corner from a Linens and Things? 

Vegas is like that too.  Everyone tells you for years and years about all the wacky hijinx they had in Vegas in like 1962.  Or my grandparents did anyway.  I think they went out drinking with Frank Sinatra, got stuck at the airport with frosting on their cigarettes, no money a souvenier cocktail glass.  No cell phones back then so they had to stay for two years – grandma working as a show girl, grandpa working as a dealer.  

So where are we going here?  So, Barak Obama, Elizabeth Gilbert and a rabbi are all on a boat from Densapar to Sumatra with a Bengal Tiger and an iguana or I am merely sitting on a ridiculously long flight between two humans with whom I have shared oxygen and likely mitochondria for 14 hours. 

The intimacy of strangers is an oddly beautiful thing.