Fool's Compass

Bad reputation

2010-10-22T15:31:00.000-07:00

The true Indian tales of Fool's Compass are leaving the blogosphere and hitting the stage! I'm sharing stories that have never even appeared in this blog at Previously Secret Information, the original storytelling series hosted by the incomparable San Francisco comedian Joe Klocek.

Mark your calendars now for the debut of "Bad Reputation: Hard-won Dating Advice for American Girls in India." The show's at 7 p.m. November 19 at the Sacramento Comedy Spot.

Click here for reservations!

Lady Business in the press!

2010-10-19T19:23:00.000-07:00

My all-female improv troupe Lady Business got a wonderful review in Sacramento Press!

"Taking subject matter from the audience, the girls had the whole audience rolling, portraying everything from insecure rats to competitive cats to a disenchanted witch-turned-esthetician."

Click here to read the whole review!

Lady Business performs every third Saturday at the Sacramento Comedy Spot, weaving an entirely improvised show from the audience's true stories. Our next show is November 20, 8pm. $8. You can make reservations here!

Become a friend of Lady Business on Facebook for the latest business updates.

Hope to see you at a show!

They're in Hawaii, too

2010-01-18T10:06:00.001-08:00

An open letter to my omnivorous friends

2010-01-13T10:14:00.000-08:00

Hi.

This is not an easy letter for me to write. That's probably why I'm putting it on my blog, instead of sending it to you directly. I have gone to great lengths in my life to avoid being a preachy vegan. I hate to make people feel defensive, so I often find myself encouraging friends at the dinner table to "Go ahead! Get the ribs! Eat whatever you want!" I act as if my 20 years of vegetarianism are more of an uncontrollable personality trait than a conscious decision to boycott animal suffering. "Yeah, I'm vegan. I can't really help it. Let's talk about something else."

Today, at the risk of unpopularity, I need to say something different. I just finished reading Jonathan Safran Foer's Eating Animals, which a friend gave me as a birthday present. Normally a meat-eating fiction writer, Foer began researching American farming practices when his son was born, in a effort to determine the best diet for his child. Three years later, he has written an amazingly well-presented non-fiction account of our country's relationship to food animals.

I can honestly say that it is, by far, the most difficult book I have ever read. It literally caused me physical pain in my chest while reading it. And it spurred me to action.

I became a vegetarian at age 15. I have used this choice as an excuse to turn a blind eye to farming practices in America. "I already don't eat meat," I tell myself. "I am absolved. My work is done. " The truth is that factory farming still affects me - in the way my country's rivers are poisoned by irresponsible disposal of farm animal waste, in the way that flus are bred through sickened crate-confined pigs, in the way that the overuse of antibiotics on farm animals is rendering these important drugs useless for humans, in the way my loved ones' health is compromised by nutritionally bankrupt food options, and in the way that millions of animals are still suffering in ways I can barely stand to read about.

When I finished the last page of the book this morning, I walked directly to my computer and made a $200 donation to Farm Sanctuary. And I vow to do more when I can. You all are my witnesses.

I don't expect you to all to have the same feelings I do about animals or food issues. I realize we all have our own battles in life, and everyone's heart holds different priorities. The last thing I want to do is alienate you or make you feel judged.

Humans and other animals have eaten meat since life began, and I do not believe it is inherently wrong. But eating meat in general, and eating meat in the specific way we eat it in America are two different issues. Right now, it is impossible to eat meat on a regular basis in America without financially supporting the factory farming system. These food corporations do not consider your health a top priority, but you definitely should. It is worth your time to take a look at what you are putting into your body. And Foer's book is a good place to start with that.

I say all of this with the utmost respect, because I value you and your health and the health of our community. And regardless of how you choose to eat in the future, I am looking forward to our next meal together.

With love,
Becca

Manuscript Monday: The dragonflies

2009-12-28T11:36:00.000-08:00

This will be the last Manuscript Monday for a little while. I am changing directions, both geographically and in my writing. After three months of working on a non-fiction account of my experiences in India, I have realized the story I want to tell is better conveyed in fiction. The new year will bring a new start on page 1 of a new book.

It's discouraging to start from scratch again, but I expect my spirits will be bolstered by my upcoming trip to Hawaii. I'll be traveling around the islands for much of January. Perhaps there will be some new island tales for Fool's Compass. And, with luck, the first chapters of a new novel.

I want to thank everyone who has read and responded to Manuscript Mondays so far. I am sincerely grateful for your company and support while I try to cobble together my dreams, sitting at my desk in my pajamas. I wish you all a Happy New Year and the patience to trust that it is all happening as it should.

I leave you with another true tale of Goan magic.

With love and gratitude, Becca

I awoke ravenously hungry. The sun had barely risen. I doubted any cafes would be open, so I gobbled down the last of a package of biscuits I’d stashed in my purse and threw on my swimsuit.

I climbed down the hill and headed towards the beach. The first sun rays were just breaking over the mountains, illuminating the misty air. Even at this hour, there was plenty of life. Stray dogs chased each other into the waves. Indian men and women crossed the sand balancing large baskets of fruit and vegetables on their heads. Tourists saluted the sun on sandy yoga mats. In the middle of all this activity, the shorefront cafes remained resolutely closed. In some, waiters and cooks were still sleeping atop the tables.

If breakfast was impossible, it was time to swim. I dove into the warm waves, slipping under the white breakers to escape impact. I swam out as far as I dared, then flipped over to float on my back. I spread out like a starfish and opened my eyes to the blue sky. I saw hundreds of dragonflies zipping through the air overhead. I blinked to shake the last drops of saltwater from my lashes and looked again. They were really there.

The dragonflies dove and soared through the sky, flashes of light reflecting off their otherwise invisible wings. Some flew solo. Some spun together in a gravity-defying mating ritual. I’d never seen so many dragonflies in one place in my entire life. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. It was the sign I’d been looking for.

A month before my departure, after I’d burned my journals, given away my cat, and surrendered the keys to my apartment – after it was too late to turn back — I was hit with a huge wave of doubt about my decision to go to India. My friends in recovery had taught me the term “pulling a geographic” – essentially moving somewhere else and expecting your problems to disappear. It suddenly seemed like the whole India plan was yet another magic little story I’d made up in hopes that my life would get happy again.

I was supposed to be an adult, with a career and a home and a family of my own. I’d lost the first and I’d never even been close to having the rest. I was working two temp jobs in Sacramento and sleeping on a mattress in the yard of my boyfriend’s house because the open night sky was more comforting than his dismissive silence. My solution to getting my life back on track was to go sightseeing?

Once this doubt got hold of me, I simmered with anger and shame for most of the day. By evening, I was so desperate for the day to end that I decided to go sit on the porch and watch the California sun go down. Maybe by just breathing and focusing on something larger than myself, I could regain some vestige of inner calm.

I sat on the porch swing with a glass of iced tea and shuffled my deck of Medicine Cards. The Medicine Cards are like tarot cards based on Native American myths. Each one depicts an animal and a story about that animal's significance. A friend had given me the deck years ago, and I'd recently found it when I was packing up my apartment.

I held the deck tightly against my chest, closed my eyes and prayed to whatever Magic 8-ball wisdom governed the cards. “Oh Patron Saint of Laminated Animal Card Decks, oh Guru of Go Fish, please give me a clear idea of why I am supposed to go to India. Please give me faith to continue.”

I extracted one card from the deck and flipped it over. It was the swan. I opened the Medicine Cards book to the story of swan medicine.

In the tale, Swan is still in her ugly duckling phase and she is taking her first solo flight. As she soars over her homeland, she suddenly loses her bearings. Nothing looks familiar. All she can see is a swirling black hole... and a dragonfly.

Disoriented and afraid of losing herself in the black hole, Swan asks Dragonfly for help. Dragonfly explains that he is the guardian of the black hole, which is a gateway to other planes of imagination. To break the illusion of daily life and enter the other planes, one has to ask Dragonfly’s permission.

Swan is scared of the hole. Then she thinks about her frail, awkward body and her half-formed dreams and knows she needs to transform. She asks permission to enter. Dragonfly tells her that, in order to survive the black hole, she must surrender completely no matter what happens. She has to act with complete trust and never try to change Great Spirit’s plan.

Swan agrees. Dragonfly creates the magic that dispels the illusions of life and lets her enter the swirling, churning black hole. When Swan reemerges days later, she has a new graceful body with white feathers and a long neck. She tells Dragonfly that she surrendered completely to Great Spirit and was taken to “where the future lives.” Her faith has transformed her.

Reading this story as the sun set, I felt like a gong someone had just struck with a mallet. A single chime of knowing reverberated through my body. I, too, was an awkward, half-formed creation. I had lost my bearings and the comforting illusion of my daily life. My home, my pet, my work, my relationship, and my entire country were disappearing into a void. I was being asked to surrender to a plan I didn’t understand and literally fly into a new world.

It was terrifying, but Swan’s story seemed to promise that, if I trusted this process completely, I would return a creature of strength and grace. I wanted this more than anything.

In the weeks leading up to my departure, I clutched the story of Swan to my heart like a magic talisman. Whenever a dragonfly buzzed past me in the yard, I stopped and said a prayer of gratitude. When doubt settled on me, I'd go walking at a nearby lake and feel inspired by the sight of the flying insects. I hosted my going away party at Dragonfly Restaurant in Sacramento – although I didn’t tell anyone why I’d chosen that place.

Once I landed in India, I forgot about Swan and Dragonfly in the rush of culture shock. I’d certainly forgotten my commitment to trust the process. Instead I’d been begging for insight, worrying about where I should be, and complaining in my journals that I felt forsaken.

Now, floating on the Arabian Sea and watching the dragonflies’ aerial ballet, I realized I’d been guided all along. Before I left for India, I had definitely decided not to come to Goa. From the moment I stepped off the plane, everyone I met had pointed me here. Even after I'd surrendered and took a bus to this seaside village, I’d cluelessly walked miles in the wrong direction until my shoes literally fell off my feet. Finally, in a state of complete exhaustion and surrender, I was led to my perfect cliff-top room, where I slept deeply and awoke to a fleet of dragonflies. An impossible number. A miraculous number.

How could I have thought myself forsaken? I still didn’t have a plan, but for now, I had something more valuable. I had faith.

My spoon is just the right size, thank you

2009-12-22T12:42:00.000-08:00

This morning I was meditating - sitting quietly with my eyes closed, running through my usual FAQs for the Great Universal Whatchamacallit. Questions like: "What the hell do you want from me?" and "How can I get out of my own way to achieve it?"

I was hoping for holy light and the clear voice of divine direction. What I got was a mental replay of this cartoon by Don Hertzfeldt:

At first, this seemed like the usual pop-culture flotsam my mind kicks up to keep me from achieving enlightenment. I can't sit still for 30 seconds before my inner DJ starts spinning Britney Spears or replaying soundbites from "The Office." But upon further reflection, I think there's a message in this cartoon for anyone with big dreams and bigger confusion about what to do with them.

(If you haven't watched the cartoon yet, you really should, or this post will cease to make sense. Go ahead. Click on it now. I'll wait. Ready? Awesome!)

So here's my big insight: We have to stop complaining about the size of our spoons. It never occurs to the stick figure in the film that maybe his spoon (his appetite, his desires, his aspirations and creative goals) are just the right size. It's his bowl of food that is too small. Don't limit your dreams to fit your circumstances. Create the circumstances that fit your dreams.

Today, I am an optimistic banana. And so are you.

Manuscript Monday: Buy! Buy! Buy!

2009-12-21T10:26:00.000-08:00

I met a Swedish woman named Johanna on the train to Goa and she invited me stay in her vacation cottage in Anjuna. I'd been feeling lonely in Mumbai, so I happily agreed, even though I'd originally planned to skip Anjuna, a town known primarily for a nearly extinct rave scene and a huge weekly flea market.

Our cottage was right on the sea and the view was incredible. It was very early in Goa's tourist season. We had the whole beach to ourselves. My first night in Anjuna, with the ocean waves whispering in my ears, was the first night in India I slept straight through until morning.

I woke with one mission - to sit on the beach until every trace of jet lag and culture shock had melted into the sand. Johanna also woke with a mission - to go shopping. I had no interest in buying anything, but I didn't want to alienate my host on my first day, so I agreed to tag along.

I hung back as Johanna haggled with merchants over silk trousers and silver earrings, but I was the only other tourist in a mile-long row of shops. The vendors were not going to let me off easily.

One by one, the salespeople presiding over stalls filled with batik prints, ornate boxes, wrap skirts, hammocks and trance music CDs called to me. “Hello, madam! Come have a look my shop? Many nice things! Hello!”

“Hello!” I waved from my non-committal place in the middle of the dirt road. When their calls did not budge me, they got more assertive. A teenage girl in a shiny blue dress and bare feet marched over to me, kicking up red dust with each step. “What you looking for?” she demanded. “Sarong? I have nice sarong. You want dress? Everything, I have!”

“No thank you,” I said. “I’m just waiting for my friend.”

“You come look my shop!” She grabbed my arm and began pulling me down the road. I laughed nervously and attempted to disengage myself.

Then another shop girl grabbed my other arm. “You come look my shop,” she said. “My shop is right here. Come look. Looking is free.”

I suddenly realized my error in coming to Goa pre-season. I’d thought only of avoiding the tourist rush, but being one of the town’s only visitors meant every merchant hoped I'd provide their daily income. The two girls were literally pulling me in two directions like a wishbone.

“Stop! Please let go!” I said. One dropped my hand and I stumbled into the other, who didn’t miss a beat as I jarred her tiny frame.

“Come!” she said. I looked over my shoulder for Johanna, who was still in negotiations for a yellow silk sarong. The girl dragged me into her shop and began grabbing things off racks and tables. “You like dress? You like? Or pants? You want pants?” She whirled around and swept a pile of scarves off a table into her arms. “Or shawl, you want? I have red, blue, green. What color? How many you want?”

In the U.S., I am the kind of person who will spend half an hour hunting for something in a store rather than ask a clerk where to find it. This high-intensity customer service caused my brain to short circuit.

“I’m sorry, I have to go find my friend,” I said to the girl, who was unfolding sarongs with a flourish. I scurried out of her shop and back down the road, keeping my arms pinned to my sides so no one could grab them. When I found Johanna, she had a new sarong draped around her neck and was busy pricing silk pants. I told her I’d see her on the beach.

I was the only one on the sand that day. I laid out my sarong like a beach towel and sprawled on top of it. The sun was bright, so I propped a hat over my eyes. As the heat poured into my limbs, I felt myself begin to relax.

“Hello, madam! Hello!”

I pulled the hat off my eyes and squinted into the face of a young woman leaning over me. She wore a blue and white dress, with a long braid snaking over her shoulder. “Where you from?” she asked.

I sat up and smiled. “America.”

“Oh, America!” she said. “Your skin, it’s so white!”

“Yeah, I just got to the beach,” I said with a laugh.

“You whiiiiite,” she said, drawing out the word. “You white like chicken!” She threw back her head and cackled. “How old are you?” she asked.

“33,” I said.

“You look older!”

“Um…thanks?” It wasn’t the most flattering conversation, but I felt happy that a local was making the effort to get to know me. Then she stopped the small talk and clutched my hand.

“You come have a look my shop, now!”

Of course. “Not now,” I said, with mounting irritation. “I just want to sit on the beach by myself.”

She protested and pulled my arm. Before I could convince her to leave, another woman joined us. “Where you from?” she asked.

I wrested my hand away and turned to her. “America,” I said.

“Oh. White skin. You white like chicken, eh? How old are you?”

“33.”

“You look older.”

What the hell? Did these women all attend the same sales seminar? Generate Sales with Mild Insults!

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I really just want to enjoy the beach. No shopping.”

“Then you come later,” the second woman said. She thrust her hand in my face, demanding a handshake. “You promise!”

I shook her hand out of politeness. The first woman held her hand out too. “You promise me!” she said.

I shook her hand. The two walked off. “You can’t break promise!” one called over her shoulder. I laid back down and put the hat over my eyes. Finally, some peace.

“Hello, madam!”

God. Damn. It.

“What?” I said grumpily, yanking the hat off my eyes.

“Where you from?” Another shop girl leaned over my sarong.

“America,” I groaned, and climbed to my feet.

“You white,” she said. “White skin. Like chicken!”

“I’m sorry, I can’t talk now. I am going swimming.” I took off at a brisk pace towards the surf.

“Come have a look my shop?” the girl asked, running alongside me.

“No,” I said. “I’m swimming.”

“After swimming, you come have a look?”

I marched straight into the waves. To my surprise, she followed me without hesitation, soaking her ankle-length dress. “You promise!” she said.

I jumped away from her and splashed out to sea, only to discover that I’d chosen the rocky, shallow end of the beach. The rocks ahead looked too sharp to walk across and too shallow to swim over.

I stood still in waist-deep water and tried to gain composure. Logically, I knew these women were just trying to make a living. There were so few tourists right now that every sale meant a lot. Still, I was on a tight budget and I had to carry every possession on my back for six months. I simply couldn't afford all these elephant tchotchkes and Stevie Nicks costumes. And logic aside, the inescapable sales pressure was making me crazy.

After several minutes of letting the waves lap my thighs and attempting to calm myself with deep-breathing exercises, I turned towards the shore and was stunned to see the shop girl still standing in the ocean in her dress, waiting for me. Water slowly creeped up her skirt towards her waist. Behind her, Johanna was making her way down the cliff to the beach as more shop girls headed out onto the sand to intercept her.

The girl in the soaked dress grabbed my arm. “OK. No more swimming. Now you come look my shop!”

I wrenched my arm out of her grasp and stormed past her as fast as I could through knee-high water. The shop girls heading towards Johanna detoured to me because I was closer. Included in their ranks were the two I’d already spoken to, one of whom ran over like we were old friends.

“Remember me?” she said. “You promised. Come look my shop now!”

“No!” I said sharply. “I’m not shopping. Go away.”

She reached for my arm and I yelled, louder than I’d intended. “Don’t touch me!”

“But you promised,” she said, reaching out again. By now the wet girl had slogged over to my other side and the other girls were approaching as well. I was the last human in a horror movie where the zombies ate wallets. And solitude.

“Can’t you understand?” I pleaded. “I don’t want to shop. I just want to sit on the beach. Alone!”

They kept up their chorus of calls. “Come! You come now! Come look! Looking is free!”

“NO! NO NO!” I closed my eyes and screamed out the words, fists clenched. “LEAVE ME ALONE!” The shop girls stared at me with wonder, and then at each other. Chicken lady has gone insane.

When I opened my eyes, I saw Johanna standing just beyond the group, staring at me with her mouth open in shock. I instantly felt ashamed. Her expression seemed to say, “Oh! So this is why you don’t invite strangers from the train to share your vacation rental.”

I pushed past the girls. Though still ashamed, I felt a very definite satisfaction when they moved aside and let me walk unhindered. I collected my sarong and called to Johanna that I would be taking a nap. I climbed the hill to our cottage, slipped back under my mosquito net, and wept. On my first day in one of the most tourist-friendly towns in India, I’d lasted two hours outside.

If I couldn’t handle Goa, the most Westernized part of India, how would I ever last six months in this country?

Real-life Job Conversations: Part 3

2009-12-19T15:33:00.000-08:00

Today's RLJC took place entirely inside my head. (What? You don't talk to yourself when you're bored?) I was in a local Raley's, trying to distribute little cups of off-brand breakfast cereal. People don't get excited about real Corn Chex, so you can imagine how thrilled they were about this knock-off variety.

Customers blew past me as if I was invisible. It was like I was begging for food, instead of giving it away. This happens whenever my supervisor assigns me a boring demo product. I don't take it personally, but it means the shift drags on forever because there's no chance of a distracting conversation. Except in my own head, as follows:

Bored me: I can't believe I have to stand here for 5 more hours.

Vegan me: I can't believe the store manager put me in the meat aisle. Not only do I have to stand here for 5 more hours, but I have to stare at plastic-wrapped packages of sausage and bacon. So gross.

Bored me: Those packages of chorizo are upside down. That is making me crazy. I can't stare at that for 5 hours. I have to go flip them right side up.

Vegan me: Are you serious? You're going to face the meat aisle? Why? So more customers will buy the pretty dead animals?

Bored me: I don't condone eating meat. It's just annoying to look at. Here, just let me put them back. [Fixes chorizo display and runs back to post.]

Vegan me: I cannot believe you just did that. Did you learn nothing from all those PETA videos we watched in college? Meat is murder.

Bored me: I know. I won't do it anymore. I'll just stand here and let people ignore me and my cereal and I... Agggh! That lady just put the bacon back on the wrong shelf.

Vegan me: Don't go fix it. Don't!

Bored me: I can't help it! [Replaces bacon and straightens hot links.] It was all out of order.

Vegan me: When I get off work, I'm researching OCD on the internet.

Bored me: Right after multiple personality disorder.

Vegan me: Right.

Manuscript Monday: Culture goggles and beer shock

2009-12-14T13:31:00.000-08:00

I arrived in India without a social compass. It took a long time to find a balance between the public briskness of India and the instant familial closeness of the Indians who chose to befriend me. If I smiled at my fellow pedestrians, I'd be met with hard stares. If I managed to bridge the gap to conversation, they'd usually offer to take me home and feed me for weeks. It was an emotional 0 to 60, and it was hard to get used to. Long after I thought I knew the customs, I'd continually offend people by being too distant (i.e. I invited you to my cousin's wedding five minutes after meeting you. Why didn't you come?) or too familiar (i.e. You smiled at me, therefore I will spend the next hour following you through the streets trying to touch your butt.).

Of course, my first week in India, I didn't have a clue how my social graces looked to others. It was all guesswork.

The day before I left Mumbai, I met a young man named Raj while browsing the city's sidewalk bookstalls. He had moved to Mumbai only 22 days earlier. There were few job opportunities in his village in Rajasthan, so he had come to the city to earn money to put his younger siblings through school. We had a pleasant conversation about Indian geography and the American economy, so I thought nothing of accepting his invitation to meet him later that night for chai.

Mumbai seemed so different after dark. The brutal heat subsided and traffic was milder. The honking and engine-revving gave way to the sound of music drifting out of glowing shop windows. People crowded around steaming snack carts on every street corner. Movie-theater marquis lit up the night with electric pinks and silvers, pointing neon fingers towards the full moon. And there was Raj, leaning against the train station wall. As I walked up, he pushed himself upright and fell into step beside me.

“I’m glad you came,” he said, sounding as if he wasn’t sure I would. “Now we get chai, unless…” He paused and looked at me hopefully. “You want beer?”

I rarely drink, but a cold beer sounded more refreshing than tea after such a hot day. “Beer's fine,” I said. "Whatever you want." He smiled.

Raj led me down some side streets to a two-story café and steered me upstairs to pricier air-conditioned tables. We were the only ones on the upper floor, except for the waitstaff, who were crowded around a televised cricket match. They took no notice of our arrival as we settled into a booth. I shivered in the blast of frigid air blowing on us from the wall unit directly above our table.

“Nice?” Raj pointed to the A/C unit and raised his eyebrows. Then he turned and yelled something in Hindi at the waiters, one of whom reluctantly left the TV to bring us a large bottle of Kingfisher beer and two glasses.

We toasted and began talking. He drank two glassfuls very quickly, topped off my glass, and ordered a second bottle. Earlier in the day, he’d mentioned his father’s drinking problem and now I wondered if I should have insisted on chai. His eyes grew heavy-lidded. I could see the intoxication in his expression.

He spoke about his first love, a girl from his hometown in Rajasthan. “Her parents made her get married to this old… this older man.” He had trouble finding words, but I couldn’t tell whether this was because of emotion or alcohol. “She didn’t want to marry him. She wanted to run away with me, but I couldn’t risk going to prison if we got caught. My family needs me. She married and she wanted us to see each other. Can I speak with you frankly?”

I nodded.

“We met a few times and we had sex. Each time, she told me she loved me, but after four times I told her no more. I said, ‘You are married now.’ And she cried.”

He unbuttoned one sleeve of his shirt and pushed it up to his elbow. He thrust his arm towards me so I could see a handful of pocked scars dotting his inner wrist. “I burned myself,” he said solemnly. “I took a cigarette and…” He made jabbing motions at his wrist. “Here. Here. Here.”

“Why would you do that?” I asked sadly.

“For love,” he said. “My friend jumped off a building for love. He did not live.”

I stared into my beer. I felt tipsy and inarticulate in the face of such grief.

“Hey,” he said gently. “Don’t be sad. It’s OK. Now I have you.”

I jerked my head up. “What?”

“You are so beautiful. I’m so lucky to be with you. You are my rock.”

I suddenly realized I was on a date. When did that happen? When I agreed to meet him after dark? When I chose beer instead of chai?

I didn’t want to be on a date. Raj was nearly 10 years younger than me and I technically had a boyfriend back home — even if he’d stopped answering my e-mails. I needed to make it clear that only friendship was on the table. I decided to stick to platonic conversational topics.

“So, how many people have you had sex with?” Raj asked.

“What?” I said again.

“How many…”

“I heard you,” I said. “That’s not something I want to talk about.”

“Oh,” he said. “I’m sorry if I did something wrong. I thought Americans were very frank.”

“It’s OK,” I said. “Let’s order some food.” I told him I was vegetarian and suggested he order for us. I was hoping to learn more about local cuisine. He called the increasingly annoyed waiters away from the cricket match and placed our order in Hindi.

When the food arrived, he’d ordered a plate of tandoori chicken for himself and a plate of French fries for me. He looked very proud that he knew what Americans liked to eat, so I smiled and dug in. French fries are the best drinking food anyway.

Along with our meal came another 40 ounce bottle of Kingfisher. I wasn’t sure how much I’d had, since he kept topping off my glass, but I knew I was over my limit. I pushed my glass away and ordered a bottle of water.

Raj continued drinking and talking about his life. He began referring to someone named Sunil, and when I asked for clarification, it turned out that was his name.

“Why did you tell me your name was Raj?” I asked.

“Raj is easier for foreigners,” he said. Sunil turned out to be the first of many men named Raj I would meet on my trip. I’m not sure anyone in India is actually named Raj.

As he drained our third bottle, Sunil/Raj turned the conversation back to sex. “I saw this film from Europe,” he began. “Two women have sex. Does this happen in America?”

Surprised and stupidly buzzed, I let my guard down. “Yes, it does. I’m sure it happens in India, too.”

Sunil looked at me skeptically before continuing. “The women had a dick, a plastic dick. Do they have those in America?”

I burst out laughing. I knew I was giving him a terrible impression of American conversational propriety, but I couldn’t help it. “Do you have one?” he pressed.

I sobered up. “I don’t want to talk about that,” I said. “Let’s go.”

After the frigid restaurant, the night air was a warm blanket. Drowsy and drunk, I followed Sunil back to the main road and down to the sea. We sat on a stone wall with the ocean stretched out before us. Ornate horse-drawn carriages pulled tourists along Marine Drive. Sunil pointed out the pearl-like lampposts dotting the perimeter of the bay. “This is called the Queen’s Necklace,” he told me. “Each light is a jewel.”

Sunil touched my hand, and then pulled his hand away quickly. I looked at him. This is ridiculous, I thought. I am 33 years old and this boy is 25. I’m intoxicated, I don’t know him and he obviously wants things to go further. I need to leave.

I thought of the walk back to my hotel, more than a mile, and felt the sluggishness of alcohol in my limbs. Maybe I could wait a little longer and sober up.

I looked at the moon, shining down on the Gateway to India. A part of me felt giddy about the whole situation: sitting on the edge of the sea in Mumbai, drunk on foreign beer, next to a young Indian man who obviously wanted to make out. Was this really my life now? I didn’t feel attracted to Sunil, but a part of me wanted to kiss him out of some “carpe diem” impulse. Seize the boy.

Then he spoke. “So, remember when I told you about that film I saw with the two women?”

No. This was not going to happen. I was not going to be the slutty Western woman Indians expected me to be. “Why do you keep asking me about sex?” I asked angrily. “It’s not polite.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I think I can ask you anything. You are my rock. I can ask you about these movies.”

“No, you can’t,” I said. “I have to go now.”

He insisted on negotiating a cab for me, since Indians get better prices than tourists. I agreed and he flagged one down and talked to the driver for a few minutes in Hindi before turning back to me. “He says 100 rupees. It’s more because it is night.” Sunil looked apologetic. This was not a great price.

“Fine,” I said. I just wanted to be back in my hotel room. He held the door open for me and I slid into the backseat. Then he jumped in too.

I hadn’t expected this. As we rode up Marine Drive, Sunil began talking about how we should go to Elephanta Island in the morning.

“I can’t,” I said. “I’m leaving tomorrow.” This was true, although my train didn’t leave until midnight. Sunil sighed and put his head in his hands with resignation. The taxi turned onto MG road near my hotel.

“I guess I will sleep on the street tonight,” he said. I felt confused. This was clearly a ploy to get an invitation to my room, but it was probably also true.

“No,” I said. “Go back to your friends’ house.”

“I can’t,” he said. “It’s too late. The trains don’t run.”

I hesitated as the taxi stopped. I didn’t want to leave him on the street, but there was no way I was inviting him up to my closet-sized room.

“I’m sorry,” I said, as I handed the driver my money. “It was nice meeting you.”

I leaned over and drunkenly hugged him. His fingers wound into my hair and he squeezed me against his torso. I pulled away and jumped out of the taxi. I ran into my hotel without looking back.

Huzzah!

2009-12-11T16:09:00.000-08:00

I finished writing about my first visit to Mumbai a few minutes ago. This feels like a victory because my India book has been moving so much slower than I initially hoped it would. Writing about my first week in India was like taking a road trip across the southern U.S. For awhile you zip through states every few hours--and then you hit Texas. You drive all day, go to sleep, wake up, and you're still in Texas. You're moving just as fast as before, but it feels like you aren't getting anywhere.

That's how the last month of writing this book has been. Work all day, go to sleep, wake up, and I'm still in my first week in Mumbai.

But not anymore! As of this afternoon, the manuscript "me" is finally on that midnight train to Goa. (Whenever I think of the phrase "midnight train to Goa," Gladys Knight and the Pips start singing in my head. Follow the link for awesome afros, bow ties and synchronized backup dancing.)

Next stop, the beach!

Manuscript Tuesday: snow delay!

2009-12-08T13:28:00.000-08:00

Yesterday my usually snow-free hometown was blessed with half a foot of white powder! Our power was out all day, so I was forced to forgo blogging for winter walks, snowman construction and knitting by the fire. (Forced, I tell you!)

Today we have both snow and power, so I humbly offer the next installment of Manuscript Monday on a non-alliterative Tuesday. Today's story involves the Indian festival of Navratri, which celebrates Shakti, the divine feminine, with nine nights of revelry in October.

I awoke at sunset. I felt refreshed, but annoyed that I’d guaranteed myself another sleepless night with “The Nanny” by failing to stay awake all day. It was too early for dinner, so I headed to the internet café to check my e-mail.

While I was sleeping, the bustling five-lane road in front of my hotel been transformed into a discotheque. Two large flatbed trucks were parked in the far lane. The first carried a wall of speakers large enough to amplify a concert at the Hollywood Bowl. They were piled precariously high, anchored by a quartet of men lounging on top. Judging by the men's smug smiles, these were the VIP seats.

Two long ropes stretched from the back bumper of the first truck to the front bumper of the second truck, forming the rectangular borders of an improvised dance floor. About 100 people, mostly women, were squeezed into this roped-off nightclub, dancing wildly to Indian pop music.

I wanted to get closer to the action, but the rush-hour traffic was moving too fast. A steady stream of cars and scooters veered around the parked trucks, accelerating impatiently past the curb where I stood. I began a little dance of my own: Step into the gutter with my left foot. Then my right foot. Lean into the road. Yow! Jump back! (James Brown would have been proud.)

Unbeknownst to me, I had an audience. A bus driver sitting in his parked tour bus had been watching me execute this curbside cha-cha underneath his windshield. Once his amusement wore off, he decided to take pity on me.

He disembarked and stood next to me, silently. Our eyes met. He gestured forward with one arm and began boldly crossing the street with the supernatural traffic reflexes of a native Mumbaiker. I was very certain I would pass out from fright if I looked at the oncoming headlights, so I narrowed my focus to the crisp short sleeve of his shirt. I kept pace with him as we haltingly progressed across four lanes of speeding vehicles. No one slowed for us; we simply found spaces between their rushing paths. As soon as my feet touched the safety of the sidewalk, my crossing guard disappeared into the crowd.

I looked up to find myself staring into the eyes of a goddess. The bed of the rear truck held an altar to the goddess Durga. She was dressed in shocking pink robes, topped with an elaborate gold crown and armloads of fresh marigold leis. Electric lights, gold columns and a pink lotus-flower chandelier formed a pastel Easter-egg universe around her.

I was mesmerized. Here was an image of female strength unprecedented in my world. Christian goddesses, when acknowledged at all, were generally seen wearing chaste robes and nursing babies. Riding a lion, Durga carried a sharp trident in one hand and swung an ornate hatchet in one of three others. Obviously, there was more to this female force than piety and childcare.

With the irrational adoration of a child, I wanted Durga to be my Indian mother. I’d spent the whole week scurrying from hotel room to restaurant, dodging the stares of strangers and feeling homesick. Now I wanted Durga to use her axe to cut a path through this busy, draining country and show me what I was supposed to be doing here. Where was my purpose? Who and what needed my love here?

I had no idea how to ask her. I wasn’t even sure how to pray here in rush-hour traffic with Punjabi techno rattling my eardrums.

Confused, I fell back on the familiar role of tourist and attempted to take her picture. Shot after shot, my camera refused to focus. Clearly, this was not the way to embrace her. There was nothing to do but dance.

I walked around to the front of the truck to watch the worshippers. They leapt and shimmied inside the roped-off dance floor with an abandon rarely seen in public India. Light bounced off the gold sequins on their saris, off sweat glistening on brown skin, off their bright ecstatic eyes.

Music vibrated through the concrete sidewalk and right through my body like a sonic massage, erasing all fatigue. I wanted to dance, but I held back. I’d read that some religious events in India were “Hindus only” and I didn’t want to offend anyone. I searched the crowd for other tourists and saw none. I touched the rope, longing to join the dance, waiting for permission. I stayed there, swaying my hips slightly, until the trucks began their slow roll down the block with the crowd still dancing along between them. Durga, and my prayer for her aid, slipped away.

Freed of the dance-party bottleneck, the traffic resumed its five-lane frenzy in front of my hotel. I was stranded on the other side. I took a step off the curb, looked at the speeding cars, and stepped back onto the sidewalk again. I realized this might take awhile.

Suddenly, the bus driver who’d escorted me across appeared at my side again. It seemed incredible that he’d been waiting for me, since he obviously had a job to do, but there he was. I followed him lane by lane back to the door of my hotel. Then he nodded curtly, without smiling or attempting to make conversation, and boarded his bus again.

I’d failed to articulate my prayers for guidance, but someone was still looking out for me.

You know you're homesick when...

2009-12-02T11:00:00.000-08:00

I found this list in my travel journal, written about two weeks into my trip.

You Know You're Homesick When

1. You weep at the aerial shot of Manhattan in Hellboy 2 while thinking, "America!"

2. You go to see Hellboy 2

3. A fly lands on your arm and you think, "Aw, Francois Fly."

4. You tear up at a techno remix of Bryan Adam's "Summer of '69"

5. You contemplate searching for Wiccan friendship rituals on the internet and you're not Wiccan

6. Your mom offers to drop everything and fly out to meet you after reading your letters

Manuscript Monday: Crashing the Cricket Club

2009-11-30T14:31:00.000-08:00

Towards the end of my first week in Mumbai, I had a wild day that encompassed animal slaughter, sitting at the feet of an elderly guru, and lunching at the members-only Cricket Club of India. I wrote a post about the first two parts of this day while on the road last year, which you can read here.

Today's Manuscript Monday is about the third part, the Cricket Club lunch. A man at the guru's house spontaneously invited my friend Erin and me to join him there. I had never expected to find myself there, so I looked a mess. I was also woefully sleep-deprived because male members of the hotel staff continued to open my door every couple nights and startle me awake. (I suspected word had gone around that there was a naked girl sleeping in room 168, but I made sure to be fully clothed every night after the first invasion.) Needless to say, I was not at my finest in this fine-dining establishment.

Mumbai is truly unpredictable. One hour, I’m slogging through innards in an alley. The next, I’m sitting in a penthouse apartment listening to a guru spell out the secrets of the universe. And the next, I found myself in the members-only bar of the exceedingly posh Cricket Club of India, sipping Foster’s beer while an Indian man from Canada tried his damnedest to pick up my friend under the guise of spiritual communion.

Not just the swankiest digs I’d seen in India, the Cricket Club was fancier than any place I hang out in America. It had chandeliers, white linen tablecloths, classical music and bow-tied waiters. If the Cricket Club was a shining relic of British influence, then I was a Dickensian street urchin who’d snuck in the back door for a crust of bread. This impression was heightened by my wardrobe: wrinkled backpacker khakis, a sweat-soaked T-shirt from Target that insisted on bunching under my armpits, and a tote bag with kittens on it.

Erin looked her usual brand of Indo-California chic in a green-flowered cotton tunic blouse and matching cotton pants. Green glass bangles slid up and down her wrists as she gestured, clinking like tiny champagne toasts.

Not even the cool atmosphere of affluence could stop the Mumbai heat. I blotted my perspiring forehead with wadded up tissues as I listened to the conversation. It suddenly occurred to me that I’d probably never be at this private club again. This urchin was going to have a look around.

I excused myself to use the restroom, and then walked out to the empty cricket green. I stared up at the stadium seating and the oval of blue sky beyond, hazy with urban pollution. I hadn’t seen this much open, unoccupied space since I left America. The vastness was comforting.

I walked back onto the patio and stood outside the glass doors to the dining room, watching wealthy Indian families sitting down for lunch service. I was amazed to see that nearly everyone wore blue jeans, sneakers and silk-screened T-shirts. This basic Western uniform was the height of fashion in Mumbai, even though denim is uncomfortably heavy in the subcontinental summer. Every beggar woman squatting on the sidewalk wore a silk sari, but India’s elite sported jeans and T-shirts.

Was it possible that my own backpacker wardrobe might look fashionable in this context? I entered the pristine white-tiled bathroom and examined my perspiration-soaked attire in the mirror. Yeah, not likely.

I wiped my face with a paper towel and made a futile attempt to arrange my sweat-drenched bangs across my forehead, where they hung like limp seaweed. I was beginning to realize why, in a city of 13.6 million people, I’d never seen one woman with bangs.

I found Erin and our host seated with his friend at a table in the dining room. Our host was in the middle of an anecdote about a Canadian friend who’d had trouble with strange men walking into her hotel room during her first visit to India.

I froze with my beer glass halfway to my lips. Was this an actual phenomenon in India? I said nothing about my own hotel intruders, but listened attentively.

“Well, the trouble was, she was sleeping naked in her room!” Our host laughed and the others joined in. “Come on,” he said, “this is India! Who would sleep naked here?”

I smiled nervously and began twisting the napkin in my lap into improvised origami.

We ordered a slew of dishes from the menu, which offered Indian Chinese food, a cuisine that had completely escaped my awareness until that moment. When it arrived, the food was very much like American Chinese food — sautéed greens, Schezhuan eggplant — with the particularly Indian additions of cauliflower and a hint of curry.

As we ate, our host directed his attention towards Erin. He was a smooth talker and somehow found a way to pepper the dominant topic of conversation — their shared guru — with allusions towards his financial prowess and sexual experience, relative to Indian males who had never lived in the west. The word “tantra” was uttered, along with several expressions of sympathy for how lonely she must be as a Westerner living overseas. Erin politely and gently guided the conversation back to more neutral topics until our host grew bored and turned to me.

“So, what do you want from India?” he asked.

I told him I came here with no plans, except to see the country and do some meditation. Just like the man I met in the airport, he rolled his eyes and announced that I should go to Goa instead.

“Enjoy yourself!” he said. He opened his wallet and began removing business cards for restaurants and guesthouses on the beaches of Goa. He spoke like a travel agent, “You can rent a scooter in Candolim, and you have to dine at the Villa Blanche Garden Bakery and Café.”

He slid the cards across the table towards me. I tried to tell him I didn’t really plan on going to Goa, but he acted as if it was a done deal. “Be careful of AIDS and drugs,” he told me with a stern look. “Both are rampant in Goa.”

“You’ll take a lover, of course,” he said, waving his hand in the air. I shot Erin a quizzical expression. She shrugged and grinned back at me. “Stay away from Russians and Israelis,” he said. “They are too rough. And Russians can’t speak English anyway.”

He studied my sweating face intently. “You would do well with an Italian,” he said thoughtfully. “Yes! Find an Italian! Have fun with him, but don’t expect too much.”

I twisted my napkin into a tiny ball. Take a lover? Please! I may not know why I’d been called to India, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t to date. For six months, I’d only packed one plain bra and not a single dress or bit of make-up. I’d had no luck with love in America and I sure as hell wasn’t looking for more in India.

I was here to feed orphans or meditate on a mountaintop, or something noble like that. All I needed now was a clear sign, which would be a lot easier to hear if everyone I met didn’t keep telling me to go to Goa.

I was ready for a God-ordained mission and all anyone said was, “Relax! Enjoy!” Even the guru had said we should be comfortable while meditating and have a beer if we wanted. I watched our host fill my glass with the last of the Foster’s and signal the waiter for more.

We finished our meal with custard-apple ice cream. The men wanted to linger at the club, but we excused ourselves and took a cab back to Erin’s flat. She was leaving the next day for Malaysia, on a two-week reporting assignment for a business travel magazine. I was more than a bit nervous to part with the only friend I had in India, but she’d promised to set me on the right path with one of her professional tarot readings before she left. We were bound to discover my calling that way. Full up on Chinese food and flattery, it was time to get serious.

Bollywood serenade

2009-11-24T12:13:00.000-08:00

I just about fainted from nostalgia when I watched this video of Bindi Girl's rickshaw ride through the streets of Varanasi. It wasn't just because the sights and sounds of metropolitan India made me long for the subcontinent, but because the rickshaw driver is playing my very own Bollywood theme song!

On Christmas Day last year, "Ghajini" opened in theaters throughout India and quickly broke all box-office records. The highest grossing Indian film in history, "Ghajini" is the Hindi version of the American film "Memento." The original story is about a man who goes on a revenge spree after thugs beat him severely and murder his true love. The beating left him with no memory, so he tattoos clues on his body and re-reads his killing mission in the bathroom mirror every morning. It's dark, friends.

"Ghajini" keeps the same plot, but adds a fair amount of Bollywood-style singing and dancing, a charming "mistaken identity" romance, and a rescued train full of orphans. That might sound like a narrative mess, but it is awesome.

One of the hit songs from this film is called "Bekha" - which means something like "temptation" and is pronounced exactly like my name. The movie was so popular that the song was constantly on the radio and my friends often sang it to me.

See the whole "Bekha" dance number from the film right here, complete with sports cars, chorus girls, and Mumbai's Gateway to India.

Manuscript Monday: Meeting Bindi

2009-11-23T13:03:00.000-08:00

Today's excerpt is about Bindi Girl, a wonderful writer and intrepid India explorer who appeared in my life exactly when I needed her. Her amazing blog is here. I found it invaluable when I was preparing for my trip. While most of her stories have since been deleted, the good news is that they are being compiled into a book, The Adventures of Bindi Girl. In the meantime, Bindi is always creating new entries, with video and music and adorable photos of her amphibious roommates. While we're on the subject of blog entries, here's the latest from me:

I paused behind the glass double doors separating the Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport from the rest of India. From this viewpoint, it looked as if all of the country’s 1.1 billion residents had gathered immediately outside, restrained only by a wall of waist-high metal barriers painted a dazzlingly bright yellow. There were old women with henna-streaked buns and candy-colored saris, strong men carrying children on their shoulders, bustling porters and chauffeurs holding up signs. Everyone pressed against the barriers, waving and shouting at the weary travelers emerging from the terminal.

The sky was a mass of churning licorice-colored storm clouds. Each time the automatic doors slid open, a blast of hot air slapped my face and shook more beads of sweat from my brow. Slick raindrops splattered onto the asphalt behind the crowd, which pressed closer to the barriers in an effort to squeeze under the awnings.

I was frozen. I suddenly had no idea why I’d come to India or what to do next. I wanted nothing more than to turn around, curl up in a chair in the airport lobby, and sleep for a week.

And then I saw her, parting the thronging masses and presenting herself at the yellow barrier without so much as a hair out of place in her bun. She was taller than most of the crowd, and her long black skirt and sleeveless white-flowered top stood out starkly against the sequined rainbow of colors the other women wore. With tanned skin, black hair and stacks of bangles tinkling on her thin wrists, she almost looked Indian, but her open smile was all California.

Bindi Girl had arrived. She was waving at me.

Bindi Girl is the nom de blog of Erin Reese, a former corporate headhunter turned wandering travel writer and freelance astrologer. She fell in love with India after her first trip there in 2002 and now lives there permanently.

Erin is also the daughter of the girlfriend of a guy who went to elementary school with my mother’s boyfriend. If that sounds like a tenuous connection, it is.

I’d never heard of Erin or Bindi Girl when I decided to come to India. When I told my family about my plans for a six-month walk on the other side of the world, my mother searched her vast suburban social network for evidence that anyone’s child had done such a thing and lived. Within a week, I had an e-mail from Erin in my in-box. She sent it from an internet café on the beach in Gokarna, where she was living in a hut. She had never met my parents and wasn’t entirely sure how we were connected, but she was planning a trip to San Francisco in a few months and wondered if I’d like to meet for chai. She attached a link to her blog.

I read every entry — six years’ worth — in a week. I learned so much about her that I actually felt nervous driving across the Bay Bridge on the afternoon of our meeting, as if I was interviewing a celebrity. On the passenger seat was a notebook full of questions: Should I take malaria pills? What’s the best price for a room in a guesthouse? How, for the love of Ganesha, do you go to the bathroom without toilet paper?

Erin was house sitting for some friends, and I found her sitting on the front stoop of their San Francisco Victorian. She wore flowing Indian garments of lime green and teal — colors rarely spotted amid the somber earth tones preferred by Bay Area residents. Her signature pink scarf, visible in nearly every self-portrait on the Bindi Girl blog, fluttered around her neck. Red Sanskrit letters raced up and down its folds like an indecipherable fortune.

Erin beckoned me indoors, made chai, and then curled up on the couch to patiently answer my questions. She recommended destinations and religious festivals. She unpacked her Indian salwaar kameez suits for me to admire. She even went so far as to squat in the middle of the living room and pantomime pit-toilet etiquette.

It hardly seemed I could ask for more, but she promised to meet me at the Mumbai airport in October, if she possibly could. I drove away feeling slightly more confident about my travel plans and infinitely more grateful for the intervention of my mother in my life.

Erin and I communicated sporadically in the weeks before my departure. Through her letters, I got my first indication that Indian travel was an unpredictable beast. The day before I boarded my flight, I received a final e-mail: “Just confirming that I'll be there for you on Wednesday,” she wrote. “If I can't come into the airport, I'll be at the nearest doorway. If you can't find me at any exit by, say, 11:45 a.m., look for me at the prepaid taxi booth, OK? If I'm not there, then there has been an emergency and I will leave a message for you at your hotel. If you don't see me by 12 noon... no, let's say 12:30, I would suggest taking a prepaid taxi to your hotel. Of course, there will be absolutely no problem!”

I’d written down these contingency plans, but in a city of 13.6 million people and legendary traffic problems, the chances of our meeting began to seem dishearteningly slim.

Now, the sight of her freed my paralyzed feet. I ran outside and hugged her over the barrier like a long-lost relative, even though we’d only met once before.

A seasoned budget traveler, Erin had arrived at the airport via two buses and a lengthy walking stretch – which cost about 50 cents. She made it a rule to avoid taxis, which were 10 times more expensive than buses, but subject to the same traffic delays. I wanted to prove myself a brave and thrifty sojourner, but I was rapidly fading under the combined beat-down of heat, rain, jet lag, and backpack weight. Erin watched me swaying on my feet, sweat running into my eyes, and declared a taxi to be the best option.

“I’ll pay for it,” I said gratefully, even though I didn’t have any Indian currency and wasn’t sure when I’d have the opportunity to get some.

I followed her to the pre-paid taxi stand. The beige-uniformed man behind the plate-glass window fired questions at us in thickly accented English. What district were we going to? Did we want air conditioning in our cab? Did we have bags?

I had trouble keeping up, but Erin answered him quickly. Fort District. No A/C. One bag. She handed him a 500-rupee note and received a handful of change and a receipt.

As we walked away, Erin explained that the pre-paid taxi booths, found at every major airport and train station in India, exist to protect travelers from predatory drivers and financial scams by offering fixed-price rides to the city. Then she counted her change, turned sharply, and headed back to the booth, where she calmly collected the extra 40 rupees the clerk had “forgotten” to give her.

“Always count your change anyway,” she told me.

Erin walked briskly towards the airport parking lot as I stumbled in a zig-zag path behind her, like a baby turtle just learning how to balance my home on my back. We slipped into a maze of identical black-and-yellow taxicabs distinguishable only by brightly colored window decals proclaiming each driver’s religious affinity. Jai Ganesha! Sai Baba! Infant Jesus! Every cab wore a unique assemblage of plastic dashboard deities, religious stickers, and flower leis dangling from the rearview mirrors.

Erin matched the number on our receipt to the license plate of our cab. She leaned into the window and woke up our driver, who was napping open-mouthed in the backseat.

Looking mildly annoyed at the interruption of his afternoon siesta, the driver pulled my pack off my back and stuffed it into the tiny trunk of his taxi. He slammed the trunk door. It popped open again. He slammed it repeatedly until it finally stayed shut. Satisfied, he climbed into the driver’s seat and gestured for Erin and I to get in back.

Erin repeated our destination, “Hotel New Bengal! Fort District! Fort!” I groped about vainly for a seat belt. The driver started the car, shifted into reverse, and immediately laid on the horn. In the subsequent 90 minutes it would take us to inch our way out of the rainy plains of North Mumbai and into the arid heat of the Back Bay coast, he almost never let up.

Neither did anyone else on the road. Within minutes, our cab was ensconced in a city-wide traffic jam in which thousands of cars, motorcycles, scooters, buses, ox carts and bicycles vied to get in front of every other vehicle on the road without regard for lanes, signs or traffic lights. Everyone honked the entire time. It would have been terrifying, if our cab had ever topped 10 miles per hour.

I could have stayed home

2009-11-22T11:02:00.000-08:00

Reality check from "Get Fuzzy" this morning. Apparently, you don't have to go anywhere to write a travel memoir. Also, the people who write them are idiots. I'm still laughing.

(Click to enlarge.)

A weekend of words

2009-11-19T08:36:00.000-08:00

There are two great spoken-word events at Luna's Cafe this weekend. Tonight is the release party for the latest issue of WTF? from Rattlesnake Press. I have a poem in there somewhere, as do many talented Northern California artists. The party and the zine are free, so drop in whenever. The reading begins at 8 p.m. at 1414 16th Street in Sacramento.

Saturday night I'm reading on a bill overflowing with amazing women: Beth Lisick, Michelle Tea, Tara Jepsen, Rachel Leibrock, Barbara Noble and the feminist collective Stop Being a Fucking Creep. The show starts at 9 p.m. and tickets are $10. Hope to see you there!

Notes from the vision quest

2009-11-18T13:28:00.000-08:00

Here is a snapshot of the notes I took during the "vision quest" workshop that gave me the idea to travel to India. (That story is here.)

I ripped them out of my official workbook and carried them in my backpack on my entire trip, right next to my passport and vaccination records. Whenever I felt lost, I consulted them for inspiration. It helped to recall my initial reasons for traveling, although I often got frustrated when I read the part that said, "When you get there, you will learn/know."

I pretty much expected to be met by some guru or international activist at the airport and immediately shepherded into my life's calling as a relief worker or a rural school teacher. What actually happened was a lot more nebulous than that. I am still trying to figure out the lesson of it all.

Stay tuned.

Manuscript Monday: Enlightening backstory

2009-11-16T16:01:00.000-08:00

I have sporadically attended the same church in Sacramento for almost seven years, even though I don't have any religious affiliation. It's a "many paths one God" loosey goosey Unity church called Spiritual Life Center. (I secretly call it the First Church of Whoville, because of the way everyone holds hands and sways back and forth when we sing at the end of every service.)

I sincerely love the welcoming atmosphere of this church, but I am very shy there. I sing my heart out in the pews, but I rarely talk to anyone. I scurry away as soon as services are over, unless there are particularly delicious cookies in Fellowship Hall next door.

One day, after more than a year of unemployment and general confusion about my life, there were cookies. I don't remember what kind they were, but they changed my life.

I wandered into Fellowship Hall for a free cookie and instead found myself in line for a vision quest. In honor of Spiritual Life Center’s 10th anniversary, everyone was invited to join one of several meditation groups. The groups would meet in members’ homes with a trained facilitator to consider the question, “What does God want for me and for Spiritual Life Center?” The idea was to come up with future goals for the church’s next decade.

I was a back-pew lurker with a spotty attendance record. I knew I had no business determining the direction of the church, and I’d been ignoring the minister’s “SLC Vision Quest” announcements for weeks. Yet here I was, on the last day for sign-ups, spontaneously filling out a registration form and accepting an orientation packet. What was I doing?

I was still asking myself this question 10 days later, when I entered the lovingly furnished living room of a charming churchgoing couple and affixed a “Becca” name tag to my chest. I was the youngest person in the room by at least 20 years, and the only one who was not a confirmed member of Spiritual Life Center. I munched baby carrots and sipped iced tea as I listened to the others talk about church logistics—the need for reliable volunteers, options for a larger office space—and wondered for the millionth time what I was doing there.

The group facilitator distributed our official Vision Quest workbooks and asked us to prepare ourselves for guided meditation. We were to sit with our eyes closed and listen to a CD recorded by the church’s minister, with our workbooks and pens on our laps. When prompted, we would open our eyes and answer the workbook questions with the first thing that came to mind. Our facilitator stressed the importance of letting whatever thoughts we had flow onto the page without judgment.

I closed my eyes and followed the CD’s deep breathing exercises. My minister’s soothing voice lulled me into a feeling of trust I’d missed entirely during the last tumultuous year. I wanted to curl around my meditation cushion and nap right there.

On the CD, our minister asked us to imagine a time when we felt perfectly loved. I immediately pictured my parents’ shaggy black dog Dilin - the way he stood on his hind legs and bounced with excitement whenever I entered my parents’ house, even if he hadn’t seen me for months. I imagined my mom telling me how much she’d missed me since the last time we met. I saw her blue eyes shining with affection.

This kind of love is the way God feels about us, the minister told us. He paraphrased God’s description of Jesus in the Bible: “You are my child, in whom I am well pleased.”

This was almost too much to swallow. I could barely believe God was aware of my tiny existence, let alone took joy from my life. With a love like that behind me, what might I become? Tears sprang to the corners of my eyes. I wiped them away.

The CD continued and I silently prayed along with it: “God, tell me in words so clear that they leave no room for doubt. What is your vision for my life?” I wanted the answer more than anything. I was so tired of feeling lost, of struggling for happiness with no real sense of purpose. I picked up my pen and opened my workbook.

I fully expected to write down some basic morality rules: Work hard, Becca. Try your best. Don’t forget to floss. Give money to homeless people. Go to church more often.

To my amazement, I watched my pen scratch out the following words: “Let go of your apartment and Sacramento. Travel. Go. India. Go. When you get there you will learn/know. Bombay.”

I stared at the page, utterly puzzled. I had never considered traveling to India in my life. I’d met exactly two people who had been there. They’d both gotten malaria. I knew no one there and felt no attraction to it. I wrinkled my nose at the page and thought, “What the unbelievable hell is this?” So much for suspending judgment.

Confused, I flipped to the next page in the book. The question at the top read, “What talents, resources, time and gifts will be necessary for me to commit fully to engage and embody this vision?”

I touched pen to paper and an orderly list formed without any thought on my part:

“Give notice on apartment.
Pare down possessions.
Move in temporarily with friends.
Work and save.
Buy 1-way ticket.
Plenty of notebooks – write and photograph there.
When you get there: be present.
See through God’s eyes.
Find the joy. Write it down.”

Below this, I rapidly scribbled a stream-of-consciousness pep talk: “Give up fear and embrace radical trust, a fresh enthusiasm, the beauty of not having a clue what you’re doing. You are jumping off the cliff early and then you will tell others how you flew. The universe needs radical, unplanned faith and bravery. Show them how to really live – really.”

I watched my pen forcefully underline both “reallys” – even as the naysaying voice in my head began berating me. “You’re going to show people how to really live? You don’t even have a job!”

I turned the paper sideways and wrote in the margin: “India dollars buy time.” I was pretty sure they didn’t have dollars in India. I capped my pen and grabbed another baby carrot.

For a week, I told no one what I had written. It seemed crazy: “I’m moving to India because the voice in my head told me so.” What about my boyfriend? What about my cat? My apartment was the only thing that gave me the semblance of a normal adult life. Now I was supposed to sleep on people’s sofas and live out of a backpack.

As unrealistic as it seemed, it also sounded cliché. Ever since the Beatles flew to Rishikesh to sit with the Maharishi, Westerners romanticized India as this magical country of spiritual enlightenment. You just step off a plane, find a guru, and before you know it, your Kundalini is flowing and you’ve renounced all worldly possessions for the holy life. No more sorrow, ever again. I didn’t want people to think I was going to India to “find myself.” It sounded desperate.

I tried to dismiss the idea, but it wouldn’t leave. I’d asked for instructions in “words so clear they left no room for doubt” and received a very specific to-do list in return. The fact that going to India seemed so random made me trust it more. It didn’t feel like it came from me at all. There was nothing to gain, as far as I could see, by giving up everything and going there. It seemed difficult and very frightening. It seemed like a calling.

It seemed like God, or something beyond me, was on the other end of the phone.

It was what I’d always wanted — and nothing I wanted at all.

Manuscript Monday: Embarrassing backstory

2009-11-09T10:35:00.000-08:00

Here's a secret we world travelers don't often admit: almost no one gives away everything they own, leaves family and friends behind, and flies halfway around the world because their lives are going well. Intrepid international exploration is not born of total domestic fulfillment.

Before I decided to leave for India, I was suffering from burnout due to 60-hour work weeks and a shatteringly dysfunctional love life. Today's Manuscript Monday is a semi-humiliating glimpse at a defining low moment in my life. Uh...enjoy?

I developed frequent migraine headaches, unpredictable crying jags, and the strong desire to do nothing but sleep and eat Tater Tots. In an effort to hide these new behaviors, I abandoned my colorful vintage wardrobe and wore the same gray turtleneck sweater as often as basic hygiene standards allowed. (I nicknamed it my “depression sweater” and I positively hid in it.)

I started seeing a therapist to help me cope with my increasing tendency to weep in my office. I paid $75 a week to weep in her office instead, which seemed more legitimate. Every Wednesday afternoon, I snuck out of work early to sob on her IKEA sofa while she handed me tissues and waited for me to decide my health and happiness were worth more than my job or my boyfriend. A year passed—a year I privately refer to as the Great Depression (Sweater) of 2007.

At the tail end of the GDS, a lovely newlywed couple moved into the apartment next door to mine. They were both in graduate school. They jogged in the mornings and made pancakes on Sundays. They spoke multiple languages and hoped to go into law—the kind that makes the world a better place. They glowed with health, mutual affection, and an impressive aptitude for neighborly small talk.

Two days after they moved in, they left a bottle of wine and a card on my doorstep suggesting we have a cookout. I was completely unequipped to handle such mature and friendly social interaction. In two years at that place, I’d yet to learn the names of my downstairs neighbors.

Common decency said I should return the gesture—and soon. But a cookout? I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten something that hadn’t been shredded and frozen by Ore Ida.

Two weeks passed. I baked them oatmeal cookies, but I burned the bottoms and was too embarrassed to deliver them. (Although not too embarrassed to eat the entire batch while weeping my way through America’s Next Top Model.)

I intended to buy more oats and try again, but another week went by. Then another. Before long, it was obvious I’d officially snubbed my neighbors’ wine overture. The only remaining recourse was to avoid them as much as possible.

It was a poor strategy, but it was all I had. Our apartments shared a back deck, where I often sat to read and meditate. Now, whenever I saw them out there grilling grass-fed beef to accompany their organic merlot, I’d wave and smile, and then draw the blinds so they wouldn’t see me zoning out in front of the TV with a box of tissues.

One Wednesday afternoon, I returned from an appointment with my therapist feeling lower than I ever had. After months of attempting to stall the inevitable by combing through my childhood history and poking at old wounds, our sessions had finally made it clear that I could not recover from the migraines and depression without making major changes. I needed to end my dysfunctional romantic relationship. I had to step away from the job that had taken over my life.

It was as obvious as it was terrifying. My entire identity was based on my work and my romantic status. Without them, who would I be? What would I do for money? What would keep me from ending up homeless and forgotten?

A crying tsunami gathered force behind my eyes as I walked into my apartment. There wasn’t even time to find the depression sweater. I ran down the hall, threw myself on my bed and let it all out. My body shook with loud sobs and moans. I screamed into my pillow. I cried, loud and long, until snot poured down my face in small streams.

After a good 10 minutes of cathartic banshee wailing, I stood up to get some tissue and noticed my bedroom windows were open. I’d left them that way in hopes of catching a spring breeze. The windows stretched across the entire back wall. On the other side of that wall was the deck I shared with my neighbors.

I peered out the windows through red, swollen eyes. My gaze was returned by three smartly dressed couples holding wine glasses. My newlywed neighbors were hosting a dinner party.

I dove onto the floor like a criminal dodging a bullet. I didn’t want them to see me, even though it was obvious they already had. My God, I thought, how long had I been sobbing? Had I uttered any profanity? Perhaps more importantly, how was I going to get out of my bedroom now?

I scooted on my belly towards the door and peeked around the corner. Damn! The door to the deck was wide open. I’d left it ajar for my cat, and I could see the couples’ feet just beyond. There was no way to leave my bedroom without walking directly past them.

I pictured myself casually saying hello as I shut the door—with puffy red-rimmed eyes, mascara skid marks across my cheeks, and dried snot flaking off my upper lip. I couldn’t do it. I had to wait them out. I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling.

After acute embarrassment settled into a familiar low-level shame, I began to wonder how things had turned out like this. Why did my neighbors get to be the happily married, upwardly mobile duo while I ended up a hysterical single lady pressed against the floor to avoid social interaction?

Where did I go wrong? I’d asked myself that question over and over during the Great Depression (Sweater) of 2007. So far, it hadn't yielded a helpful answer. Lying there as the dust bunnies hopped by, a new question arose.

If you’re so unhappy with this life, if you’re literally hiding in shame, then why are you holding onto it so hard?

I suddenly knew I could not cry anymore. I could not worm my way through life—or even my apartment—on my belly. I’d been so busy begging for a great cosmic answer to the question, “What should I do?” that I failed to see I had already one: This is not working. Try something else. Anything else.

“Hey, let me show you our new flat-screen!” I heard my male neighbor’s voice call out on the back deck. I listened as the couples filed inside, chatting and laughing. Then I leapt up, pulled the blinds, and went hunting for my sweater.

Despite my epiphany, that night looked the same as all the others in the GDS: bad teen soaps, Tater Tots and tears. But the next morning I woke up, pushed up the sleeves of my depression sweater and wrote a letter of resignation to my boss.

P.S. Here I am, in the middle of the Great Depression (Sweater) of 2007, wearing the famous turtleneck. I carried it with me all the way to India, where I left it under a tree at a Hindu temple in Goa. I wonder who has it now?

Real-life Job Conversations: Part 2

2009-11-05T11:29:00.001-08:00

This summer I had a temporary job in the admissions kiosk at the lake near my house. I spent most of my work hours reading, playing ukulele and trying to keep the Canada geese from running onto the road. Occasionally, I would actually take money from visitors. These transactions usually took about 15 seconds: Someone drives up and hands me $3. I say, "Have a great day!" in a ridiculously chirpy voice. They drive away. End scene.

One afternoon, a man arrived in a black Camaro loaded with fishing gear. He clearly wanted to pay me, but couldn't seem to get his wallet out of his pants--probably because he was holding an open beer in one hand.

As I watched him fumbling with wallet and bills, pausing now and again to sip from the sweating aluminum can, I vacillated between chiding him for driving with an open container and simply offering to hold it for him.

I don't take drinking and driving lightly, but what authority did I have? I was a temporary employee earning minimum wage. Even my parks department polo shirt was on loan. I reasoned that he was probably going to fish for several hours, which would give him a chance to sober up. Still, he was so casual about beer behind the wheel, I felt I had to say something. Hence, today's short and sweet RLJC #2.

Me: Are you actually drinking beer while driving?

Man: Oh! [looks at can in his hand with mild surprise] Well, it’s Coors Light.

Me: Which is beer, right?

Man: Barely. [finally hands me $3] Besides, I only opened it just now.

Me: Fair enough. Have a good day!

Manuscript Monday: Accidental nudity

2009-11-02T14:58:00.001-08:00

Here's a little story about my very first night in India, sleeping in a closet-sized "deluxe" room at the Hotel New Bengal in Mumbai. I spent weeks assembling puritanical traveling outfits to respect Indian cultural modesty, and then ended up flashing my junk to strangers within 24 hours of my arrival. Awesome.

I woke to find my door wide open. The light from the hallway framed the silhouette of a man standing in the threshold. Because my room was the size of a large walk-in closet, this also meant he was standing directly next to my bed.

“Excuse me, madam,” he said. I couldn't see his face, but his voice conveyed the undulating rhythms of an Indian accent. “Excuse me.”

I bolted upright in shock. Unfortunately my sarong, which had become entangled in my legs, did not follow.

My brain delivered conflicting instructions through jet-lagged panic: Turn on the light! Shove him out the door! Cover your boobs! Find a weapon! Secure your money belt! Cover your boobs! Remember that self-defense workshop in college! Scream for help! Dear God, cover your boobs!

I scrambled over the sleeping bag, tugging at the sarong in a vain effort at modesty, accidentally uncovering my rear as I pulled it off my feet while trying to hide my breasts. I’d awoken to find myself the lead actress in a terrible slapstick/porn hybrid.

“What are you… get the… out… shut the door!” I sputtered as I tied the sarong around my chest. I managed to cover my NC-17 parts, but remained scandalously underclad by Indian standards. I leapt off the bed and flipped on the light.

The man continued to stare without expression. “Excuse me, madam,” he said again, as if uncertain whether he had my attention.

“What is it?” I asked, attempting an authoritative tone I hoped conveyed a zero-tolerance policy towards rape and robbery.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought the room was vacant.”

I stared in disbelief. Even if he somehow failed to notice the “Do Not Disturb” sign as he moved it aside to open the door, the sight of me sleeping in bed should have confirmed occupancy.

“What is it?” I said again, as his eyes bounced back and forth from my bare shoulders to my naked thighs to my underwear drip-drying on the air conditioning unit.

“Water, madam,” he said, finally. He pointed down the hall. A puddle had formed in a shallow dent in the floor, clearly fed by a thin stream running out from under my door.

“Oh,” I said, with equal parts relief and confusion. I had no idea why my room was leaking, but I was delighted this man had a legitimate reason to wake me—other than a free international peep show.

I glanced in the bathroom. The faucets were off. Then I noticed my depression sweater drying on the back of the door. Its runoff had generated the hallway spring.

“I’m so sorry,” I told the man as I moved the sweater into the bathroom, which had a drain set in the tiled floor. “I’ll clean up the water in the hall.”

“No, no, no, madam,” he said. “Goodnight. And please lock your door.”

“I will,” I said, even though I thought I already had. I closed the door behind him and turned the lock until I heard it click. I contemplated getting dressed, but the room was uncomfortably hot. Besides, the door was definitely locked now. I laid the sarong over me like a sheet and stared at the whirring ceiling fan until I drifted back to sleep.

Thirty minutes later, I heard the sound of my doorknob turning. I sat up in bed, clutching the sarong to my chest and yelling, “No! No! Shut the door! Do not open the door!”

Light from the hallway flooded into the room. A different Indian man stood in my doorway, staring at me in bed.

“Excuse me, madam,” he said.

I leapt off the bed and slammed the door. He began knocking insistently. “Madam?” I could hear him calling from the other side.

“Hold on!” I yelled. I dug a pair of pants and a shirt from my backpack and got them on as quickly as I could. I reopened the door. The man still had his hand up, mid-knock. He lowered it quickly.

“Excuse me, madam. I thought no one was in the room.”

I stared at him.

“Water, madam,” he said, pointing at the puddle in the hallway. When the first man refused to let me clean it up, I’d assumed he meant he would do it. But there it was, glistening in the hallway with the same telltale trail leading to my door.

“Oh! Yes, I know,” I said to the man, who was staring at my drying bras and underwear. I fought off a deepening sense of déjà vu as I tried to explain. “My laundry was dripping, but it’s OK. I moved it. Another man was here and I thought he said he would clean the water in the hall.”

Nothing in this man’s expression indicated he was following me. “No problem.” I said slowly. “Clothes dry now.”

“OK, madam,” he said with several quick nods. “That is very good.”

“Goodbye,” I said, moving to shut the door.

“Excuse me, madam,” he said again.

I opened the door a crack. “Yes? What is it?”

“You must please lock your door.”

“Thank you,” I said and shut it firmly.

I listened to his footsteps click down the hallway and then I grabbed my towel from the rack in the bathroom. I hated to sacrifice it to the filthy hallway floor, but I was afraid that if I didn’t mop up the puddle, these visits would continue.

I stepped out into the hall, squatted down and sopped up the dirty water. The towel turned a dingy gray. Two Indian businessmen in slacks and button-up shirts passed by, laughing loudly. I wondered if they were laughing at me.

For the third time that night, I secured the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door, closed it and turned the lock until I heard it click. Then I pushed the door handle and watched the door swing open.

Great. Security at its finest.

Happy Halloween!

2009-10-31T11:32:00.001-07:00

There are delightful Halloween cartoons and sassy vintage pin-up witches over at Retrocrush. (The Crazy Pumpkin Dance is a new seasonal favorite for me.)

Super-genius Rob Cockerham of Cockeyed.com is sweeping the local costume contests again this year with his latest creation.

If you can't decide what to haunt tonight, apparate over to Luna's Cafe around 9 p.m. Christopher Fairman, Frank Andrick and I will open the show before the supernaturally talented David Houston serenades our restless spirits. For a preview of David's music, check out this video.

Happy Hauntings everyone!

Who was your perfect monster?

2009-10-29T09:48:00.000-07:00

In Lynda Barry's amazing book "What It Is" she writes about her fascination with Medusa, or the Gorgon, as a child.

"I made plans for how to defend myself from her. I'd scare myself with the thought of seeing her behind me in the mirror--of accidentally looking at her face. She paralyzes you. You have to cut off her head without looking at her face. Sometimes I managed and other times she got me. I'd practice being paralyzed and turning into stone. Sometimes I did this in front of my mother to see if she would notice."

Barry believes most kids have one specific monster that scares them more than anything else, something they have to practice fighting off. And her theory is that kids need these monsters - these imaginary threats - to work out the real fears in their lives.

"I sat through The Gorgon twice," she writes, "because the first time she got her head cut off, I looked away -- and I realized it was something I needed to see. Something I needed to know how to do.

That I had a very gorgon-like mother never occurred to me, and if it had, I would have been lost... We never need certain monsters more than when we are children. And a furious woman with terrifying eyes and snakes for hair was the perfect monster for me.

What was yours?"

My monster is probably pretty familiar to all children of the 1980s.

Freddy Krueger kept me awake for more nights than I can count. I was terrified of him, but that didn't stop me from seeing all of his movies. I even had a poster from Nightmare on Elm Street 3 with Freddy's sneering face peering out over his razor fingers. I hated looking at the poster and I kept moving it to different corners of my room so I couldn't see it from my bed, but I didn't take it down for years.

I started writing about Freddy this week, for my upcoming performance at David Houston's Halloween show on Saturday night at Luna's Cafe. In the process, I've become a little obsessed with asking everyone I know about their childhood monsters.

Which monster scared you the most as a child? Why do you think that was?

Manuscript Monday: Welcome to Mumbai. Now leave.

2009-10-26T10:00:00.000-07:00

Welcome to the first Manuscript Monday! Every Monday I'll post a little excerpt from the roughest of rough drafts of my book about traveling in India. I have no idea if any of these will make it into the finished draft, but they're here for you, nonetheless.

Today's tiny morsel is set in the Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport. I'd been in Mumbai for about two minutes before someone told me to leave:

Still dressed for foggy London Town in khaki pants and a turtleneck sweater, I stepped off the plane and into the humid monsoon heat of October in Mumbai. I walked to the baggage claim, sweating off about 25% of my body weight in the process. I stared at the rickety black-rubber conveyor belt, praying my orange backpack—which I’d last seen in the arms of a baggage handler at LAX—would return to me.

Heat and sleep deprivation had decimated my critical thinking abilities. A small, but vocal portion of my brain began pointing out obvious sights, like an overzealous tour guide. “That’s an Indian security guard!” it yelled. “And over on your right, those are genuine Indian luggage carts!”

A young businessman standing next to me interrupted this useless orientation to ask where I was from. I recognized him from the plane. He’d sat one seat away from me for the last 9 hours and I was pretty sure I'd accidentally elbowed his skull on my way to the bathroom, but we hadn’t spoken a word until now.

“I’m from the U.S.,” I said, trying to smile politely as sweat poured down my face.

“Really?” he said, sounding disappointed. “If I had known you were from America, I would have talked to you before.”

I wasn’t sure what to make of this, but he just continued talking. He was from Mumbai, he told me, but he lived in California now. He was visiting his family, but as soon as possible he was going to ditch them to vacation with friends in Goa.

“Have you been to Goa?” he asked.

I shook my head no. Everything I’d heard about the Indian state of Goa involved raves, drug overdoses and crowded beaches full of jet skis and Western-style bars. Goa was third on my list of places to avoid in India, right under leper colonies and religious riots.

“Isn’t Goa where all the tourists go to party?” I asked skeptically. I inflected the word “tourist” with a subtle disdain, to demonstrate that I considered myself a more serious, soulful kind of traveler.

“Yes!” he said emphatically. “It’s great! You should meet me there!”

“I don’t think so,” I said carefully. He was already writing his phone number out on a slip of paper.

“No, you must! What else are you going to do in India?”

I told him I’d planned two weeks in Mumbai, followed by a 14-day silent vipassana meditation course in the mountains. After that, I wasn’t sure.

He made an exasperated noise and shoved his phone number in my hand. “Mumbai is dirty. People live on the streets,” he said. “Come to Goa. It’s beautiful.”

“Look! Our bags are here!” I pointed to my orange backpack inching its way down the conveyor belt. His determination to change my plans after two minutes of conversation was unnerving. I felt grateful for a distraction.

I slung my hefty pack over my shoulder and nearly toppled sideways from the weight as he looked on with amusement. His bag was nowhere in sight, so I took the opportunity to part company. I stuffed his phone number, already damp with sweat, into my pocket. I waved goodbye and wobbled purposefully towards the nearest exit.

I'd staggered most of the way across the terminal before I heard him shout my name.

“Becca!”

I turned to see him standing with his feet apart, holding a black suitcase, as hundreds of Indian families and businessmen rushed by in all directions. Our eyes met.

“Don’t waste your time in Mumbai!” he yelled.

I nodded, completely befuddled by this anti-welcome, and made my way outside.

Real-life Job Conversations: Part 1

2009-10-23T11:08:00.000-07:00

I quit full-time journalism a couple of years ago to experiment with a new strategy: working relatively mindless part-time jobs to free up my brain for creative writing projects. Since then, I've paid the bills by packaging books for a mail-order company, handing out food samples in supermarkets, selling organic soda, manning the admissions gate at a lake near my house, buying and re-selling used clothes, making nachos at a concessions stand, and a number of other gigs on the less-glamorous side of the employment spectrum.

This has given me more time for writing - especially because I have much less money to go out with. It's also brought me a new appreciation for the bizarre interactions that happen in customer service. Thus, I present to you the first in an occasional Fool's Compass series: Real-life Job Conversations.

Today's RLJC takes place in a Raley's supermarket in Placerville, CA. I was distributing free scoops of Ciao Bella chocolate hazelnut gelato when an elderly woman approached my table...

Woman: [stares at the samples on my table] What is it?

Me: It's Ciao Bella gelato. This is the chocolate hazelnut flavor.

Woman: But what is it?

Me: It's gelato. It's like Italian ice cream.

Woman: But what is it?

Me: Ice cream. It's just ice cream.

Woman: What do you do with it?

Me: What do you do with ice cream? Well, it's a dessert. You know, ice cream?

Woman: But what is it?

Me: It's ice cream. It's... um, a frozen dessert. It's sweet.

Woman: But what...

Me: [interrupting] Do you want to try it?

Woman: OK. [takes a bite] Eww! It's cold!

Me: Um, I think it's time for my break now, so ... yeah.

Ask and ye shall receive

2009-10-15T10:26:00.000-07:00

I got a God in the mail today!

I've started writing a book about my experiences in India. It's my first serious attempt at a looooong piece of writing and, frankly, it's scaring the ink out of me. A couple of weeks ago, I woke in the middle of the night with only one thought in my head: "If I am writing a book, I need Ganesh."

Ganesh is a Hindu deity, a jovial elephant-headed boy often called India's most popular God. He is "the remover of obstacles" and he's also the God of Writers. Ganesh is usually depicted holding a broken piece of his tusk in one of his four hands, which he uses as a writing implement. Like all artists, he creates from parts of himself!

I e-mailed my friend Erin, who lives in India and chronicles her life in the amazing blog Bindi Girl. I asked her to please mail me a Ganesh. The Indian postal system can be fraught with difficulties, but Ganesh lived up to his reputation as the remover of obstacles by arriving in perfect condition and record time.

Even better, my Ganesh is POP-UP! Check out the 3D trunk and ears!

I am truly grateful to Erin for helping connect me to India and to her own travel-writing badassery. This week, I've been writing about our first meeting in India. She helped me cross the insanely busy streets of Mumbai and bought me my first masala dosa!

May you all be blessed with such patient guides when you step out on your adventures.

Leap of faith

2009-10-12T11:47:00.000-07:00

There's more than one way to jump off a cliff. Sometimes you have to stuff your world into a backpack and hop a plane, but often, life's biggest leaps are internal shifts in consciousness. They happen when you suddenly realize the life you're living is too small for who you've become.

Take stand-up comedian John Ross. He spent two years touring with the Coexist? Comedy Tour, a team of five comedians who tell jokes about their respective religions. Ross was the Christian comic on the tour, until he lost his faith.

I had the opportunity to interview Ross for the Sacramento News&Review about his decision to surrender his Christian identity and search for a new way of relating to God.

“From the beginning I had questions,” Ross said, “but I would just write them off with ‘Our understanding is not God’s understanding.’ Until the last few years. It’s hard to keep doing that.”

You can read the rest of that story here.

You can catch Ross' post-Christian comedy when he hosts Comedy from the Couch every Friday night at the Sacramento Comedy Spot.

And you're welcome to share your own cliff-jumping, life-changing stories at foolscompass@gmail.com. Those of us contemplating big jumps always appreciate inspiration from those who've leapt and lived.

Missed calls

2009-10-08T17:25:00.000-07:00

In India, most cell phones are pre-paid. Phone calls cost 1 rupee per minute, so if you want someone to know you care without spending money, you give them a missed call. Just call and hang up, so your friend's phone registers the attempt.

I met lovers who did this every hour, all day long. One of my friends bragged that he and his girlfriend, who was hundreds of miles away in Kashmir for the winter, had never gone longer than 4 hours without a missed call.

For a handful of rupees, you can also buy a song for callers to hear while they wait for you to answer. The man I dated bought a favorite love song from a current Bollywood hit - Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi - and renewed his subscription faithfully each month of our courtship. He wanted me to call and listen several times a day, but I resisted carrying the phone he gave me. I needed to unplug in India. I wanted to wander the beach, get lost in books, or stop for spontaneous chai with fellow travelers. I refused to be accountable at all hours and often forgot to return his missed calls.

During our morning beach walks, he patiently taught me the Hindi words to our phone song. He asked me to sing it to him over and over.

"I like it so much when you sing, because you don't sing properly," he told me. This embarrassed me - I was trying to sing properly - but I'd still squeak out the lyrics whenever he asked. If I couldn't remember the missed calls, it was the least I could do.

Once I returned to America, it took several days to connect with him overseas. The first time I called and heard the theme song to Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi tinkling through the phone lines, my chest felt suddenly vacant, as if I'd only just realized I'd forgotten my heart at the other end of that call.

Months later, after I canceled my international calling plan, I wrote this poem. You can find it in the most recent issue of WTF?.

Missed Call

Women and men
do not hug
in public India.
Even when one of you
is technically American
and actually flying
to the other side
of the world
from the other one of you.
I want to leap
up on your hips
wrap my arms
around your neck
and cling
until women hide their faces
in embarrassment
and airport security
separates us
with bamboo blows.
Instead I brace myself
for a chaste handshake,
culturally appropriate
in its formal brevity,
but personally
romantically
devastating.
I pull my pack from the idling taxi
and turn to extend my hand.
The driver slams the door
too fast
its metal edge
knocking me dizzy
before our fingers touch.
Your face is already a blur
and I’m not even moving yet.

See what had happened was...

2009-10-05T11:14:00.000-07:00

I haven't updated Fool's Compass in forever. A whole summer. A lifetime in the blogosphere.

I needed a break from writing about India. I fell in love with India when I lived there last winter. More specifically, I fell in love WHILE in India, with a wonderful man I've been too shy to write about here. Then, while spending this summer in California working three jobs and studying Hindi and dreaming only of getting back to him, I fell out of love.

That's not it. There is still love. It's more like I fell out of faith. I could not figure out how to make us work on a practical level. The gap between cultures, languages, and shared dreams is just too large. I can't become someone I'm not -- even as much as I might want to, even for love.

My heart realized this before I did. After I'd been home a few months, I began waking up with tears in my eyes, before I'd even had any conscious thoughts. I sobbed my way through several long-distance phone calls to Himalayan landscapes, much to the confusion of my beloved. "But how will it work?" I'd ask over and over across a crackling phone line. "What will I do there? What will you do here?"

And then, at some point, all the crying stopped. Everything inside me felt still and heavy. I knew it was over. My dream, the love I was throwing all my resources into nourishing, had died. Without my consent.

I no longer found comfort in recounting my India stories here, once I knew I would not return. I retreated into the soothing inactivity of movies and television. I retraced my past with old friends. I rediscovered the American magic of rock shows, frozen yogurt, county fairs, and vintage sundresses. I taught myself to play the ukulele. I read trashy novels and took road trips.

All the while, I wondered, "What on earth am I going to do now?" I kept working my temp jobs and nodding vaguely when people asked about my travel plans.

Now my temp jobs are over. My bank account is full and my plans are uncertain. Thankfully, my heart is lighter. It's been a rough summer, but I've come out the other side with a story to tell. It's a love story. A travel story, about a female adventurer in exotic lands. And it's a true story. My favorite kind.

Who am I when I'm gone?

2009-06-11T17:24:00.000-07:00

During five months of travel through Southern India, people often asked where my family was. It’s unusual to see a woman navigating life alone, and surprised locals always wanted to pin me down.

“Where is your husband?” is a question I faced constantly.

When I answered that I am not married, the natural follow-up was, “Where are your parents?”

I’d answer that they are both in America, but they do not live together.

“Which do you live with?”

“Neither. I live by myself.”

Shock. “By yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Brothers? Sisters?”

“No, I’m an only child.”

“Just you?” This was always said in a tone of disbelief. What parent could ever be happy with such a slim offering?

“Just me.”

Further questions about religion (none), occupation (none), and my travel route (totally unplanned) yielded similarly unsatisfactory answers.

At first, I found their surprise amusing, but after awhile, the constant repetition of these unanswerable questions began to make me feel I didn't quite exist. In India, a person without a family, a home, a job, a faith, or a goal is no one at all.

But I am still here.

More true confessions

2009-06-10T17:33:00.000-07:00

In last week's Sacramento News&Review, I admitted in print that I'm living with my parents. I guess that wasn't enough of an ego boost, so I followed it up with this week's short essay, which my editor titled "Real-life bottom of the employment barrel?" It's about one of my many part-time jobs, handing out free samples in supermarkets.

Standing in public interacting with everyone who passes has its hazards. One customer repeatedly snuck up behind me to “test my reflexes.” Creepy men offer to warm me up when I shiver in the ice-cream aisle. I hear about everybody’s dietary restrictions. Gas, diabetes, indigestion—nothing’s too personal for the coupon girl.

And nothing's too personal for you! Read all about it here. There's also a great cover story by Ted Cox about Sacramento's homeless. It made me tear up a bit. Be grateful for your roof, everybody.

Summertime fun in newsprint

2009-06-06T08:47:00.001-07:00

The Sacramento News&Review Summer Guide is on the stands this week, chock-full of fabulous entertainment ideas to make your summer the most exciting to date!

And then there's my essay on reliving summer in my childhood home, 20 years after I thought I'd left it behind. It offers no entertainment ideas whatsoever. I didn't want to pressure anyone.

To this day, when I hear Alice Cooper announce that “school’s been blown to pieces” or John Travolta sigh over those summer nights, I feel a shiver of the anticipation I felt on the last day of school. When Justin Timberlake insists what we share “just can’t be summer love,” I want to believe him. I want to believe life can seem boundless again, even though I’m an adult with three part-time jobs and the annoying habit of falling asleep before 10 p.m.

Intrigued? Bored at work? Click here for more. Or pick up a hard copy and enjoy the added bonus of dozens of coupons. There are free hamburgers in there, plus an actual coupon for a gram of medical marijuana. Yes, really. Check it out.

Hai-poo found a publisher?

2009-05-18T14:39:00.000-07:00

It's true! Two of my poems - including "Things That Pooped on Me in India" - made it into the latest issue of Rattlesnake Press' quarterly publication WTF. Who knew there was an audience for hai-poo?

If you're in the Sacramento area, check out the WTF release party at Luna's Cafe on Thursday, May 21 at 8 p.m. It's part of the weekly Poetry Unplugged series. Many poets from WTF will be reading, as well as featured performers Monica Storrs and Todd Moore. Admission is free and so is WTF. Score!

Favorite cocktail typos

2009-05-18T14:10:00.000-07:00

There are quite a few bars on the beaches in Goa and each has its own handwritten, chalkboard menu. In a country with 22 official languages, on a beach that caters to tourists from around the world, the spelling is delightfully creative. Thus, I present my favorite cocktail typos:

Tom Calling

No need to drunk dial. Tom beat you to it.

Whiskey Shoots

The most dangerous drink on the beach.

Bloody Merry

I googled "Bloody Mary" in search of a photo of a tomato-based cocktail for this post. I do not recommend doing so, unless there's something about Mary (that makes you want to see her dead).

Pine Colada

Mmmm....needly...

Feel free to post your own from overseas trips or from your local bartender with bad grammar!

Hai-poo for you

2009-05-01T17:55:00.000-07:00

Last night at Luna's Cafe, I "treated" the open-mic audience to a reading of this poem, the first piece I wrote after six months in India. I really wanted to capture the amazing beauty of my adventures, but my mind had other plans. Someday, I'll be a great travel writer. Until then, I give you:

Things that pooped on me in India: a haiku quartet

Rats in the rafters
Droppings descend like snowflakes
Praise mosquito nets!

A wild beach dog
Pees on my water bottle
Tourists point and laugh

Cow smears manure
On my arm in Gokarna
Maybe that’s sacred?

Bird poop in my hair
Japanese think that’s good luck
Indians do not

I thought I might have invented a new genre with "hai-poo", but it seems stand-up comedian Francois Fly beat me to it. There really is nothing new under the sun.

Inventory

2009-03-06T15:39:00.000-08:00

I broke my camera on New Year's Day while using my tote bag as a cushion against a rough rock wall during a sunset sitar concert. Sipping black tea and swaying to the unpredictable melody remains a highlight of my India experiences, though, so perhaps it was worth the loss.

The longer I stay in India, the more American possessions I seem to lose. No price is ever fixed in India, and it seems the country and I are continually haggling over how much I must give to travel here. My iPod disappeared months ago, a casualty of a pit toilet pit-stop on the way to Mysore. My scarves disintegrated. My shoes were stolen or broken or lost. In fact, as I pack to come home - in three days! - I'm amazed at how little remains of what I brought with me.

Back in America, I agonized over ever single item I packed, certain that the omission of bug repellent or a sufficiently warm sweater would mean my doom. Now, my bag is full of colorful floaty clothes, a stack of books and journals, gifts for the folks back home, and not much else. (OK, I did keep the bug spray.)

I really hope this shift in my backpack real estate towards lighter, more creative and generous living, reflects a similar transformation of mind. Keep your fingers crossed.

Countdown to re-entry

2009-02-27T15:51:00.000-08:00

I will be back in California in less than two weeks. This might come as a shock to you. It certainly did to me, even though I purchased my return ticket last September. Six months seemed like a really long time, until I got close to the end of it. Now it seems like a weekend in Tahoe. With monkeys. And the ocean. And casinos that only have Indian restaurants. And yeah, I think this metaphor is officially played out.

Anyway, I land in Los Angeles on March 10. After I return to some semblance of normalcy, and consume my weight in Mexican food and leafy green salads, I will fly up north.

I can't wait to catch up with everyone and share stories, photos and goodies from India. Of course, right now I don't have a phone or a job and all my possessions are in boxes, so I clearly have a few details to take care of before the in-person revelry can begin.

But let's start the virtual revelry right now! Please e-mail and tell me how you are, that you still remember me, what fun we're going to have this spring, how cheap gas is, what brilliant thing Obama just said, what's happening on Gossip Girl, or anything that makes it seem less disorienting to come back to an American recession as an unemployed backpacker.

See you soon!

A treat from the Om Ganesh grocery store

2009-02-05T14:57:00.000-08:00

Homemade assaulted chocolates! For people who like dessert a little rough...

Whiplash smile

2009-01-22T08:49:00.000-08:00

Here's a traveler's tip you won't find in Lonely Planet: If you are the only person in line for the roller coaster at a virtually deserted Thai amusement park on Pattaya beach, there's probably a reason.

The teenaged ride operator was thrilled to have some customers, but my mom and I got terribly battered lurching around the track. We both pretended we didn't understand English to escape the free second ride he offered us.

Ride operator: "You want to go again?"

Us: "What? Sorry... no habla..."

Bangkok Pro Tour

2009-01-20T10:40:00.000-08:00

A family friend owns a golf course in Thailand. Here is photographic evidence of my very first golf swing. Impressive form, eh?

And the follow-through:

Yes, my club is a full five inches above the ball. Please remove it from my hands before I hurt someone.

On Christmas Eve

2008-12-24T18:53:00.000-08:00

In the absence of cards, carols, and my mother's cranberry bread, I decided I had to have a Christmas tree in Arambol this year. For some reason, my Muslim friends got really excited about the possibility.

"Yes!" they said. "You can put it in our shop!"

To prevent incurring the wrath of Allah, I suggested we call it an Eid Shrub. They agreed.

We took a taxi to nearby Mapusa, where vendors sell tiny lights, tinsel, garlands, and cheap plastic ornaments. I stocked up on all of the above and then looked around in vain for a Christmas tree lot. "What do the Indians hang this stuff on?" I wondered.

A few stalls sold fake trees, but I have to carry all my possessions on my back for the next three months. I was hesitant to invest in something I'd have trouble getting rid of.

I carried my lights and garlands back to the source of all my Indian cultural knowledge, the steps of the Blue Fin Guesthouse, and asked my Goan friends for ideas.

"There are pine trees down the beach, towards Mandrem," the guesthouse manager told me. "Go there on Christmas Eve and cut a branch for a tree."

Perfect.

This morning, I did my yoga by Christmas lights (strung up on my window until I got a tree) and headed to the steps with a giant papaya under my arm. My plan: share the papaya in exchange for borrowing some sort of saw/axe implement to aid my hunt for the tree.

I got downstairs and the Blue Fin roomboy looked at me sternly and said, "No papaya this morning!"

I knew he was joking because last night, when they'd seen me carrying the fruit up to my room, all the boys had begged me to stop and cut it open right then. I laughed and asked for a knife and a plate.

"No papaya," he said again. And then he told me why: the old man died last night.

Blue Fin has its own ghost - an old, old German tourist who looks too thin to live and rarely emerges from his room. When he does, he doesn't speak and usually just sits staring quietly at the sea. We've all joked uneasily, more than once, that it's like he came here to die. Last night, he did.

The roomboy found his body this morning. The old man had left his door open, as if he'd known someone should come look in on him.

I took the papaya back upstairs and we all sat on the steps, staring at the sea while policemen in beige uniforms loitered nearby and yelled ineffectually at the beggars on the beach.

When it was clear there was nothing I could do, I decided to look for a tree anyway. I didn't want to trouble anyone for a saw, so I just got up quietly. I edged down the alley, past a black jeep with white letters reading "Hearst-Van."

I found the pine grove about a quarter-mile down the beach. Most of the branches were far too high for me to touch. The few I could reach were spindly and lop-sided. I felt guilty about breaking even one branch off a tree, especially since I doubted these feathery Indian evergreen branches would even stand up straight by themselves. But the sun was hot and I was rapidly losing the reachable options to better-prepared locals with ladders and axes, so I finally grabbed a branch about as wide as my thumb and started pulling.

Christmas or no, the tree did not want me to have this branch. The wood squeaked and splintered, but wouldn't break. I twisted the limb and received a needly slap in the face. I yanked and cursed in a decidedly un-Christian manner as sweat poured down my forehead. Finally, the branch came loose.

I held it up for a proper examination and it listed immediately to one side. It was weak and sparse, evoking nothing so much as Charlie Brown's tiny mishapen Christmas tree. Whatever. It was mine.

I carried it back across the sand to the steps of the Blue Fin. My Muslim friends, my Christmas tree/Eid shrub champions, were nowhere in sight. The Blue Fin manager, who's been celebrating Christmas all his life, stared skeptically at my prize.

"You didn't get a big one?" he said finally.

"I was really limited by what I could reach or break with my bare hands," I said defensively.

"Why didn't you get someone to cut one for you?" he asked, as if the village was crawling with lumberjacks for hire.

I shrugged. He asked me where I intended to put it.

"Right here," I said, pointing to the storefront place of honor we'd already chosen for the Eid/Christmas tree/shrub.

He shook his head. "Maybe you could put it by your room instead," he suggested. (My room is on the third floor, next to the toilet.)

I took the hint and carried my rejected tree upstairs, past the open door of the old man's now-empty room, which reeked of antiseptic.

The roomboy filled a bucket with sand and stuck the spindly little branch inside. It immediately slumped over. He ran to get a bucket of water and made the sand wet. No good. The tree refused to stay up. Undaunted, he lifted it on top of the balcony railing and tied it upright to the building's support post.

"OK?" he asked, looking at me for approval.

"Wonderful," I said. He left and I got out my tinsel and tiny plastic balls and decorated the tree as best I could. The tinsel kept flying off in the wind and the branches couldn't handle more than one ornament and there was nowhere to plug in the lights, but eventually I got it done.

I took pictures of my creation, but the branches were so thin, there was no way to obscure my neighbor's underwear drying on the clothesline behind the tree. As I tried new photographic angles with limited success, the glue gave way on an ornament and the silver ball bounced away onto the roof below.

I put the camera down. This was, without a doubt, the most meager tree I had ever, ever seen.

"Merry Christmas!" a man's voice called out behind me. My European neighbor was grinning shyly at my tree as he walked to his room.

"Merry Christmas!" I called back, waving with a ridiculous amount of enthusiasm, trying to catch the tinsel as it blew off the tree again. Yes, I thought. It's the spirit of the tree that matters! I looked at my humble tree with new, loving eyes and thought about how lucky I am to be decorating any sort of tree on a balcony overlooking the Arabian Sea.

I felt warm in the certainty that Christmas is all about what's inside us, and therefore, I can carry it anywhere I go! The glow of this revelation lasted about five minutes, until my friends began quizzing me about whether I would be dressed properly for midnight mass tonight.

"Yes, yes," I said. "I have a new salwaar kameez I bought special."

My Goan friends looked skeptical. "Better shoes?" they asked. "What about makeup?"

"Um, I have lip gloss?"

They shook their heads. "First the tree and now this," their expressions said. "What is wrong with America?"

"She doesn't need makeup!" my Kashmiri friend defended me. "She's a simple girl!"

Of course, being Muslim and having never attended a midnight mass, his opinion was rapidly discounted.

"Make-up," they repeated decisively.

And there you have it, or rather, me. A simple girl, with a humble tree, who is rapidly learning there is no place like home for the holidays.

I wish you the best and brightest of the Christmas season and a wonderful New Year.

Nothing says merry like an armed police presence

2008-12-21T16:23:00.000-08:00

I recently returned to my beloved Arambol beach, after a brief experiment in ashram living in Mysore, to discover the Grinch is trying to steal Christmas in Goa! Fearing further terrorist attacks, the state government has banned all beach parties between now and January 5. No Christmas celebrations. No New Year's countdown. No fireworks. Earlier this week, police even broke up the open-mic nights at local bars in the village, sending everyone home to bed by 8:30 p.m.

I read an editorial in the local newspaper today that said, "If the terrorists' goal was to spread fear and keep us from exercising our freedom, they certainly got their way."

Yesterday, a little fort-like structure made of sandbags appeared in the middle of the beach. I peered into it, wondering at its purpose. Was it a barrier to launch fireworks from? A makeshift DJ booth?

A Kashmiri friend indentified it immediately. "It's a banker," he said.

"A banker?" I echoed, picturing a professional-looking man in a suit approving home loans.

"Yes, a military banker." Oh, a bunker. For soldiers. With guns.

I wasn't sure what was more sad: that Arambol beach would need a banker/bunker or that my Kashmiri friends, who marvel at unfamiliar sights like the fashion models in my magazines or airplanes in the night sky, were so familiar with the appearance of military intervention.

Factor in continuing economic despair, the sabre rattling between India and Pakistan, and a head cold that's on its second week of residency in my sinuses, and it's tempting to feel a bit "Bah Humbug" about everything. At times like this, I try to take a lesson from the Whos of Whoville and remember that it doesn't matter if the Grinch hordes all your presents and parties in his cave, the holidays live inside us.

So, I walk around humming Christmas carols. I eat too many sweets. (One tradition that's easy to observe in any country!) I'm going to midnight mass on Christmas Eve at the chapel in the village. And I'm wishing you all a merry little Christmas.

Luck is a form of faith

2008-12-19T21:32:00.000-08:00

Last night, there was a Hindu religious festival on nearby Mandrem beach. Due to my poor grasp of Hindi, I can't tell you the name or the significance of the event. Even my Hindu friends seemed vague on the details.

It was close to 11 p.m. when my friends decided to check it out. This seemed a bit late for church to me, but they assured me it would go on all night and reminded me to bring extra money "for gambling."

"Gambling?" I said, fearing I'd misunderstood the invitation. "Where are we going? A casino party?"

"No, no, religious festival. You know, Hindu."

"With gambling?" I asked again.

"Of course," they said, shrugging.

I was sure I'd lost something in translation, but I packed a few extra rupees and we headed out across the sand.

Soon, a giant tent appeared on the horizon, its pyramid peek flashing white lights against the night sky. Shrieks and cacophonous drum rolls rushed towards us in the dark. When we reached the tent, an epic drama was taking place inside. A shirtless actor in a feathered headdress, his chest smeared with paint and his eyes bulging from his fiery face, yelled to the heavens in Hindi. A sleepy two-man band - one organ player and one drummer - occasionally roused themselves to punctuate his assertions with startling musical interludes. An equally drowsy crowd of about 50 men and women sat on the floor, watching through heavy-lidded eyes.

My friends paid polite attention to this production for about 15 seconds before pushing me out the back of the tent to a nearby field. There, I was surprised to find a crowd about four times the size of the one in the tent. Everyone crouched in small circles around lanterns placed at intervals on the ground. When we got closer, I saw they were all playing card games on blankets.

We gathered around a blanket which had 10 playing cards sewn to its surface. My friends dropped 50-rupee notes on their favorites - Queen of Hearts, eight of diamonds - and then waited anxiously as a grizzled dealer split his deck of cards one by one into two piles. If the card my friends bet on landed in the left pile, they won money. If it landed in the right pile, they lost. They urged me to play, but being the only non-Indian and the only woman in the field, I felt too shy.

Nehi, nehi, mai achi lardki hei, I told them in my fledgling Hindi. "No, no, I'm a good girl."

They laughed and kept on until they ran out of money. (Just like in America, the house always wins, even when "the house" is just a blanket in a field.)

The next day, I tried again to understand the marriage of gambling and religion.

"Is there always gambling at Hindu religious festivals?" I asked.

"Oh, always," my friends assured me.

"But isn't that weird?" I pressed. "Isn't gambling considered a vice in most cultures?"

"Sure," they agreed, "but if they didn't have gambling at the religious festivals, no one would go."

Bangalore Fried Chicken

2008-12-18T12:33:00.000-08:00

I've been vegetarian for almost 20 years, so it's hard to remember the last time I dined at Kentucky Fried Chicken. Oh wait, it was yesterday.

I stumbled across this KFC in Bangalore while waiting for my sleeper bus to Goa. I could not believe how happy I felt to see something familiar, even if it was a fast food restaurant I never even visit at home. I paused to wave at the Colonel, and that's when I saw the banner in the window advertising vegetarian chicken. Whaaa?

I ran inside, feeling a little guilty for being seduced by corporate culture, and ordered up some veg chicken sticks and French fries.

Then I sat at my little table with my hands folded and watched the smartly dressed waiters - Indian KFC has table service - hustle around, accompanied by a Muzak version of Madonna's greatest hits. The comfort factor was overwhelming.

The veg chicken was sort of like fish sticks - rectangular, unnaturally white and uniformly processed - with an occasional pea or carrot chunk for texture. It wouldn't win any culinary prizes, but the appeal of salty batter never fades. The fries were like heaven and, as a bonus, my tray liner included this intriguing game.

It's a maze with a bucket of chicken at the starting point. The directions read, "Try coming out of its taste." Hmmm...

So if KFC is mass-producing vegetarian options for India, why don't we have them in the U.S.? I know there's less interest in vegetarian dining in America, but how hard would it be to throw a pack of these Bangalorian veg sticks in the freezer?

Look into that, would you Mr. Chicken?

Drive-by Santa

2008-12-06T09:36:00.000-08:00

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas in Mangalore:

Wishing you a Cafe Coffee Day!

2008-12-05T17:14:00.000-08:00

Most backpackers I've met are way too cool for Cafe Coffee Day. These coffee shops are nowhere near as ubiquitous as Starbucks back home, but they are a Western-style chain operation, and thus ripe for ridicule from the adventure club.

Well, I guess they'll have to revoke my membership, because I nearly wept with joy when I saw this waiting for me!

My first brownie in at least two months! Praise be!

In fact, I completely scrapped my plans today as soon as I found both a bookstore and a Cafe Coffee Day on the same street as my hotel in Mangalore. My entire daily budget was blown before 10 a.m. on books, magazines, newspapers and a mocha. A girl's gotta have her priorities.

Animatronic Jesus loves you

2008-12-02T15:25:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, a Goan friend of mine invited me to Old Goa for the novenas of St. Francis Xavier. Every November, for nine days, Catholic pilgrims come from all over India to attend a truly massive mass at the Basilica Bom Jesus and to gaze upon the actual corpse of St. Francis!

SFX's corpse is legendarily known as "the incorruptible body of Francis Xavier" because it has resisted decay for hundreds of years. Until recently, they hauled it out every year in a glass coffin for everyone to touch and kiss (the coffin, not the body). Lately there are rumors that the miracle may be over, because the body is starting to fall apart. My friend wasn't entirely sure they'd bring it out this year, but I was crossing my fingers.

When we got to the Basilica, there was a huge tent outside with thousands of chairs set up for the mass. A glittery sign said "St. Francis Xavier spreads the Jesus Glow" in English and Konkani (the regional language of Goa). Next to this was a long maze of ropes, like you'd see in front of a ride at Disneyland. Luckily there were only a few hundred people in line because it was day 7 of the feast. (All the locals go before day 9, when things really get crazy.)

Every single person there was dressed in their nicest party clothes, except me. Foolishly, I'd worn khakis and a T-shirt. I looked as if I'd just spent an hour riding a scooter through the dusty countryside. The fact that I really had was small consolation amidst the gold jewelry and sequined dresses of Catholic pageantry.

We shuffled into the church and past the altar and before I knew it, we'd reached the body of SFX! The church had compromised on the decay issue and displayed him in an ornate wooden coffin with glass windows on a platform above our heads. He was very clearly in there, but you could really only see his brown shriveled hands, feet and profile. The pilgrims touched and kissed the base of the platform and dropped marigold flower leis into baskets placed at regular intervals. I touched the platform too, but I wasn't really sure what to say/think/pray.

No matter, the tide of bodies quickly shuffled us out the door and into seats for mass.

The whole sermon was in Konkani, so I just stood up and sat down when everyone else did. At one point, the priest yelled out "Money! Mobile! Motorcycle!" and I knew he must be warning against the growing materialism of the younger generations. The rest of the time, I just let the unfamiliar words wash over me and prayed silent Tiny Tim prayers.

"God bless us every one!"

After mass, we headed to a nearby museum where Portuguese colonists had stashed all the "heathen" Hindu statues they'd removed when they were building Christian churches. Then we hit the carnival midway for lunch, beer, and popsicles. I contemplated riding my first Indian Ferris wheel, but I never saw anyone else on it the whole time I was there. If the Indians - who shun seat belts and helmets and maximum capacity laws - don't trust their carnivals rides, I sure as heck won't.

I didn't think the day could get much better, but my friend had saved the best surprise for last. We went back to the Basilica and walked through a courtyard where hundreds of pilgrims were camped out for the duration of the novenas, and we got in line for something called "The Sound and Light Gallery, A Pilgrimmage of the Heart."

We had to wait 15 minutes for an English-language version, for which we were the only audience. It turned out to be an animatronic Chuck E. Cheese-style show on the life of Jesus!

I was strictly forbidden to take photos - even of the sign outside - so you'll have to take my word for how awesome it was. We walked from room to room watching robotic John the Baptists and Pontius Pilates acting out the familiar story, simultaneously aided and hindered by our thickly accented tour guide.

"Behold chew slum!"
What did she say? Oh! Jerusalem!

When Jesus was transformed on the mount, Indian pop music started playing and a strobe light went off over his head. Then multi-colored disco lights turned on over OUR heads, to demonstrate God's love reaching us through Jesus. (And that God's love is very like a Bombay nightclub!)

At one point, we entered a small fiberglass cave with a life-sized Jesus sitting lotus-style in one corner. "Pray with Jesus!" our guide commanded. My friend and I bowed our heads obediently, but started fidgeting after a few minutes.

It was a relief when the guide led us away, even though we were obviously headed to the crucifixion. I never thought anything could top seeing the possibly miraculous corpse of a saint, but when the animatronic Jesus died on the cross, the room went dark and the floor literally shook under our feet! I sincerely wish I could have teleported every one of you there with me.

Don't worry, I'd send you back home before I get on the 12-hour bus to Mangalore tomorrow. I'll be in an ashram in Mysore doing yoga from December 8 through the 15, with some long bus rides before and after, so my blogging time might be limited for awhile. May the awesome disco strobe-light of God's love sustain you until we meet again.

Holy f%^-ing shit! (and happy Thanksgiving)

2008-11-27T16:43:00.000-08:00

First, for all of you who have written to me after hearing about the insane situation currently happening in Mumbai, yes, I am fine. Thank you so much for thinking of me. Secondly, holy fucking shit!

I woke up here on Thanksgiving Day on my beautiful Arambol beach (hundreds of kilometers from Mumbai, thank God) to hear some Belgian tourists complaining that all flights to Mumbai had been canceled. I grabbed a newspaper over my veg hakka noodle brunch at the Rice Bowl and I could not believe what I was reading. 30 shot dead in the train station where India and Becca had their staring contest, tourists held hostage at the Taj Hotel where I ogled fancy dresses in glamorous shop windows, a grenade attack at the movie theater where I saw "Hellboy 2", a boatload of explosives at the Gateway to India where I first spied the moon from this country. All told, there have been five bomb blasts so far. There are already 60 dead and 200 injured in the tourist district where I was just trying to book a hotel for my mom's visit to Mumbai in January!

The terrorists are still free in the hotels and the train station. No one is yet sure why this is happening. The army has descended on the city and police are being sent from all areas.

I feel physically safe on the remote beach where I'm staying, but I can't help but wonder what planet I'm on over here. I knew there were bomb blasts and terrorist activity in India, but I had comforted myself in thinking they were all confined to areas of unrest in specific northern states I never planned to visit. Now, the worst one to date, with bombs and guns and grenades and no end in sight yet, has happened in the glorious, modern, enlightened south.

Mumbai is not a political city. It's the city of Bollywood movies and nightlife and romance, a city where West and East mingle on dance floors and in clean, upscale boutiques. Like our own Los Angeles, it is dirty and crowded, but it is the land where dreams are made. This is a strike on India's heart and its imagination and its port of entry for the Western world.

I am so sad for the people of the city, and also for India, whose tourist economy was already declining in the wake of global financial meltdown. My shopkeeper friends in Arambol sat with their heads in their hands this morning, in despair. Business has been almost nothing this year, as the number of tourists in Goa has declined drastically since Europeans and Americans are all tightening their belts and forgoing vacations. My friends here work 14-hour days at their shops, seven days a week, and most days this year have yielded only a few hundred rupees ($20-$30 U.S.). The last few weeks, our conversations on the guesthouse steps have centered on how they are going to pay their rent, and how they can possibly encourage more sales from the few budget-conscious tourists who are still daring to travel these days. I've tried to do my part, buying extra dresses and unnecessary ice cream cones with my increasingly more valuable dollars, but I'm just one girl.

The great hope for financial salvation here in Goa has been the upcoming Christmas season. Tourism peaks in Goa at the end of December and everyone's been crossing their fingers that a pack of rich travelers will descend on the beaches and spend enough in a couple drunken weeks to offset the rest of the season's losses. In Arambol, where I live, there are no direct charter flights. The tourists who come here usually come down from Mumbai. Now, no one is coming to Mumbai.

God will provide, my friends say. This is the comfort they share, ignoring the fact that - as two Muslim jewelers, one Christian ice cream merchant, two Hindu clothiers, and one American tourist religious mutt - we all believe in different Gods. Here in Arambol, as we watch the sea advance and retreat on the guesthouse steps, we instinctively know what the terrorists have yet to understand: that our theological and political differences are infinitely less important than our friendship, our mutual prosperity, and our desire to live together in peace.

May this wisdom spread throughout India - and the world - before another life is lost.

God willing.
Insh'allah.
Om Shanti.

I hope you are all well and happy on this Thanksgiving Day. (I'm sorry for the drastic subject matter.) I am thankful for the love and humor and support each of you brings to my life. Stay safe and warm and kiss your family and eat an extra helping of mashed potatoes for me.

When is a cow sacred?

2008-11-13T18:18:00.000-08:00

I'm walking through Arambol village with my new yoga mat under my arm when I see a large cow approach a produce stand. With no hesitation, it plucks an apple from the middle of a huge pyramid of fruit with its fuzzy cow lips. More apples tumble to the ground as the cow noisily crunches down its stolen goods and leans in for more.

Normally, I would try to save the apples, but this is India and I'm not sure about the rules. In some places cows are sacred, and I don't want to go to jail for swatting someone's deity with a yoga mat. Then again, I think, Goa is largely a Christian state, so cows are probably just livestock here. But Jesus would have probably shared his apples with a cow, so...

I am shaken out of this dubious theological debate by the sound of a woman's angry voice. She's sitting in a chair across the street shouting at the cow, who completely ignores her while decimating her streetside display.

Then she turns and fixes me with a stare that can only mean, "You dumb foreigner. Why are you letting that cow eat all my apples? Do something!"

I swing my yoga mat at the cow's yearning lips and it lazily saunters away. I, on the other hand, move away at lightning speed, just in case the Hindu deities are watching.

Sneaky monkeys

2008-11-10T12:49:00.000-08:00

My favorite adventure in Hampi was my trek from the Uma Shankar guesthouse

by the river, through villages and fields, to the monkey temple about an hour's walk away. Hampi is the birthplace of the Hindu god Hanuman (the monkey god) and his temple is located at the top of this huge cliff. It's a tiny white building waiting at the end of a long, zig-zaggy staircase cut into the mountainside.

Climbing this staircase was like suddenly finding myself in advanced aerobics, when I'd meant to sign up for the beginners' class. I huffed and puffed and sweated my way to the top, pausing often under the guise of admiring the amazing view. It feels like you can see every temple, banana field and mountain in Karnataka from these stairs. It's an incredible vantage point.

All along the stairs, monkeys watched my progress while chattering and pointing and scrutinizing my bag for possible bananas. (The already challenging steps of the monkey temple are made even more so by the presence of banana peels everywhere. It's slapstick comedy waiting to happen.)

Once at the top, I went inside the tiny cave-like temple and did my best to look like I belonged. I knelt before the altar, covered with marigolds, incense sticks, bowls of sugar, fruit, and prayers scribbled out on scraps of paper. I dropped a few rupees on the altar and mumbled a general prayer of thanksgiving - not least of all for making it to the top of the stairs without passing out.

Then a monk came over and gestured to a tiny brass bowl at our feet. I shrugged, not understanding, and he picked it up and painted a red line down my forehead. I felt included, but still clueless.

When I re-emerged, the sunlight was almost blinding. I blinked to clear my vision, and saw a monkey run past me with a shoe in his mouth.

Everyone has to leave their shoes outside the temple, so there are a pile of them at the top of the steps. This monkey had ignored all the cheap flip-flops and made off with a quality man's loafer. He'd climbed a small hill and was just about to disappear over the cliff face when I shouted at him to stop.

Having lost three pairs of shoes in India already, I know what a drag it is to be without footwear in this country. The owner of the loafers was nowhere in sight, but I felt an obligation to help. The monkey turned and looked at me, chewing meditatively on the heel. Deciding that, as a foreigner and non-Hindu, I had absolutely no authority, he dismissed me and scurried further away.

I heard a shout behind me. An Indian man ran towards me, telling me not to worry, he would help save my shoe. He walked as close as possible to the monkey and softly said, "Give shoe, baba."

The monkey seemed to consider this. The man held out his water bottle. "Take water, give shoe."

The monkey took the shoe out of his mouth and stared at the bottle. "Come on," the man coaxed, "give shoe."

The monkey dropped the shoe and backed away.

I applauded and the man gallantly handed the shoe to me. Then I had to explain, rather anti-climactically, that the shoe wasn't even mine. We both laughed and then dropped it back in the general shoe pile outside the temple door, where the same monkey was already chewing on someone else's sneakers.

We tried to shoo him away (no pun intended) but ultimately had to concede that you can't save everyone's shoes. Sometimes not even your own. This is one of the many lessons of India.

Then the man offered me a ride back to the guesthouse on his tiny motorbike, with his girlfriend. (That's three adults on a vehicle about the size of my moped, with no helmets.) I refused repeatedly, but they insisted. They even followed me down the road on their bike, calling for me to get on. So I climbed onto the very back, hanging onto the tiny metal bar you'd bungee your backpack to, and rode home in true Hampi style.

Shukriya, Hanuman!

The best thing that happened (except for the other best things)

2008-11-08T17:06:00.000-08:00

I'm standing alone on a muddy riverbank, studying the boat that will take me across the Tungabhadra River to Hampi Bazaar. What my guidebook optimistically calls a "ferry" is actually a tiny wooden dinghy captained by a teenage boy sporting slickly oiled hair, polyester slacks, and no shoes. His co-worker is an authoritative child who collects the passengers’ fares in a dusty canvas shoulder bag: five rupees for locals, 10 for white people, and 15 for backpacker know-it-alls who insist on haggling.

These boys will not drive across the river to meet me until they deem it worth their while. In other words, not until they’ve gathered enough passengers to effectively sink the boat.

"Scoot down! Scoot down!"

I can hear the child yelling from all the way across the river. Adults four times his age stumble over rotted holes in the boat’s floorboards in their haste to obtain a seat. When the passengers are seated thigh to thigh; when a mound of rucksacks, vegetables, livestock and children fills the middle of the boat; when the creaking craft rides so low in the water that passing fish could hitch a ride; the child signals a man with a motorcycle to ride his hog onto the prow and balance there like Evil Knievel, pre-stunt. Then he yells at his teenage skipper, who yanks the cord on the boat’s aging outboard motor. The whole show inches away from the riverbank in a cloud of two-stroke engine oil.

The river is no wider than a Los Angeles freeway, but the overloaded ferry drags slower than rush hour traffic. I sit down on the bank to wait. I’m hunting in my tote bag for my sunglasses, when a family of Indian women and children surrounds me on all sides like a clutch of paparazzi who’ve forgotten their cameras. They wear bright clothes, gleaming bracelets, and identical crescent-moon grins.

"Hi!" they say in unison.

"Hi!" I say, equally charmed and alarmed. When Indians approach me in tourist areas like this one, it’s often to sell me something or to demand an explanation for George W. Bush’s entire administration. I’ve grown accustomed to disappointing people.

"Hindi?" a teenaged girl asks.

"No, only English," I say.

"Only English," she repeats, visibly disappointed.

We've exhausted our entire common vocabulary. We are silent.

A toddler wobbles forward. She stares down my shyness with bottomless kohl-rimmed eyes, before extending one bangled wrist and saying, "Hi!"

"Hi!" I say again, shaking her hand.

Now everyone wants a handshake.

"Hi!" "Hi! "Hi!"

We are all laughing.

"Hi!" "Hi!" "Hi!"

Young mothers put their infants' hands in mine. "Hiiiiii...." I coo at tiny babies. I shake everyone's hand, more than once. Eventually, it becomes obvious to all of us–even the babies—that we've greeted each other as much as any group of sane people waiting for an impossibly slow ferry ever could. Silence descends again.

We look for the ferry. It's nowhere near the bank. We stare downriver. We stare at our sandals. We stare at each other. The teenaged girl gets an idea.

"Song!" she says, pointing at me.

Faces light up. A chant begins.

"Song! Song! Song!" they say.

"No, no, no," I say.

"Song! Song! Song!" they say.

"Nehi, nehi, nehi," I say in fledgling Hindi, shaking my head with the exaggerated movements of a woman desperate to be understood.

"Song! Song! Song!"

They are relentless. I am Judy Garland on the third encore of the last show of my career. Their cheering attracts more onlookers—rickshaw drivers, chai wallahs, women with baskets on their heads—all of whom quickly take up the chant.

"Song! Song! Song!"

I look frantically toward the river. The ferry is practically moving backwards at this point. Perhaps it will sink, I think, just like my dignity. I have only two options: run and hide in the hills or stand up and sing.

"OK!" I say.

They silence immediately and look at me expectantly. My mind fails. It is as if I have never heard music in my life. Song? What's a song?

"Song!" the toddler says.

"Song! Song! Song!" they say.

I close my eyes. I open my mouth. These words come out:

"Wise men say
only fools rush in,
but I can't help
falling in love with you..."

It's Elvis, ladies and gentleman. Always alive where you least expect him.

When I finish the chorus, there are cheers. The ferry arrives. I am escorted down the bank like royalty and delicately handed into the decaying rowboat. As we slowly sputter towards the opposite shore, children compete to hold my hand and touch my feet.

It is way too much. It is unbearably embarrassing, and it is possibly the best thing that has ever happened to me.

May we all be so appreciated for our stumbling endeavors.

A load of bull

2008-11-07T18:44:00.000-08:00

Today I hiked to the giant bull statue at the end of Hampi Bazaar. Thus, I offer you:

Monolithic Bull

Monolithic Balls

Mini-lithic Bull

Thank you, America!

2008-11-05T16:12:00.000-08:00

I just wanted to thank you all for electing Barack Obama president. I am so thrilled that I am literally crying in this internet cafe in Hampi.

I faxed in my ballot weeks ago from a sandy, old fax machine at the Om Ganesh grocery store in Arambol and I've been crossing my fingers ever since. Yesterday was Tuesday, November 4, but since India is 13 and a half hours ahead, I went to bed uncertain of the results. I just logged into the internet and found out!

I am so happy for our country! I'm also relieved that I won't have to explain to my many new Indian friends why we're still supporting the policies of George Bush when no one seems to like him. This is a question I've gotten repeatedly and I always babble about red states and blue states and fear and patriotism and how money controls politics and how it's hard to know what to do when you're just one person and then I end up shrugging in hopelessness.

So thank you. Really. From me and the entire world.

Shoeless in Hampi

2008-11-04T20:16:00.000-08:00

I arrived in Hampi yesterday. It's a World Heritage site in the middle of the Indian state of Karnataka, famous with tourists for its many temples

and awesome bouldering opportunities.

I'm utterly exhausted after a bumpy, wild overnight bus ride on a "luxury sleeper" that was neither luxurious nor sleepable. I spent the whole night clinging to a tiny ledge just big enough for my body, with my knees strategically wedged wherever possible to keep from falling to the floor when the bus turned a corner.

There's a huge three-day festival here now, the annual Hampi Utsav. I've got a guesthouse across the river from the action and I'm laying low. I can hear the bands and see the fireworks from my couch swing, though.

(Yes, my room comes with its own outdoor swing in the garden. Awesome. I've been laying there reading "Shantaram" - which I highly recommend - all day.)

During the festival, there are lights trained on all the temples at night. That takes an ancient structure like the Virupaksha Temple here

and turns it into the aesthetic equivalent of my dear friend Rachel's vintage aluminum Christmas tree.

Now it's purple!

Now it's orange! (And super blurry.)

Now it's purple again!

Last night, I was planning to head out to the Utsav when two British girls burst into the restaurant where I was having dinner and announced the river ferry had capsized because there were so many people crammed on it. No one was hurt, but everyone was wet. That was pretty discouraging, since I needed the ferry to get there. Then I left the restaurant to discover someone had stolen my sandals while I was eating. Clear signs that it was time for bed.

For those of you keeping score on Becca vs. India, this would be the third pair of sandals India has claimed from me in a month - two pairs broken and one pair absconded with. In fact, every single time I change locations, the first thing I have to do is buy shoes again. I guess that's on the agenda for tomorrow, after a barefoot breakfast.

Day labor

2008-10-29T16:58:00.000-07:00

One thing I've learned on this extended vacation is that it's really hard to be idle every day. I'm not really of any use to anyone in India and it doesn't matter if I get anything done. That was a relief for the first couple weeks, but now it's gotten kind of old.

So when the Exotic Arts jewelry store in Arambol needed painting, I pretty much begged to be allowed to help.

At first my Indian friends who own it were like, "Oh no, no. You're on holiday." Eventually they got tired of my pleading. They found me an extra brush and we got to work.

Of course, having a day laborer from America is a novelty around these parts. I'm not sure anyone in Goa has ever seen an American do anything that looks like physical labor. Other merchants began to gather around. Flashbulbs went off as I painted.

"Look at our worker! From America!" my friends called out, in a tone that said, "Can you believe how ridiculous this is?"

"America, eh?" the other men would laugh. "How much, she paint my guesthouse?"

"100 rupees, whole day! See, Becca? We find you job!"

I went to bed tired and continued to find tiny blue-paint freckles on my body for days afterward.

Bat-frog returns!

2008-10-28T16:07:00.000-07:00

This morning, I went to lock my guestroom door and discovered a pair of eyes peering out at me from the bolt hole.

I didn't know what I was looking at. A frog? A lizard? A snake? Whatever it was, I couldn't lock my door until it moved. And it did not want to move.

I called to it. I banged on the wall. I sang to it. I pretended to close the door to fake it out. The creature was having none of it.

I finally resorted to prying it out with an unlit stick of incense, while simultaneously praying it was not actually venomous. One aromatic prod spurred a flying leap to the door.

Could this be the mysterious bat-frog?

Before I could ask, it jumped back inside my room! I was too hungry to bother chasing it around, so I locked it in and went down the hill for breakfast.

When I returned hours later for an afternoon nap, I found I had company.

The frog was already tucked in, so I carefully climbed into the other side of my bed and fell asleep. Frog and Becca are friends.

Miss Manners visits Goa

2008-10-25T15:11:00.000-07:00

Now that I've been here a whole week, I'm sure I am qualified (ha!) to offer some advice to would-be visitors of Goa. Thus, I humbly offer my handy guide to beach etiquette.

For the men: I completely understand why you don't use the bathrooms at the bars here. Pit toilets are hard enough to negotiate when you're sober. So by all means, head out to the beach to pee. Just remember to head waaaaaaaay out. Those bar lights are much brighter than you think they are. I saw three of you draining your geckos during one seaside dining experience, which was hardly the oceanfront ambiance I was seeking.

Also, I think we can blame Survivor for this trend, but I must tell you that - unless you are competing for $1 million on American television using only your wits - boxer briefs are not bathing suits. Seriously, all that thin, saggy, wet fabric is doing your package no favors. I can't believe I am saying this, but even a Speedo would be more flattering. Invest in some board shorts and watch your life change.

Now ladies: On busy afternoons, I know it looks like the parking lot of a Phish concert out here, so it's easy to get confused, but please remember you are in India. Conservative India. When Indian women go swimming, notice how they are wearing knee-length shorts and long-sleeved shirts. The Goans are kind enough to tolerate our less-modest Western dress on their beaches, but there's really no reason to strip off all your clothes and go running down the sand screaming 'Wooooooo!' with everything your mama gave you bouncing in the breeze. We get it. You're on vacation. You're a free spirit. But you're making the entire Western world look like a den of sin, so go put on a T-shirt.

For the barkeeps: Enough with "Hotel California." Even if we go along with the popular assumption that most people like the Eagles (which I personally find hard to believe), there is no more depressing song to play for travelers far from home in a neo-Bohemian environment.

Seriously, can you think of one? What's that? Pink Floyd's "Hey You." You're right. Pull that one from your playlist too, please.

And thank you.

Amateur yoga hour

2008-10-24T15:33:00.000-07:00

In Arambol, the beaches are riddled with Western tourists doing athletic shoulder stands and serene triangle poses. They all look calm and fulfilled, as if God personally called them halfway around the world to perform a divine downward dog.

I still don't have the faintest idea why I'm here, and I guess it's starting to eat at me. Watching all these Yoga Journal cover models, it occurred to me that yoga might help me connect to some kind of inner guidance. At the very least, I could work out the backpacker kinks in my shoulders.

Yoga and I don't hang out together very often these days, but I can still pull off a sun salutation from memory. So the last two mornings, I got up early and attempted some yoga poses on the sand amidst scuttling crabs and sniffing beach dogs.

The first day, I felt so calm afterward. I lay on the sand, listening to the surf and taking deep breaths in time with the waves. "Nothing can ruffle me now," I thought.

Just then, two beggars - a woman and a little girl wrapped in faded shawls - came up to my blanket with their hands out. I didn't have any money on me, just my blanket and my shoes. I shook my head no. They kept their hands out, both less than a foot away from me, reaching and reaching.

I said, "No, I'm sorry."

I tried to ignore them. They just stood there, calling, "Hello! Hello!"

Every time I looked up, they held out their hands and fixed me with these pitiful stares. I stood up. I said no again. I mimed having no pockets, no money.

"Where would I be hiding money?" I asked, exasperated.

They just continued calling, "Hello! Hello! Hello! Hello!" This went on for five minutes. I walked down the beach. They followed me. I started a conversation with someone else. They waited. I walked halfway back to my room before they eventually faded away and, by then, I was really, truly ruffled.

On the second morning, I went to a different beach. About a half hour into my solo routine, a young man appeared out of nowhere. He was wearing only plaid cotton boxer shorts and aviator sunglasses. He crouched right next to me and peered into my upside-down face.

"Yoga!" he said, with a huge smile.

"Yup!" I gasped, somewhat embarrassed in downward dog. He just kept sitting there, looking at me.

I dropped my pose and asked, "What's up?"

Through a series of gestures and many words I didn't understand, he communicated that he was from Russia, he didn't speak English, and he wanted me to go swimming.

I was not going swimming. I was wearing pants and a shirt, for one, and I didn't want to leave my bag alone on the beach. Plus, I was in the middle of yoga!

"Damn it," I thought. "I'm trying to be a disciplined, healthy bad-ass, so why won't India let me finish a single yoga practice?"

The man just kept talking in Russian. Every time I broke a pose and looked at him, he would make a motion like he was dancing The Swim, point at the ocean and give me a thumbs up. "Good, OK?"

"No," I said, over and over. "No. No."

"I don't have a swimming suit," I'd say, pointing to my pants. "I don't understand what you're saying. I'm doing yoga now. Please go."

"Yoga? Good!" Thumbs up. Then more swimming motions.

I couldn't get him to leave and I couldn't just keep doing yoga with him watching and chattering. "Screw it," I thought.

I jumped up and ran into the ocean with my clothes on. He laughed and followed and we both got clobbered by the waves. My waterlogged yoga pants kept pulling me down and it was hard to swim. Still, I swam way out towards the horizon, much further than he did, and floated for awhile.

When I came back to the shore, he followed me out. "Good," he said. "Yoga! Bye, OK?"

He waved, still laughing, and walked off the beach without a backward glance.

Clearly, the lessons of yoga extend far beyond the mat in India. I'm still not sure I understand, but I can't wait to see what happens tomorrow.

The disappearing bat-frog

2008-10-23T16:03:00.000-07:00

Whatever you do, don't look under your bed. I'm not sure yet whether this advice applies to all of India or just Goa.

Last night, I was getting ready for bed by flashlight when I heard a wet sort of splat behind me. I turned and saw a fist-sized shape on the floor that was clearly an animal. I couldn't tell if it was a bat or a frog or a ???, so I walked carefully across the room and flicked on the big light.

There was nothing on the floor anymore.

Well, I couldn't just crawl into bed after that, so I picked up my headlamp and shined it in all the corners. The frog/bat/what-have-you was gone. However, I could see some big ol' insect legs wrapped around one of the legs of my bed. Big ones. A spider? A roach?

I wouldn't be able to tell until I moved my bed and, once I did, I had no idea what else would come out of there. I was not brave enough to continue this investigation at night, so I turned off the light and went to sleep with my mosquito net tucked in extra tight.

In the fortifying light of day, I dared to look again. The legs were gone, but some other thing, some crawly wormish, centipedish, snakish thing is wriggling around under there even now as I type. I am not looking under my bed anymore. Hopefully the invisible bat-frog will take care of all of them.

Travels with Lonely

2008-10-22T14:18:00.000-07:00

I am still in Goa. I've been staying at a guesthouse overlooking the ocean at Arambol, which is a kind of international hippie gathering place. With all the dreadlocks, Bob Marley music, dayglo mushroom decorations and Che Guevara T-shirts, the main street in the village seems less like India and more like my freshman year in the dorms at U.C. Santa Cruz.

To get from my room to write to you, I have to hike down a hillside trail frequented by cows and then walk past many clothing stands, and then duck down a set of stairs behind the Eyes of Buddha restaurant, kick off my flip-flops and wade across a small stream, walk along the shoreline - usually getting hit by a wave and wetted from the knees down - and then cut across the beach and up a road lined with motor scooters and plenty of "Taxi, madam?" calls, and peer into shop windows until I find a vacancy at one of a half-dozen internet cafes.

I'm starting to feel like a part of the community as I become witness to the rhythms of life in this seaside town: the man who dances down the beach with his ipod every morning, the students from the nearby yoga school practicing their asanas on sandy blankets, the restaurateurs putting out plates of rice for the beach dogs, the fisherman who are always up before me, the too-cool Euro tourists with their endless chatter and cigarettes, the lizard who crawls alongside my bed eating bugs every morning, the cows heading past my door into the misty morning hills. Needless to say, I really love it here.

But that hasn't always been the case. Once I got out of Mumbai and survival mode, it hit me that I am way the ^*£$& out here on the other side of the world with no local friends. Intellectually, I knew I was surrounded by stunning ocean views and mind-expanding culture and exotic food, but my spacious seaside room at Sunny Guesthouse suddenly felt like it was down at the end of Lonely Street.

I moped around, barely noticing the sunlight on the waves or the little boys flying homemade kites or the women in saris balancing big baskets of fruit on their heads. I was too busy listening to the monologue in my head about how I should be better at making friends and why aren't I more outgoing and I'm too old for this kind of travel and no one's going to talk to me and blah, blah, blah, blah.

After two days of crying into my ginger tea and wondering why I came, I decided to implement some of that Eastern wisdom everyone's hunting for over here and see if I could meditate my way out of my depression. I went down to the beach by myself and just sat with my loneliness, like a grumpy friend who refused to be cheered. We sat there all day, feeling blue, passing the sunscreen and taking small comfort in each others' company.

After awhile, being with lonely stopped hurting so much and just felt normal. And then, it occurred to me: Loneliness is just a feeling. It's not going to kill me. It's not even as dangerous as that paneer I ate last week that gave me indigestion. Loneliness is not even a problem I have to do something about. It just comes and goes whether I want it to or not. In the meantime, I'm in India! And I can spend my whole trip wishing for different feelings or better company, or I can just get out there and make the most of it, no matter how I feel.

Loneliness seemed skeptical about my breakthrough, but I felt light and happy. I took us out for vegetarian thali at the Blue Sea Horse bar, where they show movies every night. That night, it was I am Legend. Nothing like a movie about the last man on earth to put loneliness in perspective. The bar was pretty crowded, but my table still had a seat open. A few minutes into the movie, a waiter sat someone at my table, who leaned over and asked, "So why is everyone on earth dead?"

"They made a cure for cancer, but it backfired," I explained, and within a few minutes, I had my first Arambol friend.

Becca vs. India Rematch

2008-10-16T11:39:00.000-07:00

Becca vs. India: Sleeper Car Endurance

The Darjeeling Limited gave me some romantic notions about train travel in India, but when I board the train to Goa, I balk at my sleeper car bunk. This tiny blue platform near the ceiling of the train car has it all: dirt, a faint urine smell, and cockroaches.

"Suck it up, Becca!" I tell myself as I make a bulky pillow out of my backpack. I settle in for what I assume will be another sleepless night. 15 minutes later, I am dead to the world, lulled into a restful sleep by the gentle rocking of the train car.

I wake to the smell of hot samosas. I dig out 12 rupees change for two, flag down the vendor and have breakfast in bed.

Challenge winner: Becca (or Wes Anderson)

Becca vs. India: Haggling

I am totally afraid of haggling, so I've avoided buying anything so far. I'm the kind of person who darts down supermarket aisles to avoid potentially helpful salesclerks, so I positively wilt under the high-pressure exchange of bargaining. Am I getting ripped off? Am I being too aggressive? How much does this brass Ganesh statue really cost? Isn't it sacrilegious to haggle over the price of a deity? I don't know what my best price is! I was just looking for bottled water! Aggghhhh! [Cue frantic sprint away from puzzled merchant.]

I would happily travel the entire six months without buying anything but food and train tickets, but it turns out my clothes are too hot for India. I've been sweating through my days in khakis and T-shirts that suddenly feel like thermals, swiping at my constantly dripping forehead with an endless array of wadded up tissues. At the very least, I need to purchase some handkerchiefs.

I decide to brave the weekly Wednesday flea market at Goa's Anjuna beach. I cautiously approach a sarong stand, hold up a black elephant-print number, and ask about the price. A stunning woman with beautiful gold jewelry in her ears and nose names the customary "way too high" starting price and then asks me to name mine.

I know I don't want to pay more than 100 rupees for the sarong, but my voice just sticks in my throat. "I don't know," I say. "I should go."

I turn to leave but she grabs my hand. "How much?" she asks.

She starts reducing the price and begging me to name my price. I'm not trying to pull any "pretending to leave" strategy here. I'm really just trying to leave, but she won't let go. I get more flustered and keep giggling like a schoolgirl. I don't know what to say, I can't name a price and I can't get away.

"Fine!" she says, "100 rupees!" The elephant-covered sarong is mine.

Somehow, my utter inability to function as a haggler or even speak at all has landed me a decent price. I have a strategy I don't even know I have: shrugging, giggling, and saying things like "I have no idea!" and "I'm not good at this!" and "That's OK, I really don't need it."

I move down the row and do the same thing (with a little more self-awareness this time) and score a dress and a skirt for cheap.

Haggling challenge winner: Becca

As you can see, Becca vs. India is going to be a tight race. A winner probably won't emerge until much later in the trip. Although, I have to say my favorite moments are when Becca and India cooperate--like when I swim into India's oceans and her waves carry me back to shore, or when I forget to bring my headlamp to dinner and India tosses up a full moon to light my way home on the beach, or when the stray dog that randomly adopted my guesthouse porch also functions as security. So far, my only visitors are gently mooing cattle, but it's still a lovely gesture.

Becca vs. India Challenge #2

2008-10-15T19:18:00.000-07:00

Becca vs. India: Distance Walking

My right flip-flop breaks apart as I am crossing a busy intersection in Mumbai. I dodge a cab and hobble on the hot asphalt, shoe foot/bare foot/shoe foot/bare foot for a couple of blocks until I find a sandal vendor.

Now, the best way to haggle for something is to act like you don't really need it, but I am literally hopping towards this man with a broken shoe in my hand, so that strategy is blown. It takes the chappal wallah quite awhile to unearth a pair of sandals large enough for my huge Western feet. As he digs through his stock, he keeps remarking on how big my feet are. His co-worker just stares at my toes and laughs.

The man's stall is filled with delicate, bejeweled ladies' sandals. The only pair that fits me are the sort of wide, straw-bottomed flip-flops generally sold at American flea markets for a dollar. As soon as I step into them, the vendor demands $10 U.S.

I try to bargain, but the asphalt is sizzling and he's already thrown away my other shoes. When I refuse to pay so much, he pontificates at length about how, since my feet are SO LARGE, it's taken him much more material to construct these shoes. (As if he personally handcrafted these "made in china" specials.) His co-worker continues to giggle helplessly at the sight of my feet. I pay $8 to escape humiliation.

Distance walking challenge winner: India again

Becca on Theoretical Smackdown!

2008-10-15T18:53:00.000-07:00

My friend Jason Adair informs me that my trip is now part of his new blog, Theoretical Smackdown. It's a place where people can vote on who will win various battles - like "Eric Clapton vs. a fist-sized rock" or "Jim Jones vs. zombie." Becca Costello Vs. Six Months in India is now challenge number 4.

Before I got Jason's e-mail about this, I hadn't really been thinking of my trip to India in competitive terms, but ever since I heard about it, I've started keeping score in my head. I promise to tally the last couple of days for you, so you can make an informed decision. Here's the first challenge:

Becca vs. India: Staring Contest

I arrive at Chatrapati Shivaji Terminus in Mumbai two hours early to catch my midnight train to Goa. CST is a giant, giant train station. It looks like three huge mansions all strung together and decorated with stone lions and gargoyles. You would think a king lives there, but in fact it's just the place where more than a million people catch a train every day.

I'm wearing non-descript black yoga pants and a T-shirt, but I'm strapped to an orange backpack approximately half my height. India (in the form of several thousand people sitting on the floor and every available chair) starts staring. Hard. Unwaveringly.

I look for a seat. Nothing. Nowhere. The floor is an option, but a filthy, filthy one, and I have to wear these clothes for the next 14 hours. Every time I look at anyone, they are looking at me. Always. It's unnerving.

I circle the station over and over. The pack cuts into my shoulders and I start muttering things about how, if Mumbai is going to consider itself a cosmopolitan city, then people need to stop gawking at every single visitor who looks different. India doesn't blink.

Finally, I spy three empty seats in a row! One for me, one for my bag, and one for that comfortable American social distance! I hustle over and immediately see why no one has sat there. On the floor is a man who is not moving. His limbs are rigid. His eyes and mouth are wide open. He does not blink. Flies buzz on his tongue. He is maybe dead. Dead.

No one is paying any attention to him. Not even the people sitting nearby. Everyone is too busy looking at the amazing spectacle of a foreign traveler... with luggage ... in a train station... in a major international city. I consider calling 911 until I realize there is no such thing here. I run upstairs and crash the "upper class" lounge, figuring my American sense of entitlement would qualify me if my ticket wouldn't, and hide behind a book.

Staring contest winner: clearly India.

India travel takes guts (and throws them on my flip-flops)

2008-10-11T21:38:00.000-07:00

I haven't been sleeping at all lately. Jet lag is a stubborn bitch and, so far, she's granting me about an hour's rest a night.

In lieu of sleep, I operate on black tea, amazing food, and my excitement that absolutely everything around me is brand new. Crossing the hectic streets, learning the value of foreign coins, squatting over pit toilets, puzzling out menus, sterilizing water - everything takes focus. Not to mention trying to entertain myself for the 10 sleepless hours I spend in my closet-sized but luxuriously air-conditioned hotel room each night.

I only get two English TV channels: a 24-hour news network and The Hallmark Channel. While it's comforting to know that you can never travel far enough to escape the influence of Oprah, I can only watch so many episodes of "The Nanny." Like, one.

Last night, I busted out the Lonely Planet and drew a map of all the places I planned to walk to today. I sketched in the fashion street market, the oceanfront promenade on Marine Drive, and an English tea cafe. But when I emerged from my hotel this morning, something was off.

Every morning so far, I've stepped outside, admired the sunlight in the Banyan trees, and thought, "I can't believe I'm in Mumbai! Wow!"

This morning, I inhaled a big whiff of nearby dumpsters and car exhaust and thought, "I am so over Mumbai."

Uh oh. That's a bad sign for my first week in India, right?

Determined to overcome my sleep deprivation and sour mood, I marched to the first place on my map. Crawford Market is a large indoor fruit and veg market about a block up the road from my hotel. As soon as I entered the building, the overwhelming smell of overripe fruit combined with the urgent shouts of salesmen - "Hello! Hello! Madam! Excuse me! Hello!" - made me realize my error. There was no way I could handle this without a full night's sleep or a really strong chai. I made an abrupt turn and headed for the nearest exit.

Once outside, I was shocked to discover I was lost. I was only a few blocks from my hotel, but nothing looked familiar. A towering freeway overpass had sprouted out of nowhere, blocking my path. I retraced my steps back to the market and went inside, only to discover another mistake. Bloody animal carcasses were swinging from hooks. Chickens were shrieking. The floor glistened with slime and everything smelled, literally, like shit. I was in the meat market, where the vegan me never, ever wanted to be.

I clapped my hand over my mouth and ran outside where crows were fighting over metal bins piled with innards. I felt something gush over my bare feet in their flip-flops and looked down to see that I was standing in a puddle in unidentifiable animal matter. Welcome to the real Mumbai, tourist!

After a few more wrong turns (and yes, a few stifled sobs) I found my hotel and walked straight into the shower with my shoes on. A few minutes later, I was clean, but seriously bummed for the first time on my trip. I didn't want to go out, but I couldn't stay in my hotel room another minute either. I needed a friend, and since I only have one in India (so far), it was an easy choice to jump in a cab and head over to Breach Candy district, where I knew she'd be at her guru's for morning satsang.

Well, only in India could you be standing in guts one minute and sitting across from a guru with a microphone strapped to your chest the next. Every day two people are chosen to converse directly with Ramesh Balsekar during his satsang, and for some reason I was one of them today. I mostly kept quiet as this tiny Indian man in white expounded on his philosophies.

In the reverent atmosphere of his airy penthouse sitting room, I had the feeling that the sleeplessness and the guts had conspired to bring me there, free of resistance and ready to absorb new ideas. Unfortunately, I am way too sleepy to recall any of them. (That's OK. I bought one of his books, which I plan to read tonight when I can't sleep.)

You might think "guts to guru" would encompass the full spectrum of Mumbai's surprises for one day, but no. Fast forward a few hours and my friend and I found ourselves sitting on the patio of the members-only Cricket Club of India drinking Foster's beer and watching the green.

We met a man at the satsang who took us to lunch there for Indian Chinese food! I was a little embarrassed to be so sweaty and backpackerish at such a posh establishment, but I couldn't turn down the invitation. When would I get another chance?

Then again, this is Mumbai, where apparently anything can happen.

Public Service Announcement

2008-10-09T10:40:00.000-07:00

This is why you should always get up and walk around a lot on long plane rides, even if you are stuck in the window seat and feel bad about waking up your neighbors.

Don't let traveler's cankles happen to you!