Manuscript Monday: The dragonflies

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

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!

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

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

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!

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!

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...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?