One of the first things my eye must to get used to: the sober colours everyone is wearing, and how pale and skinny everyone looks. I wonder if the colours look extra sombre contrasted by their pale faces. The clean cut preppy look. The colour co-ordination, the clean lines, and muted coloured fabrics; all astound me. No one is staring at each other either, or at me for that matter. I'm in an airport in Europe. I'm in Zurich, to be exact.
Another first thing I noticed, that I haven't been bombarded with in a little while: the fantastic footwear and designer handbags these tall scrubbed skinny pale women are wearing. I have a serious and almost pathological love/hate relationship with luxury. I envy Hermes and Cloe clad women, I dream of a Chanel watch, I long for a variety of designer handbags. The new Hermes messenger bag is too beautiful.. I drool over Miu Miu flats and Prada heels. I adored being at the 5 star Radisson Marina in Connaught Place, Dehli. Then again, l relish in my 700 RS (16 dollars, give or take) buffalo leather handbag from Kalkota that totally rules, or the cheapy cheap glass, brass, and 'gold' plated bangles that make me a veritable walking instrument, or paying 1000 rs (20 bucks) for an amazing hotel room with clean sheets, starched white and abundant towels, cochroach free floors, flat screen TV, and scorching hot water, that comes with the typical indian hospitality and warmth translated into free chai and beer (!)
Would I spend thousands on designer and 5 star hotels?
Of course! (head bob)
I feel dirty. Despite washing my face twice in the airplane, applying deodorant, and spritzing some COCO, both original and MADEMOISELLE. I feel like India is encrusted in my hair, my wrists, my beret, my boots. I miss it already, although I am enjoying the dirt free surroundings AND loving the toilet paper in public washrooms.
Another thing that struck me on the plane. Less food, smaller portions, and one measly lightweight sugar packet! Wha???? Where is my 5 course meal and obligatory sweet? My head bobs back and forth to the hostesses' cabin, waiting to catch a glimpse of one of them to ask for 2 more sugar packets, and if we we're going to be fed soon.
Swiss people seem to talk quietly.. laugh quietly...nod and smile in silence (I'm used to the spastic head bob accompanied with a ACHCHAAAAAH)
All is appearing muted to me.
People are so fucking thin here, holy. I feel like my thighs are expanding- because of the 2 bags of magic masala chips, and the mini 5 stars I wolfed down- just by looking at the small portions people are nibbling on, with the use of a fork and knife. FORK AND KNIFE: NOOOOOOO! I don't have a legitimate reason to eat with my fingers now.
Bummer.
Oh my god so many blondes roaming the airport halls. All with thin stringy straight hair. Ewwwwww.... All so skinny. oh god, I have been brainwashed by my 5+ months in Northern India: Give me boobs and thighs, give me a bangled wrists and lots of eyeliner, give me a black silk rope braid for hair, give me flowing, patterned fabrics that could only work in the subcontinent.
I am picking up on just how different India is. It's loud and honest and corrupt and bright and dirty and superstitious and generous and stinky and altogether INCREDIBLE. I miss it . My teeth won't. My sugar levels won't. But my disorganized nature and love of poetic language will.
Homesick.
For. Familiarity.
When will I learn NOT to listen to The Magnetic Fields if I want to feel uplifted and sprightly? Ugh: total cry fest with onlookers and everything. Why am I even crying? I must be tired, yeah that's it. It's not the fear of the unknown, or my possible broken promise, nor could it be my tenuous relationship with getting back into my beloved India. Tired. Yeah. That's it. I look and feel like shit. I need a sugary tea. A greasy samosa. A head bob.
I'm as pale as my European neighbour.
As I am about to get up and exist the airport bar, I -without thinking- grab napkins to put in my handbag. As I release them inside the inner pocket, I laugh out loud. What the hell am I doing? There's toilet paper here, only.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Driving. Drinking. (Young) Punjabi Men. An observation.
Hmm: how frank can I be with my thoughts, I wonder? I don't want to offend anybody reading my blog, yet I want you all to have a clear visual of what I have come to see in my five months in India, when it comes to Punjabi men, their driving while drinking, and their romantic dealings. I was named 'fairy of open thoughts' by an older Indian fellow, so I'm gonna run with it.
Punjabi men are by far the most hospitable group I have ever come across. I have never in all my days felt more like a lady. Not in your typical european chivalrous way mind you: it's not about flowers or opening doors or pulling back chairs. No, indeed it is more in their helpful manner, their eye contact, and their love for sweets, to which they are all magnanimous about offering.
A Punjabi man will ask if he can help you, and even if you say NO he will find a way to help, somehow. Whether it's whipping out their laptop to verify a something, calling a restaurant to see if they're open, or booking and paying for my train tickets.
Their rich coloured eyes are like deep pools of swirling chocolate, swallowing you up with sweetness and depth. This is wonderful and remarkable, and disarming.
And lastly, their love of sweets. I am offered sugary tea and coffee, always. The doorbell rings and there stands a man. sent by my friend, carrying boxes of Bengali sweets, all for me. It's opening the passenger door and instead of a person sitting in shotgun, it's a box of pastries, for me. It's coming out of a convenience store with a bag full of chocolate bars in tow, for me. It's at the end of a meal, ordering a sizzling brownie topped with ice cream, for me. It's always asking if I''ve had enough sweets, only.
Oh wow its awesome!
It ends with a root canal, but it's awesome.
Before segwaying into the less savory aspects of Punjabi men, I also want to add they they are the best multi tasking drivers. It's unsafe but it's true. He will weave past the cow, sms his buddy, and wish his mother goodnight with one hand on the steering wheel and the other interchanging with the stick shift and his cell phone. How come I feel safe?
Now onto their drinking AND driving. Yes, they do this, too. At first I was shocked, frightened and alone in my worries. Everyone else seemed so cool, so relaxed. But- but, you're DRIVING!
hahahh oh B! they all say...
hahaha ? And then, at the last gulp, they pull down the window and throw it out. At this I yelp!
Aw come on! that's soooooo uncool, uncool in a multitude of ways! Just keep in in your car and when you see it a dustbin throw it out.
Do you see a dust bin, Bianca... ?
My eyes search. No, alas, I do not. Keeping India beautiful is a feat, to which the Indian government doesn't assist. For the amount of people in India, there should be way more dustbins... but in my presence I refuse to tolerate this, and I implore them to keep their empties in the car and throw them out accordingly. They laugh a full belly laugh like I just cracked a joke, but appease me nonetheless...
And now for Punjabi romance... strangely enough, after all that hospitality and sugar laden offerings, after their expertise on the road, after his quick mental maths and astounding bargaining, the Punjabi boy is immature in the ways of love. Blame culture, blame whatever, but each one has the same move and each one exercises it with a speed and eagerness that is rather UNromantic. It reminds me of a getting a new toy and testing the limits of the toy by banging it against the wall, flinging it across the room, and by sticking it in your mouth. You're testing the toy's resilience and fun quotient.
All you feminists out there, calm down that I compared our Superior Sex to toys, it is a visual I am trying to impart to you. It's part reckless abandon, part guilty pleasure, and part this-is-what-I've-seen-in-the-movies-so-it-must-be-what-I-should-do. All in all, it's not THAT disagreeable, but after the 5th time I have to tell him to soften up 'aramseh arameh ji' my mouth isn't a hockey rink! Or- Hey- take it easy, you're not petting a dog, I yearn for the arms of an older man. For the self assured way and quiet confidence of maturity.
Living this when I was 20 years old would have been more than acceptable. but I'm getting too old for amateur kissing and cheap feels.
Maybe it's my fault, maybe I should stop settling for these 20 somethings...
Hahahah. ugh.
B. get with it.
Well, I still have all those sweets!
And a root canal....
Punjabi men are by far the most hospitable group I have ever come across. I have never in all my days felt more like a lady. Not in your typical european chivalrous way mind you: it's not about flowers or opening doors or pulling back chairs. No, indeed it is more in their helpful manner, their eye contact, and their love for sweets, to which they are all magnanimous about offering.
A Punjabi man will ask if he can help you, and even if you say NO he will find a way to help, somehow. Whether it's whipping out their laptop to verify a something, calling a restaurant to see if they're open, or booking and paying for my train tickets.
Their rich coloured eyes are like deep pools of swirling chocolate, swallowing you up with sweetness and depth. This is wonderful and remarkable, and disarming.
And lastly, their love of sweets. I am offered sugary tea and coffee, always. The doorbell rings and there stands a man. sent by my friend, carrying boxes of Bengali sweets, all for me. It's opening the passenger door and instead of a person sitting in shotgun, it's a box of pastries, for me. It's coming out of a convenience store with a bag full of chocolate bars in tow, for me. It's at the end of a meal, ordering a sizzling brownie topped with ice cream, for me. It's always asking if I''ve had enough sweets, only.
Oh wow its awesome!
It ends with a root canal, but it's awesome.
Before segwaying into the less savory aspects of Punjabi men, I also want to add they they are the best multi tasking drivers. It's unsafe but it's true. He will weave past the cow, sms his buddy, and wish his mother goodnight with one hand on the steering wheel and the other interchanging with the stick shift and his cell phone. How come I feel safe?
Now onto their drinking AND driving. Yes, they do this, too. At first I was shocked, frightened and alone in my worries. Everyone else seemed so cool, so relaxed. But- but, you're DRIVING!
hahahh oh B! they all say...
hahaha ? And then, at the last gulp, they pull down the window and throw it out. At this I yelp!
Aw come on! that's soooooo uncool, uncool in a multitude of ways! Just keep in in your car and when you see it a dustbin throw it out.
Do you see a dust bin, Bianca... ?
My eyes search. No, alas, I do not. Keeping India beautiful is a feat, to which the Indian government doesn't assist. For the amount of people in India, there should be way more dustbins... but in my presence I refuse to tolerate this, and I implore them to keep their empties in the car and throw them out accordingly. They laugh a full belly laugh like I just cracked a joke, but appease me nonetheless...
And now for Punjabi romance... strangely enough, after all that hospitality and sugar laden offerings, after their expertise on the road, after his quick mental maths and astounding bargaining, the Punjabi boy is immature in the ways of love. Blame culture, blame whatever, but each one has the same move and each one exercises it with a speed and eagerness that is rather UNromantic. It reminds me of a getting a new toy and testing the limits of the toy by banging it against the wall, flinging it across the room, and by sticking it in your mouth. You're testing the toy's resilience and fun quotient.
All you feminists out there, calm down that I compared our Superior Sex to toys, it is a visual I am trying to impart to you. It's part reckless abandon, part guilty pleasure, and part this-is-what-I've-seen-in-the-movies-so-it-must-be-what-I-should-do. All in all, it's not THAT disagreeable, but after the 5th time I have to tell him to soften up 'aramseh arameh ji' my mouth isn't a hockey rink! Or- Hey- take it easy, you're not petting a dog, I yearn for the arms of an older man. For the self assured way and quiet confidence of maturity.
Living this when I was 20 years old would have been more than acceptable. but I'm getting too old for amateur kissing and cheap feels.
Maybe it's my fault, maybe I should stop settling for these 20 somethings...
Hahahah. ugh.
B. get with it.
Well, I still have all those sweets!
And a root canal....
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Nothing Remains The Same. The Essence Of Travel Writing.
Action and reaction, ebb and flow, trial and error, change - this is the rhythm of living. Out of our over-confidence, fear; out of our fear, clearer vision, fresh hope. And out of hope, progress.
Bruce Barton
I am in constant flux, as you are, beloved bathsandbeer reader. Once you come to understand this, the vitality and mystery of life reveals itself to you, and you at once relish every moment of this splendid journey called LIFE.
I love travel writing because it is a testament to change. It documents change. I explore, I discover, I witness, and then I explore, discover, and witness again, but something new.
I am in India. I love India, but I am disenchanted with my present situation. I need change. I am seeking change. Trial and error is truly the only way I know how to live, for better or for worse.
One good thing about making change your friend, there is never a dull moment.
My body weight has changed, my palette for sweets and spice has changed, my teaching techniques have changed, my hair cut and colour has changed. My reaction to others has changed (Head Bob!). I indeed, have changed.
I leave India in a week. A week today. I will be back to the land of metered snow and cheese curds, French and English language intermixed. I will be greeted with a 'bonjour' or a 'hello' and be serviced with attention. I will not have to haggle or bargain. I will not stand out. I will not wear Punjabi suits. I will be understood. But I won't be the same, and Montreal won't greet me in the same fashion, either.
This post is to be continued. I have to get changed and teach. But I was inspired. I was sitting on my balcony, observing my neighbours go through their daily routine of hanging their clothes, of sifting beans and letting them dry in the sun, of chatting on their cell phones while watering their plants. And I know this is a scene I won't see again. I feel it deep in the entrails of my system.
Change: Now THAT word should be inked on my body. My commitment to change. The permanence of change.
Isn't it?
Bruce Barton
I am in constant flux, as you are, beloved bathsandbeer reader. Once you come to understand this, the vitality and mystery of life reveals itself to you, and you at once relish every moment of this splendid journey called LIFE.
I love travel writing because it is a testament to change. It documents change. I explore, I discover, I witness, and then I explore, discover, and witness again, but something new.
I am in India. I love India, but I am disenchanted with my present situation. I need change. I am seeking change. Trial and error is truly the only way I know how to live, for better or for worse.
One good thing about making change your friend, there is never a dull moment.
My body weight has changed, my palette for sweets and spice has changed, my teaching techniques have changed, my hair cut and colour has changed. My reaction to others has changed (Head Bob!). I indeed, have changed.
I leave India in a week. A week today. I will be back to the land of metered snow and cheese curds, French and English language intermixed. I will be greeted with a 'bonjour' or a 'hello' and be serviced with attention. I will not have to haggle or bargain. I will not stand out. I will not wear Punjabi suits. I will be understood. But I won't be the same, and Montreal won't greet me in the same fashion, either.
This post is to be continued. I have to get changed and teach. But I was inspired. I was sitting on my balcony, observing my neighbours go through their daily routine of hanging their clothes, of sifting beans and letting them dry in the sun, of chatting on their cell phones while watering their plants. And I know this is a scene I won't see again. I feel it deep in the entrails of my system.
Change: Now THAT word should be inked on my body. My commitment to change. The permanence of change.
Isn't it?
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Kingfisher, Henna, and Soan Papdi
I'm full.
I'm contemplating organizing my room, or maybe pack up some stuffs for home, but instead I'm drinking beer and listening to Disco.
I seriously have no idea what to expect in the coming weeks. Going back to Montreal is going to be lovely, but after five months in India, how will I find being around such cleanliness? I won't have to carry napkins in my purse. My head bob will be REALLY out of place. Like, uh... who is going to finish a sentense with 'isn't it', or 'only' and a head bob?
I'm going to be lonely for that...
and my 5 rupee chai, and my punjabi boy
my kids....
this post sucks.
I'm drinking Indian beer eating my favorite Indian dessert and dying my hair Indian styles.
India, this is the second time I ask you. I'm on one knee....
will you marry me?
word.
I'm contemplating organizing my room, or maybe pack up some stuffs for home, but instead I'm drinking beer and listening to Disco.
I seriously have no idea what to expect in the coming weeks. Going back to Montreal is going to be lovely, but after five months in India, how will I find being around such cleanliness? I won't have to carry napkins in my purse. My head bob will be REALLY out of place. Like, uh... who is going to finish a sentense with 'isn't it', or 'only' and a head bob?
I'm going to be lonely for that...
and my 5 rupee chai, and my punjabi boy
my kids....
this post sucks.
I'm drinking Indian beer eating my favorite Indian dessert and dying my hair Indian styles.
India, this is the second time I ask you. I'm on one knee....
will you marry me?
word.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Mother India, no one makes Samosas the way you do
I love to snack.
I love pastries.
Samosas are my favourite savory pastry snack
Each one different,
like a child, like a snowflake:
unique and remarkable,
and better in multiples
The shape: original and easy to hold
The size: perfect
The flaky greasy outer shell-
sometimes flecked with cumin seeds.
Oh God (which one?) it's good!
The inside: soft and warm.
Like a duvet would taste like if it was food.
Stuffed with peas and cashews and potato,
Paneer and coriander and onions,
and green chilis
A triangular fried pie.
An apple a day? Hmphf!
Try a Samosa or three.
Your taste buds will thank you
Happy mouth, indeed!
I love pastries.
Samosas are my favourite savory pastry snack
Each one different,
like a child, like a snowflake:
unique and remarkable,
and better in multiples
The shape: original and easy to hold
The size: perfect
The flaky greasy outer shell-
sometimes flecked with cumin seeds.
Oh God (which one?) it's good!
The inside: soft and warm.
Like a duvet would taste like if it was food.
Stuffed with peas and cashews and potato,
Paneer and coriander and onions,
and green chilis
A triangular fried pie.
An apple a day? Hmphf!
Try a Samosa or three.
Your taste buds will thank you
Happy mouth, indeed!
Saturday, November 27, 2010
For Love or Money -OR- I Feel Great In My Jeans
beloved reader,
Why do you do what you do? Is it because you love it, or is it because it pays well? Do you do a boring lucrative job and have serious hobbies to keep your creativity satiated? Do you give your heart and soul and get paid in hugs and smiles more so than dollar bills(or rupees or pounds or whatevs)? Can you do mindless work without guilt of wasting your precious time on this magnificent earth?
Or, are you the lucky one that has a financially AND emotionally/intellectually fulfilling job? Some days I think, who cares, it's just money, I don't need a lot of it, I'm happy without it. I watched 30 Rock the other night and laughed when Jack Doneghey confidently said,"...money doesn't buy you happiness. Money IS happiness"hahah. I'm not like that, I don't believe that. ???
In my experience rich people aren't that happy, but I won't get into that platitude cause it's incredibly dull and we all know that the sight of a full moon or the taste of a home made cookie is happiness, Blablablabla. Snoresville. But a new pair of designer jeans is happiness too. Indeed.
I was meeting a friend for dinner and was 10 minutes early. hmmm stores are open late here. what's ten minutes of window shopping? I can't get into trouble in ten minutes, surely.
Forget window shopping, this store's window is badly outfitted, let's just walk in and see the goods. And so I do. I walk in, and the B of days past comes to center stage. I might not be good in maths, kind reader, nor do I have good hand eye coordination. But one thing is for certain: I know how to shop. I really know my way around cuts and fabrics and fit.
And I want a new pair of jeans.
None of my pants fit. Despite my sugar obsession (and I wish I was exaggerating when I tell you my love affair with Indian sweets and bakeries and Cadbury India, but I'm not and my teeth are paying the price, as well as my energy levels), I have dropped a few pounds here and none of my bottoms fit well. so I don't wear pants as much. But Chandigarh is getting cold now (relatively speaking). I need jeans. I need. haha. Yes. It's a need like a need for a pastry or a beer.
And you know what? I bought them. I stopped myself from adding a handbag to the bill, and that was a challenge, since handbags always fit. These skinny jeans won't fit me back in Cheese Land. Oh wow. They look great, they feel great, and fuck it- so my salary is small, so the jeans were more than half my salary. Should I regret the purchase, or should I be rethinking my job?
I decide not to feel guilty and focus on why I think its fine and dandy to be OK with getting paid less than I am worth. Money talks. Money talks everywhere in this capitalistic world, of course. But in a corrupt country like India, money shouts and yells. If money could type IT WOULD IN CAPS. When I confide to my Indian buddies what I charge (as they say here) they are appalled. Seriously. Sure there are some benefits that I can't do without (room, food allowance, cell paid), yet still. I make less than I ever have, and I'm 32.
I love my kids! I love what I do! But I refuse to regret buying designer jeans! And I refuse to believe that I am a bad person for wanting designer jeans, or believing designer jeans are bringing me happiness. For they are.
I FEEL GREAT IN MY JEANS!
Only.
Why do you do what you do? Is it because you love it, or is it because it pays well? Do you do a boring lucrative job and have serious hobbies to keep your creativity satiated? Do you give your heart and soul and get paid in hugs and smiles more so than dollar bills(or rupees or pounds or whatevs)? Can you do mindless work without guilt of wasting your precious time on this magnificent earth?
Or, are you the lucky one that has a financially AND emotionally/intellectually fulfilling job? Some days I think, who cares, it's just money, I don't need a lot of it, I'm happy without it. I watched 30 Rock the other night and laughed when Jack Doneghey confidently said,"...money doesn't buy you happiness. Money IS happiness"hahah. I'm not like that, I don't believe that. ???
In my experience rich people aren't that happy, but I won't get into that platitude cause it's incredibly dull and we all know that the sight of a full moon or the taste of a home made cookie is happiness, Blablablabla. Snoresville. But a new pair of designer jeans is happiness too. Indeed.
I was meeting a friend for dinner and was 10 minutes early. hmmm stores are open late here. what's ten minutes of window shopping? I can't get into trouble in ten minutes, surely.
Forget window shopping, this store's window is badly outfitted, let's just walk in and see the goods. And so I do. I walk in, and the B of days past comes to center stage. I might not be good in maths, kind reader, nor do I have good hand eye coordination. But one thing is for certain: I know how to shop. I really know my way around cuts and fabrics and fit.
And I want a new pair of jeans.
None of my pants fit. Despite my sugar obsession (and I wish I was exaggerating when I tell you my love affair with Indian sweets and bakeries and Cadbury India, but I'm not and my teeth are paying the price, as well as my energy levels), I have dropped a few pounds here and none of my bottoms fit well. so I don't wear pants as much. But Chandigarh is getting cold now (relatively speaking). I need jeans. I need. haha. Yes. It's a need like a need for a pastry or a beer.
And you know what? I bought them. I stopped myself from adding a handbag to the bill, and that was a challenge, since handbags always fit. These skinny jeans won't fit me back in Cheese Land. Oh wow. They look great, they feel great, and fuck it- so my salary is small, so the jeans were more than half my salary. Should I regret the purchase, or should I be rethinking my job?
I decide not to feel guilty and focus on why I think its fine and dandy to be OK with getting paid less than I am worth. Money talks. Money talks everywhere in this capitalistic world, of course. But in a corrupt country like India, money shouts and yells. If money could type IT WOULD IN CAPS. When I confide to my Indian buddies what I charge (as they say here) they are appalled. Seriously. Sure there are some benefits that I can't do without (room, food allowance, cell paid), yet still. I make less than I ever have, and I'm 32.
I love my kids! I love what I do! But I refuse to regret buying designer jeans! And I refuse to believe that I am a bad person for wanting designer jeans, or believing designer jeans are bringing me happiness. For they are.
I FEEL GREAT IN MY JEANS!
Only.
Friday, November 26, 2010
INDIAAAAAAAAA!
I love you.
I love that I can eat with my hands, that you are ok with that.
That you encourage me, even.
I love that I can hear your morning birds chirp chirp chirping away.
A natural alarm clock.
I love your morning chanting that accompanies your chirping birds.
Man and Nature in harmony.
I love hearing your trains annoucing their arrival every night, coupled with your blaring Bhangra from a neighbour's stereo.
I love the way my students talk about food.
Like a member of the family
I love that despite your unruly manner, you get things done
I love that you're good in maths.
I love that I have to ask twice to get somewhere.
It's twice the connection.
I love that you address me as Didi, and Ji.
I am your honored sister.
I love that the moment I smile at you, your eyes sparkle.
India, will you marry me?
I love that I can eat with my hands, that you are ok with that.
That you encourage me, even.
I love that I can hear your morning birds chirp chirp chirping away.
A natural alarm clock.
I love your morning chanting that accompanies your chirping birds.
Man and Nature in harmony.
I love hearing your trains annoucing their arrival every night, coupled with your blaring Bhangra from a neighbour's stereo.
I love the way my students talk about food.
Like a member of the family
I love that despite your unruly manner, you get things done
I love that you're good in maths.
I love that I have to ask twice to get somewhere.
It's twice the connection.
I love that you address me as Didi, and Ji.
I am your honored sister.
I love that the moment I smile at you, your eyes sparkle.
India, will you marry me?
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