The Eagle has landed

The first glimpse of NYC.









The new roomate, Lisa (this is the before shot, haircuts tomorrow)The new digs.













And the new dogs, Seamus and Olive (on the couch)

Julie throws a BarB despite the snow outside

Mumbai, Doha, London, DC... Pittsburgh

It's been a whirlwind tour, but after only three days in Pittsburgh I am convinced failure is imminent and tempted to take up permanent residence in my parents' basement. Mercifully, I've developed alternate plans and continue to set them in motion by a kind of remote control.


New York City, here I come!

Too much time has passed without an update

I am pleased to report I did not even notice the passing of my fifth wedding anniversary until after it had passed.

Here's somewhat of an update in pictures.

That's me n Lizzie n Helen on a Saturday night.

On the road to Mapusa..

My room in Hercules Manor.

A not so light lunch at La Plage in Aswem.

Anna, me and Debora at Shore Bar.

18 March 07 or, buh bye Chennai

Leaving Mahabalipuram via Chennai, I decided to take the bus this time instead of a car. The car from the airport to Mhblprm cost INRs 750, or about $19. A fortune, almost the equivalent of two nights in my hotel. Besides, after a week of scrimping and saving, by using the money I would’ve spent on a car I had enough for another 1 gig memory stick. Mine picked up some virus that proved fatal the minute I stuck it into a PC with anti virus software. Doesn’t seem to have affected my Mac, please God.

I was told the bus would be pretty empty on a Sunday morning, so I figured why not. I might even try to leave early and ensure the bus would be empty. That didn’t happen, but how bad could it be?

Well, if the version of “empty” I experienced this morning, sandwiched between other passengers on the 45-minute ride is any indication

Here’s a question, what’s with the filthy traveler? I’ve been in India, no job, alternately traveling and staying put, for five months now. Still I manage to wash my hair and do a passable job of keeping my feet clean; it’s tough to do that here. I’m sitting here looking at these two British chicks, not spring chickens mind you, at least in their mid-30s, and they are an ad for how not to travel. First of all, when you dress like you’re about to go trash picking, it shows a real lack of respect for the people around you. In Western airports these types are searched for drugs. Here, simply by virtue of being white, they’ll be fine. Secondly, if they are trying to look like they don’t have any money, once again by simple virtue of their lily skin, they fail!

Tamil Nadu has been an interesting place, much as I’ve tried to spend all my time in my room doing nothing but working on my novel, I can’t seem to help myself. Chennai is home to the country’s actors. For some reason I don’t quite understand, apparently this is where all the movies are made. You’d think that would make some kind of playground for the newly rich, but no, Ahjay assures me, there is nothing to do there. The stars make the movies, pocket the checks and run off to spend the money in foreign countries. Is this was Hollywood was like in the early days before service industries rushed in to cater to the newly wealthy.

Then this morning’s newspaper, chock-a-block with fascinating entries. Front-page coverage of India’s humiliation in cricket, a look at my horoscope through Tarot, dream analysis, and my favorite story, “Town terrorized by ghost.” Seems a month back a woman tried to commit suicide by setting herself on fire. Though the reporter didn’t specify what, apparently she’d been having some kind of dispute with her handicapped husband (yeah, they used the totally PI “handicapped). This immediately broght to mind the mother from Arrested Development, in the pilot episode, complaining about the histrionics of “homosexuals,” saying their behavior just made her want to set herself on fire. That line I remembered for sheer hilarity. I wonder if the paper's report of this woman's demise will stay with me as long. Or longer. It said that she screamed all night, pulling off her own flesh in clumps. When they were finally able to get her to the hospital the next day she was still. She was dead on arrival.

Adding to that misery, no one claimed the body for a few days, and then no one stepped forward to conduct the funeral. These reasons, the paper said, left her haunting the village; it listed three women whose hysterical behavior since the incident is being attributed to the ghost. I am on pins and needles but will never know for sure the next installment. Another funeral? A sacrifice? A puja?

(This photo is actually from a Shivaratri puja I did in Morjim at Asiana. Lovely.)

Back to my escape from Chennai. I managed to get off at the right bus stop, which was a bit of a trick since no one in my vicinity spoke English, and with each stop I wondered, was that it?

When at last every last passenger alit I thought, right, here goes! I knoew I'd need another ricksahw to the airport, but wasn't sure how far the airport was or how much the ride should cost, so I hopped in the first one and asked him to turn on the meter. This is the best strategy for not getting ripped off. He told me the meter was broken. What to do?

I got out and had a think.

If I wasn't feeling so vulnerable I would've pulled out my camera and popped a snap of the guys working the foodstall beside the bus stop. The chai maker was incredible, cooling the milk in long drafts between glass cups, reaching for the cone-shaped fileter coninuously brewing tea and holding over the glass, then again, cooling the concoction between glasses. Smelled and looked delicious. 3INRs! Tasted delicious, too. As did the veg biryiani.

Thus forified, I hopped a rickshaw with a working meter. I was quite pleased with myself until after about one meter forward he stopped. He was asking directions to the airport. It didn't seem like a good sign, but I thought, why not trust the guy?

Why not indeed.

Once he had the directions he seemed a bit agitated.

Madam, 200 rupees to the airport!

Uh, that's too much. I'll pay what's on the meter.

He drives on a bit, then stops.

Madam, the meter, look! 200 rupees!

He was pointing to the fact that the meter had not changed. Now, it opened at 14 INRs. I had no idea if the thing was working or not, but still I knew 200 was too much. 100 maybe, for the trouble?

No, it's very far. 200!

Then I notice the meter. It's working fine. Then I start seeing signs to the airport. I recognize where we are, it's not that far to the airport.

I'll pay what's on the meter.

Madam...

Look, you can let me out right here, or we can talk about it with the police. You decide. (Gouging tourists is a big no-no.)

He drives on. Sort of. He begins stopping every 100 ms to ask directions. I figure he probably cannot read English, otherwise he'd be following the signs. The next thing Iknow he pulls into some weird, military barracks thing.

Dude, this is so not the airport. (The meter reads 62 INRs at this point. To get back onto the road leading to the airport in his cab we're going to have to do a HUGE circle.)

He doesn't want to go any further. I spy another cab, grab my bag and I'm off and into the next cab. And no, I am a cretin, and did not even give him the 62 INRs.

Meter? I ask the new guy.

Meter broken, he says.

I feel pretty

Pretty freakish

And yet, I'm about to head off to the dentist. Medical tourism in Bangalore. Lovin it.

27 Jan 07

The chorus of dogs. The honking of the horn. It must be 6.46!

I am listening to Cat Power, sitting in the kitchen of the house where I now find myself. It’s two doors down from the yoga shala, so the location is ideal. Formerly inhabited by four to eight people at any given time, I can’t say the same for the interior. I’ve installed some bright, solid-colored saris and feel the décor is much improved, though no one else seems to notice. I am looking forward to February, when the “lease” switches over to me and I’m going down to me and one roommate. The place is HUGE, but constructed oddly like houses in Doha, with useless cavernous spaces; the walls are not plumb and the rooms spiral around in nonsensical order. “Hercules” (as she’s dubbed on the exterior) has two front doors, one leading directly into the kitchen, the other into a largish rectangular space with glass doors inset in the walls as if some display would naturally be admired there. The kitchen consists of a sink, a cement construct covered in green and blue patterned tiles that run up the back like a splash board. The walls are painted a milky blue. There is a wood burning stove against the back wall, also a cement construct, which appears to have fallen into disuse as, along the wall opposite the pump there is a gas cooker. All pipes and electrical wiring are exposed, running along the length of the walls, strung from room to room. There is an ancient pump over by the side door that draws the water from the well. The doors have iron bars on the inside that fit over an eye hook and are sealed with an attached hook. The top floor is one giant room and perhaps that’s where they all sleep. Where do they have sex though? Just in front of everyone? Anyway, that’s my room, complete with a little terrace which might be lovely but for the giant dusty boxes of rubbish installed up there.