Who am I when I'm gone?

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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.