Twinkle Twinkle Little Bat

2010-05-16T17:27:00.001-07:00

I must be getting less stressed out. Today I had a full conversation with a bird. A mourning dove, to be exact...really, they don't count as birds because I don't think they evolved quite right. Anyone who believes in intelligent design should really take another look at the mourning dove. They're like taupe baseballs with itty bitty heads and stubby tails and wings that go "fiffiiffiiifffifiifffiififififfff" when they fly. They also can't keep their balance on our bird feeder. It is, frankly, pathetic to watch but I laugh at them anyway.

Anyhow. I can make that annoying owl hooting/dove cooing noise when I blow into my hands just right, so (at my father's encouragement) I started impersonating that familiar cooooOOOOoo cooo, coo! coooo for which taupe baseballs with wings that go fifffifff are renowned. It talked back. I kept this up for a good five minutes until I started cracking up when I realized that I had no idea what I was saying in Mourning Dove, and the conversation probably sounded something like this:

Mourning Dove: Ahoy thar! Who are you when you're at home?

Me: Blibetstreudal hockenspork dorkrocket!

Mourning Dove: I do beg your pardon, but would you be so kind as to repeat yourself? I could have sworn you said, "blibetstreudal hockenspork dorkrocket."

Me: My blowfish sporkadillied el conquistadoro, allegmagicadlly. Escargot?

Mourning Dove: Good sir! What nonsense do you speak? Do you take me for a simpleton?

Me: Mala beer-butt-chicken pahijey. Tula beer-butt-chicken pahijey?

Mourning Dove: Cease this unmannerly drivel at once! I am a high ranking citizen!

Me: Coucous *cough* BEEEES!!! BEEEEES! BEEEEEEEEES!

Mourning Dove: Get thee to a nunnery. *flies away*

Me: Oogie Boogie?

That's my story.

2009-12-07T18:45:00.000-08:00

I recently took a rather startling perambulation down memory lane, and realized that I have been in a LOT of embarrassing video projects during the course of my life.

List of video recordings that will seriously hinder my chances of being President:

1. The one where I name a whole bunch of Lego men after my 7th grade teachers and then proceed to destroy them all with a succession of tidal waves, volcanic eruptions, earthquakes, and typhoons.

2. The one where I’m pretending to be a Nazi. (I was the costume designer for a history class video-skit project on WWII, and they needed extras. The writer, the music guy, and I all got roped into playing Nazis).

3. The one where I am dressed as a drunken business man and get seduced by a flamenco-dancing drag queen. (This was another history project, believe it or not).

4. The one where I’m being attacked by a sheet of lined paper to the tune of Phantom of the Opera.

5. The one where I tried to make a documentary about the floating blue Jesus statue near my house and ended up comparing it to Dr. Manhatten and accidentally zooming in on its crotch.

6. The one where I tried to give a video presentation about a calculus problem and my visual aid fell on me and I fell on the camera.

Eheh. Vote me!

Blogging.

2009-12-01T12:04:00.001-08:00

This is my concerted effort to write in my blog regularly. Despite the fact that I live at home in a small town stuck in the 1980's bad music scene, I swear I live an interesting life. Reeaallly.

Yesterday I found a torn up note on the ground. It was a simple love note at one point, I think, but only a small shred of it remains. It was torn in such a way that what was written looked like a very poignant poem, which I will post here when I ask permission from the person I suspect wrote it such a long time ago.

Updates:

I got into a car accident
I bought a plastic lightsaber
I figured out a few things about death
I have an art studio that I'm all too often afraid of.

Also! I was supposed to have a 48 hour EEG beginning today, but the guy before me decided not to turn in the equipment, so they had to send me home. This gives me time to create a NEW blog, since I obviously spend so much of my time blogging...:-p. So, I'm at Rosemont Hall starting a blog about working at The Nevermore, since everything that happens there is too crazy not to be plastered all over the internet. Evan will write in it too. Hopefully, we won't be caught by management anytime soon.

2009-07-04T14:12:00.001-07:00

This is how I bake:

Step 1: Hmm. I missed baking pie with Liz, and that's our fourth of July tradition. Not ok. I shall make her muffins.

Step 2: Oops. She can't eat gluten. Grocery store time. Excuse me, sir, now, this isn't exactly an oxymoron, but where do you keep flour that has absolutely nothing to do with wheat?

Step 3: Ooo! Chocolate chips.

Step 4: Ok. Two cups rice flour, some baking powder, salt. Hmm...I don't really want to do a wet mixture in a different bowl. I think it'll be ok if I stir it enough. I'll just beat the eggs first. Ok! This seems to be working.

Step 5: (Taste)

Step 6: Urgh. This is kind of grainy. Gluten must be some sort of binding agent. What should I put in instead? Well, baking's a science. Vinegar has a really strong taste, so it's probably capable of breaking bonds or something - I mean, it tastes like the sort of thing that does. Worth a shot.

Step 7: Ok, science. Vinegar is a new addition. Every action must have an equal yet opposite reaction, that will neutralize it. Hmmm...the opposite of vinegar is honey, because they're contrasting concepts in that aphorism about catching flies. So I'll add honey.

Step 8: Ok, I'm just gonna put these chocolate chips in. Chocolate chips ROCK.

Step 9: Bake. Don't set the timer. The muffins will tell you when they're ready

I've had my fair share of baking fiascos in the past(as I'm sure you can guess, but these muffins tasted really good!

The Supermarket, New Hope PA

2009-06-25T17:39:00.000-07:00

A few thoughts on supermarkets, primarily involving the cereal isle:

1. Fiber One does, in fact, taste like cardboard. Specifically the kind kindergarteners use in art projects and cover with macaroni and Elmer’s glue. It is also Boy Cereal. Special K is Girl Cereal. It doesn’t taste like anything.

2. High School Musical Cereal?? What is the world coming to???

3. They discontinued Berry Berry Kix. That is BLEAK. They think all-new Honey Kix will somehow replace the pink and purple void left in my life by the Berry variety. It won’t.

4. Supermarkets wield their music like the cruel and sarcastic thing it is. When I’m in a rush, they inevitably play “Under Pressure” as I try to decide between 25 different kinds of yogurt. After a break-up, they play either Celine Dion or “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” Whenever they play “Edge of Seventeen,” which is of course awesome, the song gets interrupted by something like, “Mrs. So-and-so, will you please pick up your lost and permanently psychologically scarred toddler from the cashier?”

When it is not being the ironic soundtrack to my problems, supermarket music is always “They Paved Paradise and Put Up a Parking Lot.” Which, really, is the ironic soundtrack of the world’s problems, so it counts.

5. Dry milk is kinda freaky, but not as freaky as the mom behind you in line telling her son that he might have swine flu. Willing to bet it’s the same kid whose disappearance interrupted my favorite song.

6. Making eye contact with the guy who lives in the secret room behind the milk shelves is surprisingly awkward.

The Nevermore, New Hope PA.

2009-06-18T20:45:00.000-07:00

Today I was introduced to one of the most attractive guys I've ever seen in my life, and my mouth was stuffed with bread.

I ate an early dinner at work, and got reeeally hungry around 8, so I snuck into the kitchen and grabbed a dinner roll. When I got back to the desk, I could hardly contain myself and shoved about half the roll into my mouth. It was good. It was that really squishy kind that gets stuck behind your teeth.

At that moment, my boss sauntered up, followed by a living, breathing Greek statue in a fantastic black t-shirt. "Have you met Ares?" my boss asked.

I looked up, blushed, and tried to swallow the sodden ball of fluff lodged in my mouth, to no avail. "...Ploomph?" I replied, kind of pathetically. I don't know how they reacted because I started staring really intently at a spot on the counter in front of me. Damned spot. I need to keep careful watch on it, see, because last week it attempted a hostile takeover of our business cards. Really. >.> <.<

Oh, welcome to my life.

I am consoled by repeatedly telling myself:

1. He was probably gay. Never mind the strait vibes.
2. Devastatingly handsome men are totally not my type. Seriously, who's into that?? *pout*
3. Realistically, I would have been equally charming and articulate even without a dinner roll stuck in my face. Ploomph.

The Internet, Cyberspace.

2009-04-14T20:45:00.000-07:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4qxWGr8VhzQ

!!!! WHAT THE DEVIL ARE THESE THINGS????

Swarthmore, PA

2008-12-12T20:41:00.000-08:00

Today I stomped in all the amazing puddles behind Wharton.

Then I dried my feet on my heater.

Sometimes, I really love Swat.

Swarthmore College, PA

2008-10-30T20:40:00.000-07:00

The Tale of the Intrepid Sugar Addict, and her Bold Escape from the Ornery Ice Cream Nazi at Sharples Dining Hall:

I peered anxiously into the bowels of Sharples dining hall, to where my prize was said to lie. There! I sighted it. It darted in and out of my vision, through gaps between the herds of hungry college students. Ice cream bar. And with it, my prize. The Food of the Gods. Chocolate Chips. Guarded by a beast so foul, so large and so terrible that even the bravest warriors dared not venture near it. But I sought it. For in its molten form, this miraculous substance would cure my abysmal affliction. Indeed! Only this forbidden potion could satiate the screaming pains of my sugar addiction, the accursed plague that had been haunting my palate since the first ray of morning sun. I crept toward the ice cream bar, ever wary of the beast that had claimed lives of one thousand score addicts before myself. The way was clear, and I made a brazen dash for the frozen altar and the promise of my anticipated cure.

There it lay before me. An endless trough, brimming with the Food of the Gods. CHOCOLATE CHIPS. I paused for only a moment, to suck in my breath at the sight of this tantalizing wonder. Then my spoon plunged into its chocolaty depths, and began shoveling the plundered bounty into my bowl with unmitigated desperation mingled with glee...chocolate...CHOCOLATE...NOOOOOOMMMMM---!

I froze. The trough was cast in an ominous shadow of doom. I felt a terrifying presence loom behind me, tasting the air with its silent forked tongue. I felt the ground shake under bulging feet, and the very air began to vibrate as the cavernous lungs of the beast sucked in a great, stinking breath. The room thundered, as she let out a booming roar: "Fee, Fie, Fo, Fum!! WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH ALL THAT CHOCOLATE???!!!!"

Heavens forfend! My legs were moving before my mind even formed a thought. With all the stony courage I could summon, (a trait passed down my noble family tree for innumerable generations), I darted past her, ducking under her club-like elbow, my prize clutched tightly against my chest. The beast bellowed her fury. The ice cream melted in fear. And I ran, ran as I had never run before.

At a safe distance, I stole a glance back. The beast stood in the doorway, her beady eyes crackling with the fires of hell as she pushed back the sleeves over her bulging arms. This horrific image will haunt my dreams for many years to come. But no matter. I had emerged victorious, victorious! I kissed my sweet, sweet, beholden chocolate, and placed it into a microwave oven to melt at my pleasure.

Yet I know the beast waits. She waits, lurking in the deepest recesses of my nightmares for me to make a move too bold. She's biding her time. I mustn't let it trouble me, but I know the fateful day of her revenge is inching closer, every moment.

The end!

Swarthmore College, PA

2008-09-25T20:39:00.000-07:00

For theater class I had to construct an abstract representation of the play we're doing. An 'image box,' if you will. I decided to 'create' the general feelings of invasion/vulnerability that putter around the play's subtext. I drew a bunch of people in their underwear, cut them out and taped them to a fan, and loosely attached various articles of clothing to their bodies. Then, when the time came for me to present my merry assemblage, I turned on the fan and blew the people's clothes off.

It was probably the weirdest, cruelest thing I have ever done to a bunch of helpless paper dolls. Theater is bizarre. Anyway, now I have a problem: I left the fan in the classroom we borrowed for the presentations that night. I don't think the classroom is open unless a class is going on, so I can't sneak over and retrieve my fan in a nice, discreet manner like I'd prefer to.

I imagine my interaction with the professor going something like this:

"Um. Hi. I left a fan in here...yes, it does happen to have drawings of six naked people taped to it...offensive? really?....no, there's nothing wrong with me...it was for a class...uh, theater...yeah it does explain a lot, yes I agree, that class gets weirder every day CAN I JUST HAVE THE BLOODY FAN NOW PLEASE??"

My Unconcious, The Dreaming.

2008-08-27T20:37:00.000-07:00

I'm worried. My dreams now have commercial breaks. Seriously. I had 3 dreams last night, and between the last two was an advertisement for the Ford Focus. WHAT???

It went something like this:

"During the last several decades, we have been pumping millions of tons of chlorofluorocarbons into the earth's atmosphere (shot of gray clouds of billowing smoke). These chemicals will be the cause of dramatic shifts in global climate, and the demise of life as we know it.
(Sudden shift to chipper music)
But now, Ford is here to help. For a limited time, you can purchase a hybrid Ford Focus for just $$$, 0 down, with $5000 cash back! (Shot of a red Ford Focus driving along a winding road surrounded by greenery). Now, buying a car can be your contribution to saving the environment...before it's too late!!!
(Sudden camera shift to the cockpit of a jumbo jet) Pilot: 'Ladies and Gentlemen, if you look out the right side of the plane, you will see that Venus has fallen out of orbit and is about to hit the earth'" (and the planet Venus crashed into the Ford Focus).

That was the commercial. And suddenly I was sitting in front of a tv, watching my dream, and screaming, "That's not even scientifically accurate!! Venus has NOTHING to do with global warming!! And if it fell out of orbit, it would crash into Mercury, not the earth!!"

And no, I don't watch a lot of TV. Just the Olympics and House M.D.

Philadelphia, PA

2008-07-14T20:36:00.000-07:00

There is a sinuous, purple-tentacled plant on my windowsill at work. Every day it grows, making its silent transformation into an office predator. Its tentacles creep along the sill, closer and closer to my desk.

I know what it's thinking.

nom...nom...nom...nom...

The Nevermore, New Hope PA

2008-06-07T20:33:00.000-07:00

I got in trouble at work today. Why, you ask? I accidentally booked someone into the hotel's ice cream shop. Seriously. I checked Poor Old Mr. So-and-so into room 108, handed him his keys, bid him "have a nice stay" and went about the rest of my business. About 10 minutes later my manager pulled me aside to inform me that room 108 is the hotel's ice cream shop, and the poor old man I'd just booked into it was standing outside utterly bewildered. A wedding party walked in, so I quickly said I was sorry and dealt with the crowd.

Once the crowd subsided, I went into the back room, where the two managers and the financial guy's offices are located. I made an earnest apology for booking Poor Old Mr. So-and-so into the ice cream shop. The managers looked at me sternly, and told me I needed to go downstairs and write down all of the rooms that weren't actually bedrooms. Like the bakery. And the Swedish massage parlor. I stood there awkwardly, and quite unwillingly imagined what would have happened had I booked Poor Old Mr. So-and-so into the Swedish massage parlor.

And then, right there in front of the 3 bosses lecturing me, I started to giggle.

If anyone is familiar with Coupling, you are realizing that my life will inevitably get more awkward from this point forward. Oh yes. And I'm not allowed at any funerals.

New Hope, PA

2008-05-25T20:32:00.000-07:00

I'm writing a paper about Richard Dawkins for my Atheism class. Mostly I've been thoroughly amused by his explanation of Russell's Teapot, but I can't write my paper on how I think societies based around the Teapot Holy Book sound fantastic.

His arguments about the existence or non-existence of God kind of miss the mark. At the moment, I personally imagine God the same way I believe in time. Time (or at the very least its measurement, anyway) as we know it is a sociological/mental construct humans innovated to explain something that happens that's really, really, really mind-bogglingly almost-impossible to comprehend; so much so that it both exists and doesn't at the same time. We can't see it or hear it or anything. I mean, we can watch things age, but that's quite easily explained by biology. I think. But we experience time, especially since it's in every part of us.

Anyway, I see Dawkin's mode of argument about religion to be something sort of akin to walking up to a person with a watch, pointing at it, and triumphantly proclaiming "That watch is not Time!" The watch-wearer, after giving Dawkins a very wan look probably says something like, "no shit sherlock." Undaunted, Dawkins barrels on, "Furthermore, Time does not make your watch work! Gears make your watch work! I know this because of evidence! And since you look at your watch to tell the time, it is clear that you do not believe in gears! You believe in Time! There is no time! You're all delusional!!!!!" By now the watch-wearer is backing away slowly, brandishing some form of blunt object in front of his face.

Ok, admittedly Dawkins doesn't speak with so many exclamation marks. And it's true, there are many religious fanatics out there who don't believe in "gears" and even go so far as to think that it's ok to argue about which watch Time thinks you should wear. But still.

It's a little amusing to listen to him, especially since he seems to devote more time and money on God than most televangelists. Which is funny, cuz I don't know that many people who spend their whole lives talking about something they don't even believe in. He makes some excellent points, but most are more in the sociological realm. Maybe it's just silly to argue about metaphysics in general.

Swarthmore Collge, PA

2008-05-04T20:30:00.000-07:00

Roofs explored: 2

Forbidden places infiltrated: 3

Work done: None

Weekend accomplished.

Swarthmore College, PA

2008-01-31T20:29:00.000-08:00

Says the Shuttle Driver Lady:

"Hon, I hate to disappointchya, but you'll never be a real person. If only by virtue of the fact that the definition of a real person is changing every day."

I find that comforting. And I realized one way in which I have changed since coming back from India. Not that I've been on a look out for changes, but occasionally one will sort of catch me off guard.

I used to hate the cold. Walking alone in the dark, relentlessly being sliced open by icy wind - that used to terrify me. Now I'm enamored with it. I love chilled air on my face. It feels like clarity, or death or starlight.

I think stardust is probably cold, cold and silvery white.

Heaven

2008-01-18T20:28:00.000-08:00

Oh. Wow. I think I can die happy now.

Tim Burton is directing an Alice in Wonderland movie. YESSSSSS

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1142966/

Swarthmore College, PA

2007-12-12T20:22:00.000-08:00

Dear Everyone,

Well. It feels very strange to be writing this from home. I actually read over my last email, just to see where I'd left off, and it felt so far away. I've never experienced anything quite like it. However, I had very much hoped to write a final email in India that sort of wrapped things up (as messy as I may be, my psyche gets tied up in knots when I leave something floating about in limbo). So, this is my last email/post from India. And, as I began with the streets, there I shall end. It's like a labyrinth. I'm going out the same way I came in. Which is exactly how it happened, funnily enough.

First, thank you. Thank you for listening to my random, happy, depressing, and utterly confused musings. Writing to everyone was one of the best experiences of my entire trip, which feels sort of like a gift from everyone on this list.

~~~

The Streets.

Nothing else in India can even compare to the extremes of joy and shock that the streets brought into my life. They are a snake-like, asphalt limbo that meanders its way between point A and point B, the strangest part being that real, raw, gritty and magical Life happens here, more so than it could ever happen at either point A or point B. And certainly more so than in the streets of suburban America. You can see saris, trailing like the souls of butterflies from the balconies; hear people arguing in three different languages over the shrieks of their vehicles; smell awful things and delicious things, like masala. Around you are so many people, and your mind and emotions reel with their unspoken language - hopes, anxieties, joys, and a need you will never understand, no matter what kind of need it may be. And despite never understanding it, there are times when you feel it too. And it cuts. And as the sounds and smells overwhelm you, you want nothing more in your life than to go home to a gentle, enabling quiet beneath your blankets. But alas, home is two oceans away.

Then you'll talk to a strange woman in a purple sari about Ganapati, neither of you well versed in the other's language but understanding each other all the same. And the streets, this chaotic, crumbling and creating no-man's and every-man's land transforms. All you need in life now is a chilled mango juice, and on these streets, that's always a guarantee. There are no barriers here. It's as open and beautiful and dangerous as the sky.

Things I will miss about India (in no particular order)

1. The streets, despite themselves
2. Simple, albeit spicy, food. And Gulab Jamun.
3. Petting stray dogs. They really, really, appreciate it.
4. Asha, Shweeta, and Rashmi
5. Sunita, Tukaram, Subhan, Anju, and Seema
6. The exchange rate
7. Ganapati
8. The danger, the beauty, and the truth
9. Palm trees
10. Seeing shrines on the sidewalk
11. The sound of a coconut being opened
12. Chai
13. The ACM kids
14.Those d*mn fireworks
15. Green Parrots and Flying Foxes

Things I've missed about America (in no particular order, expect for the first one).

1. My friends and my family
2. Somewhat messy houses
3. The feeling of Christmas
4. Squirrels (Which are fascinating. I was watching them this afternoon)
5. Winter coats and cute sweaters
6. Janie
7. Prolonged silence
8. Really bad rap music
9. Real pizza
10. Fluffy pillows (beds and pillows are a bit harder in India)
11. Not being allergic to anything
12. Skyscrapers (Which exist in India, but I was in all the wrong places)
13. Autumn
14. Milkshakes made with ice cream (in India these are quite literally shaken milk)
15. Grumpy, lazy restaurant staff

~Allie

email: am.allison1derland@gmail.com

Somewhere, USA

2007-12-12T20:19:00.000-08:00

Coming Home

Cultures, I think, have emotions of their own. Being immersed into a different culture was in many ways a shock because I found that I was not always in tune with the new culture's emotions - they hadn't wandered or been forced into my unconscious since before I could even talk. As a result of this, I often felt adrift, like I was floating around in my own emotional raft. At times it felt like I was two years old, learning about the world all over again. It's very hard for me to say this, since I've always held that Quaker belief that everyone has an inner light that connects every living being with its glow. And by staying open (not as easy as it sounds, mind) I could connect very easily and sometimes deeply with the people around me. I even started to hear and understand the culture's tune after a few months. But I just wasn't there long enough to learn to walk to its rhythm.

I was in tune with my surroundings enough to really love Diwali. It is, after all, a Festival of Lights. Every culture has one. The air simply rang with happiness (and fireworks), and I felt a part of the celebration, the candles, and the Light in the Darkness. While I could experience the holiday to its fullest, it was during the weeks leading up to it that any connection I had to my surroundings felt like it was flapping asunder. I couldn't feel the anticipation, the darkness preceding the light that everyone else seemed to be experiencing. Since the advent is by far my favorite part of the holiday season (heh, we Irish...always waiting), I couldn't help feeling extremely sad about my real or imagined isolation, even if I didn't always realize it. I think it may be something as simple as the wonder of childhood memories that creates these connections to time so deep within us. Without any, I had to make due with experiencing such effervescence through a kind of window in the wall of all my past memories and experience.

This has a point, I promise.

When I arrived in America, I felt Holiday. I felt our own festival of lights, and it buried itself deep inside of me, with the wonder of all of my memories. We were all waiting together, as we had been waiting so many years before this moment. The feeling is like the silence after a midnight snowfall. Deep blue and silver, like the song of a bell. Soon the sun will rise, and it will be the time for footprints and for birds to shake the snow off the winter-black branches, and the drone of the snowplow to be heard coming over the hill. But for now, in the infant hours of the morning, there is only the clear sound of moonlight, caressing the snow that wonders in heavenly peace. The whole world becomes sanctum sanctorum. So many people fear Nothing, myself included. But now I imagine that the Nothing that existed before Everything must have sounded like this silence.

Every silence I've experienced here has been tempered with this kind of peace. It's the advent silence. The silence that can somehow shimmer with the anticipation of Joy and yet be fully present in its own profound and quiet bliss. Being able to share that with the people around me, seeing it reflected in every light and iced sidewalk and familiar face has been the greatest gift I could ever imagine. I feel home.

So. It's not that I could never feel home in India. With more time, I could have felt connected to the beauty of the Indian culture as much as I feel connected to the culture here. It takes a long time, I think, to open oneself enough to embrace the unfamiliar. Respect for it, fascination with it - these are both comparatively easy. But to become a part of it, really feel it's rhythm in your every step, that takes years for most of us. It's an openness propelled by change, by happenstance, and by our choices. It's a feeling that I think spirals the universe into infinity. When I feel it, it's like nothing is ever over.

Love,

Allie

P.S.

In this world there's a whole lot of cold
In this world there's a whole lot of blame
In this world you've a soul for a compass
And a heart for a pair of wings
There's a star on the far horizon, rising bright in an azure sky
For the rest of the time that you're given
Why walk when you can fly?

~MCC

Pune, India

2007-11-27T20:17:00.000-08:00

I found out something really nice about my host mother, Asha. A fellow working under her at the insurance company wasn't being paid nearly what he should have been, so she bought him a ricksha, and now he's a rickshawalla. He's pretty successful too - he paid Asha back for the ricksha and they're really good friends. It's one of the most simple, nicest stories I've heard while being here. And a rather bittersweet reminder that I'll never know as much as I'd like to about most of the people I've met, even the ones under whose roofs I lived for half a year. I'm giving the rickshawalla my cell phone when I leave. Asha and I were going to give it to him for free (cell phones don't cost much here anyway. I think i paid $25 for it) but he insists on paying for it. It reflects a sense of honor I've seen a lot here. I don't know how to explain it, but it's almost as though something means more when its been earned. Which makes sense. Perhaps it's all the stranger in light of my own lack of this kind of honor. Free cell phone?? Reallly????? WHEEEEE!!!

Updates!

1. I decided not to get my nose pierced, purely in deference to my vanity. I just don't like my nose enough to draw attention to it. I'll get my eyebrow pierced instead.

KIDDING!!

2. I made bread for Thanksgiving. Real-life, yeast-dissolved-in-warm-water, OMG-kneading-dough-is-so-cool bread. One loaf was Amish white, and Brittany made a lovely garlic butter sauce to go with it. The other was honey wheat, and Stephanie made an also lovely pear chutney for it. Everyone made food, actually. I've never eaten so much in my life. Except for, perhaps, and incident involving a pasta Alfredo that was about as dense as a neutron star...

3. I've gone over to the Dark Side. In other words, I now eat meat. *cringe* I know, I know! I'm so sorry. Only white meat though, NEVER red meat. The fact is, I never got over my meat cravings, and my overall health just hasn't been as good since I stopped eating meat. So, it's really an experiment. If my health improves, I'll continue to eat chicken. If it doesn't, I'll go back to being a pescatarian as usual.

My guess is that about half of you (including Dad) are rubbing their hands together in vindictive glee, while the other half are throwing cyber rotten tomatoes at me.

4. India is actually sort of chilly in "winter." At least it is at night.

5. My PARENTS and CAT are coming to visit. I'm so exited.

6. I still have to write my paper. So, if you excuse me, I'll go do that now. Expect one more email from me in December ^^.

Love,

Allie

P.S. I don't know whether or not you noticed, but my last email (and the afterthought) each had an attachment. They were rather odd-looking drawings that demonstrate my astounding proficiency at Microsoft Paint art. I only mention this because my own MOTHER, for heaven's sake, didn't notice them until I myself alerted her to their existence. I will also mention that the second picture is NOT, as Mom seemed to think, a depiction of an ant making faces at a chicken. It is in fact a picture of a mosquito about to beat up a duck. In response to Mom's little "observations" that the duck is yellow and the mosquito is wingless, I have only this to say: If you were a mosquito living a wingless existence, you too would feel the need to improve your self esteem by beating up ducks, which, I might add, are always yellow when I see them in their rubber bathtub companion avatars.

HA.

Pune, India

2007-11-27T20:16:00.000-08:00

Hi everyone,

It's been a while, hasn't it? I've been working on a 40 page headache due on December 5th...don't worry, once it stops inducing cranial pain I think it will be really quite fascinating. I've been spending a lot of time working in the Crosswords bookstore coffee shop, which has been sort of bemusing. When did I suddenly become one of those people who sit alone in bookstore cafes, ruminating over hot beverages? My expression of project-induced consternation could even be mistaken for the appropriate weltschmertz (sp?). Next I'll be writing about the way my coffee looks when its stirred.

Like mud. Take that, profundity.

Spending time in Crossword is a pretty bizarre experience, actually. Everything is very sleek and air-conditioned, and my muddy-looking latte cost about as much as the average person's lunch and dinner. You only need to look outside to be bombarded with enough contrast to make your head spin. I'm not saying that Crossword isn't "Indian-" after all, it's here so there's no question that it is. It's just one of those things that really stretches the space between the dichotomies of traditional India and commercial India to what looks almost like a breaking point, except that the people are here, holding it together. The people here are really the only link I've seen between the two extremes. I'm sure there's more, but five months isn't enough time to pick up on everything...there are cultural nuances even in America I've failed to pick up on, and I've lived there my whole life.

Well, that was cliché.

Pune, India

2007-11-21T20:10:00.000-08:00

Keep me in your prayers tonight
I'll be weary upon that road
I know the finish line's in sight
But i still have a ways to go

~Emmylou Harris

Diwali, the Festival of Lights

More than several times over the past week I wondered why it isn't called the "Festival of Sounds" instead. Pune sounded like a rather merry war zone last week, due to the vast amounts of fireworks enjoyed by its populace. And me. I set some off too. I got several weird looks from people when I refused to light them by hand, and had to explain that fireworks are mostly illegal in the States and I have not had the advantage of blowing things up since the age of three, like most people here.

Diwali actually surprised me quite a bit. I guess I was expecting it to be like the Ganapati festival - parades, dancing in the street until dawn, being chased by blokes trying to throw red powder at you...and so forth. Instead, it was a lot like Christmas. It really amazes me (as obvious as it is) that every culture I know of has a holiday centered around the "light in the darkness" sometime around the onset of winter. It's really a beautiful thought. The significance of it is really ingrained in the collective unconscious, isn't it? I had a few strange moments walking down Sanapati Bapat Road, which is absolutely draped in red, gold, and green strands of lights. My body sort of reacted in the way it does to Christmas, but my mind knew that it was Diwali. It felt almost like two experiences were happening at once inside me. Never had that before!

Antarctica.

2007-11-13T20:12:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking a lot about penguins. Not unusual for me, but I've had a few new thoughts on these tottering puzzles of evolution. Can you imagine trying to describe the Carribean to a penguin? Think about it. They've never seen trees, they've never seen sand, and they've only seen green in the Aurora. And red in the sunset. And you can just forget describing purple to a penguin. I wonder how many words they have for the color white? I think that actually has something to do with their universal appeal. They speak to the human condition, I'm telling you!! There's so much humans just can't understand, because we're trapped in metaphysical Antarctica.

Anyway, try it. Find a penguin somewhere (even if it's just your imagination), name it, and start talking to it about palm trees and seashells. Just a reminder - it's going to be difficult to describe the trunk of a tree to a penguin, because cylinder shapes don't really happen in Antarctica (unless you vaguely count the penguins themselves). And as for the leaves, comparing them to giant green feathers helps. Assuming the penguin has seen green - penguins can't look at the Aurora too much, their beaks get cold. Flowers are hard. You might just have to give up and describe them as emotions. And try not to get frustrated - Buddha, Christ, Mohammad, Zoroaster, and many others had to go through this when they described Ultimate Reality (whatever you choose to name it, I find U.R. appropriately p.c.) to humanity. You mustn't blame the poor birds. They're no more penguin than we are.

Love,

Frosty Fluff

P.S. Fun fact! Penguins aren't afraid of humans. i don't know if that makes them really brave or kind of dumb. I mean, most HUMANS are afraid of humans.

Oh, and I got 52 mosquito bites. The mosquitoes here are large enough to beat up a duck.

~Allie

Pune, India

2007-11-02T20:04:00.000-07:00

Hi everyone,

I rather missed Halloween. It's my favorite holiday - I mean, sugar, costumes, sugar, rampant chaos, sugar...can you possible go wrong? I flatly refused not to celebrate it. So! I made Moon Cookies, which everyone loved ^^, and dressed up as Little Red Riding Hood using a skirt and some ribbons to make a rather convincing (if I do say so myself) cape.

And now, in honor of Halloween:

Sometimes, India is a scary place. Take driving, for instance. I've already made a list of rules I need to review before getting behind the wheel in America, lest I unconsciously lapse into Indian driving habits.

1. When turning, use a blinker, not a horn.
2. It is unwise for a clump of five vehicles to occupy a single space in a given lane.
3. When attempting to pass a slower vehicle, do NOT cross the yellow line into the lane of oncoming traffic. Especially not into the path of huge Tata bus.
4. There being only two vehicles barreling towards you as opposed to six does NOT mean you can cross the road. Wait until the road is clear.
5. Speed limits exist. And yes, you are expected to follow them.
6. Horn is ok for "yo, the light just turned green, switch to caffeine" and "HEYWATCHITYOUR ABOUTTORUNINTOMEIMGOINGTOSUUUUUUUUUE!!!" Horn is not ok for anything else. Please. :-)

Scarier by far than the driving: Osho's shrine. Tabby, Tara, Melissa, Leah and I finally decided to do the touristy thing and visit the famous Ashram of a rather, shall we say, dubitable spiritual guru. I hope I'm not offending anyone. His disciples would probably say that he's 'controversial' for preaching the philosophy of living life to the fullest, but I think most people have a much bigger problem with his owning 200 Mercedes Benses for lord-only-knows what reason. Plus his ashram (better known by the sobriquet "Meditation Resort") has a fancy bar, a swimming pool, a spa, and enough disciples wearing scanty maroon "robes" to keep the German bakery across the street in business for a century.

Anyway. Strange things tend to happen around that shrine. You decide to spend a leisurely hour at the Osho Ashram bookstore, only to find the books tightly bound in plastic wrap, their secrets forbidden to unworthy eyes. Your plans for a pleasant stroll in the gardens are suddenly foiled by the incontrovertible truth that your kind, oh denizen of the unwashed, is allowed in the gardens only between the hours of four and six. Dejected, you sit down on a stone wall and ponder the hopelessness of it all...only to be told by the guards that the depraved are NOT permitted to sit on this part of the wall, but are perfectly welcome to sit on that part of the wall six feet away, thankyouverymuch. What was there to do? We decided to wander about until the humble hours between four and six. Nothing could have prepared us for what was in store...

As we wandered, an earnest-looking fellow bounded out of seemingly nowhere, clutching a small sprig of leaves. We exchanged initial hellos, then the man launched into a bewildering explanation of the leaves he was carrying. "These are magic leaves! You must try! You put them in your mouth, and you spit them, see? And then magic!"

"Uh...what happens?" asked a rather skeptical Leah.

I was expecting the man to say that the leaves would grow into a giant beanstalk or turn to gold or something else equally logical. Instead, "You put the leaves in your mouth, spit them, and a giant pigeon flies out!!"

"...What??" I wasn't sure whether to laugh or back away slowly, preferably while holding some sort of blunt object. "Please, please, try!" he urged. "You put these magic leaves in your mouth, and giant pigeon flies out! It's magic! Where are you from?"

"America."

"America! My father and uncle were in America during the, the, the 1970's! They did this magic with many Americans, it's very popular! Please try!" I eyed the plant and wondered how many of these Americans were followers of Timothy Leary. We began to walk quickly. The man jogged after us, brandishing his leaves. "I tell you the truth! Pigeons fly from your mouth!" He followed us for about a block, and even us found us an hour later on our way back. He was still spouting tales of magic pigeons, as though it would make more sense after an hour of reflection. Oh man.

I'm beginning to wonder how much of the plant this perplexing fellow had eaten himself. I really hate to think what would happen to the poor wretch who swallows something like that – the pigeons would have to fly out of somewhere, you know.

Diwali is coming soon. Excited!!

Love,

Allie

Delhi, India

2007-10-24T20:02:00.000-07:00

To those of you wondering why I haven't called in a long time - a. for the past two weeks my phone was roaming, b. they hiked up the prices, and it's now expensive. And I do not like the look the shoplady gives me whenever I buy all of her phone recharging cards.

I'm going to tell you about my experience in the Delhi main bazaar. Bear with it. I've written it as a sort of stream of consciousness; because it's the only way I feel I can write about it. I haven't been bombarded with so many colors and sounds and metaphysical speculations since the first time I ate chocolate (ps any advice on sugar addictions?).

~~~!~``~!!~~`!~`

Oh. My. Lord. People. Wow...ok. Hand on purse? Hand on purse. Sunglasses? On. Ready? Um, NO...GO!

Strips of color paint the sky, light rains down in a dusty glitter. Blue, yellow, orange, blood red swaths of fabric stretching across alleyways bind together shabby brown buildings. "Hello miss? I give you good price." "No thanks." "Hello? You want nice sari madam?" "Nahi chahiyeh." "Come in, please, come see." "No hablo Ingles, no comprendo..." The colors weave, scintillate, intoxicate. It's like a rainbow was left out in the sun to dry, and any dullness or impurity was drunk by the air to leave a distilled syrup of vivid pigment. And there it billows, across a pale blue sky. Creepy man! Dodge. Gone? Yes. Shudder. I need to buy a fake wedding ring.

OH MY GOSH shoes. These shoes rule. These shoes *innaproriate language* AUGGHH! so cute. But how do all of the shoe stands do business surrounded by other shoe stands? Leather, leather, sequins, straps ---what if this bazaar had all of its shops inter dispersed, rather than each ware being sold in one area together on a certain street? I suppose if it weren't this way, the whole place would evolve into upscale areas and downscale areas, and image would suddenly become vital. Is that how it works? Economics is more complicated than theoretical physics.

Alleyway, alleyway, twist and jive through a labyrinth of tin roofs and dark wood. Always make sure you're stepping on asphalt and not something else. Snake through this fantasy world of relics and dirt, prayers and lies, where every store is a corner store even if it's not. The sky is a jagged blue line of broken glass above me. Where is the sun?

There it is, turning the edges white. Aha! It opens. And it smells like life, love, the soul, cookies at the mall, reading under apple trees in October, or church, or change and baseball. Spices. The spice market. My lord, I can't even name most of these. Cinnamon, mustard, cadmium, black pepper. Piles of bland browns and greys with aromas that tell infinite stories. Who needs airplanes? These smells can take you anywhere. Almonds, peanuts roasting, cloves, ginger, chilies. Bottomless bags of pungent and sweet. Men and women, everywhere, buying, smelling, getting ginger all over their clothes. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe i- SNEEZE. Cough, cough, SNEEZE cough - oh NO! SNEEZE big...waft...of...CORIANDOR (sneeze). Home. Now. Pleeeeease.

I got the first cold I've had in over a year and a half after that trip. I am so allergic to coriander. ARGH.

The end.

~Allie

Everywhere, India

2007-10-24T19:57:00.000-07:00

Agra surprise: The Taj Mahal IS actually all it's cracked up to be. It looks like an intricate, ethereal frozen cloud. Unfortunately, it was also swarming with local teenagers who liked to play "let's see how many ways we can make the foreigners angry." I didn't like that game. But I won; they never pushed me past irritation. HaHA.

Agra to Delhi surprise: I almost got robbed. It was while I was boarding the train. Lucky for me, I tend to space out in situations where I should forthright, determined, and pushy. It's a complicated story, but it was my spaciness and subconscious recollection of others' experiences that saved me. (Actually, I don't think it would have been a big deal if I had gotten robbed. The thieves were going for my purse, and the only thing that wasn't tucked away in a hidden pocket was a roll of toilet paper. I'd have enjoyed watching them run away with it, to be quite honest. It's an amusing image).

Delhi surprise: The area we were in was completely westernized. I was expecting a crazier version of Pune. Instead it was a small bubble of the United States. I'm not quite sure how I felt about that experience. The rest of Delhi was very much like a crazier version of Pune, but unfortunately we had to leave before I explored very much. My next email will contain a description of the main bazaar.

Mussoorie surprise: The Himalayas are even more breathtaking than I thought. And there were sweaters and shops full of strange and magical treasures. The sort of shops where characters in fantasy novels buy dragon eggs and fall into parallel universes.

Jaipur surprise: Stuff is expensive, man.

Rantambur Safari surprise: Seeing mongooses (mongeese?) is almost as cool as seeing tigers. No tigers though, due to a lovely family that accompanied us on the safari bus who wouldn't hush up. I'm not bitter...

Udaipur surprise: The world actually is tiny. We randomly met some students from UChicago who are on holiday. They're studying in Pune. One of them did an overnight visit at Swarthmore during her college search and stayed with the same host student that I did during my overnight. WEIRD. We're all back in Pune now, and we just ate lunch with them.

All these surprises are making me sound like a high school cafeteria lunch menu. At least none of mine contain peas or mystery meat. Still, I think it's a good time to stop. I'll write another email now. I missed writing. But if I write any more here, it'll be too long.

Love,

Allie

email: am.allison1derland@gmail.com

Pune, India

2007-10-03T19:53:00.000-07:00

Ok, quick poll! I've been told that I would look good with a nose-piercing. Email me. What do you think?

A. Don't be ridiculous. If you REALLY want to up you badass factor, just get an extra piercing in your ear.
B. Go for it! It might look cool. Just don't get a tattoo.
C. Go for it! Do lots of crazy things! Life is for the living!! Tell stories!!!
D. Um, it's your nose dude.
E. Ok, getting your nose pierced in India is SO cliche. Besides, your sister just did it.

Pune, India

2007-09-28T19:50:00.000-07:00

Hey!

What is up with goats??? Goats here are about as common as cows, and about equally prone to roaming the streets. One of the most hilarious moments this month happened while I was walking down the highway to yoga and almost ran into a man making comically futile attempts to catch his runaway goat. The animal looked about as zen and complacent as a kung-fu master. It also happened to have the same sorts of sanctimonious reflex abilities (complicated, but possible) and I really don't think the poor fellow ever caught it. I'm pretty sure the animal was mocking him...no, actually I'm certain.

Anyway, my first question about the goats regards a very peculiar habit of theirs that I can't quite get my head around. Whenever I see a goat, it is invariably standing on top of something. It's absolutely bizarre! But the fact remains: If there is something slightly elevated in its general vicinity; whether it be a bench, a pile of garbage, a box, or another goat taking a nap; the goat will be standing on top of it like he's the King of the Sidewalk. Mind, they are choosing to stand on a roughly 3ft by 3ft area of elevated space, often for prolonged periods of time, over the vast quantities of street and sidewalk that remain empty. It just isn't normal animal behavior! Especially when you conveniently leave humans out of the 'animal' category.

Pune, India

2007-09-27T19:43:00.000-07:00

Now: To address one of the things people asked about.

Poverty.
Yes, I've been rather frantically skirting around this one. It's not easy to write about. I'm going to begin with some nice, impersonal, inoffensive statistics. 77% of the people living in India fall under the 'poor and vulnerable category.' I got this statistic from an article I read for class. According to the article, what classifies 'poor and vulnerable' is living on 20 rupees or less a day. 20 rupees is about 50 cents in American money. I think I used to sell lemonade by the side of the road for more than that.

Now, I'm going to leave that statistic be and not talk about it anymore. The fact is, each one of the individuals that make up this 77% leave completely unique lives that cannot be defined by a number. What is poverty? Is it the family we stayed with in the village, living in a palace of waterfalls and the joy of one another's company? Perhaps. Is it the child I see walking down the street, alone except for her baby brother, whose smile is the most profound I've ever seen? Maybe. Or is it the woman I see now and again, alone and lost in insanity only to be found by hunger and grief? Of the 77%, how many are suffering? I don't know. And in my computerized reality, with my conscience on the shelf and interpersonal interactions left at the beep, do I have any right to decide who's suffering or not?

I have no right to answer that question, so I won't. Poverty isn't a thing, like a ricksha or a goat. It's something that happens, and that people like me have let happen. It creates experiences that separate humanity from humanity, brought on by the very things that unite us, like love, need and human nature. What poverty is is something defined uniquely by each person living it, not by me. I can only witness it, and hope to do what I can despite having no idea what is happening around me.

I wasn't shocked the first time I saw a slum colony. Perhaps I should have been, perhaps I will be if I visit one for my project. I've heard that it's like being in another universe. The motley assemblage of cardboard and tin that make up these dwellings, each the size of my bathroom, is enough to let me know that by standing outside I'm only scratching at the paintwork of this world. But for now, I can't be shocked. These are people's homes. They cook, eat, sleep, and visit in these places, just as I do at my own house. And I know that I would be very, very upset if someone from the outside looked upon my home with pity, disgust, or shock.

I like to remember that India isn't only poverty, by any stretch. India is everybody. Brilliant IT students, priests, rich westernized people, poor westernized people, devout members of every religion, foreigners, traditionalists, radicals, average Joes, jackasses, saints, beggars, rajas...to name a few. It took looking a little boy in the eye, realizing that the candy bar I gave him wasn't ever going to be enough for either of us, for me to realize that on some level we are all beggars. It'll take all of India (and more) for me to realize that we are all Everyone, too.

I think 'helplessness' is what I most often hear in regards to people's feelings on poverty (poverty anywhere, not just here). It's funny, I don't think that what we feel is helplessness at all. Helplessness marks an end, a reason to lay one's troubles and cares to rest, mourn a bit, but ultimately move on to a place where one's hands and spirits can again be utilized. What I think we feel is something far worse than helplessness - something that drives us to shake uncontrollably or freeze or cry in front of the world. What I think we feel is the full extent to which we are not helpless in the least.

We feel our own capacities for compassion and change come full circle to look at both our confusion and our utter terror at the prospect of knowing what to do, full in the face. Because deep down, we know full well that there is something we can do, and to do it, we need to recognize what we aren’t letting ourselves see.

Pune, India

2007-09-23T19:43:00.000-07:00

The Weather.

I just ran into a matronly-looking woman on the street, who was wearing a bright purple sari. She was walking behind me, and kept calling me in Marathi. I don't know any Marathi summoning interjections, so I figured she was a little nuts and liked to make funny noises. Finally I turned around to see what the fuss was about, and was surprised to see that she was calling me and wanted to know the time. I laughed, and then showed her my watch since she didn't speak any English. We ended up walking together for a bit, until she reached her street. She was very talkative and nice, despite the fact that the only thing I said to her correctly in Marathi was "mala Marathi yet nahi" ("Marathi doesn't come to me." I have that phrase down pat). I wasn't sure what she said most of the time, but we did have a broken conversation about Ganapati! She has a small Ganapati back home, and we're both looking forward to his immersion and the parade on Laksmi road. I hope I run into her again.

Ok, I will now talk a little bit about the weather. And since it is the weather I am talking about, you would all do well to imagine yourselves at a posh, high-society gathering in the 1890's. Splendid, splendid! The Kenningtons of Washington are hosting their highly regarded annual croquet match (and other amusements). Everyone is sitting around ornate little white tables with blue China upon a perfectly manicured expanse of emerald splendor that is the Kennington front lawn. Cake is no longer served at the most fashionable houses these days, so you are eating muffins. I have a lacy pink parasol.

Would it be too dorky to write about it as though I were a high-class snob? I think it might. Oh bother. Well anyway. It isn't actually that hot. I was expecting weather in the 100's, but it's rather like June in America. Right now it's monsoon season, so periodically the sky will explode and it feels like walking through a city-sized sheet of water, somehow connecting itself from the sky to the ground. Occasionally there's thunder. Soon, monsoon season will be over, and the "October heat" will settle in. But I won't experience that, cuz I'll be up north! Wheeee. November marks the beginning of winter. "Winter" means that it's sunny and between 70 and 80 degrees, I think. That'll be nice. I'll leave before it's summer here - that's when the Indian heat everyone talks about really sets in.

The other day I got caught in a sudden rainstorm. By the time I'd walked the block between Trumart and home, I was drenched and had to walk into the house like a soggy puppy with its tail between its legs, because I'd been warned about this sort of thing several times, and NO, it doesn't matter how short a distance you have to walk, monsoons WILL make you wet.

*awkward pause, during which I daintily sip some tea with my pinky sticking out.* Ahem. Might I inquire as to everyone's health?

Love,

Allie

Pune, India

2007-09-16T19:38:00.000-07:00

Hi all,

Well, food wins! So food is first. And you're lucky it's right before dinner, because I'm hungry enough to get really into this.

What I noticed first about Indian food was that it's not at all like what you get at Indian restaurants in the States. The sad truth is, American restaurants just don't have access to the insane multitude of spices available here, and probably couldn't even conceive using 50 or so of them in any given dish. One of the first things I had here had exactly that many spices in it - 50. It was basically a huge bowl of flavor. I'm not looking forward to going back to the states and having to eat white rice with nothing but tofu and soy sauce. THREE FLAVORS??? WHAT???

In the beginning, I thought I hated Indian food. It was creamyheavyoilyrich, and there were always waiters hanging around serving you more. Isn't that the worst? You finish something you aren't fond of, are feeling genuinely proud of your gag reflex as you swallow the last bite, and then someone serves you a heaping plate of MORE.

As it turns out, it's only restaurant food I don't like. Home cooked food is quite scrumptious (another word I despise), actually. Everything is INCREDIBLY fresh, usually bought from an outdoor vendor that very day. It's as though the flavor is locked inside, waiting for the very moment it can burst out and dance with the spices. Most of the vegetables are cooked in a light sauce with spices I can't even name, with subtle traces of peanut and anise. There's coconut, too, but it's pretty well hidden in everything else. Potatoes with mustard seeds and chili, okra with lemon and coriander, pumpkin with...lord only knows what, are all eaten with fresh, homemade wheat tortillas. I'm a bit terrified that I'll come back home smelling like a curry, but I guess it'll be worth it.

The sweets are interesting. I like them, and my only complaint is that they all taste the same to me, probably because I can't distinguish anything beyond the overwhelming cardamom (sp?), a presence I'm not used to in sweets. Oh, and I LOVE Gulab Jamin. Pri might correct my spelling. I think I'm the only American who does - it's a sweet condensed milk pastry SOAKED in sugar syrup. MMmmm sugar...

One thing: BEWARE OF GREEN CHILIS. One caught me unawares a few weeks ago, and it had me running and flapping my arms around the living room like a psychotic fruit bat. It was dispelled eventually, but only by downing an entire container of yogurt. My family was amused.

So far, I've found two interesting Indian ways of eating western food. One: put more spices on it. Two: drown it in Ketchup, even if it's pizza. No kidding. Once, I made my host family pancakes. They put ketchup on them.

Oh yes. And buffalo milk. I just pretend it's not buffalo milk. The buffalo are adorable though. They have these sweet, big eyes and really long eyelashes. I saw one the other day that people dressed up in a purple cape. It did tricks.

Love,

Allie

Pune, India

2007-09-16T19:30:00.000-07:00

Ganapati (Ganeshe), for those of you who don't know, is a rather remarkable deity in the Hindu religion. He has the body of a boy and the head of an elephant, and bears the title "Lord of Beginnings and Remover of Obstacles."

Yesterday marked the beginning of Ganapati's annual festival. He is particularly beloved in Pune - the poor, the rich, even the non-Hindus have found a place for him in their lives. He is benevolent and wise, ruler of the sacred knowledge - I am the Universe and the Universe is in me. His unusual appearance and birth make him a child of the Earth, the link between the material and the divine. I went out with Asha that evening, to see five of the hundreds of Ganapati statues erected all over the city. The first was by far the grandest - he sat in a structure of gold and mirrors and colored lights, surpassing the Disney castle in both size and grandeur. The idols aren't merely representations or channels in the Hindu religion - they are the Gods themselves. To see and be seen by an Idol is called Darshan, and its one of the holiest moments of worship. Despite their beauty and the throngs of people adoring them, the Five Most Important Ganapatis were not the ones that struck me the most, though I was certainly awed.

I hadn't expected to be moved by an idol of Ganapati. I enjoy seeing him, or course, and I've always thought he was a fascinating and rich aspect of God, one that I've always thought was very close to the way I feel God in my life. But for the most part, I've felt that the most profound spiritual experiences came from a world outside of the material, a world where idols and decorations had little place.

I think I was wrong. A small, humble Ganapati idol in the home of Asha's sister in law was enough for me to reconsider my lofty spiritual misconceptions and bring me plummeting back to Earth.

What struck me first about seeing the Ganapati was his Knowing Look. He sat on a small altar, and was lovingly draped in garlands and veils. He looked almost bundled up in adoration. The elephant's face that emerged from the petals and colors looked so amused, so pleased. It's like the way a proud parent looks, holding their baby for the very first time, and yet knowing exactly what is going on, what miracles are to come. I looked again, taken aback. This really was Ganapati, wasn't it? He was so full of what must have been Ananda (Sanskrit: The Joy in existence Without Which the Universe Would Fall Apart and Collapse) that I couldn't help but be be filled up too. It’s what I feel when I see a Christmas tree, shining it's bell-like light into the joy of a Season. Ganapati was bringing joy to those around him. I really can't imagine a greater or more humble purpose.

Fancy a a figure of molded clay being the Wiser. Then again, it makes more sense than a lot of things in this world or Babylon.

Love,

Allie

Anywhere

2007-09-10T19:13:00.000-07:00

The breath of Autumn.

It really stirs the life in you, doesn't it? I felt an autumn breeze today in India, of all places, quite despite the fact that there is no autumn here. Then again, I suppose any breeze can be an autumn breeze in its essence, though they quite naturally conglomerate around the autumn season.

The first autumn breeze always appears in August. I'll be taking a walk with the dog or sitting on the doorstep in my t-shirt and flip-flops, when suddenly a change will occur in the atmosphere - it's almost magical, really. The wind picks up as though the air were having an epiphany. It's laced with the merest hint of a chill, enough to make my head turn and lift, as the rhythm of my breath switches to a different time signature, if only for a moment. The heavy green leaves of the trees begin to whisper about something new and wonderful and frightening. Only a rumour, of course, but what rustles and twirls them speaks of someone to come: the inevitability of death; the strange and lonesome sleep of winter...followed by a promise. The promise of change and something else just as everlasting. And then the breeze will vanish, leaving behind nothing save for the trace fragrance of apples and corn husks, being harvested in a land far beyond the hills. Twirl twirl twirl.

By October, it's everywhere. It nips at pumpkins and coattails and geese. It makes the amber glow of the candles lighting the way of passing souls tremble across the surface of the water. Candy skulls click together in an erratic drumbeat of chaos and inevitability. Leaves the color of fire tumble up into the sky, like silent trumpet blasts from the earth. Can you imagine it all? The breath of Autumn gives the season a meaning, a rare and blessedly alive meaning that can only ever be discovered at the end of a life. It's the meaning of all that has happened before and all that is yet to come. You can read it in the tapestries of leaves that encircle the trees - woven by the wind to tell of the tree's own life story, which has been created in part by the world that has encountered it. It's such a gift, this beautiful mystery, and has remained untold for nine months.

I felt the breath of Autumn today. I listened as the leaves above me sang with it, and watched as my shawl danced with it. It was longing sort of ballet, choreographed by Change. I felt joyous and cautious and open all at once. Change is painful and wonderful, like some sort of simultaneous death and birth. And I could feel it, on the brink of existence. Perhaps it was as close as the caves in the distance, on the eggshell at the edge of my comprehension.

It's my favorite season, can you tell?

Pune, India

2007-09-10T19:09:00.000-07:00

Sorry, it's been a while. The internet cafe decided not to have power
last week, so I was forced to read sumptuous literature instead.
Hmmm...not fond of that word, 'sumptous.' I'll just say 'lovely,' and
marvel the alliterative joy and wonder. Oh goodness.

By request, I will narrate one of my typical mornings in India,
travelling to school in a ricksha. Or tricksha, as we prefer to call
them. Or sicksha. The possibilities are really quite endless.

Note: A ricksha is like the Indian version of a taxi. In Pune, they
are little black vehicles with three wheels, driven by a rickshawalla.
They are not pulled - this is only in Calcutta, I think. They have
motors that sound like wheezing old goats, and exhaust pipes that
could single handedly destroy the ozone layer in one fell swoop.
They're pretty fun, if you're in the right mindset and the
rickshawalla doesn't try to cheat you. They're kind of rickety and
small - the seat in the back is big enough to fit six children, or
four Nicole Richies, or three me's, or two Arnold Schwarzneggers, or
one Pavaratti (rest in peace :-(. ) A sumo wrestler would not fit in
a ricksha. A sumo wrestler would have to walk. Or take a scooter.
I'm not quite sure which image amuses me more.

~~~

Every morning I wake up at about 7:15, hit the snooze button on my
cell phone alarm, and go back to sleep. This action is repeated every
five minutes until about 8:15, when I panic, roll out of bed, and get
ready, all the while sneezing furiously. I'm allergic to something in
that room...it's a tricky devil, but I'll track it down soon.

I proceed to breakfast with my host mother, Asha. Usually I eat my
toast and tea to the sound of Asha doing her puja, or prayers. This
experience is sort of a mixture between awkward and peaceful, since
most people in the states don't pray in public unless everyone else is
doing it too. I don't think this sort of situation is even considered
for American etiquette books...thus we have no idea what to do when
someone prays.

By the time I'm finished, I'm usually very nearly late, so I wash my
dishes, say "Ahcha!!" and head outside. The driveway is of course
home to Gregory House, the curmudgeonly neighborhood cat. I always
greet him with an overly cheery "Good morning, Gregory!" The cat
slinks under a nearby car, as resentfully as his limp will allow.
"Everybody lies," he says, with a baleful look. Touche, Gregory. Anyway,
I am about to attempt the absurd: to catch a riksha *foreboding music
accompanies.*

Usually, the first five minutes of this ordeal will consist of me
wandering up and down the street, waving my arm an screaming,
"Riiickshaaaa." Indians do it properly. They say "rickSHA!" as
though they're cracking a whip, and an obliging ricksha will appear
and wisk them off to cloud 9, or work. Most rickshas just zoom right
past me. Unless of course I don't need a ricksha - then about three
will slow down and follow me around until they realize that I'm
walking for a darn good reason, thank you very much.

By the time I'm late, a ricksha will pull up. The following dialogue ensues:

Me: Uh...Patrakar Nagar! (this is the road the school is on. In
Marathi, it has several rolled r's and certain aspirations and
unaspirations of which I am unaware. And accents. My Marathi
pronunciation is the worst in the class. I can't roll r's.)
Richshawalla: Huh?
Me: Puh-trlrllrra-carrlrlrlrl Nagurrrlrlrlr
Rickshawalla: Huh???
Me: Uh...Eck minute. (I fumble with my bag until I find a birthday
card from my grandmother, on which I have scrawled in perfect Marathi
script the name of the road. My script is quite good, if I may say
so. I show the walla the card.)
Rickshawalla: Ohhhh! Puhtrlakahrl nagurl. (He tilts his head slightly,
indicating that I should climb on board.)

The walla yanks up the emergency break, and the vehicle gives a
protesting cough as it shambles onto the road. Here it is greeted by
plethora of honks and swearing and blasé-looking stray dogs, which are
resolutely ignored. For about five minutes the walla dodges in and
out of traffic, while I clutch my bag and hold a scarf over my face to
protect my lungs from the pollution. Presently we reach a little
side street, where I shout, "Um! Tithe uzvikade jzaa!" ("Um! Go right
here!" More or less), to which the walla gives me a look from under
his brows to communicate "I know, I know, no need to panic." So I sit
silently until he reaches ACM, when I say "Ithe basbas," which prompts
a second dialogue. (Pri can correct my Marathi is she so chooses).

Rickshawalla: Tumhi Marathi bolta ka? (You speak Marathi?)
Me: Ummm. Toditodi Marathi bolte...puhrn...Mala Marathi yet nahi.
(Umm. I speak a litte Marathi...but I'm not very good at Marathi).
Ricksha: (Ah! Somethingsomething kuthe hun ahey ka?) (Something
something where from?)
Me: Ameriuehun.
Ricksha: Aha. 30 rupee.
Me: I have a METER CARD.
Ricksha: 30 rupee.
Me: Look, it says here, 20 rupees for 2.2 kilometers. 20 rupees.
Ricksha: (shrugs)

I hand him the money, nono no change ahey, and I grab my bag and wave
goodbye saying don't you cry I'll be back again someday. Except that
last part.

Sorry about any spelling errors...spell check blew up.

Love,

Allie

Pune, India

2007-08-28T19:07:00.000-07:00

Hi all,

It is brother-sister day today in India, so I have off from school. Sisters tie special bracelets around their brothers' wrists, brothers promise their sisters protection. I'm torn between my sentimental nature and my feminist tendencies - "Oh how sweet! I wish I had a brother." "Girls are perfectly capable of protecting themselves!!!!!!" *roars like an amazon* *remembers that in Internet cafes, we use our indoor-voices* *gets down off the table and resumes typing*

I have a sugar addiction. Yesterday, I had lots of cake. Today, I'm experiencing too many sugar withdrawal symptoms to count. So it's not that I refuse to give updates, its more that my head is hurting me too much to think of any. I wish they made a patch for this.

Here's something though. I've been getting my friends here to think this over a bit. Warning: It's a little strange, and more than a little inane. But it's also pretty fun.

- Imagine that your own gravity has reversed, and you must live the rest of your life sitting on the ceiling. You want to drink a glass of milk. However, the milk's gravity has not reversed. Someone hands the glass up to you, which from your perspective, is upside-down. Not only that, the upside-down glass's gravity is pulling it towards the floor. So, rather than cradling it from the bottom to keep it from falling, you are PULLING IT 'DOWN,' from the top, to keep it from flying "up" to the floor and shattering. -

Ok, if you just wasted time, I'm sorry. I'll write something more useful next time, promise.

Love,

Allie

P.S. I thought of something that happened. I was walking down a crowded street with my friend Leah, and this old lady walked up to me and, despite my bewildered protests, smudged red powder on my forehead. I think it was some sort of religious gesture. Then she asked for money (that's religion for you...*Allie! Behave!*). I was slightly taken aback by this, but was in a hurry and decided that between losing a few rupees and enduring the wrath of Laksmi, I'd take losing a few rupees.

Let me tell you, that red stuff does NOT come off. I was walking around Pune with a red smudge on my forehead, having no clue what it meant (Laksmi was the first thing that came to mind...I really don't know the actual meaning of the ritual) and being laughed at by pretty much every Indian my age with a clear view of me. In a good way, don't worry. On my way home, I stopped by a little grocery shop to buy some minutes for my phone. The shop lady smiled at me and pointed to my forehead and said something in Marathi. I made a gesture of bafflement, and proceeded to pantomime the entire scenario of the previous half hour. She laughed, but I think she understood. Go nonverbal communication.

Pune, India

2007-08-23T19:03:00.000-07:00

Hi!

Thank you everyone so much for the Happy Birthdays. I had a very full birthday, with plenty of Happy moments (funnily enough, we talked about the philosophy of happiness in Indian Philosophy class yesterday), and plenty of rather hard moments too. Being a summer birthday, I've never spent it away from home before, not even for school. So that was rather hard. But! I got two cakes (one for the celebration at ACM, the other with my host family), and a card signed by everyone in the group. Both celebrations involved an Indian Birthday ritual, which is quite beautiful. Red powder is dotted over the third eye, and rice sprinkled over the head. Then the birthday girl (me!) is encircled three times with a candle, and then they say...something...can't remember what.

It was strange, there were several instances of birth imagery in my life during the week before my 21st. At least, that's what I'd call them it my life were literature, which I think everyone's is at the right time of day, under the right kind of lighting and with the right kinds of fruit serving as obvious motifs. Or in my case, the right kinds of animals. Our coordinator, Anju, has a nest of baby birds in her house plant. Almost every year, wild birds fly in through her window, build nests and raise families in her living room. No, this is not usual to India (or so I was told). Just to Anju. I have never seen a baby bird so close before. They're the tiniest, oddest-looking kind of beautiful you can imagine. And they really do stretch to the sky with their beaks open - the parents were feeding them all afternoon. Pretty soon, they'll be learning to fly, for which they use the entire house. During this special week, the mother bird banishes Anju (whose presence she normally welcomes) to the bedroom.

After watching the birds for a while, and drinking tea of course, it was time to leave. As I was putting on my shoes, one of Anju's neighbors came in to see the birds. She was carrying the most BEAUTIFUL baby I have ever seen. I don't like to use the word precious due to its Lord of the Rings connotations, but right now, the word works wonderfully. Although - it was a different sort of precious. Not the kind that breaks easily, more like the kind that is rare and everywhere in this world, the kind that is full of presence, and a bit of a miracle in and of itself. And please note: I am not normally one to gush over babies. I just don't think I've ever seen one sleeping so peacefully. Maybe I'm finally at an age where I can understand that sort of thing. But can anyone one really understand it? Truly and to the depths...can we fathom it? I know we can feel it.

I always feel strangely at peace when I see newborns. Does anyone else feel that? Unless of course they're crying. Then I try to make a daring escape out the window down the drainpipe into the telephone booth with the secret removable floor and through to the center of the earth, where it is quiet save for the pressurized magma muttering to itself, trying to keep itself together for the next few billion years or so. I am almost positive it needs therapy for that. And I am rambling. Time to go!

Love,

Allie

Ellora Caves, India

2007-08-20T18:59:00.000-07:00

Um. Hi.

Sometimes, I cause trouble. Yes, Trouble Catastrophe McCarthy...thaaaaaat's me!! (ok im done). Anyway, most of you know what I'm talking about. You've all experienced it at one point or another. This weekend, I really outdid myself. Eheh. Let's just say I'm not allowed to have ANYTHING to do with the monkeys EVER again.

...

*grins*

I HAD to feed the monkeys. Oh, and of COURSE they were the cute, tame little things that people like Aladdin dress in little vests and fez caps, don't WORRY!! I would never be so audacious as to feed the big, vicious wild animals feared by woodland creatures and human beings alike. And Pri NEVER had and reason to warn me about this particular breed. On several occasions. Vehemently. Eheh. *Smiles unconvincingly.* Here's a picture - http://www.naturephotosociety.org.sg/Images/ArticlePhotos/IndianTrip/R1-Black-faced-langur-monke.jpg (Pri don't be mad, don't be mad, don't be mad....)

The monkeys were so CUTE and FLUFFY and there were only two and they looked so hungry...they came up to the tree we were eating under and I just HAD to give them an apple. Ignoring several requests that I desist, from...well, pretty much anyone with an ounce of common sense, I walked up to them and held out the shiny, red fruit. They perked up, as did I at the prospect of feeding hungry monkeys - which sort of drowned out the stream of admonitions behind me. I actually did hesitate! And the only reason I threw the apple was to make the monkeys go away and stop scaring Aparna. Honest.

Little did I know, a whole TROOP of the beasts was hiding away in the trees. Scurvy little sneaks. Anyway, they weren't quite so timid after I threw the apple, NOOO indeed. Pretty soon were all scrambling our lunches together and heading for a tree where nothing could be foodnapped by vicious tropical beasts who were no longer cute and fluffy. About a dozen of said beasts had discovered the how easily intimidated westerners become when we're swarmed - and the brutes gleefully began to utilize this tactic. Aparna was freaking out, students were "arming" themselves with anything they could lay hold of (pebbles. And a juicebox.), and the little beggar kids we had been sharing our lunches with began yelling in rapid Marathi.

Actually, it was the little kids who saved us in the end. Apparently monkeys don't like it when people charge them and wave their arms in the air while screaming "BOOOGABOOGABOOGA!" After the kids did this a few times, the monkeys decided to swarm us from a more concerting distance.

Needless to say, I got full blame for the situation. Oh, and I definitely got cosmic retribution, because that night I was accosted by a bunch of flying foxes (three foot bats) I scared out of a tree (don't ask). They sent me sprinting and yelling back to the garden with my arms hugging my head, where everyone looked up from their civilized tea in utmost horror. That is, of course, the only way one can look up from civilized tea when someone interrupts as indiscreetly as did I.

~Trouble

Ajanta Caves, India

2007-08-19T19:19:00.000-07:00

Now fo the hard part.

Need, it seems, has more than once face. I encountered it in one of its most heart wrenchingly difficult guises at the Ajanta caves, at the souvenir shop. It was off-season, so the wallas were desperate for money - their pleas, their panicked eyes, their ware, it all surrounded me and I couldn't bear it. Every single place I looked, there was someone begging me to buy something. I'm not proud of the way I dealt with it, please keep that in mind.

It was a typical experience, really. But its typicality is what makes it so disturbing, don't you think? Looking back, I realize there was hardly a trace of humanity in that place. It felt like we were seen as American wallets running around the market, things that needed to shadowed and cajoled until we were caught by our own irritation, manipulability, or greed. And we aren’t that. To us, they seemed like a million strangers to whom making a few bucks meant more than common decency and normal behavior. And they aren’t that. It was awful. Humanity is what holds us all together. Can you imagine a place without that bond? It was a small piece of Hell. The only humanity in that place was mortal need - for money, for space, for food, for normality. And when nobody is treated like a human being, nobody acts like one. The wallas became increasingly desperate, and my group and I became increasingly frightened and angry. I don't think poverty itself is the tragedy. It's the chasm that's developed between people in situations like that. That's the tragedy.

Ellora Caves, India

2007-08-19T18:54:00.000-07:00

Hi.

Have you ever imagined sound waves becoming enlightened? Well! I heard it happen this weekend. We were in an ancient Buddhist cave. Thousands of years ago, monks would go there to chant. It's ceiling looked like the ribcage of a great beast, which arched gracefully over the 50 foot stone Buddha, meditating serenely in the cave's center. It was dark, and the air hummed with a deep, almost spooky feeling, as though it were haunted by the ghosts of prayers.

Our guide called for silence. And then he began to chant. The music of Om and a colored stream of words that only a very deep part of me understood began to soar through the cavern, becoming full and luminous and profound. Each note became so much more than it was that it overflowed and filled everyone in the room with a sense of awe and a realization of peace. I could feel myself standing transfixed, my mouth hanging agape, as the eyes of everyone around me filled with light. I can't imagine what the sounds themselves must have been feeling. Every person sat down, at that very moment, and meditated. It was the only way to deal with such an overwhelming feeling.

The room itself was what enlightened the sounds. The guide told us that modern designers from the west were trying to replicate this miracle of architecture for music halls in New York, but to no avail. Once, the guide brought a flautist into the cave to play for half a minute, and the man couldn't stop playing for half an hour. He finally HAD to stop because he was in such a profound state that he needed to leave the caves entirely.

I sang a few notes to myself right before leaving. I listened. They became enlightened too.

Google the Ellora caves, if you can. They're very, very cool.

Shivaji's Enormous Structure, India

2007-08-12T20:24:00.000-07:00

So, this is something that happened that I can't write emails about, because there are grown-ups on that list.

We were visiting a fort built by Shivaji, which was basically a castle filled with rather grotesquely imaginative booby traps. Our tour guide, bless his heart, was from southern India, where the accents are EXTREMELY difficult for westerners to understand. I had no clue what he was saying, but apparently his English wasn't very good to begin with, because Sunita told me he wasn't using any verbs in his sentences (wtf?).

We got to this giant, rather phallic looking tower in the middle of the fort and our guide gestured towards it and said "bluhddhibludhbludh enormous erection bluhbluhdhibludh." At first I didn't think I heard him correctly. Then he said "bludhbludhbludhibludh Physical stamina bludhi Shaviji's erection bluhbluhbludh." I turned to Leah, and was like, "is this really happening?" We both started CRACKING UP, but had to turn around and do it as discreetly as possible while the guide droned on about "bludhibludhi 222 feet bludhi enormous erection bluhbluhbluh..."

Yeah. So apparently nobody told our guide that we no longer use the word "erection" for "structure." Oh wow. And I am SOOOO immature and am taking a bullet train strait to hell.

Rajmaji, India

2007-08-12T18:47:00.000-07:00

Last weekend I hiked up to Rajmaji. It's a tiny village in the mountains near Pune - quite something, actually. The hike itself took about 6 hours, and was seven miles up a mountain, through a monsoon, on slippery wet rocks, up waterfalls, through lethal rivers and along rather perilous cliffs. We got to the village soaking wet and covered in mud, aching like crazy. The lot of us stayed in a mud hut with a tin roof and no bathroom, which was a pretty cool experience, though certainly not something I'm used to.

A joint family lived there, which included about a dozen kids and a very certainly intense grandmother. She sat by the fire with a giant stick, glaring at the world. The chickens were terrified of her. Sometimes, they'd attempt the Mission:Impossible - sneaking into the kitchen area for bits of rice and millet. Basically, one chicken (no doubt at the urging of the others), would silently creep over the threshold, nervously clucking to itself. Closer...closer... "cluck. cluckcluck.cluck. CLUCKCLUCKLCUKBAWKAWBAWKABWKKKWABAAWWWKK!!!!!!" And the old woman was up on her feet, brandishing her stick at the terrified birds and screaming in all her ferocious glory, "AAUU!!!AUUUU!!!AUUUUUU!!!!!" The chicken and its accomplices would sprint from the house and cower in the barn like the thieving scoundrels they were, never daring to venture towards that place of untold horror again. Until they forgot ten minutes later...then the whole scene would begin again. You must forgive them, they are only chickens.

The mountain itself was breathtaking. It was like being in an emerald palace, its windows the sky and its finery the white foam of towering waterfalls. One waterfall was carried by the wind into the sky - it fell up, and it could only have been a waterfly.

Anyway, it’s the sort of glorious sight one expects to see when they go abroad. It was really, really incredible.

Allie

Pune, India.

2007-07-31T19:45:00.000-07:00

Hihi

I moved in with my host family this week.

In Asha's neighborhood there lives a stray cat. Sounds like the beginning of a fairy tale, no? Well it isn't. Anyway, he's white; or would be had he not been perpetually smudged with dirt; and has brown spots on his legs and tail. He sort of roams around, looking for things. At first I named him George. Then i noticed his limp and surly demeanor, so I changed his name to Gregory House.

In the morning, as I walk to the neighborhood gate, I say, "Hello Gregory," as I pass. The cat just glares at me. I think he was aptly named.

Something rather amusing happened to me this afternoon. Every week, we eat a meal at Aparna's apartment - she's a women's studies professor at Cornell College and one of the coordinators. Really cool person. Anyway, after the meal, as we were all discussing our readings, one of the girls screamed and ran across the room. We looked up, and, no kidding, there was this HUGE three inch long crazy Indian wasp on the window. It was all black, with one bright yellow dot on it's back that seemed to say, "Hi there. I'm poisonous."

Everyone was sort of wigging out and tried to kill it, but me being my mother's daughter couldn't handle this, so I volunteered to catch the monster and put it outside. After all, it was really only a Level 5 Horrific Tropical Insect, and I am a Level 10 Druid. ... yeah done geeking out now. I'm not even sure if I got the D and D terminology right. ANYWAY! I caught it between some Tupperware and a book, and took it down a few flights of stairs to the parking lot. By this time the thing was very angry, so I decided it would be a bad idea to simply let it go free in case it had a vengeance.

I carefully put the book-and-Tupperware apparatus on the ground. I aimed carefully, and I kicked the Tupperware as hard as I could and made a mad dash for the stairs. Or tried to. Instead, I came face to face with a family who was standing on the stairs and watching me with utter bewilderment. I really don't blame them - they're seeing this crazy western girl who just finished kicking kitchenware across their parking lot, now looking at them like a panicked deer in headlights. Surely they needed an explanation, I thought, as all the Marathi I've learned scurried out of my head when I realized they didn't speak English. "Uh...bug!" I said.

"Bug?" They repeated. Suddenly they started looking at me, very intently, then when I didn't do anything else, they looked at the abused Tupperware bowl some 20 feet away. "Bug! Bug!" I said, starting to make my hand crawl like a bug in the air. "Bzzzz bzzz...bzzz....BUG!!" They just kept looking at me. "Uhhh. Sorry," I said. I ran over and grabbed the Tupperware and the book, and went up the stairs, feeling very silly indeed.

It wasn't until after I told Sarah about this encounter that I realized the most ridiculous part of the whole situation: 'Bug!' in Marathi means, more or less, 'Watch!' or "Look!' Well, it's spelled "Bagh," but sounds more like "bug." So, basically, while I was kicking around Tupperware and making absurd motions with my hands, I was saying "Watch bzzzbzzz watch!" to this poor family who probably thought I was completely out of my mind.

Ok, the end.

~Allie

Pune, India

2007-07-27T18:41:00.000-07:00

At the moment, I'm rather sick. I seem to have caught an airborne stomach infection that doesn't really do anything terrible, it just makes my stomach hurt and gives me a fever and keeps me from eating very much. Ok, that does sound sort of bad. But it could be worse, I could be throwing up or something.

I haven't really gotten much of a chance to experience India yet. We're still kind of holed up in the hotel, waiting to move in with out host families, which will happen tomorrow. I'm considerably nervous, because I've never lived with another family before. Plus I have to admit, i really haven't been myself lately. Whatever that means, haha.

I’m SURROUNDED by birds. There are these little black birds with orange eyes that make very clear, sweet mockingbird-like noises. Then they stop and look at you, cock their heads, and click like old fashioned typewriters. Then there are these fat little birds that look like aristocratic raccoons, and they puff around like they're extremely indignant, and make weh-weh weh-weh weh-weh WEH-wehWEHwehWEHWEHWEHWEHwehwehwehwehweh sounds. For whatever reason, their call has the peculiar effect of getting ALL the other raccoon birds in the flock started, until they're all WEH-wehing to heaven and hell and sound like a bunch of angry old ladies having a brawl in the middle of a thrift shop. No idea why that image came to me. But seriously, that's what they sound like.

Love,

Allie

Pune, India

2007-07-27T12:35:00.000-07:00

I'm up on a hill. A peridot wonderland undulates around me, interrupted by small, graceful trees and rocks studded with turquoise deposits. Before me lies the city of Pune. Nothing at all like the sleek, asphalt-and-silver variety in America, the kind that sprawls upward like metal dreams or the tower of the unreachable captive princess. This city sort of shambles. It accomplishes what it needs to in a motley array of mismatched rectangles, going about their ways in no particular direction, stopping once in a while to surround a sacred forest or candy-colored temple.

The temples here are incredible. Candy-colored, mind, but not candy-coated. They're very real, and have a sort of power to them that expresses itself in a way different from what I'm used to. If one goes to a church or a cathedral in America, the power is very much there, and feels quite special - whether it be welcoming or oppressive. I always find myself drawn to it, and yet a bit disconcerted by it at the same time. I feel drawn to and discomforted by the temples in India too, but it's still a very different energy. It seems to say, "The power here is the natural way of everything in this beautiful, chaotic world. It's everywhere, even you...this temple is just the place where a small part of it is acknowledged. And in matters such as this, a part is really no different from it ALL."

The streets have the same sort of energy. At first glance, they're PANDEFRIGGINMONIUM, but there is a definite rhythm about them, if you let yourself stop panicking for a few moments. The rikshas, scooters, cars, trucks, buses, people and dogs; all meandering around anywhere from zero (the stray dogs taking naps in the middle of the road) to 40 (the crazy rikshas and rich teenagers in cars) miles per hour; seem to have an understanding that the streets belong to everyone. People make their ways, on their own paths, but CONSTANTLY aware of the movements and paths of others. And they alter their own paths accordingly, even just slightly, trusting that everyone else on the road will do the same. Despite there being no traffic laws and the lanes being something of a joke, there are fewer accidents in the city than there are in the cities in the States.

On the hill again. A few yards off is a little black cow that reminds me of Lucy (for anyone who thinks I'm being absurdly mean, Lucy is a dog, not a person), nosing around the bushes. Next to her is a calf the color of burnt caramel, probably asking very cute but impertinent questions it's not old enough to know the answers to. Some ladies walk by, their sarees trail behind them like the spirits of flowers or butterflies.

Pune, India

2007-07-14T18:31:00.000-07:00

Somehow, I knew that one of the first familiar things I would see in India would be Harry Potter. And lo and behold, when I entered the airport in Mumbai, Dan Radcliffe loomed down on me from a flat screen TV (bespectacled and as characteristically stiff around the shoulders as ever). Since I wasn't panicking over being in a totally different county as much as I thought I would be, his presence wasn't so much a comfort as it was an amusement. I suppose he'll become a very appreciated figure when I'm homesick. He's like cockroaches, or the sky - an inescapable, deeply enduring presence.

When I left the airport, I was expecting to feel a blast of fiery air swallow me whole. Instead, I was greeted by warm rain that did not eat me, just made the asphalt glitter. It's monsoon season, so the heat hasn't really been bad - I was actually chilly earlier today.

We walked around Pune today. I don't have anything interesting to say about it because I really can't put it into words. Don't worry though, I've been absolutely fine and I think it's a pretty awesome place. I'll be writing paragraphs and paragraphs once i can put my thoughts into words.. OOoo! I saw a camel. i love the way they walk.

I miss everyone! Will update you more, whether you like it or not. Email me questions if you like.