I don't know. What do you want to do?

For the past eight months, I have been asking and answering the most important questions: Where do you want to have dinner? What do you want to do today? What country do you want to see next?
I sometimes felt like a lunatic, sitting on a lone hotel bed talking to myself:

“Ok, do we have enough money to see south India?”
“I don’t think so. Plus I’d rather go to Kerala when we have much more time.”
“I know! But who knows when we’ll be back. We should definitely go.”
“Oh, you’re such a free spirit.”
“No, you are.”

Ah, those were the days. Now, upon crossing into the West, I’ve found myself in the arms of several friends. Shit. I mean, I want to see my friends. I have yearned for some time now to be in the presence of someone who already knows me and why I’m me, someone who doesn’t need to ask from where I come, how old I am, and how many siblings I have (and then, like everyone does, say ‘Oh, you’re an only child. You must be spoiled. Ha ha ha.’).

BUT... This is the abrupt end to my independence. Now I will have to be asking questions and waiting for someone else to answer. And when those answers are not the same answers I would give, I might have to.... compromise! Yikes. No No No!

Compromise!? Why? How? It’s all hogwash, I say. But these aren’t travelers who will recede to faraway lands and occasionally say hello to me on Facebook. These are people I’ll be seeing for the rest of my life. So here I go, armed with phrases like 'I’m open to suggestions,' 'It’s your turn to choose a restaurant.' and of course, 'I could go either way.'

Alas, the days of letting the wind carry me wherever I please have ended. I guess I could possibly work to prolong them, but now I will have to ask out loud, “Is it ok if the wind carries us to wherever we please today? Did the wind just carry you to a place that pleases you or shall we use our feet instead of the wind to get us out of here?”

Sigh.
It’ll be okay. As long as my friends mostly want to do what I say.

Roberto wanted to go bowling. I wanted to drink wine in a cave. Here, we are in a cave. Compromising at slow start.

Melissa wanted to go to the Prado and sketch Goya's works. I wanted to go shopping. We compromised by shopping.

Um, my compromising was not going well here. I tied Catalina to a leash so she would go Javier Bardem hunting with me. And I made her wear a diaper so she wouldn't slow us down.

Here the compromising is getting better. I came to this park because she wanted to. But when it was boring, I pushed her over the ledge. Sorry 'bout that Catalina. How's your cast?

Yo hablo spanglish. So que.

Despues de años y años de practice and after many many novios argentinos, me he dado cuenta de que my spanish will never be perfect. Voy a siempre hablar Spanglish. Y that’s okay.

So, here’s a story in my preferred language:

En 1936 hubo una guerra civil en Spain. My grandfather y su familia were forced to leave el país secretly in the middle of the noche. Mi bisabuela llevó unas joyas en su boca para venderlas mas tarde. La familia walked desde Barcelona hasta Italia! Pues, eso dice mi abuela.

They stayed in a resort converted for refugees. Allá mi abuelo, con 16 años, descubrió su talento and passion for playing cards, especially poker. Jugó muchisimo! Y ganó muchisimo! Contra hombres mucho older than he. He didn’t say a word to his parents about his winnings.

One day they told him he would be better off in NYC donde le esperaba un amigo de su padre. And so, con solo el traje que llevaba puesto, mi abuelo boarded a ship bound for America. Antes de marcharse, he gave a sus padres todo el dinero que habia ganado! Of course my great grandmother cried. Que dulce!

Mi abuelo llegó a los EEUU, learned English, joined the army, and married una Boricua. Nació mi padre. Y then my aunt. This new family moved back to Spain for a while, but decidieron que Chicago era mejor para ellos. Muchos años despues, I was born. Y aqui estamos.

Cada vez que estoy en Barcelona, I like to imagine my grandfather in the streets as a boy. Before the war, su familia tuvo una tienda de typewriters en la calle Jose Antonio. Franco changed the names of many streets, but I found un taxista bien bien viejo y he remembered la calle from before the war. Me llevó a la tienda! Now it is a boutique hotel. But I stood in front studying the sidewalk, wondering how many times my grandfather had waited in that exact spot.

Esta vez en Barcelona, I looked for small cafés y restaurantes establecidos antes de 1936. I found two! En los dos pedi churros y chocolate. I was sure my grandfather had probably ordered the same. Y me los comi parada en la barra because that’s how my grandfather would have done it. Es deliciosa la comida española pero es una delicia mexclar la historia con la imaginación.

Dear olives, bow ties, and ham drawings: I love you!

Madrid is alive. With people. With culture. With men who have sexy accents. With retired couples who hold hands and take walks at night. With loitering teenagers. With street musicians. With people and more people enjoying dinners on patios throughout the city.

It’s metropolitan, and everyone walks with purpose through the maze of the city, around behemoth government buildings and through the cozy cobblestone streets. But that's not all that I love about it. There's also: the smell, the fresh bread, the people, the accent, the olives, the plazas, the way everyone talks with such emotion, the fact that you order a wine and they automatically give you a tapa, the possibility to see Javier Bardem around every corner, the sangria, the tradition, the bow ties worn by waiters at traditional cafes, the churros and chocolate, the theaters, the beautiful beautiful coffee, the park, the men playing futbol in the park, la musica, the cheery voice on the metro that tells you what stop is next...

but especially the people. I was sitting alone in a plaza smiling, of course, because I was observing the magnificence around me. A hunched old man walked passed me, turned towards me on his cane and said, "Que cara tan bonita tienes! Tienes cara de muñeca." (What a pretty face you have-- it's the face of a doll.) The fact that we were both enjoying the other's presence almost brought me to tears. Ah, Madrid. Estoy enamorada.

How could you not love a city where they draw cute little hams to advertise their meat section:


Or where old people sing their hearts out and play accordions!:


Or where random drag queens congregate:


Or where they sell horchata with big farts (adding -on to a word in spanish means 'big'):


Or where you can get a free fake mustache with the purchase of any two wigs:

I am different this time. I swear.

I left India feeling lighter. Refreshed. New. I knew I was a cliché, but that’s the thing-- I didn’t care. I felt like I had shed the load of caring about what others think. Thankfully, this was discarded along with my need for make-up, new clothes, and all material goods. In my previous life, I always swung on the fence between hippiedom and yuppiedom. It seemed dreamy to have a nice house and comfortable car, but in India I finally confirmed that it feels nicer to not have. To me, being able to travel with one pair of pants beats worrying about a mortgage.

Phew. Glad I realized that. No more brand names. No more high heels. Done.

Then British Airways lost my backpack.

“What’s that you say? You say the airline usually reimburses about one-hundred Euros per day?”

Immediately I became one of those shoppers with glittery packages. The moment I bought the first tight-fitting jeans, my seal was broken. Like an addict looking for a spoon, I was on a rampage. I happened to be in Spain during their semi-annual countrywide blowout sale, and my hands couldn’t flip through the discount racks fast enough. I had to have that dress. And those shoes. And pajamas. And of course a purse. And look at that-- a whole store filled with stuff I wanted to buy in India but didn’t. I fluttered through dressing rooms and beeped through register transactions.

When my backpack finally arrived three days later, I am ashamed to say that nothing I bought fit into it. I then had to buy a suitcase to carry all my new purchases.

I hung my head in shame.
But then I put on my new heels!

Just this once. I swear. I need to feel feminine for a short time-- then back to stinky shirts and baggy pants. I hadn’t realized how grimy I’d felt over the last eight months. It’s nice to remove leg hair, wear jewelry, and put on deodorant once in a while. I’d forgotten. Our minds and bodies have the ability to get used to anything. What you thought was crazy before just becomes your life, and there you have it. Strange. I bet I could have acclimated to sleeping on a bed of cockroaches if I’d really wanted. Maybe next I will choose to get used to... being unemployed and living with my mother until someone invites me on another 9-month holiday.

What's the matter with you people? Why aren't you staring at me?

I feel misplaced and awkward sitting here sipping a perfectly frothed café con leche, wearing a pair of jeans, and watching passersby loaded with Coach bags and packages from glittery department stores. It feels like just yesterday I was peeing into a hole, caught in a monsoon with my backpack on, and bribing rickshaw drivers to take me to the airport while trucks splashed me with mud and mean Hindi expressions. Oh, wait... that was yesterday.

Just a few stamps in my passport and divided trays of food and here I am in clean, expensive Madrid where nobody sleeps on the train station floor and showing shoulders isn’t considered sin. It’s like I’ve traveled through space; how can such different worlds exist on one planet? How do so many people from either world not know what it's like to be in the other? How long will it take before sitting here sipping a coffee amidst shoppers and sangria feels normal? Do I even want it to feel normal?

A bus stop in India where I jumped out, peed in a hole and bought a pair of samosas.

A metro stop in Madrid. What is this place? Where's the garbage? And the goats?

I'm in the West!

Holy mackerel! Everything is expensive.
Holy mackerel! Everything is so clean.
Holy mackerel! Everyone is so white.

Holy mackerel! Everyone is a slut!

Hasta Luego India-o

Two months have speedily swept by as I ran across India. The sub-continent is too big to traverse in even a matter of years. The people I've met here, the generosity I've experienced, and the culture I've seen have bowled me over, kicked me while I was down, lifted me up, and fed me rainbows. It's an extraordinary place, and it's touched me more than any other in the string of nine countries I've just visited. I will most definitely be back.




Some valuable Indian lessons:

1. Chopped raw onions on any dish magnifies the taste by one-hundred.

2. India is a force with whom not to be reckoned. Even though the streets are dirty and taxis have to yield to cows, they know what they’re doing. It’s chaotic, but it works. They even have their own set of numbers: 1,00,000 is a lakh 1,00,00,000 is a crore.

3. Femininity is just a nose ring and some nail polish away. Really. I saw women spitting, squatting, yelling, sleeping on the dirty train station floor, or hauling bricks with a bunch of donkeys. And they never lost their dainty splendor in their bright colors and dangly gold trinkets.

4. Never take the first price or option. Always get a second opinion. Always think about it hard. Always bargain. This will help me throughout life. If I had learned this before Papua New Guinea, those damn villagers wouldn't have taken me for all I was worth.

5. It is possible to say no and not feel guilty. You gotta do it. If I hadn’t learned to say no, I would be coming home with fourteen adopted Indians (two of whom are over forty), several plots of land, bolts and bolts of silk from someone's uncle's shop, and stakes in several businesses that are bound to be taking off any day now.

6. Positivity is free and hidden everywhere you go. You must find it. When you’re on that 23rd hour in a train, sweaty, with baby cockroaches playing in your bed, you better realize that you’re in India experiencing the world! It’s much better than sitting in a cubicle. If you don’t find the positive everywhere you go, life can be pretty hard. It's all up to you.

7. Anything is possible. Anything. Especially in India. If you landed in a spaceship from the year 2356, and you needed to repair your ship’s Glantongerd-345 (because everyone knows Glantongerds are usually the first to go), you could walk into a shop that looks like a garage and hold up the Glantongerd. Even if no one there could help you, someone would know a cousin’s friend’s brother-in-law (which is ‘sala’ in Hindi!) who could. Without hesitation, he’d throw you on his motorbike, bring you to the correct garage-looking shop, and watch with you as a dark-skinned guy in a sweaty tank top welded a new part for you in about five minutes. For three bucks, you’d walk out of there with your shiny new Glastongerd and a horoscope prepared for you by a blind lady who predicted you’d return to India in the year 2356.

In that spirit, here is a video that epitomizes my theory. Eight months out of advertising, and I can still break down anything into a commercial:

We're gonna party like it's 900.

At one point I said ‘no more temples.’ I admit it. I said it because I think I’ve now seen 40 million and it’s hotter than a boiling cauldron of curry out here.

Alas, I decided to hit up one more before leaving the mysterious land of religious monuments. And after a 26-hour train, a 4-hour bus, and a shared jeep I arrived in Khajuraho to spend three days bicycling around and taking in monuments. These particular temples were saved from the Mughals, who destroyed so many Hindu beauties when they took power. Jerks! The temples had been hidden in a strange part of the country (which takes a train and a bus and a shared jeep to find), plus the forest covered them completely, obscuring them more. It wasn’t until the British took over that they were brought to the government’s attention and made into a tourist attraction.

They illustrate exactly what life was like for Indians back before India was India… and they’re also quite erotic (which is the reason most people come see them.) Porn from the year 900! It looks as though nothing much has changed in the porn industry since 900. Apparently the upside-down-girl-on-girl-slam-and-go was popular then too!

Of course the temples show more than just sex. But even the daily activities carved into the temple walls appear to have been sexier in the year 900. India has sure transformed during the past 1100 years. I bet that if these temples didn't have a religious significance (each is dedicated to a different Hindu deity), they'd have been banned. Or someone would have had to have carved clothes and scarves for all the women.

Were all the women this sexy in 900? What if the stars of these temples had to pose for the sculptors? How strenuous. What were they saying back then?


“Bashir, you carve the cooking scene. Chaitan, you get the laundry scene. And I’ll do the group orgy.”
“But, sire, I would much rather do the group orgy. Orgies are my specialty. You know that.”
“ I know, young man. I’ll never forget two Wednesdays ago. Your wife is a bullet! We have to do that again some time.”
“Thank you sir. She has spoken highly of you and your wife as well. So can I carve the orgy?”
“You get the orgy on the next temple, son.”
“But, sire, that is only a threesome. How banal.”
“All right. You take this five-some, but then I get the threesome AND the bestiality.”
“Deal! Thank you, sire. I feel an erection approaching already.”


“Pushpinder, that woman you carved looks nothing like me. Who is she?”
“That is you, my darling. The one with her face in my balls. Can’t you tell the hair is yours?”
“I can’t believe you carved me with my face in your balls! Tourists in 2009 will only see my butt; my face will never be famous.”
“Darling, your behind is already talked of throughout the land. It is what should be famous.”
“Oh all right. But on the next temple, can you please carve my face? Do a side-view with me looking outward. And then you slamming me from behind. That way, tourists in 2009 will see both my face and my booty.”
“Yes, darling.”


“Man, Gajender, why don’t we ever get invited to do fun stuff like that?”
“We shouldn’t have cut our penises off.”

Nowadays these outfits only make appearances on Western girls in music videos.

Even the pigs in this town have big sexy boobs.

Wow. This girl is holding herself up with one arm and remains completely stone-faced.

This is me on the long, sweaty bus ride.

These are all the boys staring at me on the long, sweaty bus ride.

One newborn burrito. Hold the oil.

Nine months will have passed by the time I come home. Some of my gossipy aunts are positive I’ve really been holed up in some Arizona ranch for unwed mothers who want to pop out a bastard anonymously. It’s not true. If I’d have gotten pregnant in LA, I would have had the baby and immediately thrust it into the arms of a heartless manager who would exploit its cute little fat face in every way possible so that I could earn all its model wages and take monthly trips to Cancun where I would get bad highlights, eat shrimp cocktails, and float around in those shiny blue pool chairs with drink holders that would support a variety of umbrella-bearing cocktails.

Sigh… Perhaps one day that dream will come true.

For now, I have only Olive, an Indian donkey who thinks I am her mother. She was a newborn when a car or pack of stray dogs attacked her. The villagers put motor oil on all of her invasive wounds to stop them from bleeding. Animal Aid, an organization in Udaipur run by a cheery ex-pat family from Seattle, was quick to come to her rescue. The vets were able to give her antibiotics and a bottle, but they needed a volunteer to give her some love. She’s a newborn!

I heard Olive’s cry and flew to the rescue. My assignment was to simply love her all day long. I bathed her, which took hours. Motor oil and fur can’t get enough of each other. I hugged her. I kissed her. I told her tales of her future as the best concrete carrier in all of Udaipur. I could actually see her demeanor improving throughout the day. Love helps! It's also a battlefield.

She’d wobble around, venture out a few steps on her own, and then come back to touch her soft forehead to mine ever so gently. It was true love on both sides. If my future daughter is born a donkey, I might not exploit her so much.

I am grateful to have met Olive, the donkey of my eye. The previous day, my assignment was to love and walk dogs all day long, and I left feeling like a heartless bitch. Dogs with mange and ticks only got a one-finger petting action from me, and I couldn’t help but feel guilty. Mange is gross!

Animal Aid helps cows, goats, donkeys, pigs, turtles, really any Indian animal in need. If you're sick and tired of helping all those boring humans in need, send them a donation or get over to Udaipur: Animal Aid

This is Olive before Hydroxycut.


Olive during her long bath.

This is Olive after. You won't get these results from other baths.

This woman is a saint. She patiently picked off dog ticks and broke each in half with her nail. No complaints.

I really really really tried to love this dog as much as I loved Olive.

This vet sticks his hand up a cow's butt daily. Maybe advertising isn't so bad.

One day I will stop thinking animal balls are funny. One day.

Now there's only cow in the dark.

I, along with several astronomy enthusiasts, made sure to be in the holy city for the eclipse.

Paul from England, who grows weed for a living, invited me to his balcony overlooking the Ganges. At 5am Pete from San Diego and I headed to the action. Men were already staining their teeth with paan. Women already had bowls out to beg for rice. Fires were already boiling water for chai. The Ganges was already awash with colorful bathers.

On the balcony, we met up with Mairead and Caroline from Ireland, a guy who says he’s famous in Sweden, a German redhead, and her boyfriend from Bolivia. From there we could see the bathers, the ghats drenched in fresh sunlight, and the cows and goats hiding in corners; they sensed something was wrong with the world. Something was! The sun was about to disappear. One cow hid in a public bathroom and wouldn’t budge.

With special sunglasses, we watched. We waited. We saw the moon inching its way to steal the show from the sun. Leetle by leetle. It reminded me of the time in fifth grade when Corrin and I got in a fight over our choreography for the talent show. We both wanted to be in front, but I was of course much pushier. I knew I was an amazing dancer (let me remind you again). Janet Jackson’s ‘Escapade’ was in absolute awe once I kicked Corrin to the curb and took to the stage alone in my hot pink spandex.

The moon finally weaseled its way in front of the sun. Completely. The Ganges immediately turned black. The sky too, save for the glowing ring emanating from behind that attention-whore of a moon. We knew it was going to happen; we’d been watching it inch along. Yet it took us all by surprise. There was a collective gasp as the day turned to night so suddenly. Then… silence.

It was the first time I’d heard silence in India. Nary a horn squealed in the distance. After three minutes and a few seconds, the moon shifted again, illuminating the sky, the bathers, the beggars, the cows, the river, and all of us huddled on the balcony. The whole city exhaled in unison, clapped, and let out gleeful cheers. It sounded like all of India was rejoicing.

Yes, we all know there is a scientific explanation for a solar eclipse. But in the holy city of India it seemed like magic. As if Shiva had turned off the lights for a few minutes just to bring us all together.

Caroline takes care against burning her retinas. Retinas smell worse than hair when burned.

from 6:24 to 6:27am on July 22nd, 2009

The balcony crew at 6:45am. We immediately fell asleep after this was taken.

The cloak begins to cover the holy city.

Covered!

PS Speaking of eclipses, Bonnie Tyler is back! She's 58 now and redoing 'Total Eclipse of the Heart.' Everything I prayed for in India has come true!

PPS All but one of these photos were shot by my friend Pete. He's just a damn good photographer. Here's his website again.

PSS Made you look.

All employees must wear hair nets and remove genitalia.

I feel horrible.
I previously reported here that I ate the Taj Mahal.
I did. It needed salt.

But I didn't report on anything else about the Taj, and I feel remiss.

Please note that:

+ Emperor Shah Jahan built the Taj to honor his third and 'favorite' wife, Mumtaz Mahal.

+She died during the birth of their 14th child. Let's think about this... it was 1632! They didn't have epidurals or lamaze. He should have stopped stuffing her with sperm. That's what the other wives and harem were for.

+That's right. Dude had a harem. Of 1000 women. All virgins.

+According to my tour guide, the emperor would never 'use' one of the harem women more than once. Immediately after her 'usage,' she would usually be married off to another powerful man.

+ He of course needed wranglers to help him organize all the women and sex (The guide said lots of sex was necessary since there wasn't any TV... duh). If you wanted to work as a wrangler of harem women for the emperor, you would have had to cut off your member. The emperor wanted to ensure that the women were indeed virgins.

+Of the four first sons with Mumtaz, Aurangzeb wanted to rule the throne the most (no idea if it was for the virgins or the conquering). He killed off his other brothers and confined his father to house arrest so that he could rule.

+Shah Jahan finished building the Taj in 1648, but spent the last eight years of his life confined to a fort a few kilometers away. He was forced by his own son to never visit his wife's grave.

+Everything about the Taj was symmetrical, Mumtaz's coffin smack dab in the center. Then, the mean son threw Shah Jahan's coffin in there too, upsetting the balance. He wasn't the most compassionate guy.

That Taj sure was beautiful. Too bad I ate it.

I also spun it like a top...

practiced cheerleading with it...

and knocked it down with my brute force.

This guy was so impressed with my abilities that he invited me to be his sixtieth wife. I said yes. I'm registered at Crate & Camel.