Vacancy.
I flew home via Reno last Sunday and had a bit of a layover. Landing midday, I was shocked how deathly quiet the airport was; SeaTac had been bustling in the morning and I would have thought weekenders would have been coming and going from Reno as well. As I no longer suffer PTSD from The Biggest Little City, I headed downtown to walk around a bit. If I had thought the airport quiet I was certainly unprepared for the eerie emptiness and silence I found downtown.
“Wait… did we miss it?” Avoiding Fomo in Chicago.
Norah: Are you sad that we missed it?
Nick: We didn’t miss it. This *is* it.
Live music has a very special appeal to me. Always has. As such it is very hard for me to pass up opportunities to see it – even when I know there will be a lot of work involved or I would be better served to focus elsewhere or I should save the money or I am too tired or, or, or… But as of yet I have not been able to kick the habit. I have moved metaphorical mountains to attend shows: driven all night to and from shows, gone to work in states of mind suited only to deep sleep or asylums following shows, attended shows after shows that lasted all day, flown to shows, hiked to shows, biked to shows. I simply love going to shows.
My love of shows is not just about the music but the whole experience. The rock stars, the idea of being right there with them, the energy, the smells (totally show specific of course, and not all lovely as I will get to presently), the hope to hear a song, the hope that the whole show won’t be all about promoting a new album you’ve never heard, meeting people who love what you love – or hate what you hate… the rock stars. Always those rock stars. Singers = Swoon. It is funny though, I thought about all this the other night at The Vaccines/Arctic Monkeys show at The Independent and realized that when I was the appropriate age to snog rock stars I was watching bands that were too old for me, and now I keep finding myself watching bands full of kids who could have been in my Geography class. Weird.
But in spite of it all, I keep going to shows… because you never know… you might miss the next best thing.
The whole reason the Chicago trip was planned in the first place was around Lollapalooza. It was the 20th Anniversary year and since Lolla no longer functions as a travelling circus like it used to, it provided and awesome opportunity to see Chicago – a city I had only enjoyed via the airports. Plus D would be working her magic and we would get super special treatment. While at Coachella, D had said that the perks at Lolla were way impressive. It sounded amazing, and without being to a total spoiler, it was actually even better than it had sounded.
And so we went.
I Love L.A., Part 1: “We was born to ride”
Rollin’ down Imperial Highway
With a big nasty redhead at my side
Santa Ana winds blowin’ hot from the north
And we was born to ride…
I was considering going to LA a few weeks back. Then some shit happened. Like the job I thought I was going to have, I did not have. And so, I thought, perhaps a trip to LA was not the most prudent thing I could be doing. I figured maybe I would pass. But, the ticket was going to be pretty cheap. And when I had mentioned it to D she said, “Oh! That is the week of the ESPYs!” And when I told my aunt N, she said, “Oh! That is the week of Char’s 21st!” And when I told A, she said, “Oh! That is the weekend we are going to be there!”
I was a bit conflicted. Then I got a job and bought an airline ticket and ceased the conflict.
The thing with this trip was, I was going to try to a tremendous amount in a very short time, without getting a rental car, and under the impending doom of carmageddon. It meant that I was going to have to ask some people for some favors. Also, I was going to have to be very sneaky about one part of it as I was trying to surprise my cousin at her 21st birthday bash. In a nutshell, I would land at LAX at which point I would have to get transformed on the fly into evening attire and be downtown by 4 p.m., find a way to get to Santa Monica where I would be staying that night, make my way to Hollywood where I would be meeting people the next day, back to Santa Monica to rendezvous with my super-sneaky Malibu connection for the next day, be back to Hollywood for brunch the next day, and then get back to LAX to catch a morning flight on Sunday, kind of early. Kind of like this:
Oh, and I was going to have luggage.
Do you realize??
Do you realize
That you have the most beautiful face?
Do you realize
We’re floating in space?
I couldn’t help looking across the aisle at the two UMs. They were not traveling together, but because they were UMs they were, of course, set right next to each other. I wondered if they were going from one parent to another parent. Or maybe they were going home from their grandparents’ house. I looked at their quiet faces and the big, awkward UM tags the airlines still hang around their necks. It seemed somehow perfect that I was flying from LAX to SFO, still Unattended, though no longer a Minor, going home from my Grandma’s house for the last time.
How many times had I made this flight, back in the day on PSA, with my UM tags? There would be no way to count. Every summer practically from birth I found myself in The Valley with my grandparents. I think I started making the trip on my own when I was five or six. I continued to go throughout my college career and beyond. But this weekend I had not flown down to The Valley, I had gone to Santa Fe. And this was a different kind of visit. I did everything I could to try to get to Santa Fe to see my Grandma Joan. But I was too late. Or maybe I wasn’t. It is so hard to tell sometimes.
Do you realize
That happiness makes you cry?
The entire weekend was temporally elastic, rubbery, vague, anachronistic… much like the entire experience of Alzheimer’s in many ways. Not all bad. But sad. Sitting in the airport in Albuquerque with my Uncle Patrick and my Aunt Kay today we could not even remember what day it was. When had we arrived? When had we heard? How long had we been here? It was all so surreal.
Only January 17. Just seventeen days into the new year and so much has happened.
A funny thing happened on my way to Fox Island…
I fly a lot. Like, really… A.LOT. I have it down: I am cordial to the airline employees (especially the ones stateside because they are way nicer than the ones in HK - Cathay ladies at in-town check-in I am talking to you); I make sure to smile (and often get upgrades – Business class I heart you); and I am *never* the person that holds up the security line (you know the one, and you know you want to kill them too). To that end I have been a little out of the loop with regard to airport security since living in Hong Kong for five plus years. Airport security in Asia seems very effective and efficient. They don’t get all pedantic and silly with you and they do not make you take off your shoes, which I appreciate, being rather a shoe-phile who believes that shoes make the outfit AND belong on the feet. There do not seem to be huge breaches of security in Asia, yet we are allowed to drink water and have lotion – as long as we are not flying to the US.
On the other hand, in the US you must arrive to the airport freakishly early in spite of all other things being equal because the security lines are so long and arduous. Interestingly, the US still seems to endure the greatest number of security breaches. Hm.
Still, I pay this no mind. I do the drill. And entertain myself in myriad ways as I wait in line. The first snafu I had with airport security occurred in 2004 when I was flying to Reno from LAX and I got a little somp’in somp’in extra from the screener who was totally perplexed that my bra was setting off the metal detector (sometimes I like a strong foundation – and you know, underwire can work wonders.) After pulling me aside and using the Wand of Detection on me profusely, I suddenly found this woman’s hands on my breasts and working their way under said foundation. That woman got to second base with me and I never even knew her name. Mildly flustered and a little confused (I was flying home from a long weekend…) I carried on.
The second security op that shocked me went down at SFO. After disembarking from the long Hong Kong haul, I was headed to the domestic terminal to head up to the Pacific Northwest. Or maybe San Diego. I am unsure – likely because the subsequent events permanently wonked my memory. I was pulled aside for “additional screening”. I thought little of it and followed the directions to step to the left of the line in front of another screening device. After looking at my ticket and inquiring as to where I had been (it *said* Hong Kong) and for how long (weird question) and where else I had been (seriously? How much time have we got?) and why I was traveling (erm… fun?) I was asked to step into what appeared to be a glass phone booth looking thing. As per my usual protocol, I acquiesced with little comment.
And then I almost had a heart attack.
They certainly could have told me I was going to be bum-rush blasted with what felt like a full body glaucoma test. Nice. Totally nonplussed and airblasted I moved on cleared of my explosive potential to my next gate.
My latest security event happened yesterday at the Oakland International Airport, where I arrived far too early (thanks Bart) for my flight to Seattle to perpetrate one of the most epic surprise birthday parties ever. As those of you who know me will attest, I am far from my best before sunrise (unless I have not been to sleep – that is a different story all together) and so as I snaked through the security check point line on at 6:45 a.m. on Saturday morning I didn’t even realize what was happening when I was directed to an alternative screening device than the guy in front of me. I stepped over and was told to make a triangle with my fingers. Um, what? And then to put my hands above my head. Seriously?
I was sure that Candid Camera or Aston Kutcher had to be around somewhere as these people could not really be having me impersonate a Teletubby for no reason.
-No, wait. You are serious? [No laughing ensued.]
-Ma’am. Please place your hands above your head and turn 180 degrees so you are facing the wall in front of you.
-What the- – ?
And so I stood there for about thirty seconds, with my hands over my head as if I were attempting to contact Mork from Ork or something and wondered WTF was going on.
Then the nice young men who had directed me to the device said I could go and I was on my way wondering what the hell had just happened.
Coffee eventually in hand, a surprise rendezvous at the airport, a smooth landing at SeaTac, a sweet rental car pick-up and I was on my was to carry out the covert operation of the day on Fox Island. I casually mentioned what had happened at Oakland security.
-Oh yeah, you haven’t heard about that?
-Uh, no.
-Yeah, it is a really big deal.
-Why?
-They see you naked.
What.
The.
Fuck?!
Sort of a big deal? I should say so. That is a little bit of a violation of my privacy, no? I decided to take it up with one of my on-call pilots (Yeah, I have two. Don’t be jealous.) He was surprised I was unaware of this new-ish development and laughed when I asked what got people singled out, like why me? I didn’t know if I should be flattered or pissed off, so I went with the former as I was on a mini-vacation after all. The thing is, I don’t mind the exposure of my nakedness (okay, yeah, that is a little weird) but more the attitude that has ushered this stuff in. I read that people were totally anti the body scan (um… duh!) until this dipshit lit his ass on fire (there is a man with his priorities really far askew) made them think it was okay. It reminded me of when Ben Franklin said (or enough people credited him with saying so we accept it as truth now) that “those who would sacrifice freedom for security deserve neither.” The thing is, this seems a little over the top in a Orwellian way. It pissed one pilot off enough that he is likely going to be fired because he refused the scan. Looking at the picture that the security guys see, one can see why people might not like it. Especially since the US Marshalls are storing the images (hello unfair competition for porn mags.) Really? Storing them? Now the cops have the best drugs *and* the best smut. Jokes aside, I am sure this is in violation of numerous rights and liberties, to say nothing of the simple fact that some people should simply not be seen naked. Ever.
But let’s get back to me and my early morning peep show. In my own investigation, which commenced and closed this weekend, I have to say I am amused at the fact that the TSA says my privacy is protected through my anonymity. Excuse me? So because I do not recognize someone’s face that is not nudity? Explain pornographic cartoons then, why are they off-limits? I am pretty sure I see a penis here. Is that okay? My Ken dolls never looked like this.
In the end, I realized that at least two complete strangers had seen me naked before I even had a cup of coffee and I am not sure how I feel about that – in terms of security or otherwise. And I think it is funny that the face is blurred, but not one’s… junk. That means that the TSA’s priorities sort of match those of an adolescent boy. This leads me to be less bothered but more confused. Is that the litmus test I want for national security? Are we approaching national security from the point of a teenage boy?
Oh… wait a minute, I think I may be on to something here…
Do you miss it?
If the way that you need
Is too much like greed
Decide if you are rich or you’re poor
I went to a wedding the other day, or rather a wedding reception, for a friend who is more like family than friend. I went with my own parents and the parents of one of my oldest friends who are more like than family than friends too. Chelsea Clinton got married that day too, I heard. Poor kid probably had a lot more headaches than we did out under blue skies and oak trees where I used to suffer through cross-country races back when I was doing anything I could to win the approval of my high school coach. We were headache free.
The people at this party were people I have known (had known?) since before I was able to construct complex sentences or form lucid memories. There is something wonderfully visceral about being around people who you know this well, or at least that you knew well enough at a certain point that the relationship is somehow indelible. It’s nice. These relationships are like Sharpie markers; eternally satisfying.
I caught up with people I had not seen in enough years that they seemed to have gone from first grade to adult in one fell swoop. The kids I babysat had kids. The aunties and the uncles seemed more relaxed, perhaps a little more grey (who isn’t if they don’t have a hair guy like me) and the parents were free to not be.
Of course I faced the questions that one expects after statement, “I just returned from five years in Asia,” comes out. I am getting pretty good at answering a lot of these questions, most of which I have no real answer for… But one of them has been coming up a little more these days:
“Do you miss it?”
I suppose that is to do with the fact that I have now been home a month and the questions about where I am going to live or about work must seem kind of uninteresting when there is no ready reply – or perhaps people feel badly for me that I’ve yet to work that out, I am not sure. Either way, the question of the day was whether or not there was anything I missed about Hong Kong.
I thought about this. In concrete terms, aside from my friends over there, I gotta say: Nope. This may change, but at the moment, it is categorical. But there are things less tangible that are gone, like that certain flair that comes with saying you live overseas… imagined or not, I always felt flair-worthy when I said it. And there is also the loss of the built-in caveat for all commitments that has to do with the reality that every visit may be the last visit – for a very long time. But honestly, that fact remains regardless of one’s location if you want to look at things as a matter of fact. So, those are the sort of ego-stroking possibilities that are no longer there. But in terms of anything else?
If I had to pick something – one thing – that I miss about Hong Kong it has to be the ease with which I could leave Hong Kong. Ironic? Not exactly: HK is the pinnacle of hubs for travel around Asia in my opinion. Somehow, (is it magic?) it seems like everywhere is 2.5 hours away from Hong Kong. I don’t know how that can be possible, and I’ll grant you Bali is 5, but seriously… I am going to miss going to Thailand for the weekend. Or Vietnam. Or Japan. Or Shanghai. You see my point.
Otherwise, as I felt in Hong Kong, I feel pretty good to be right here, right now. Because you know, if the way that you need is too much like greed… it is all down hill from there.
Just ask Boy George.
WC2010: My second World Cup in Asia
Here we come
Walking down the street
We get the funniest looks from
Everyone we meet.
When the 2006 World Cup kicked off I was traipsing around Southeast Asia. That sounds a lot more idyllic than it was. True, I was in Southeast Asia enjoying a lot of what Thailand and Laos have to offer. That was nice. But I was also running from unpleasantness that I did not want to face in the States thereby making said unpleasantness a shit ton more unpleasant. [Duh.] I was also supporting a junkie on the road. To be fair, he wasn’t on the junk at that time, but he had enough hang ups with ex-girlfriends, lager and indigence that things were not looking really auspicious… and they don’t call it a monkey on your back for nothing. [DUH.] My professional soccer exposure was limited, but because I am American it was assumed that I was a total football ignoramus. Not true y’all. As a basketball coach for more years than I often care to admit, I learned a lot about soccer. That is not a semantic error. Coaching basketball is what taught me about soccer.
One of the hardest concepts to coach in sports is the skill of moving off the ball. It is interesting because the majority of the action in basketball and soccer is actually taking place away from the ball (it is another reason refs are so shitty have such a challenging job, they need to keep their eyes away from the ball too, and they forget to do this often occasionally.) The ball in both these sports works like a magnet; everyone is instinctively drawn to it. This seems to be innate. Don’t believe me? Watch a pee-wee soccer game some time, it is one giant moving cluster of bodies, and it is pretty much the same in basketball, just less bodies. Anyhow, knowing this, I spent a lot of time teaching how to move away from the ball and how to be sure that my girls understood spacing on the floor and how to create space. It is the essence of setting a good screen. Or running an effective press. Both of which my teams did exceptionally well… primarily because of the soccer players that hooped it up for me. Kids who play soccer, and who are good at it, understand these concepts because they are even more important when you are dealing with a playing field, (yeah, yeah, “pitch”) that is more than twenty times larger with only two times as many players. [Basketball courts are standardized 94' x 50' and a soccer field - non-bloody standard btw, averages about 90m x 119m.) So, yeah, I knew a little about the game, if not the European clubs and big money players. And anyhow, I am a sports fanatic, making me a quick study and I went to more soccer games than I can count to watch my kids play. [Superfan.]
So there I was, in Bangkok and the World Cup was kicking off. Soccer was everywhere in the news and I was on the road with a group composed of Aussies, Brits and an Irishman; at least half the group full-on football maniacal. And everyone was getting all nationalistic as the days went on.
“What team are you going to support?”
“The US.”
“No, but I mean after the groups.”
“The US.”
[Imagine the most condescending voice ever] “But, the US aren’t* going to make it out of the group stage, so then who?”
“Who do you support?”
“England.”
“Who do you hate?”
“Germany.”
“Germany it is, then.”
*Semantic fun fact: British English assigns plural verbs to collective nouns. In spite of my general aversion to B.E., I like this.
In the midst of all of this World Cup madness I was coerced into picking a Premiere League team because Ex#5 was definitely on the footie-fanatic roster. I told him I could not just “pick a team,” I was going to have to check out this whole “league” concept in soccer (which, by the way, is superceded in stupidity only by the fact that an official game can end in a tie/draw.) But he insisted. Wouldn’t bloody give it a rest.
“Come on, pick a team. Look, here is the listing.”
“That means nothing to me, I don’t even know where some of these places are.”
“Why does that matter?”
[Now imagine the look on my geographile face when he said that.] “It matters.”
“Oh, come on, it’ll be fun, we can each have a team to support.”
“Quit bugging me, it is not even the Premiere League season, I have months to choose.”
“What, are you going to study up?”
“Give me that god dammed newspaper.” I grabbed the sports section from him. There was a giant color picture of a fairly good-looking guy on the front page. “Fine, who does this guy play for? I’ll support them. That is now my team.”
The look on #5′s face was worth the entire breakfast argument as the Tottenham Hotspur loyalist took in the spectacle of the front page that showed Michael Ballack in all of his German glory – signing to play for Chelsea.
“What?!?! You are joking! You can’t pick like that!”
“Look, you made me do it and now I have done it and I am sticking with it. GO BLUES. Now let me have my coffee.”
A Yank choosing to support Chelsea based on the Ballack signing is somewhat akin to a Brit choosing to support the Yankees or the Red Sox based on some equally skeevy signing – think A-Rod or Derek Jeter or a Giambi or something. It was the best revenge. But the Premiere League was hardly the topic du jour. It was World Cup time and people were getting ready.
Some things I know I’m going to miss about Hong Kong
Cheap utilities including phone service – remember that year we all got our electricity subsidized? That was cool. [Seems fair anyhow since our little island provides HK with ALL its power.]
Everywhere you might want to travel seems to be 2.5 hours away by air.
Anna introducing me as “Amanda, my friend from Hong Kong”.
In-town Check-in/Airport Express/Cathay Pacific.
Tirumala Septentrionis Butterflies.
Getting your drink on in the street.
The Inland Revenue Department.
Public transportation.
The Rugby Sevens.
My yoga teacher.
My amigas.
My view.
Norman.
Getting Out of India: As always, it’s what you take with you that matters.
Varkala Beach is a really beautiful place and I was glad to be there reading and sitting in the sun and eating tandoori paratha and fresh fruit and listening to music. But then two things happened. For some reason unknown to me, a load of backpackers arrived. Where had they descended from and why were they there polluting the air with patchouli and cigarette smoke and painfully inane conversation? This was supposed to be the low season; didn’t they get the memo? Please, stay on the backpacker trail so the rest of us can avoid you.
And I found out that one of my cats had gone missing back in Hong Kong.
Doubly inauspicious.
I contemplated my options as I sat in Little Tibet eating vegetable pakora. I had been thinking of going home early anyhow because I was realizing I might have grossly underestimated the logistical and emotional hurdles that were going to need to be surmounted over the remaining weeks of June. Also, it turns out that I had given myself a strangely useless amount of time post-ashram in India. The thing is, while twelve days may be a good amount of time for a little foray into many a foreign land, This Is India. And that was not enough time to do anything. Why? Here is why: India is amazing and overwhelming and cheap and fantastic and wild and vibrant. And in order to make it all those things it is incredibly inefficient. Finessing plans is totally impossible. If you have lots of time and flexibility you can go for weeks – months even – ambling around the Subcontinent. However, if you have any sort of schedule: Good.Luck. Trying to adhere to even a simple schedule ends up being fairly costly, and truth be told, the schedule is not gonna stick anyhow. This Is India. Just that morning I had been reading an article in the local paper about how India is Number One for Asia’s “most inefficient bureaucrac[y], with red tape a constant blight to citizens and deterrent for foreign investment.” (Indonesia and the Philippines came second and third. The most efficient? Hong Kong and Singapore. SNG won the top spot, but that makes sense, as police states do tend to be very efficient.)
Considering these realities and wishing that my plate of vegetable pakora was bottomless I started picking up on the conversations around me.
“Dude! You went there? Why? I heard that is like the rip-off capital of India because all the tourists go there!”
“I know mate. It was mental. And all these tourists who couldn’t even work out how to get on a train, I couldn’t believe it.”
“Hey, gotta fag? I’m out?”
“So, did you ever see those birds again, the ones you met up with in Agra?”
[Mental note: Agra = THE tourist destination of India.]
“Ha. Yeah man. Ran into them in — (couldn’t hear where). It was crazy.”
[Mental note: Crazy? You all go to the same places, how can that be crazy? And on that note, why am I here?] Amidst stubbornly lingering cigarette smoke, a personal aggravation I always look forward to leaving behind, I decided to move my meditation on “What To Do” elsewhere. I was wondering where Norman could have ended up on Lamma. I mean it is an island, not too far to wander. And he had run away before (he took a three-day punishment holiday following the toga party and had twice been gone for a couple of days for reasons unknown.) By the time I was alerted to this absence he had been gone four or five days already. Not a good sign. I mean, he could survive, cats are wily. But this was very unusual behavior for a cat who is well-known for adherence to routine. I felt sad, but in a strange emotional turn for me, I seemed to understand there was nothing I could do about it and so it was what it was. I briefly wondered if I had somehow matured or become less of a crazy cat-lady while in the ashram. Unlikely, but you never know, I guess.
Two Western girls sauntered by in their hippie dresses and a cloud of smoke laughing riotously over something. One of them was wearing Crocs. I was definitely going to have to GTFO of here. I sent an email to my most amazing travel agent from my iPhone and within the hour had secured a new ticket home and began to adjust to my new itinerary. It felt right. Then I thought about that damn cat and I started to cry.
Keralaaaaaahhhhhh…
The sand here is very soft.
I read somewhere that if you begin any piece of writing with a simple declarative statement it really has an effect. “The sand here is very soft.” Does that statement get my point across? My verbosity wants to add that it is an inky, velvety, gun-metal grey (one of my favorite colors) with an insane glitter factor (this *is* India after all…) And it is so soft. It is not all black though. In fact it looks decidedly like halva. Do you know what halva is? Well, it looks just like this:
I arrived at this soft-sand beach on the last day of May. I chose to come somewhere easy to kick back after the month in the ashram. I picked my hotel based on the review of the bathroom and Western food; it met my needs in both areas. [Though to be fair, by relying on the Lonely Planet and heading to The Beach Hotel, I missed the chance to stay at the Sunrise resort right next door for one-tenth of the cost. C'est la vie (the bathrooms were worth the 90%.)] I was having mixed feelings about embarking on travel after my stay at Prashanti. It was weird and unfamiliar to want to cut my trip short. I even emailed my travel agent to see if my ticket could be changed [yes, with no penalty...] I was not sure why I was feeling this way. Part of me said it was because I had already been gone so long, another part said it was to do with not being ready to deal with “India” after being quieted away for so long, and yet another part was pulling at me saying, “Do you have any idea how much shit you have to take care of when you get back to Hong Kong?”
I was unsure. I knew I would be flying to Trivandrum and from there, I just did not know how I was going to feel. I left Prashanti early to travel to Bangalore with Mayouri – who was just beside herself with excitement to see her family again after a month. She could not believe how long I have been away from my home. Her excitement was infectious. As we drove along the more distance we covered the more interested I felt myself becoming in getting “back out there.” It was weird. I felt myself mentally transitioning from, “Yeah, I get why some people do not want to visit India, it just seems… hard,” to, “Wow, look at that!” As we cruised along amidst cows, auto rickshaws, ox-carts, stray dogs and stray children things started to look more interesting and far less daunting. We passed a shop with this sign: “Plastic World – For the Perfect Shopping Experience!” Wow. And right outside, its own impressive heap of plastic rubbish next to the rusted car, grazing cow and lazing dog.
Getting closer to the city center of Bangalore I started to really get interested. I have always loved checking out cities. I was reminded of how I loved Athens when everyone was like, Athens is such a dump. And the same with my love for Beijing and Saigon and the places everyone else heads out from. Clearly not everyone shares this fascination, but urban geography and particularly the cultural influence on said geography is infinitely interesting to me. If I have time – I mean, it is up to me at this point, so if I make time, I would like to check Bangalore out with a little more time. I guess we will see. We got to the airport in time for Mayouri’s flight and while she waited she photographed me repeatedly as I embarked on my first cappuccino after a month. Once she was on her way the reality that I had several hours to kill in the airport hit me. Now, the Bangalore International Airport is pretty good, but it is no HKIA. [I am spoiled.] There was not going to be a wide variety of restaurants or free wifi (for more than 15 minutes) so I got out the novel I had brought with me under the mistaken idea that there would be time to read at the ashram.
And so began my day long affair with Balram, Aravind Adigawas’ Man Booker Prize winning White Tiger. It was the perfect way to pass the day and I highly recommend the read. I am also glad that I read it after the ashram because I had a lot better context geographically and culturally. [Not only do I know who Hanuman is now, I have mastered his asana.] I sat in the airport, had some veggie samosas, wrote a bit in my journal, listened to some music and read my book. Not bad.
When it was time to head towards my gate I made my way to security. Security here is divided by gender. I laughed a little. There was hardly anyone in line and four ladies working the x-ray and one in a curtained booth, ostensibly to scan our persons. I walked up and put my bag on the [not moving] belt for the x-ray. I noticed that the chair where the scanner sits was empty. The scanner was searching the bags that she had just taken off the x-ray belt on the other side while two security ladies watched her and one sat in the scanner’s co-pilot seat doing nothing. There were now eight people in line, though ‘line’ is not a really accurate description of the arrangement of people. Miss Scanner removed two cricket balls from the offending bag and began to search another one. The lady near the curtains looked bored and if she had been interested at all, she would have come across as helpless. Now there were a dozen of us. A couple of brightly clad matrons shoved my backpack aside and placed their purses on the belt. I watched, really pleased to not be in a hurry and thus not bothered by this clearly ridiculous system. Not bothered. Not bothered. Miss Scanner began on a third bag. Since I had been standing there not one item had been scanned. Not bothered. Not bothered. I kept thinking about what Christelle and Nunhun said over and over – This Is India. T.I.I. [The Blood Diamond reference intentional, of course.] Finally Curtains Didi called me over. I suppose her boredom had a limit. I walked through the x-ray and then into the curtained vestibule. She did a thorough scanning with a strange looking wand and I was glad that it was gender specific. When I came out my bag was not visible. Anywhere. Hm. T.I.I. T.I.I. “Uh, where is my backpack?”
“It’s coming.”
“Oh.” Five minutes passed as I stood with a degree of triumph to be on the “other” side tempered only by the small detail of my M.I.A. backpack. There were now easily fifty people in line on the machine scanning side. “Uh, where is my bag? Is it in the machine? I don’t see it.”
“It’s coming.”
“Oh.”
And it did eventually come. It only took about a half an hour. Shame for those people who might actually have a flight to catch. Or do the planes operate on Indian Stretchable Time as well? I did not know.
I passed the afternoon in BIA reading and people watching. And bird watching. The place is filled with sparrows. I am not sure how they get in, but they seem to enjoy being there. Maybe they feel a special connection to a place where everyone flies. Or, perhaps it is just good eating.
I was flying on Kingfisher Airlines. Kingfisher is the number-one selling lager in India. For all intents and purposes, I was flying Air Budweiser. Albeit with a way nicer logo, though I do appreciate a hefty Clydesdale. The plane was tiny, and I was seated next to a really gigantic man. Nice enough, but Damn. The plane left on time with little pomp and circumstance and the flight was as uneventful as I like.
Once in Trivandrum my luggage beat me to the belt and there was a car waiting to take me the 20 km or so to Kovalammmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.
It had obviously been pouring rain earlier in the day s the roads were sort of… missing. On clarification my driver said that the road condition had nothing to do with the rain, though it had been pouring and would continue to do so: “The Monsoon is here.”
Hmmm.
I got to the hotel, checked in and took one of the most rewarding and lengthiest showers I can remember. And handed over a bag of laundry I hoped to never catch wind of again. I slept pretty well, though still rising at a rather ungodly hour, or maybe it is THE godly hour. Either way, it is early as f*ck. I woke up to perfectly sunny skies and fresh coffee and toasted baguette. T.I.I.? Okay, then. I wondered if the rain would come. I sort of wished I had another book to read as Balram had only lasted a day. I looked to the left and saw a book exchange. I picked up A Confederacy of Dunces, which I have never read though often considered. As the forward was written by a person favorite, Walker Percy [I have said it before and I will say it again: READ The Moviegoer] this time I went for it. I have to say, thus far… Ignatius J. Reilly makes me wanna punch him in the big fat gut. He also reminds me of a former, super annoying co-worker who can only be described as a delusional, narcissistic, social retard. Let’s hope Ignatius works it out. [That was not very yogic, was it?] Suddenly, I noticed I had a headache and so I arranged for an Ayurvedic massage thinking maybe my doshas were out of balance. The massage was alright, super greasy and the full Monty, so beware and understand why they say you must have a masseuse of the same gender. I was still feeling rough though. Like… the flu? No! I arranged to have one of the guys at my hotel take me to a pharmacy [no fem hygiene products any woman I know would use, btw...] and I managed to find some paracetamol. With diclophenac. WTF is that? Uh, yeah it is an opiate. I thought that sounded familiar: Thank you, Ex #5. A category H prescription drug to be sold only by prescription purchased OTC for less than the bottle of water needed to swallow the tablets cost. T.I.I. Anyhow. I took the tablets and then a nap. I woke up an hour or so later wondering if I had malaria as pay back for mocking people who take all those anti-malarial drugs, or meningitis because I make fun of people addicted to that hand sanitizing gel. I did the only thing I could think of and took another shower.
Magic.
I was better. [Not taking any more of those pills though man. They have some VERY interesting side effects that are not convenient in the developing world.] I even took a yoga class. And met the first pervy yoga teacher of my life. Could he have tried any harder to cop a feel? The answer to that question is NO. He even asked me out afterwards. What? The guy who took me to the pharmacy came by later to see if I was feeling better. He told me it was his birthday and he wanted to take me out. He would pay he very urgently insisted. It was sweet. I could be the kid’s mother and I have no idea if it really is his birthday, but I simultaneously played the sick and temperance cards. I just wanted to chill.
Delicious food, good night’s sleep, and not one drop of rain. A lovely three days. Thank you Kovalam.
The sand is very soft there.
T.I.I.
“I lived in an ashram for a month” – The conclusion of *this* yoga journey
The month of May went by very quickly. I am not sure how it happened to do that as I recall feeling, at various points, that the length of the days was such that I thought they might never end. [Waking up at 4:30 a.m. for thirty straight days can do something to a person though. I am not sure if it's a good thing, but it's something.] This ashram where I lived for the month of May was very traditional, which is amusing for a person like me, not so traditional it turns out. And it was not always easy to be there; there was a lot of communing (I am always surprised at the cultural differences in spatial and privacy needs), the basic necessities were beyond basic (I never did really get my laundry clean), the food was good (but I think I will take a break from curry for a while), the bed was… well, prison-like frankly. But all of that aside, looking back on it, I cannot believe how quickly the month passed. You know how sometimes at the completion of something you think, “Man that went fast!” But when you think back to when you began it seems like it was a lifetime ago? Well, this was different… it flew by and at then end it seemed like I had only just arrived. I don’t know if that is all that meaningful, but it gave me pause. In the same amount of time I was at Prashanti I had been in San Diego, Black Rock City, Sandpoint and Santa Fe last summer. That offers some interesting perspective.
I did not come to SVYASA with an agenda or expectations. Not because I am so evolved, I just had no idea what I was getting into. I knew that it was a course that would provide me with a certificate to “teach” yoga.. but I felt (and still do) fairly certain that I was not aiming for that, I really enjoy the role of the yoga student. I wanted to do yoga. And in hindsight, I was able to make that happen, though it was not the focus of the program. I probably did two-three hours of yoga a day for 30 days. That’ll keep you bendy. The majority of time was spent educating us on the holistic nature of yoga – its breadth and depth, and the spiritual underpinnings. I suppose it is my fate that I end up in the equivalent of a Jesus Camp for yoga what with my attitude towards religion in general. And I never really came around to loving the Maitri milan and bhajan sessions, but I definitely see the point now.
As a Westerner, I am up to speed on asana. I get it and I love the exercise part of it. I was not sent to Prashanti to learn asana – in fact, I would go so far in a very un-yogic way, to say that I was one of the more advanced practitioners in our group. It turns out I was there to learn about the part of yoga that is being lost in translation outside of India and that quite specifically is the spiritual side of it. Practicing asana without an understanding of the history and background of it is akin to learning an offense in basketball without any notion as to the rationale behind the screen and roll or moving away from the ball. It is an incomplete knowledge. My yoga teacher is a true master, and he is and was well aware of what I needed to learn long before I realized it.
There were people there who complained incessantly about how they were not “learning anything.” Okay, not “people” but a person – and that she had come to learn “Yoga.” By this I assume she meant asana, or she thought that someone was going to teach her how to organize and plan an entire class. This same person cannot “do” even simple asana. It seems to me, that if you come to a teacher training course to learn the asana, you are more than a few steps away from being able to teach. I likened it to showing up to teach a geography class with no prerequisite knowledge, but a shiny new atlas. No need to tell you that class would suck. So, those ready to teach it turns out are the ones who do not need the asana training, but need the foundational training and methodology. If you wanted to get that at SVYASA, you could certainly get it. This is not to say that I fully advocate for all of their strategies, but I definitely see how someone with enough knowledge would be able to take what they have on offer and definitely improve their ability to be a yoga teacher.
I am very glad to have done the course, and probably even more glad to be finished with it… I will admit without any shame that sitting in a beach side hotel catching sun and sleeping in until 6 a.m. is delightful. And I have not had curry yet. However, as I look back on my month in the ashram I am surprised at what I learned about people, yoga, India and myself. The Indian people I have met have been this amazing combination of what I might have considered over-zealously friendly, but really sincere kindness and curiosity and directness that really can only make a person smile. On finding out where I was headed after the course every person who lives within a one-hour radius of my planned destinations was adamant that I call, that I come to visit them and see their home and have a meal. Those that were not going to be around gave me numbers of cousins, aunties, sisters who I must call if I needed anything – anything at all.
With regard to yoga, I have a much deeper understanding of it and a greater appreciation that I know will enhance my practice, which if you are reading this Veer, I am continuing to do on my own… =) It turns out that the yoga that I have been practicing is quite high up on the cool factor scale. The astanga primary series in the Mysore-style gets its share of props from everyone. When I tell people my teacher is from Karnataka they all say, “Oh… Mysore-style!” To this end, I am looking quite seriously at attending an ashram in Mysore next summer, perhaps one as well one as KPJAYI. This experience would be much more rigorous on the yoga side, and a little less so on the “you have to wear a kurta” side. While this is likely a better fit for me in many ways, there is no way I could have known this nor appreciated it without this experience. As with most things in life, the scope of the reasons why I ended up at this place at this time will eventually be revealed (or I’ll piecemeal some things together in a flurry of false causal connections…) and until then, I will be glad that I did this… glad that it is done… and glad for the people who I met and the experiences that I had. To that end, a quick shout out to Christelle who was only there because her other plans fell through and whose company I thoroughly enjoyed; Nundhun/London (so glad you have two names for us people who are only brown on the inside) who constantly made me laugh – I am glad your parents made you go to Prashanti for the perspective you offered me, and that sweet green shirt (ps: don’t forget, I “probably only liked it there because I haven’t traveled much…”); Anand… you are your brother’s brother to be sure, talk more! And get ready for your own yogic path.
Now, the beach is calling and I’ve got a yoga class in an hour so I have to go…
~namaste~
Durga Rocks: A field trip
We took a little field trip from the ashram in our last week and headed out to the Durga Hills overlooking the border between Karntaka and Tamil Nadu. We were told to assemble at our regular time (5 a.m.) and to be ready to go, preferably in clothes that would not shock the villagers we would be traipsing by. [I have a small suspicion that Padmishiri Didi was speaking to me when she offered that directive. Of course, I was there at 5 a.m. with the two other Westerners. Yeah, 25 days in and I still think that when Indians say a time they mean that time. We got moving around 6. [There is me living and not really learning.]
Several people had been moaning about how far the ‘trek’ was. I was curious. Bearing in mind that I was born with an aversion to hiking ["Mo-o-o-o-m... this is not a walk! This is a hike!" was the line that peppered my youth. "No, Ames, really, this is only a walk..."], the word ‘trek’ did pique my interest. If this was a trek, I am ready for Everest.
I am not ready for Everest [though this kid... wow!]
Suffice it to say that the walk was both brief and flat and ended with some really fun granite on which to climb. I could not help feeling a little like the gang when they got out in Cuckoo’s Nest or Girl, Interrupted… I don’t know if I mentioned it in a previous post, but there is no leaving the ashram once you come in until your program is finished, you check in but… kidding. Anyhow, once set free, the silliness abounded. We were led astray initially by “Sound Baba” – our resident Rainman (srsly) but we all made it to the rocks and there was much giggling and goofing and goats, a little asana, many commands from Umesh ["See me Didi, SEE.ME."] There were some local kids there too, and eventually even breakfast was trucked out to us. [Take that, Base Camp.]The childlike nature of my ashram mates was not lost on me… Immature? I am not sure I would call it that, but there is something decidely different in the way that the locals interract with each other; girls keep to one side, boys to another, there is lots of squealing on one said and horseplay on the other; you can take a guess to which is which – though you would likely be wrong. It is fascinating to behold.
Part of a wedding celebration was taking place in the village which we peeped on the way back, reveling in the lovely morning. We were back by 10 a.m., that’s what a good early start nets you, and everything in Prashanti looked a little brighter. The experience was refreshing and entertaining and a beautiful way to start the day. To wit the complainer had this to say: “I’m a little pissed, I mean why weren’t we doing this, like. every week?” And I had to just look at her and think, “Damn. There really is just NO pleasing some people.”
(I was once) Lost. That series ended, too.
I just finished taking my written exam in my yoga teacher training course. It was not that hard. Or maybe it was, I am not really sure. Either way, with several uninterrupted hours ahead of me (as I finished 2 hours early) and thus far cooperative power, I have been perusing the internets. It appears that there was a television season finale that was kind of a big deal yesterday: Lost. After six seasons this series has come to an end. It is everywhere out there right now with all sorts of love-hate cyber-screaming going on. It is trending on Twitter. It nets 39,700,000 hits on Google (in 0.23 seconds, woo hoo.) A surprising number of my friends are discussing it various on-line formats. Hmm. Maybe I missed something here.
I remember when Lost debuted in 2004. I was knee-deep in misery in the suburbs in Northern Nevada and was not interested in television so much as escape. [Note to self: one often does get lost when running away with eyes closed.] I remember that Matthew Fox was on the show and this was like his post-Party of Five resurrection (only way to go was up, eh Matt?) I think I remember that one of the Hobbits was on it too. And a super hot girl: Evangeline Lily (whose previous work was in things like The Hot Chick and Freddie v. Jason and The Lizzy McGuire Movie. Not that that means anything, just sayin’.) I am not sure why I never turned it on. I guess I was occupied with other issues, like my survival rather than that of a collection of really, really good-looking people out there on what I (yes, mistakenly) assumed was a high-tech Gilligan’s Island. I could not understand how a television program could have much longevity with such limiting parameters (Prison Break syndrome right? I mean, once you get out, where is that show going?) My Hong Kong friends are totally into Lost in the same way that my US friends are, so I totally could have gotten into it. Still, I did not. (Neither did Roger Ebert, so I feel a little less losery.)
Observations from Prashanti Kutiram after 23 Days
This was bound to be an experience I had no prior schema for interpreting. That is pretty much the only thing I knew before coming here. Where is here? For now, in physical terms it is an ashram/university 35 km outside of Bangalore in Karnataka, India. In more esoteric terms it is a place between actions. In yoga, they say that the silence that exists between actions is the place we aspire to inhabit. It is not exactly non-action, nor action. It is a place of wholeness and contemplation and observation. Am I there? I am not sure, nor am I sure it is a place I honestly aspire to occupy, but I think occasionally I am catching glimpses of that space.
It is quiet here. Sometimes. The Indians who are participating in my program are far less reserved (yogi-like?) than preconceived notions would have one believe. They are a positively raucous group given the opportunity. And that opportunity arises at any birthday, or other semi-recognizable event. I understand Bollywood a lot better now. [I still do not sing and dance - and everyone can continue to be grateful - but I certainly appreciate the vivacity.]
But it is a quiet lifestyle here. There is not supposed to be any television or radio, and participants in my program are not allowed to leave the ashram until the program is over – others here in longer term programs of study are allowed off campus on Fridays. Needless to say, there is television and radio if one wants it… most people have iPods and computers [my neighbors are fans of some genre of film that is very loud. Like BSG meets, well, Bollywood.] Still, I find myself falling into that weird headspace where I ask myself what I am doing with my time and then I remember that this experiment is about not having to fill every minute with things to do and that I am trying to just accept what is going on because I do not have anything else I need to be doing at this moment and I should enjoy that.
It is rustic here. That is real. I am not sure I have mastered the laundry situation, but I keep trying if for no other reason than to minimize the, err, fragrance. I have to wash everything by hand. I shower with buckets. There is warm water occasionally, but the cold water can really get you going at 4:15 a.m. I wash my hair only when I absolutely have to because it is such a ginormous pain in the ass, and it is pulled back all the time anyhow. I am (re?)learning to eat effectively (and sort of gracefully) with my fingers. Using only one hand. While I sit in ardha padmasana or if I am feeling super-fly, padmasana. It is totally communal, not super hygienic, and truth? Kinda fun.
My back started to ache last week and so Soniya and Sunil took me to the acupressurist. This guy is one of the most interesting people I have ever met. I told him my hip flexor and piriformis muscle were ‘paining.’ He examined me and found some pressure points (ouch) onto which he affixed magnets. Then he told me I also had a low back issue (how did he know from looking at my left hand and my right foot?) He told me to press the magnets to the point of pain whenever I thought of it, or felt pain. The shit works.
I am drinking so much water I cannot believe it and have still not had coffee, though I could have it if I wanted. I assume I do not need to mention I have not had any meat (or eggs or dairy for that matter) or beer since I arrived. I have learned the art of truly ‘flushing’ the system… Those 1980s girls would have nothing on me now if I wanted to show them how to vamana.
I took my asana (teaching) exam today. It was pretty easy. I guess 15 years of teaching gives one some skills to fall back on. A lot of the people in my group were palpably nervous, and I couldn’t really work it out. (Though, if I had to teach in Hindi I might have a different attitude.) I think it goes beyond language and there is a real cultural attitude towards anything labeled “examination” in Asia that I just never really got a hold of. For better or for worse, I suppose. We have the written exams tomorrow and the next day. That should be interesting.
As I could have predicted, I am finally pretty adjusted to the schedule: right as I am getting ready to leave. Up and out by 4:30 a.m. and going sort of non-stop until 8 or 9. Not all yoga and not all things I want to be doing, but that is not the point. I am getting in plenty of yoga and appreciating the subtleties of some of the asanas that I would never have gotten with out this degree of repetition. I do advanced asana with a small group in the afternoons and I can hang out in vrschikasana now. As soon as I am able to load photos I will prove it. Real. Talk. I still like asana the best, but I have a better understanding of why… and that was my point in coming here.
In one week I will fly (NOT on Air India) to Trivandrum in Kerala and there will begin a new phase of this trip. Until then, in the ashram I remain. I think this is probably exactly what is meant by the space between actions.
~namaste~
And the journey continues, Chapter 4: Life Essence = Prana or Bodily Fluids? You make the call.
General Jack D. Ripper: Nineteen hundred and forty-six. Nineteen forty-six, Mandrake. How does that coincide with your post-war Commie conspiracy, huh? It’s incredibly obvious, isn’t it? A foreign substance is introduced into our precious bodily fluids without the knowledge of the individual. Certainly without any choice. That’s the way your hard-core Commie works.
Group Capt. Lionel Mandrake: Uh, Jack, Jack, listen, tell me, tell me, Jack. When did you first… become… well, develop this theory?
General Jack D. Ripper: Well, I, uh… I… I… first became aware of it, Mandrake, during the physical act of love.
Group Capt. Lionel Mandrake: Hmm.
General Jack D. Ripper: Yes, a uh, a profound sense of fatigue… a feeling of emptiness followed. Luckily I… I was able to interpret these feelings correctly. Loss of essence.
Group Capt. Lionel Mandrake: Hmm.
General Jack D. Ripper: I can assure you it has not recurred, Mandrake. Women uh… women sense my power and they seek the life essence. I, uh… I do not avoid women, Mandrake.
Group Capt. Lionel Mandrake: No.
General Jack D. Ripper: But I… I do deny them my essence.
I am not sure if I made this clear originally when I spoke to people about coming to this ashram, but I am actually completing a course here. Ostensibly this is to facilitate the teaching of yoga, though I remain completely unconvinced that I want to do that. It is nice to have something in my life that I don’t have the responsibility of teaching, though with the horror stories I hear of the job situation at home, I suppose there is no way I can be too prepared.
To that, or those ends, I am spending quite a bit of time learning about the theory and background of yoga. I must admit, I wish I was doing a little more yoga, but then again, in looking at it, I am managing about 4-5 hours a day, of which about two hours are pretty intense. The other more subtle elements are probably good for me and my wound-up self anyhow. We are learning about asanas but also pranayama, meditation, kriyas and a whole lot about the particular spiritual bent of this ashram (Vedanta-sutras and Swami Vivekenanda.) I am interested in this stuff because one of the things I noticed about yoga when I started doing it was that it made me feel different… better really, than any other sport or exercise I had participated in over the years. And I wanted to know why.
Well, one of the big theories is the movement and management of “prana.” Prana is defined as our Life Force. And right here I lose it. I can only visualize General Jack D. Ripper discussing his precious bodily fluids and his essence. Every time. [This does mean that I am not managing to control my mind to the degree that a more advanced yogi does, because I should be able to block that extraneous information out... but I swear to Krishna, every time one of our teachers starts talking about the flow of our prana, and the importance of it, I feel like Lt. Mandrake. At least I do not laugh out loud.]
Still, the lessons are valuable and the fact is that when we manage our minds which is most tangibly done by managing our breath, things seems calmer, better, more manageable. So that is a total win, right?
The Complainer is still rocking her issues daily, and these complaints are manifesting in very interesting ways. Like she is having all sorts of problems. I wonder if maybe she might want to look at some of the lessons we are learning about managing our minds. But I am not here to teach, so I will let her work that out on her own. I feel like I am getting something pretty worthwhile out of this and even if it is not what I expected, or at times what I want – 4:30 a.m. wake up everyday??? – I think it is worth it, and a nice intro into India in an easy and user-friendly way.
We had a crazy storm here the other night; thunder like I have never heard anywhere… not just on us but enveloping us. And a torrential downpour. We lost power for about a day and things got pretty messy. But in the end, it was just another day at the ashram. Hardly anything to get worked up about. The food is good, but I am tired of carbohydrates. [A sentence I never thought I would say - ever.] And everyone seems completely fascinated by my age. Like, everyone asks me how old I am all the time. I cannot tell if this is a compliment or an insult, or in the more yogic perspective, just a question. Either way, they all seem shocked by the truth. New high? New low? I dunno.
Another funny thing that has happened is that I have been required to do assignments in a truly Asian fashion. By this I mean, the report cover matters more than the report. For real, yo. It is totally about style. And DO NOT THINK OUTSIDE THE BOX. This has been a real experience for me… But is a strange way, rather meditative as I meticulously copy the exact text they wish to see within the carefully drawn on page borders. Perhaps that is just another part of the lesson. I remain convinced that the more empirical, individual, trail and error method is superior… but that is probably just my inner-Western Imperialist shouting out. Time to go calm down that part of my monkey brain.
Namaste.
Damn it feels good to be a gangster…
Our high school guidance counselor used to ask us what you’d do if you had a million dollars and you didn’t have to work. And invariably what you’d say was supposed to be your career. So, if you wanted to fix old cars then you’re supposed to be an auto mechanic. I never had an answer.
Today is my last day at work. I feel totally gangster about this. I feel like such a gangster because, for the first time that I can remember, I am going forward without a plan totally lined up. This may not actually be gangster, it may actually be total lunacy. But I am rolling with it. Someone sent me the link to the Johnny Paycheck classic, Take This Job and Shove It, which made me laugh (I actually prefer Canibus/Biz Markie version, but anyway…) Still, that song does not really capture how I feel about this change. You see, I like my job. This has been a very mutually beneficial employment situation for nearly four years (a milestone in itself because I broke the “three-year hurdle” for the first time ever) and I am not leaving with any sort of animosity. I love the kids I work with, and have worked with, here and I have learned a ton. I have experienced the total ridiculousness of office politics [it is pretty bloody sad to literally not recognize your own sorry ass in a photo, but that is a story for another day] and not gotten dragged into them, resisted the temptation to lambast the instigators, and I have come out ahead. WAY ahead. (Another new skill to add to that old ‘Life Experiences’ CV.)
No, today I feel free, but in an interesting way; dare I say contemplative, rather than unhinged.
Things that I would expect to totally put me over the edge, like creative accounting, micro-managing, and general office silliness… just don’t matter. It all is what it is. I feel grateful to be able to have the opportunity to do something different. I am pleased when I look at my office and realize I am not coming back. I am ready to do something really different and to work out my own answer for the Geto Boys question:
“Cause when the fire dies down what the fuck you gonna do?”
Well, actually? In five minutes I will be joining friends for margaritas in Lan Kwai Fong and then in 24 short hours I will be boarding a plane for Bangalore and I am going to take it from there.
“Damn it feels good to be a gangsta!”
Watching the wheels…
People say I’m crazy doing what I’m doing,
Well they give me all kinds of warnings to save me from ruin,
When I say that I’m o.k. they look at me kind of strange,
Surely you’re not happy now you no longer play the game…
Looking out across the South China Sea this morning on the way to town to begin the last week in my current incarnation of work, I felt surprisingly calm. The sensory experience of being on the ferry was particularly pleasant – it was almost sunny even, quite a feat in what has been the dingiest year in the history of Hong Kong – and I felt like all was right with the world. Tangibly appreciative, you might say, if you were prone to waxing poetic about such things.
I have no idea what the immediate, let alone the distant, future holds for me right now. I mean, I’ve got some concrete details to work with: India, yoga, that sort of thing. But much beyond that is a vast open space. Sometimes when I look into it I see the 23,000 teachers who were given pink slips in California this year. Sometimes I see me working in some altogether different field. Sometimes I see someone else taking up residence in the house I have occupied for the last four years and truly come to love. Other times I see my family. Sometimes I see financial ruin. Sometimes I see financial freedom. It is like a kaleidoscope of images that shift when I tilt my head to one side or another.
But the overall effect, like with any good kaleidoscope, is hypnotic enough that I cannot look away, and if nothing else, extremely colorful.
This transition is particularly unique for me as it is the first I am doing on my own. Like really and truly and totally on my own. It was my choice to go, I had no disaster circumstances to run from, I sought the advice of no one, I chose not to take the apocalyptic warnings of others on board either. And my normal support network (yes, it is the parents) are out of reach until after I depart. I am doing this for my own reasons and of my own volition totally on my own. It is cool.
And a little scary.
But not today.
I’m just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round,
I really love to watch them roll,
No longer riding on the merry-go-round,
I just had to let it go.
My Yoga Journey, Chapter 1: Preparation
The above comes from my horoscope for April 20, 2010: “Casting off Boredom.” (Insert 4/20 joke here wrt boredom…) I have often said that I once mistook boredom for contentment. I am not sure I am any longer in danger of boredom. Contentment? Well, we shall see, I am thinking anymore that has much more to do with state of mind than state of play. This horoscope was interesting to read today as I will be flying from Hong Kong to Bangalore, India in ten days. I will be there for six weeks. I will not be “doing” India in the traditional sense of going everywhere and seeing everything. I am going to an ashram. Even typing that kind of makes me laugh and think of all the years I spent making fun of teasing speaking with people (alright, yeah I was making fun) I knew in my family and beyond who were doing this kind of thing. Well, if it is not painfully obvious, that is sort of how things go in my life, so I am learning to roll with it. My guideline should not be “Be careful what you wish for” – but “Be careful what you mock…”
The program I am doing looks pretty intense and lasts for four weeks. After that I will have two weeks to bum around and check out the beaches in southern India, or do whatever I feel up to I suppose. But at this point, that is all ahead of me and to spend too much time thinking about it is totally counterproductive to the reality that I am faced with now as I finish up with my job (nine more days!!) and get everything in order so that I can go. And there is a shit ton to be done.
- House sitters
- Cat sitters
- Things to buy
- Accounts to balance
- Bills to pay and pay ahead
- Organizing things for the major shift that may occur on my return (!!!)
- Packing…
And ohmygod – what does one pack for a trip like this? The duration the focus and the follow-up lack of any sort of focus at all? There are sort of two schools of thought… bring everything or nothing when you go long. I think I am going to opt for the latter. I also have to deal with working out details of sim cards, computers, cameras, electronic paraphernalia [finally going to sync up my 'new' MacBook, my two iPods, my hard drive and my iPhone...] Then assuming I am fully occupied for the first four weeks, there is the after part to consider planning, Goa? Kerala? Agra? Oh, and I am still working FULL-time through April 30. (8 more working days if anyone is counting…)
One of the best parts of this whole thing is that my teacher in Hong Kong, who has helped me make this all work, is sending his brother to the same program (hopefully not in the same course because I nearly died when he said his brother was WAY more flexible than he is – what? How is that even possible?? ) But I am excited to meet him, and to have an ally in-country, as it were.
Basically, I am trying to get all ready to just take this all as it comes, wish I could do the same with regard to the money part too =) Here begins the great experiment of going – intentionally – into the vast unknown, and just seeing what one might see… May it not be the scenario of the bear who went over the mountain… please? Or – if it is let’s hope I can ride the tide of the unknown a little longer. I always liked the idea of big wave surfing, maybe this is my wave. I think I am gonna play this one by ear.
I’ll keep you posted.
T(minus)10.
[photo from here.]
I get these two questions a lot. I’ve got some ‘splaining to do…
“So, how did you end up in Hong Kong?”
“Wait, you support Chelsea? Whaaa? Why?”
Fair enough, I have been asked these questions often enough that perhaps I should offer a confession explanation on both accounts. So, here goes. (Taz Ahmad, this one’s for you.) They are vaguely related… and totally logical. [Not.]
I came to Hong Kong in the late summer of 2005. Why did I come here? Well, I was deeply dissatisfied with my job location relationship life. I thought I could stick it out, you know, like play through it, suck it up, the standard drill. However, the way things unfolded that began to seem… untenable. It was like I kept making deals with myself; if this worked out then I would be okay, or if that happened, then I could make it. Clearly I was swimming in ripe Reno bullshit. When I was told that I would be losing all of the courses that I had worked so hard to create at the school where I was teaching because the new teachers “could not teach anything else” and I had the “ability to teach outside my preference” (who says that?) I decided a sabbatical was in order. Only a sabbatical was not on offer. So, I quit. Not with animosity, more with self-preservation, and honestly, the work situation was simply the catalyst that sparked the whole pile of kindling that had become my suburban demise. Regardless, I found myself in a situation where I needed to find something else to do. [ironically, I now find myself in similar circumstances... perhaps I will get to that eventually.]
I thought I might go back to Latin America. Get my Spanish on and enjoy all the finery of the Latin scene. But my parents suggested Asia. I responded with the typical aplomb that accompanies my attitude towards the unfamiliar. “Uh, you guys are the ones with Asian fetish not me. Why would I want to go there” But, you know how it is when you have parents like mine: they are usually at least one step ahead of the game – or at least my game. With a very reliable (and now dear) friend in Hong Kong, my parents convinced me to give it a go. So, I did.
Soon, I found myself in the most foreign of places, on my own, without my cat, a boyfriend (mostly) or a clue. It was remarkably refreshing. Certainly there were some dodgy moments and I would say some less than fun ones… but through it all, my Thai ghetto neighborhood, my first forays into LKF, my eventual landing on Lamma… somehow I became a Hong Konger. Oh, and the work? It sucked… at first. I mean, I suppose for a newbie fresh out of college or a gap-year kid it would be great. But for me? Not so great. I quit that shit decided there may be better opportunities elsewhere.
I was right.
I headed out on the road through South East Asia, first stop: Thailand, in April of 2006. Though I must admit, I looked back on occasion, it was not often and when I did it rarely to the suburbs of Northern Nevada. I eventually found myself in Laos PDR at the height of the World Cup frenzy. And it was mad fun. I was in Luang Prabang and reading the Bangkok Post one morning when Ex #5 (a Tottenham supporter) was telling me I had to pick a team. A team? In soccer? huh??? I told him that of course I would support the US. He laughed and said “Well, that won’t take a lot of energy as they’ll be out in the first round – but I mean in the Premiership. You need to have a regular team to support.” Now, bear in mind that I am and have always been a sports fan of a fairly intense variety, so I was game. I grabbed the paper from him and there was a big color photos on the front page of a good looking guy and I said, “Okay, he’s cute, who does he play for? I will support them.” Ex #5 almost shit himself. It was the front page story announcing that Michael Ballack had just signed with Chelsea. He said, “That Kraut? Are you joking? And Chelsea? Good grief.” [And yes, he did say 'good grief.'] I had no idea that, a) Ballack would turn out to be sort of a dick (though, he is dark and dirty and in general – that is right up my alley), or b) that supporting Chelsea as a Yank was akin to a Brit coming to the States and being like, “Oh yeah, I think I will support the Yankees” (or the Red Sox – either one would make me vom.) But, the effect it had on #5 made it all worth it. And they wear blue, which is good because I really just cannot get behind any team that wears red.
We watched World cup games in the pub in Luang Prabang, a dodgy hotel in Vientiane, an even dodgier roadside restaurant in Vang Vieng, on Koh Sahn Road in Bangkok and on the beach on Koh Pah Ngan. But my favorite was when we were staying in this tiny village called Mong Noi up near the Chinese border with a local family and a randy group of three Aussies, and Irishman, and two Brits. There was no power or running water in this village – and it was in a very heavy land mine area. We had spent our days wandering around with local kids who showed us how to not get blown up and all the cool little back woods places. We mostly had to be out and about during the day because everything was shut down. Then in the evening the family would do Laos-style barbeque and we would all sit around and eat eventually heading to the bar/restaurant/picnic area by the river where they had their one television that they would turn on for the football around 2 a.m. when it came on. They saved all their power all day just for the football. And they were so excited to have a group of nutters to watch it with them.
And so I watched the Americans lose (though I stand by my assertion of that year – beware, we are coming after you all sooner than you think, and I mean on the football pitch), the Aussies achieved some heroic wins (before being defeated by a bad call and a great foot -Totti the Hottie) and Peter Crouch be called a “lanky streak of paralyzed piss!” loud enough to almost get us kicked out of a fully packed bar. Ballack played for Germany, of course… but soon found his home at Stamford Bridge – winning farily regularly, much to the dismay of my English friends. [But really people - West Ham? Leeds? 'Spurs? Ouch.]
The summer of ’06 turned out to be a great introduction to Asia and what it had to offer as well as the world of soccer.
Five years after my Asian arrival, I find myself single (for real), employed (at least for the moment) and well versed in the language of the Premiership. That seems like a win in this day and age.
And so that is why I am in Hong Kong and why I support Chelsea FC (Gooooo Bluuuuuueesssssss). Or at least, that is most of the story.
Amanda
