Hong Kong on $1000 a day, aka "From Bruce Lee to Jet Li"

First morning in Hong Kong, jet-lagged and red-eyed, I went to see the harbo(u)r. Most of the paved blocks on "Hollywood Boulevard" did not actually have hand or foot prints. Jet Li's "hands" look suspiciously small for a fighter who can kill hundreds and fly around a lot. Notice the running shoes - clearly an American tourist giveaway.
This fine statue of Bruce Lee dominated the landscape. What does it say about me that I find a statue attractive? His hair is all about the 1970s. Not that that detracts from attractiveness, of course.Why is some of this text black and some white? I have no idea - just call me a 20th century teacher; I can handle it.

So what the heck was I doing in Hong Kong other than ogling statues and handprints? I was there for IB indoctrination . . . oh, I mean an IB conference (that's "International Baccalaureate") for all of you heathens. It was a necessary step, as I was basically one day behind in teaching my students. That's right; not one step ahead, but one step behind. I would have to change the calendar AFTER each class to reflect what we had actually done vs. what I had planned.

Again, for the uninitiated, let me say that teaching IB is NOT THE SAME as teaching AP. In AP, you basically just cram the info down their throats, hope they understand the "art" of Point of View for the essays, and then give them lots of multiple-choice quizzes. In IB, since the high-stakes testing all comes at the end of two years, and it's all essays, they have to learn (darn!) how to synthesize and use evidence in their essays, since that's the only chance they'll have to "show what they know." And they're competing with that @#$* British system that requires them to actually learn historical detail, unlike the American system in which one can BS most of the way through high school, if not college.

I used to hate IB and love AP but after going to this conference I was reborn as an IB advocate. I have the adapter plugged into my formerly AP brain shunt. And I love the fact that IB grading is mysteriously unpredictable and inconsistent, almost as much as I loved the fact that the AP exam graders change the grading standards as they grade. So much for data-based whatever.

The conference was at a Hong Kong international school What is an international school, you ask? Any school that wants to add "international" to its name - handy if you want to attract people who like that word in a school name. The power of semantics is amazing. Visions of global banking executives dance in parents' heads when they see that word. I'm thinking of adding a powerful aura to my presence by renaming myself "International Ellen." Right now I'm more like "hobbling-on-sprained-ankle Ellen." You decide - which sounds better?
Notice the name of this cafe, "Toujours." Designed to make people think that there's some sort of French thing going on. Actually, the servers all wore shirts that said, "Happy to serve" on the back, a slogan that seems anything but French. And this lady was so eager to keep the line moving that I wondered if she ran up the escalator on her way to work and was actually from Tokyo, London, or Washington, D.C.*

In case you didn't know this, Hong Kong is part of China. That really big East Asian country that continues to be a totalitarian dictatorship even though that is totally uncool in today's world. Yet HK continues to have the reputation of a swingin' city with a British flair. The mix is interesting. Here are some observations that may be key in analyzing what this all means.

1. *People in Hong Kong do not run up escalators like they do in Tokyo, London, and Washington, D.C. They don't seem in a hurry. This could be because they are:
a. depressed
b. complacent
c. unemployed
d. on a meditative plane

On the other hand, they could be distracted by the propaganda all around them, such as this ever-so-subtle anti-smoking message that, flashing on and off, mesmerized me into almost missing the ferry. In fact, the newspapers reported, while I was there, that smoking rates in Hong Kong are decreasing. Or maybe the flashing lights just made me THINK I had read that. Doesn't this guy make you want to be like him? And what IS "smokerhood?"







2. People in Hong Kong don't seem as dressed up as people in any of the above cities when going to work. This could mean
a. They don't have as much money (though I don't know how they could survive);
b. They don't care about appearances but look for inner beauty.
c. The comparison cities are not appropriate choices.
d. There's no "d" but I'm trying to make this "quiz" look fair.


There were quite a few Buddhist monks in Hong Kong, surprising for a country (China, that is) that is decidedly and officially atheistic and even beats up monks.
Apparently these particular monks are not actually monks, but capitalist spies. I could tell because, cleverly capturing all of this on camera, I caught them breaking the "no eating or drinking" rule on a public bus, not to mention hogging the desirable front-row seats and casting flirtatious glances at the girls in front of me.



3. At the private international school I visited, the students were divided into houses named after Chinese dynasties, both Han (Tang, Song, Ming) and Manchu (Qing). They even have captains. Possible interpretations of this are:
a. a secret imperialist plot to take over education
b. the imminent comeback of the corrupt Qing emperors
c. the continuing influence of Confucianism on education
d. an attempt to brainwash young people into thinking that the dynasties were the "childhood" of China but that they will "graduate" to a sort-of Communistic dictatorship.


This was some sort of "scout" organization at the school that seemed to give off whiffs of totalitarianism and/or fascism. They were marching back and forth across the basketball court trying to get the "reach" perfected and the stride longer. They seemed to be having trouble marching in unison, which made me think that there were still capitalistic and possibly even democratic memories lingering in Hong Kong









4. Hong Kong hotels are ridiculously expensive but the metro, take-out places, and pick-your-own candy stores were cheap. This is a sign that:
a. Tourists are stupid.
b. Tourists have a lot of money or are spending someone else's money.
c. Tourists don't take the metro, eat at take-out places, or buy candy out of plastic bins.
d. I am an a and b but not c tourist. In other words, stupidly cheap when spending other people's money?

Hotel experiences I will remember:
1. The first meal I ate there, breakfast for $30 (egg, toast).
2. The second meal I ate there, dinner for $30 (bowl of noodles)
3. The buffet that looked really good but that I did NOT get due to its cost ($70)
4. swimming laps in the beautiful pool overlooking the harbor, and sharing the small hot tub with two grotesque-obese Russian men with lots of gold chain around their necks. I spent the whole time "relaxing," defined as trying to find places for my limbs that were nowhere near theirs.










5. getting not one, but two, suprisingly reasonably-priced Cosmopolitans at the bar, which resulted in my becoming fascinated with a China vs. Iran match of . . . um. . . some sport on a field, and then getting into a conversation with a guy who was blocking my view of the TV, an Austrian construction supervisor with bad teeth who looked like Larry of the Three Stooges, who then asked me if I had plans for later in the evening, to which I responded, always on the edge of wild and craziness, "grading some papers and then reading my book." Why people think I'm a nerd I'll never understand.


Here is a true sign of decadence and imperialism - brunch at the Peninsula Hotel, which ran something ridiculous like $150 a pop, but nonetheless had a long line of would-be patrons waiting while others, clearly wise to this "capitalist round-up" took pictures of the gullible while suffering from "scone envy."

Finally, the random picture of a beautiful sunset, which shows either that the Earth is round, that my hotel room was perhaps worth the high price, or
that . . . the sun sets everywhere, even in Delhi, where you usually can't see it.

Same Time Next Year, or The Two Faces of Ellen

Warning: this blog entry contains serious material. And a special warning to squeamish young people: it's corny and it contains romantic language about PLACES, of all things.

It's been 14 hours since I arrived back in Delhi for Year 3 of my sojourn at AES, and this is the first time I've returned with mixed feelings rather than 100% enthusiasm. It's been like having a secret affair, exhilarating for awhile but then it starts to wear on you - the attempts at secrecy, living a double life, feeling pulled between places and people. Sigh.

The subject of my affair? My job here at AES - the greatest job ever: administrators whom I love, fellow teachers I admire, students I actually have the opportunity to get to know individually, and support for my teaching needs. And then there's the campus: it's like living in a fragrant tropical garden, with the occasional visiting monkey just for kicks. And the convenience: within 100 yards are tennis courts, a grocery store, a coffee shop, a pool, a gym, friendly neighbors, and (yes, I like this) my classroom. Every day here I think about how lucky I am to experience this.

When I left here last Spring, I was just about ready to sell the house in Minnesota and consider this apartment in Delhi my true home. After all, the stateside residence is "just a house." The garden? constant work and a losing battle against Japanese beetles and rampant thistles. Friends? One can make them anywhere, right? And I had decided that I was not a materialist - things did not matter.

Fast forward two weeks - via London and Colorado, after a week of grading AP exams, to arrival in Minnesota.

It took me about 10 seconds after coming through the front door to remember my "old" love - my life, and especially the house that had become a home even as the girls left for school and jobs and Buster died: the garden that I built over six years and is finally looking lush, the screened porch, the raspberries already ripening in late June, the beautiful silver maple shading the back yard, the neighbors whom I love for their constant oversight of the goings-on at my house and everywhere else on the block, for that matter. Maybe the 54 years of frequent moves, many of them not by choice, are finally making me want to dig my hands, literally, into this suburban plot and not let go.

Prior to this, the home I lived in for the longest time was in Morningside, when the girls were small, and divorce mandated the move from that house, one of the hardest moves I've ever faced. My last memory of that house is saying goodbye to my mother as she finished packing the last boxes, since she would be leaving for the airport before I got back to clean up. And that's also the last time I saw my mother, so that house will always hold that memory within its walls. Along with the memories of little girls dancing, Buster's loud barking as he ran from window to window following the garbage man's progress past our house. My 35th and then 40th surprise birthday parties, throwing countless birthday parties and inviting people for dinner, the "European" punch I made for Christmas caroling that made Teresa Carufel wonder as she entered the house, "what smells so awful," trying to keep all of the goldfish in Anna's room from being found dead before I could remove them from behind the malfunctioning filter, sleeping on the floor by Amy's crib when pregnant with Anna, just so Amy would go back to sleep, wallpapering Amy's "big girl" room while (still) pregnant with Anna and crabby, late nights putting all of the furniture back carefully in the dollhouse, including the tiny plastic flowers in their vases, only to find mayhem repeatedly after "innocent" children trashed my artificially-created domestic bliss once again - leaving various doll body parts upside down and in illicit sleeping combinations.

That house - someone else's for years now, and this house, the one I just said goodbye to for 10 months . . .it's been 7 years now, and even with the teaching year absences, it suddenly feels like "home." It crept up on me slowly, the importance of that place. I'm not sure if it's the fact I own it, or that it's something I can "fix" or at least make better, or if it just represents stability in the midst of change. Houses always give you the opportunity, if you can call it that, to improve them. And gardens - I used to think gardens were about creativity and love of nature. Then it dawned on me - it's all about control. Otherwise why would this "nature lover" be cursing at Creeping Charlie with its sweet-scented purple flowers, or tying the mouth of the "beetle bagger" closed, gleefully eyeing the dead and dying beetles whose only sin is a love for rose petals and raspberry leaves? I want the garden to look PRETTY, with flowers and spaces between them that PEOPLE like, especially me. But isn't all creativity about control, for that matter? Even Jackson Pollock wanted his paint dripped the way he wanted.

It makes no sense for me to spend my two months of vacation working every day, calling the plumber, organizing the storage area, pruning trees, mowing the lawn, deadheading flowers and pulling weeds until sweat blinds me and the mosquitoes have consumed most of the back of my legs. My normal gardening schedule does not go according to plan: yes, just an hour before dinner, pulling a few weeds, maybe putting some of the mulch down, she says - then comes inside covered with pine needles, pieces of mulch, bug bites, and sweat and sees that it's almost 10 PM - time for dinner! My poor daughters had to put up with this during their visits home - fortunately they both had distant boyfriends to call in the evening and perhaps even appreciated mom's absence from the scene for awhile.

So why did I love every day of this hard and never-ending work? No Calvinist family history here - just European Jews, Irish Catholics, and Japanese runaways fighting in my bloodstream with uncertain results.

Maybe it's the potato blight of the 1840s, or ghetto persecutions during the Plague, or tsunami experiences from past lives, but this summer I discovered some primeval need to lie down on the ground next to the house and breathe in the smell of the dirt and the grass and the flowers and stay there. And then, sore and tired, get up and go into the house at night and drink glass after glass of mineral water mixed with fruit juice and take a long shower and put on pajamas and sit in bed and watch a movie and then read until I fell asleep ridiculously late at night (actually I don't know if you can have a "primeval" need to put on pajamas and watch DVDs, but let's assume that it all goes together in one big "primeval need" package). And this was almost enough to make me happy, - I needed to see my daughters and call friends and see people for lunch or walks or book groups (oh yea, and do a sprint triathlon) - but suddenly my adventures in Delhi seemed like playing and life in Minneapolis seemed like the real deal.

Especially when the last time I saw Anna she cried. We can do all of the "finding ourselves" that we want, but it's not fun when our children miss us and shed tears.

Yeah. Family and friends. Friends - I realized that I actually have some in Minnesota that I love and miss when I am gone. I've always been a "leaver" rather than a "left behind," but now I'm seeing that when I leave I accidentally leave myself behind, too (I'm not saying this just to sound profound, although it does sound profound, doesn't it?). Certainly I leave behind people and shared experiences that I value deeply. (So probably some of "me" is now deposited here in Delhi behind a few refuse piles somewhere - likely sharing space with a cow or two). And my family members keep changing and getting older, refusing to wait until I visit to watch this happening. Being able to spend time with my sister's family in Boston was great, despite the fact that the short time window left turned me into a whirling dervish of evil during the two days between that visit and my departure for India, and poor Amy was stuck in the center of the whirling. How did I end up having such quality siblings and nephews/niece and cousins, etc?






I used to wish I was adopted as a child and that my "real" family would hurry up and rescue me; now I worry that I actually WAS adopted from a different gene pool, the one without talent. You know the different categories of people in Brave New World and/or "The Giver" or any of those dystopic novels? I would be in the category of people who can't actually do anything except read, eat too many blueberries, go to museums, and watch people. Yes, we would be the most obvious choice to throw out of the lifeboat. "My people" would have to be entertaining enough to keep our fellow boaters from tossing us over. "OK, so I can't tell left from right and I've been rowing backwards, but I can cross my eyes and wiggle my ears - watch!!!" My deepest secret - I became a lawyer only because I failed at the fast food restaurant jobs I tried and spilled coffee on the Woolworth's manager while attempt to waitress briefly - now the truth is out. Even in law school, before I discovered that I could actually earn a living practicing law (and I mean PRACTICING), I worked at the law library, which involved watching (see, there's that skill again) large numbers of dental hygiene students flirting with even larger numbers of law students, all of them sharing only the characteristic of knowing how to look like they were studying. Students never checked out books - they had already bought the ones they needed. Occasionally students would approach the desk and my colleague and I would be rudely interrupted in order to answer a question. The rest of the time this obnoxious young man spent telling me that, no matter how much girls hated him, by the time he was 30 the odds would be in his favor and some young woman would be forced to settle for him if she wanted to be married.

Last night I dreamed that I was lonely. Somehow dreaming a feeling lets the feeling settle into your bones so that you wake up and can't shake it off for awhile. But I also dreamed that even while feeling lonely, I joked about my pathetically lonely state and made people laugh, including myself. Today I feel sad about leaving Minnesota and my friends, family, and home there. I feel sad that some of my closest friends from AES aren't back this year - they've "moved on" to the international teaching afterlife. But you also have to laugh - you can't even take grief too seriously, because the human condition is a moving target and most of the time we're just trying to hang in there while making fools of ourselves- painfully tripping over banana peels in our path. As my dad used to advise me, laugh first so that when others start laughing, it's WITH rather than AT you.

"Greece" - the movie?

Perhaps the blog title "Ellen meets India" is becoming somewhat inappropriate, since I'm writing about a lot of other places (Thailand and Greece, for example), but I rationalize this with the argument that I wouldn't be traveling to these places if I weren't already somewhere exotic.

Greece has always seemed to me to be a movie set that had a double life as a real place. I can't even think of Greece without a scene of a postman riding his bicycle up a steep island road, Zorba dancing, Meryl Streep acting infantile and lip-synching, or leftists rioting in the streets ("Z"). So when I came in on the airplane today and saw urban sprawl outside the plane window, it was a bit disappointing. No Zeus or Poseidon spirit flying by the plane window, or flames from Temples of Athena visible from the skies.

But oh me of little faith! When I stepped out of the metro at the square near my hotel, it was indeed a movie set. A cobblestone square surrounded by coffee, gelato, and souvlaki shops; a group of musicians playing and random people dancing to their music; people of all ages sitting and walking on every surface like pigeons strutting their stuff; and ancient ruins scattered about, with the Acropolis visible from the moment I left the metro - this is real, Ellen, you're not in a movie.

Then I walked up the narrow street to the hotel (OK, I did get lost and go down the wrong street twice, but that doesn't really fit into this story) and there were cafes lining both sides of the street - the food on any single one of the tables I saw looked better than any meal I've seen in recent history. Plus it was amazing to see so many white people in one place (it's been awhile since I've been in Minnesota).

When I got to the hotel, the clerk, the quintessential understated gentleman (I've got a secret life; if you have to ask you're not worth telling), told me, "Ah, you are staying for 8 nights. If you would like a larger room then just tell me tomorrow and I will move you." Usually they wait until you complain. Then I asked him for a place to have a "simple dinner" and he gave me the name of a restaurant nearby.

Maybe getting older makes me aware that I have to consciously stop time once in awhile to savor the moment - or just let the moment be in charge instead of trying to control my surroundings. And Greek restauranteurs, certainly at this place ("Athiki"), were happy to take control from me. The evening reminded me of a short story I heard once on "Selected Shorts" (NPR), by a food writer (MFK Fisher?) about when she stopped for a meal at an out-of-the-way restaurant in rural France and had an incredible meal - the waitress kept bringing her course after course of incredible food, no matter how much she tried to resist.

I don't know whether the proprietor of this restaurant has read the story, but as soon as I arrived and told him I wanted a light meal, he had the prescription. "I have a perfect small fish for you, fried, with a nice Greek salad. And some wine? Water? White? Just a small white." I was wondering how they could serve whitewater when the waiter arrived soon after with a bottle of Greek spring water AND a 1/2 liter bottle of white wine from Crete, which he opened with a flourish, then shook his head in proud disbelief as he praised "good Greek wine" and swirled a small amount in the class before handing it to me. He turned his head away as if tasting wine were an intensely personal experience that one should not witness. A moment later another waiter arrived with "just a little bread" and then he brought "this Greek salad - it has the olive oil already, just salt and pepper and nothing else!" he commanded, and set the salt and pepper in front of me with a flourish.

All this may sound arrogant and annoying, but actually it was like winning the "Queen for a Day" contest (I realize that dates me), as these people placed the dishes in front of me and waited for my approval - I felt loved, attended to, flattered, feminine (ok, the wine helped). When the fish arrived, it was a a dozen or so little fish, deep fried, INCLUDING THEIR HEADS, arranged nicely around the plate. I cut the first one with my knife and fork, separating the head from the body carefully. Then, thinking again, I motioned to the waiter and asked, "Are you supposed to eat the heads, too?" He smiled patiently and said, "Madam, you do not use knife and fork for this. This is for the hands!" (As if that answered my question). But I guessed that meant that once you're using your hands, might as well bite off the fish heads.

Those fish were really good - fresh, crisp, just a squeeze of lemon, deathmasks of fried batter keeping them just foodlike enough for me not to think about their feelings - and the white wine did indeed enhance the flavor of the fish (and vice versa). And a Libyan computer science student at the next table starting talking politics with me, and the view of the quiet square and cathedral, filled with trees and people hurrying to get to their Saturday night events, started to take on a magical glow (really, it WAS NOT the wine). I looked into the restaurant window, since I had chosen to be one of the few eating outside, and I saw an elderly couple clinking wine glasses and smiling at each other.

And the music swelled with songs about not appreciating your loved one enough and having only a few moments together and "hold me now" and of course I missed John but nonetheless it was everything Greece should be, movie or no movie. And it was fun to let other people be in charge. So when I finished the fish I said to the waiter, "And dessert?" Without hesitation, he said, "Coffee and our house baklava." The baklava was the size of a slice of pie and clearly homemade - lots of walnuts - despite my earlier claim that I wanted a "light meal," I thought only briefly of taking some of it back to the room for Amy, then finished it off.

When I returned to the hotel, the clerk greeted me and suggested that I go up to the rooftop bar and see the Acropolis lit up at night while enjoying a coffee.

Attention - never underrate it. Especially when you are an over-50 woman. And particularly when earlier in the day, some lady in the airport security line told me to get out of the women's line and then, after I responded "I am NOT a man," looked at me closely, hesitated a bit, and then said, "OK." And I was even wearing big earrings to look ladylike.

So arriving in Athens, and having several gentlemen wait on me, smile at me, and "take care" of me, was great. And worth a movie, I think: "Eat, spend, sleep, " I think I'll call it. And by the way, don't ask how much the meal cost. It was worth it.

Romance in Thailand - No, no one is joining me today.

Yes, I'm sure you've heard about tropical romance before - but I'll bet it usually involved two people. This story, however, is different. This modern-day romance was made possible only by my new iphone.

This past week I went to Thailand without a "romantic partner" (my husband, or anyone else running for the position) and discovered . . . how to become obsessed with myself, or at least with taking my own picture.

I don't know who thought of the little icon in the corner of the iphone camera screen that shows the camera turning around, but a new world opened up for me when I touched that icon and saw myself in the photo frame. No longer would I have to wait until someone else found me photo-worthy. No longer would I have to worry about someone else taking embarrassing pictures of me - now I had total control over my own embarrassment.

Chapter 1:
It's not that I hadn't experienced the "self-photography" phenomenon - I had a honeymoon last summer filled with such pictures. In fact, I have to say that my husband, John, was the one who really introduced me to the joy of this activity. However, I tended to be, let's say, LESS than enthusiastic when he pulled out the camera and held it at an angle and said, without further ado, "Look into my eyes for this one." Usually I would be in the middle of brushing my teeth or doing something equally unappealing, but "click" and my unhappy, unattractive image would be preserved next to the angled picture of an obliviously smiling John. I think this photo, though from a later date, speaks for itself. It's from Kuala Lumpur, in December, and I think I was begging for mercy at the time. To no avail.

At first John would actually look like he was taking the picture, but then he developed the "talent" of looking like he, too, was an unwitting victim of a random photographer. Such as this lovely picture of me sleeping on a Long Island commuter train (This is an actual honeymoon photo, btw). Notice John's innocent expression - who, me? He looks as though he is patiently allowing an annoying photographer to take our photo. But no, look closely at his left arm - Exhibit No. 1, Your Honor.








So I became somewhat averse to having my picture taken at all over the past few months; that is, the pre-iphone time (PIT).

Chapter 2:

Fast forward several months to last week in Koh Lanta, a beautiful Thai island, surrounded by innumerable romantic couples. Yes, the types who saunter down late in the morning and then have quiet breakfasts together, hair purposely askew and yawning much more than necessary. (Taking after my mother, I spend a lot of time staring at strangers, who probably wonder what my problem is. This trip was no exception.) People went to extremes to avoid my probing gaze.
I've learned that taking pictures of strangers does not make you popular, with the exception of my photographer friend, Eric, who talks to potential subjects via a puppet (works for him). For some reason, people think you're invading their privacy when you're just observing. Peter Sellers would understand my enjoyment of "just watching." But if you take pictures of adults, you're stalking. If you take pictures of kids, you're a pedophile. So who's left? That's right, yourself. My early self-photography experiences, however, were cautious, characterized by the inclusion of others.

Here's the first on this vacation - notice that Spring, my friend, is in the picture. In fact, to be honest, I wanted it to look like the picture showed me with friends. Actually, I wanted it to look like I . . . had friends.






But once I started taking pictures of myself it grew on me - I started to like it more and more. And I discovered that taking pictures of myself could serve more than one purpose. For example, I could use it as a crime deterrent.


In the picture on the right, the guys behind me were our "hosts" on a snorkeling excursion. The shirtless guy with the sunglasses pulled into a rocky cove mid-day (he had a knife strapped to his chest and multiple scars on his body - you get the drift). He cut the engine and said, with a smirk, "I'm sorry. We cannot see the cave. There is too much/little water (this was unclear)." All I knew was that we were sitting in a boat with strange guys and NO ONE WOULD EVER FIND OUR BODIES! But at least I had the photograph, if anyone survived.
And do they look like your typical friendly snorkelers? OR PERHAPS ESCAPED CONVICTS WHO'VE LUCKED INTO SOME CLUELESS FOREIGNERS? Now that I think of it, I didn't see any of them wearing snorkeling equipment the entire day. I'm sure, however, that my new self-photography hobby stopped whatever plans they had.

After awhile, even when I took a picture of something else, I wondered how my photographed image would fit into that picture. It was as if - - - I wasn't lonely anymore - there was always Ellen to put into the pictures. Even parts of myself, symbols of my existence, became worthwhile subjects of the camera.
(Admittedly, this is a continuation of a series started when on a trip to Bayfield, Wisconsin, where the early work "feet with pebbles" appeared during a bike trip on Madeline Island. )

Forget all of those self-esteem courses, or hours of psychotherapy. With each new picture of myself, I became more empowered. I started actually preferring photos of myself, or photos of scenery with me in them, to taking photos of others or just plain scenery. And then I realized . . . this was romance, even if only in the Sturm und Drang sense of Goethe's unrequited passion! Or was it requited? Does it even matter?

Finally I was experiencing the romantic Thai beach vacation that others only dream of. And I had total control over my "partner" (me). If I wanted to take a picture of myself, no one would object. If I didn't like it, I could delete it. I could choose my own expression, the lighting, the background. And I found myself seeking out new experiences, not because they would enrich my life or increase my self-knowledge, but because they were new places where I could take my own picture.

For example, one day I went to a restaurant that I had thought "seemed" romantic, and I recorded the critical elements that went into that judgment. First, the tropical drink in the beachside setting.

Next, the tropical dessert, best shared by two but easily devoured by yours truly, "mango and sticky rice."








Unfortunately, I had seated myself facing the only other customer, a young woman. In the midst of my romantic self-encounter, I had to be careful that I did not cast my suggestive glances in her direction, lest she be misled.

This brought back the memory of my senior year at Haverford, when I slowly realized that the unfamiliar young woman at my dining table, who was suggesting that I come up to her room to see her etchings (seriously, I'm not making this up), was trying to pick me up.

After the seaside meal with myself avec camera, things really started to blossom. And that final evening, as if fate had intervened, there was the most beautiful sunset we had seen all week. And I headed off for diner early, alone. First, the innocent self-portrait with sunset.

Anyone could have taken this.

Then I realized the unexplored capabilities of both camera and expression.





And I was ready to move on to . . . embracing myself on camera. Just notice the warm, accepting expression on my face. My "Art of Living" teacher would be proud, though perhaps sad, also.




All this, however, continued to be innocent child's play. It was time . . . to take some risks.

John tells me that I'm a fuddy-duddy. Maybe he's right. He claims to like that about me, but what woman wants to be liked for fuddy-duddiness? Not me.



So here it is. My sultry look. Captured for the first time on camera. And this message for those who doubt - no, I was not feeling nauseous.



Yes, things were near to perfect.

There were a few things that I chose not to do, nonetheless, because those activities could endanger this fragile exploration (i.e., break something). After a recent incident in Delhi, where I was looking up a number on my then-spanking-new iphone and fell into a pothole, scraping my knee raw and incurring the sympathy of an aged man who offered his assistance - I decided that taking pictures of myself on a motorbike, or underwater swimsuit shots, would not be good for either me or the iphone. So there were limits.

Now, I have a confession to make. For some of you, this may explain the whole experience. My final self-portrait of the vacation shows me with the key to the room where Spring and I stayed.Yes, that's right. Room 666. But I don't believe that stuff about Satanic numbers, etc. Do you?

Mwa-ha-ha-ha.

MUN weekend from HELL

Yes, I think I'm fully recovered from the latest Model United Nations conference and ready to tell the story. This one was held in Mussoorie, at the "Woodstock" boarding school, no relation to the festival - but perhaps the name was a sign of an event that would deliver oh so much more than expected.

You know those dreams where you are paralyzed and cannot speak or run away? That was this trip. So much went wrong that I don't even know where to start.

The plan: to attend a "local" MUN conference only about 8 hours away. The dates: early Friday morning, April 9th until Sunday night, April 11th. We were scheduled to travel by train to Dehradun, a lovely town that serves as a gateway to the Himalayas (more like a gateway to Dante's Inferno, in this case).

The first sign of trouble was when a student emailed me asking why we were missing an extra day of school. It turned out that the train reservations had been made for Thursday, not Friday (notice my use of passive voice, here, just to emphasize that this is NOT about blame).

Missing school days is becoming less and less popular with administrators here, who claim to actually WANT to see students at school on school days. Students, I've noticed, almost universally do not share this sentiment.

In an attempt to support administrative policy (and avoid creating yet another substitute daily lesson plan) I immediately alerted our travel office to the reservation error and asked for reservations on Friday instead. Uh-oh. Nothing available on the train. Where are all of these people going? Kashmir? The Swat Valley? Or do people ride trains just for the pleasure of watching men pooping only yards from the tracks, mooning the passengers? Doubtful. So what would we do? Of course! Take a bus. That shouldn't take much longer than the train ride. And then we can stop and stretch our legs here and there.

Ha, ha, ha. On both counts. And that's only the beginning of What Went Wrong at Woodstock.

The bus arrived about 20 minutes late, 6:20 A.M. - situation normal for India - but we were on a tight schedule, since the conference started at 3:30 that afternoon. The email from the travel agent stated that the driver spoke "passive" English but was not fluent. What is "passive" English? All I know is that I had to ask a Hindi-speaking student to communicate anything of importance to the driver and his sidekick. Bus drivers here have a "spotter" who hangs out the passenger-side window and keeps the driver informed of how many farm animals and old ladies have been killed or at least knocked unconscious by the bus in the past hour. The "guy" also does all of those nice things that long-distance drivers wish for: pulling grapes off their stems so they're easier to eat, folding back plastic or paper wrappers to enable one-handed eating of sandwiches, taking the tops on and off of water bottles - everything but the neck massage (at least not in public). The driver himself did not trouble himself with the niceties of conversation, or even acknowledgement of our presence. I could've sworn that maybe he didn't even LIKE us.

If you think this is just about a couple of torture sessions in the form of claustrophobic enclosed spaces and diesel fumes, oh no, there's more. We're not even at the conference yet. And I haven't even complained about the driver turning off the air conditioning whenever we went uphill because it was "overheating the engine." Which led to a repeated chorus of "Make him turn the air conditioning on, Ms. Guerin." My Hindi lessons came in handy here, "AC, AC!" But the relief would only be temporary, until he decided again (without ever telling us) to turn it off. Outside, the temperature was about 110 degrees.

****************

Many moons before the trip, I had eagerly snapped up Woodstock's offer of free housing in their new, state-of-the-art guest house on campus. At least we could look forward to cooling off and changing when we arrived. But when I called ahead to ask if we could stop to change before the first session (that started right when we arrived), they told us that the housing was "too far from the school" for us to have time to go there first. Hmnn. . . on campus? Let's stop here to mention that the campus is on the side of a mountain, and we had gone from close to sea level to about 6500 feet on that lovely bus ride.
The bus driver dropped us off at what I thought was the gate, where some hapless Woodstock middle schooler, whom I thought was our official greeter, went along with my delusion and walked us up to the main entrance. Here, when I say "up," it's not figurative. Carrying backpacks and wheeled suitcases, we climbed steps and walked steep walkways, and by the time we got to the main entrance, I could hardly breathe - it was a good 1/2 mile.

And when we got there, I noted that the REAL main entrance appeared to be on a street wide enough for our bus to have stopped. Remember this; it's relevant for the return trip story.

OK, I have to admit that the conference itself was great, especially after the students recovered from the shock of realizing that most of the attendees were actually serious about Model UN, not there for the "hot" girls or illicit drinking (the campus is isolated and was founded to educate missionaries' children, so it's pretty tame). Our students were also bowled over by the audacity that the other school from Delhi showed by actually coming PREPARED to debate, with background information on their topics and practiced speeches delivered at frightening volume. After some scrambling, our American-educated students showed those stereotypical all-American characteristics: the ability to BS until they figured out what the heck was going on. They made a lot of speeches that sounded like this:

"Now you've heard a lot of facts and figures. But what's REALLY important is . . . ."

When all else fails, punt. Reject that "fuzzy math."

And here's where the complacent seniors lost out to the eager and naiive sophomores, who buried themselves in committee dialogues and stayed up late writing new resolutions and speeches, while the seniors fought over who would get the towels. Oh, yes, that's where we were - the housing.

At 9 the first night, after the meetings ended, one of the MUN advisors there offered to walk us to our housing, as the path was dark and we "might get lost." Double hmnn . . . . This was an uphill climb that made the earlier climb seem like child's play. There was no point in trying to wheel luggage along the gravelly, uneven path. And one hand had to cling to the railing, that thin thread holding us back from a tumble into the dark void. After several stops where the only sound was ragged breathing (remember that the girls were in heels, too), finally, whew! We were there! There? This didn't look exactly as I 'd expected. Instead of a modern, cozy-looking house with cheerful yellow lighting to greet us, it looked like a girl scout camp that had been deserted suddenly during a landslide. It smelled like dust. The rooms each had two or three narrow bunks that looked like they had been made up years before, so that when you moved the covers dust flew. Visions of Miss Havisham in Great Expectations, surrounded by cobwebs. The pillows, we discovered soon after, were cinderblock-like and the mattresses? Why bother. At least we we could get a good drink of water and take showers after the long day and the climb. But . . .

two pitchers of drinkable water sat on a table. Two pitchers for 13 tired and thirsty teenagers? One student actually picked up a pitcher in a characteristically unselfish teenager move and drank straight out of it, spilling precious water on his shirt as he did so. And . . .

Did I say showers? A man mysteriously appeared out of the darkness outside and informed us that there would not be hot water until the next night, at the earliest. AND that there were only four towels, which I claimed on behalf of the female contingency. I was ready to do battle with a wet towel, if necessary, but the boys accepted their bad fortune, resigned and fatigued.

Do you know the feeling of having to be the cheerleader in situations like this? Probably all of you parents have gone through this. "Come on, kids. A little cold water never killed anyone (whom I know, anyway). It's invigorating. Look, I'm going to go and take a nice long relaxing freezing cold shower, just to show you. Hey, who needs towels? It's more fun drying yourself off with toilet paper. Let's play mummy!" All this in that familiar desperate high-pitched tone that is met with stone-faced silence by the troops.


The Man from Outside handed us a large bunch of keys that looked old enough to belong to Bluebeard. He gruffly told us to lock up all of the doors, especially the double locks on the doors to the outside, before we went to bed. Maybe some of his dead ex-wives were behind the doors in true Bluebeard fashion, I thought.





I locked the outside doors, wondering what exotic and dangerous species was waiting out there bears? tigers? A few minutes later I heard loud knocking.




In fact, the mysterious lurking wild animals were several of our boys playing a rousing game of basketball with a deflated ball - at least there was a hoop. They returned inside and gulped down the remaining fresh water before retiring, sweaty and showerless, to their bunks.

Just to top off the events of the day, I dropped one of the two rolls of toilet paper into the toilet while fumbling my way through the darkness in the middle of the night.

*********

The second night we arrived back at our cozy lodging to hear that no, the hot water wasn't working yet (sigh). It was at about that time that I learned that the house we were in was NOT the lovely new housing built for school guests. No, that housing had mistakenly been given to our conference rivals from Delhi. How did I find this out, since no one actually told us? Just those casual conversations with other advisors . . .how was your night? Did you have hot water? You did? How were the beds? Comfortable? . . . What? You had TVs and hot water? What's the name of the place you're staying? And your BUS took you to the door via an upper road?





Do I have "gullible" stamped on my forehead? Don't answer that, Mike.








But we did have three new towels - Yay! - for the eight boys. This led to a demonstration of primal male competitive behavior (rock, paper, scissors?) for the alpha, beta, and gamma positions in the group. And some less primal but equally entertaining poor sportsmanship that nearly came to blows. Hey, guys, come on. I've discovered myself towel-less at the Y before - just use a t-shirt. These softies lead privileged lives, I harumphed to myself silently. After deciding who would get the towels, they continued their chest-beating in a merciless game of soccer (in typical AES fashion, it was Koreans vs. Indians and Marshall, the only white boy) on the concrete basketball court outside, cheered on by the females, until blood was spilled and the females nursed the wounded soldiers back to health with whatever toilet paper and drinkable water remained.

******

The return trip: Short version of the argument with the bus driver about picking us up at the entrance. We're at the entrance; pick us up here. No. Yes. No. (He won). We tramped down the hill, chased by our suitcases rolling bumpily behind us. Yes, I called the travel company and complained bitterly about my aging knees and his rudeness, and they said "Yes, we'll talk to him. Yes, yes." But this is India. I'm sure that he was sent out the next day to transport some other unsuspecting school group somewhere, without skipping a beat. In fact, he probably won some award from his fellow drivers.

It was 3 PM when we left. We arranged our first stop, at the McDonalds in the town at the bottom of the winding road leading down the mountain. (I was thanked more by the students for this stop than for anything else on the trip.) Then we would make one more stop for dinner halfway home. I took a Dramamine pill and closed my eyes as the trip home began.
If the ride there seemed long, dusty, barely air-conditioned in over-100 degree temperatures, and, well, long - the ride back dwarfed it in the "Gateway to Hell" record book. 13 1/2 hours, through the night, with my attempts to sleep interrupted frequently by "Ms. Guerin, how much longer? Ms. Guerin, how many hours until we get there? Ms. Guerin, we haven't moved for an hour! Ms. Guerin, Ms. Guerin . . . ." Finally I changed my name, so that I didn't have to listen. Yet it was disheartening, the times I opened my eyes, to notice that not only was traffic stopped, but also that the driver was AWOL and people were picnicking around cooking fires in the middle of the highway.


It wasn't much better when we were moving - it was like a video game where the traffic is coming at you and you know that you're going to crash - not if, but when, is the question. But even the video games don't add the excitement, in addition to cars and trucks and buses coming AT you, of cars and trucks and buses and pedestrians and motorbikes on both sides of you. Now I understood why we needed the wiry "spotter" keeping a lookout on the passenger side.

Our dinner stop didn't happen until midnight and the students either had extremely well-trained bladders or were in the back peeing out the windows. I was realizing that it IS possible to get a chafed rear end, as I shifted position frequently and tried to sleep.

Another "fun fact." AES has a "12-hour" policy, recently referred to as the "11-hour" policy in a memo perhaps reflecting the increasing frenzy of our modern world, states that students are excused from any classes that occur within 12 hours of their arrival back in New Delhi after a school trip. Students who normally have no interest in math (or as it's called here, "maths") are fascinated with the numbers when it comes to this policy. Staying up until 2 or 3 is normally no big deal here; in fact, all-nighters are almost an initiation rite at AES, but put said student on a train, bus, or plane coming back from a school trip, and time (for sleeping) is suddenly of the essence! (Apologies for those who do not love the law and all of its terminology). They will repeat, in their sing-songy voices, over and over (hence: repeat), "Ms. Gue-rin, it's 11 PM so we don't have to be in your class tomorrow morning . . . . Ms. Gue-rin, it's 2 AM so we only have to be at school for one class (automatically deemed an unwise use of time - why bother).


At 4:30 AM, arriving home about 5 hours after the time parents had expected us, we were greeted silently by parents, who probably were trying to restrain themselves from knocking me unconscious and spitting on the bus driver.
To be honest, these are parents protesting some school lunch program in England, but don't they look angry?

Oh well, at least I had three hours to sleep before Monday started.

Lest I forget: three of our students were recognized as "distinguished delegates." Two sophomores and one junior. The Woodstock MUN chairs thanked us graciously for coming and said that we had improved the conference's quality. And we did get to know each other a lot better. All of which made the trip . . . almost . . . worthwhile.

Japan: the Dark Side

At the end of March (it seems so long ago), I went with Sarah to the land of "Frank" Nakayama, my father's Japanese grandfather. It was about time for a break from Delhi - I was getting weary of the dust, garbage, dead things, monkeys, barbed-wire fences, being sick, did I say garbage? And here was a chance to bond with ancestral spirits and look over the waters that my great-grandfather sailed as a stowaway to America rather than becoming a monk. (Do you think that resistance to ascetic lifestyles runs in the family, perhaps?)

Aaah, I thought, Japan, land of smiling, bowing people - people who throw away trash and can eat several meals in a row without getting sick. Plus, wasn't it cherry blossom time? And yes, it was. You can see that the cherry blossoms were intoxicating. But I'll bet you didn't realize that they are LITERALLY intoxicating. Kind of like when Dorothy wanders innocently into the field of poppies - no, Dorothy, you're not in Kansas anymore. You're getting high on opium! And this cherry blossoms everywhere thing? It's got to be part of the plan . . . .





There were a lot of smiling people - and some even bowed. Trash was picked up and there were lots of things to eat. But there were things no one had told me about . . .

The first thing I noticed was that there were spies everywhere, disguised as middle-aged women wearing dorky hats. Does it seem like mere coincidence to you that this woman was only steps behind me in the crowd? Notice how she attempted to avert her gaze when I caught her following me and took her picture.










and what about . . .

the Franco-Japanese alliance to take over the world by forcing tourists to become obese?

When I went to Japan, I thought I wouldn't have to worry about fatty foods. A vacation from ghee-saturated foods that were probably "Killing Me Softly." Instead, seaweed salad, sushi, maybe some sweet bean paste - this would be an artery-healing vacation. That's what I thought.


But what were the most pervasive food stores? French bakeries. The first time we saw one we thought it was an anomaly - "Wow! Look at these great French pastries here in Kyoto! Let's eat as many as we can- who knows when we'll see something like THIS again?"

Ha - I started to wonder if "Patisserie" was actually a Japanese word. And they all had those sophisticated Arom-A-matics spewing out freshly-baked pastry smells. I've read about Japan's sophisticated technology in this area, and even though I didn't actually SEE the aroma machines, that's the point, right? I was being manipulated and had no choice but to go into every single one of those places. Once I was there, within the clutches of the French guy with the Japanese accent or the Japanese guy wearing a beret, they knew they had me. "Vat? You only want zee cream pastry? Vat about zee fruit gateau?" And I would not be able to leave until they had coerced me into buying at least two pastries. The amazing brilliance of it all - they program the pastries, just like banks that put exploding dye into bags of stolen money, so that the pastries get heavier the minute you leave the bakery. I could hardly walk a block without them becoming unbearably heavy in my hand, so I would have no choice but to stuff them into my mouth, without chopsticks or the slightest savoir faire.

When you tried to stop the insanity and just get coffee, barista cum lab technicians did strange things to the coffee to keep you programmed to order pastries









and if that didn't work they tried things that softened your resolve, made you smile -

Darn! It worked every time. I was starting to say "Arigato" with a French accent.

and what about . . .

the zombie bus drivers? The bus drivers talk a lot, but they don't move their mouths or say anything intelligible. You know the kid who sat in the back of the class and talked about the teacher in a low voice the entire time? In a voice pitched just so the students but not the teacher could hear? That kid has become the Chief Bus Driver Voice Coach in every Japanese city (that's 3) that I've visited. The drivers speak just loudly enough that you can tell they're saying something, but you have no idea what. Maybe this isn't a problem for people who know where they're going, but if you're listening carefully to discern the difference between "Shinjuku" and "Shibuya," hearing "bfzzzzzsslll" and "shhhhhhhhh" won't help much.

Now, just in case you think that I am being paranoid - there's no way that normal people, other than James Dean or Marlon Brando, talk like that. And doesn't it seem just a bit odd that every single bus driver we had did this same thing? My theory is that they've got to be zombies, raised from the dead and automated so that they appear to be human. Alternatively, perhaps Japanese bus drivers are required to drink a bottle of sake before reporting to work, in order to gain the requisite mumbling slurred voice.

They probably test each driver before s/he heads out for the day: "Say 'Toyota' . . . . er . . . sorry, I meant to cross that out - 'Honda'" NO, I could hear what you were saying! No vowels, remember? And turn away from the microphone! DO NOT MAKE EYE CONTACT with any passengers in the mirror, understand?

And while we're on the subject of directions - let's talk train stations. I experienced several. We stayed at a Tokyo hotel advertised on the website as "conveniently located near the train station." In fact, the hotel was IN the train station, connected to the "New South" exit, which was nowhere near the "South" exit. Maybe there is a new direction: hence, "New" South.

Did you ever play one of those mean kids' games where people push you back and forth between them, sort of like human dodgeball? (Maybe you didn't have the same kind of childhood that I did.) That's what these stations are - and it's brought to the public by the people who advertise JapanRail passes. Each person who is dumb enough to buy one of those rail passes (1 week for $420 vs. the actual cost of numerous train rides - about half that) has to show it to a JapanRail employee upon entering the station. That triggers a "stupid foreigner" alert throughout the station, upon which half of the arrows are reversed. The result is (and I'm a witness) that the Japanese railway users can stride through the station at top speed without even looking up, and still get to their destinations; while JapanRail pass holders (mind you, the pass can only be purchased OUTSIDE of Japan, guaranteeing that no hapless Japanese person will buy one by accident) either stand open-mouthed staring at signs and end up trampled by commuters, or try to keep pace with the commuters and end up going around and around the station and back to the same place.

Notice the sign that tells you that the West and East exits are both in the same direction? Exactly!

Ever seen one of those goofy Japanese sitcoms? The last one I saw involved a group of college-aged students in a "library" who were given a task that required them to make loud embarrassing noises and attract attention to themselves. They were doubled over with laughter most of the time themselves. Other than the fact that this reminded me a lot of my Third Period class, I didn't really get the point. Obviously, since there were TV cameras there, the "library patrons" were aware that this was no ordinary library. And, well at least for me, there are only so many times that a farting noise is funny.

So sitcom fans must really enjoy watching the videotapes of unwitting foreign tourists lost in the train stations .

In fact, they probably raise it to "Candid Camera Premium Channel" level when someone who not only has a JapanRail pass , but also has absolutely no sense of fashion, comes into the station "The JapanRail Show" employees put out multiple advertisements with tempting pictures of food or consumer goods, only to remove them when clueless tourists wearing tacky colors (anything other than black) try to find them a second time. There I was, in my bright red rain jacket (that I bought only because it was sized "XS") trying to find the sushi/tempura restaurant in the station on my last night. My LAST night - didn't I deserve one meal of something other than French pastries and sugary orange juice? After I had come back the third time to the guard who told me I couldn't go that way, I gave up and went to one of the vending-machine ramen places, where you push a button with a picture and then go inside.

I gave the ticket to a tired-looking man who turned out to be the dishwasher, and he handed it to the Vanna White of the operation, a woman whose job seemed to be holding the tickets and yelling to the cook and the customers. Other than me, she was the only woman in there.

I had happened on a POW camp! No, wait, these guys were all wearing suits. But they looked about as miserable as people could look in black suits, white shirts, and ties. And they were sitting in rows, staring at bowls of noodles and slurping them into their mouths with some help from chopsticks. It felt more like the Last Supper than my last dinner in Japan.

And then there are the REALLY mean tricks. One day I found my way to the waterfront - Tokyo Bay, near the beautiful Rainbow Bridge. Wait - what was this? Was I in Japan or on Staten Island? Was I delirious? Did I have a fever?

I went into a 7-11 to look for a thermometer, but all I could find were packages with drawings of smiling people with bandaged heads.












Was there a massive lobotomy operation focused on foreigners overdosing on Eau de Cherry Blossom and pain du chocolat?

It all started to make sense to me - the ubiquitous temples, the altars in every ryokan, the Buddhist philosophy that life is suffering - what was going on here?

I passed a cemetery, looking for some inspiring words on the gravestones, and found . . .

Who exactly are the"parties concerned" in a graveyard? I started to wonder if this was a message from the beyond - that maybe I was some sort of exchange for the unexcused emigration of my forefather's soul.

And, finally, the most pervasive oddity - what was with the mask thing? I stumbled into yet another convenience store and, confirming my suspicions, discovered a whole rack of masks for the average commuter (morning routine: black suit - check; black scarf - check; mask hiding half of face - check.) What kind of society divides families, even mothers and young children, into mask-wearers and non mask-wearers? It's civil war out there!

On a revolting note, signs advertised "14-DAY" masks. Ewww . . . if you weren't sick when you first put one on, you certainly would be after 14 days of sneezing into the same mask. What do masked teenagers do on their third dates? "I'll show you the fungi on the inside of my mask if you'll show me yours?"
So here were my thoughts after a week in Japan:

India, with its eternal hope for a better life the next time around, and rules that were broken more often than followed, and religious texts like the Kama Sutra ? Or . . .

Japan, with zombie bus drivers, "Artery-Busting in Only 10 Days" vacation special, grinning "Chucky" (ok, maybe they're called "Hello Kitty" here, but I recognize that Chucky grin) figures everywhere, the "Go to Jail Free" card known to us innocents as JapanRail passes, moving walkways to nowhere , and noodle-slurping Men in Gray Flannel Suits?

When I got off the plane back in Delhi, I embraced my plants, dead of heatstroke as they were, and kissed the dust.