Thank you, American Airlines.

I am the most anxious flier ever.  Except Bob Lanham. When we went on our honeymoon to Mexico, his eyes kept filling with tears.  He was all sweaty.  When we hit some pretty rough turbulence, he grabbed me, gave me a "hug" (which was more like a cross between a bear hug and a death grip) and screamed (literally) that everything was going to be okay.

When I flew to Delhi, I got upgraded to Business Class.  It saved me from my flight anxiety.  During my eight hour layover in Chicago, I literally asked five employees of the airline five different times how to get upgraded.  They all said the same thing: "Pay for an upgrade."  Sure jerks.  If I could, I would have already done that.  Then, when we were boarding, I was called to the service counter.  I was sure I was getting kicked off the plane for being annoying, but instead a Jason Bateman look-alike told me that I had been upgraded to Business Class and that I could go ahead and board.  I started jumping up and down.  I did a high kick (for real).  I wanted him to be excited with me.  He just stared at me.  I told him that I wanted to kiss him, and he smirked a little.  He reminded me of my friend Bobby Helton.  Mean as hell with a good heart.  Sassy til the end of time.

Anyway, I think everyone should fly business class always.  It was full of mostly middle aged men who thought I was pretty. The flight attendant was a little old man who loved me from the get-go. He showed me how my chair turned into a recliner, and he gave me some Bose noise-cancelling headphones.  He did that for everyone, really, but I could tell he loved me.

During the flight, I drank a lot of free Bailey's (to go along with my Xanax).  I didn't touch my book, and I only watched one movie.  And then I slept.  And it was glorious.  When I woke up 11 hours later to the pilot's announcement that we would be landing in Delhi in 30 minutes, all of the men smiled at me like I was the most endearing creature ever.  The old man flight attendant patted me on the head and said, with his British accent, "My last sleeper.  You missed breakfast. Would you like some juice?"  I almost asked him for a hug, because I was so happy.

I am sure the return flight in Economy will be traumatizing, but for now, I will just revel in the joy that was my Business Class experience.  Thank you, American Airlines.

The Art of the Bobble

Don't do it up and down.

Do it side to side.

This is the Indian head bobble.  Also known as a "wobble," "head shake," or "head wiggle," in general "it is often performed by the listener in agreement with what is being said by the speaker, such that the speaker perceives there is 'no problem' with the message being conveyed."  (Thank you Wikipedia.)

It can be used to express a variety of sentiments, as another blogger explains: "Though the gesture is most often translated to mean “yes,”...the wobble is layered with nuance.... The motion ranges in meaning from “Right away, sir!” to “I feel your pain, but honestly can’t be bothered to help you.” The shades of meaning generally depend on the number of wobbles. For instance, five or six wobbles in either direction indicates servile humility... while a detached half-wobble to the left, eyes partly closed...suggests near total indifference."

It is harder than it looks.  Before I got here, I thought it was a lot more like doing what a bobble head doll does.  Do that here and people will look at you like you are a psychopath.  They will also look at you like you are crazy if you nod your head up and down to mean "yes."

I mastered it on accident.  I was leaving the gym, and my earbuds were falling out of my ears, but both my hands were full.  In an effort to keep them from falling all the way out, and slowly moved my right ear up, pulling at the cord of my earbuds.  At the same moment, I realized that the security guard at the door was asking me a question.  I have no idea what he asked, but I had inadvertently responded with the head bobble.  And he loved it.

Using this gesture in India will get you very far.  People seem to understand that you aren't as green as you look, and they respect you a little bit more.  Also, it is rare to see Indians smile at people, but they do almost invariably when a foreigner uses the wobble.

It is also addictive.  It is just so much more sophisticated than the eager nod of America.  It's cool, you know?

The Rickshaw Mafia and the Lizard

The easiest way to travel in Delhi is by auto-rickshaw.  Of course, riding in one means you have to haggle with the driver over the price, and then hope that he understands, despite the language barrier, where you want to go.

But all is not as simple as it seems.

The rickshaw mafia is a federation of rickshaw drivers.  Their cooperation is impressive.  This is how it goes down.

They line up outside popular places, like the metro exit or a mall, like so:

When you approach them, the leader, who usually speaks the best English, says, "Where you going?"  You tell him, using a lot of gestures and body language, and he choose the rickshaw he thinks is most likely to get you there.  And then there is the price.

I  got in a big fight with the rickshaw mafia this week.  After a trip to "Food Bazaar," my favorite grocery destination, I approached the rickshaw mafia.  I told them where I lived. The mafia leader took one look at me and said "300 rupees."

Me: "No way!  100." 

Vito Corleone: "No, 250."  I laughed, said ok, and started to walk away.  I have no idea where I was going, but this wasn't an act.  I was pissed.  Vito started smacking the side of a rickshaw and yelled, "Lady! 250!" 

Me (screaming):  "No! I live here! I'm not a tourist.  100!" 

We finally agreed on 150.  The whole time Vito and I were screaming at each other, the mafia drivers, who take naps in the back of their rickshaws in between jobs, were peering out from their little yellow roofs and laughing really hard.  I think they enjoyed the show.



That night, I chased a lizard out of our apartment.

This is the distressed email I sent to Bob:


There is a typo in the message; I meant to say "It wasn't that big."  Honestly, it looked like a toy lizard, but it freaked me out.  Sick.  Also, we live on the seventh floor of our building.  How did it get up here?

Guess I'll never know.  Hope it was a one time thing.

Last story about the events of the week so far, and I'll keep it short:

At a restaurant, a woman tried to cut in front of me.  In India, this is completely acceptable.  If you let someone cut in front of you, you deserve it.  So I booty bumped her out of the way, and ordered my food.  Take that.

I'm registered!

I finally completed the foreign national registration process in India!  I know it might not seem like a big deal to you, but it is.  A lot of people, including Bob, say that registering ranks first among their worst experiences in India.   My registration was remarkably uneventful.

at the fro office

Last Tuesday, we went to the FRO office to begin the process.  When we showed up, the place was eerily calm, and we later found out the Mr. FRO himself (who people describe as a monster, the master of nightmares, or at best, jerk) was out for the day.  Jai, a man from Bob's work who was helping us, told us that meant the employees were doing whatever they wanted, including registering people very quickly.  We pushed to the front of the group, since there aren't any lines here or concept of "turns" and turned in all of my paperwork (about 100 pages of documents including a letter from Bob's work, a copy of our apartment lease, etc).  In thirty minutes my passport was stamped, and they told me to come back in a week to pick up my official "papers" or proof of registration.  When I left, I had a sinking feeling they would lose everything in the mess of their office.  It was the least organized place I had ever seen.

casual day since the master of nightmares is off

very sophisticated filing system

he has my passport in his hand!  it's all over!

Today Bob and I went back, with Jai, and happily retrieved my papers in all of 10 minutes.  My forty minute FRO experience is completely unheard of, and I'm sure that if other foreigners heard about it, they would be paying me to find out how it went so smoothly.  If you live in America and never plan on coming to India, skip to the next paragraph.  For the rest of you:
1.  Go on a day that the evil Mr. FRO is not at work.
2.  Shove your way to the front of the group.  You will have to be kind of rude, but it will be worth it.  Plus, it's not rude in Indian culture.
3. Smile.  A lot.
4.  Ask a helpful Hindi-speaking friend to go with you.  Or even better, say a few things in Hindi yourself, and be sure to use the Indian head bobble when people ask you questions.

When we left, we also went to get something notarized at the courthouse down the road.  To our surprise, it was an outdoor district court that looked a lot this photo I borrowed from another website:

this looks a lot like the outdoor district court we visited today

It was infinitely cool.  Jai was very proud that we only got charged Rs. 150 ($3) until we told him it was free at home.  Also, the notary guy didn't even read the paper or ask for our passports, which is kind of the whole point of a notary.  Oh well.  No complaints here.

All in all, it was a pretty successful day.  Registering was something I was super anxious about, and now it's over!

The Rules of Yoga Class

I went to my first yoga class tonight!  Very exciting.  A real yoga class too, not any of that "Power Yoga" or "Urban Yoga" crap where you really just get tricked into doing some pushups and stuff.

The rules of real yoga are as follows.


First Rule of Yoga Class: There is no yoga class.  I know, you saw that coming.  I walked down to class at 6:15, so I wouldn't be late, and when I got there I was the only one there.  I went early because I'm used to the way things usually are at home.  If you want to do a group class, you better get there about an hour early and be prepared to fight some skinny blonde girl for a good spot.  Apparently, they're running short on overeager workoutaholics here. At about 6:40, I was convinced that there really was no yoga class. When I was about to leave, everyone showed up-- five older women, and Dr. Rajiv Chopakak or something.  And so we got started.

Second Rule of Yoga Class: Take your shoes off.  You even have to do this in the fake yoga classes at home, but somehow I forgot.  I walked right into the little studio with my filthy flip flops on.  Even the security guard took his big old shoes off.  Everyone looked at me like I had some kind of disease.  Dang it! 

Third Rule of Yoga Class: You better know the poses before you get there, because no one is going to teach you.  Dr. Rajiv got things going pretty quickly.  He turned on some blasting music (Indians like their music LOUD.  Really loud.  Take however loud you think I mean, double it, turn it up just a little bit more, and that's just about how loud they like music to be.)  Then he started calling out poses, "Position 1, breathe in, Position 2, breathe out..."  I had no idea what was happening, but I tried to keep up as best I could.  "Hopefully now your breathing will be deep, calm, and relaxing," I barely heard him say over the music.  Yeah right.  How's ragged and labored?  Will that be ok?  Everyone else looked pretty relaxed, but I was a mess.  My mat was all jacked up and pushed around everywhere, sweat was getting in my eyes, and it was obvious I didn't know the poses.  Luckily, yoga is a lot like sex.  Just go along with what the person closest to you is doing, and everything should work out fine.

Fourth Rule of Yoga Class: Please clean your nostrils thoroughly.  Dr. Rajiv said this to everyone about halfway through the class, and walked up to me with a kleenex from his bag.  I was horrified that I had a bat in the cave-- he probably saw it on that last back bend he had us doing.  The kleenex smelled like cumin, and I was still a little embarrassed when I realized that he gave tissues to everyone.  Shew.  "Ladies, clean them thoroughly."  And then I thought, "What the hell are we going to be doing next that my nostrils have to be thoroughly clean?!"  Turns out it was some "dynamic" breathing exercises.  What's that? you wonder.  Well, I can teach you.  Start by making a face like the one you made the last time you walked into a public bathroom.  The one at the mall, perhaps.  In a standing position, bend your knees slightly and put your hands down at your side, palms facing down.  In two swift and fluid motions, bend your knees more, exhaling sharply, and then stand up straight, inhaling deeply.  Yes, that's right.  You should be bouncing around like you are about to break into a African tribal dance.  Do 40 repetitions 5 times.  Without laughing.

Next class is on Thursday night.  Can't wait!

Getting frisky

Today is the first day I've spent in the apartment alone.  Our FRO trip was postponed until later this week... I know, I'm so sad.  So, I've just been laying around and trying to find ways to occupy myself until Bob gets home in 5 hours and 43 minutes.  One of the ways I've been occupying myself is counting down the minutes until Bob gets home.

I was also thinking about some of the small trips we've made out into the city, to malls, the movies, the grocery, and to some larger markets, and I remembered something I've yet to really think about until now.  Every time you enter a building here, whether it be the Metro or a mall, someone feels you up.  For real.  And they aren't shy.

The first time this happened, Bob and I were getting on the Metro, and I followed him dutifully into a long line of men waiting to walk through the metal detector (these are also at the entrances of most buildings, and if you have a bag they search it too and run it through an xray machine).  As we approached the front of the line, which was moving so quickly it hardly seemed like a line, he said, "Oh my gosh babe.  You should go to the women's line.  I didn't even think about it."  You didn't think about it?!  "What a narrow escape from a security guard that surely would have violated me," I thought in the voice of an annoying, highly private, highly individual, very selfish, very American woman that occasionally creeps into my mind. 

Honestly, I maintain that the security guard merely would have informed me that I needed to go to the other line.  Bob maintains that he would have had his way with me :)

Anyway, it got me thinking about how everyone was complaining a while back about those super high power scanning machines that could see your everything in airports, and how if you wouldn't let those machines scan you, you had to get frisked by an airport security guard, which would undoubtedly turn out to be the worst experience in your life.  And I have one thing to say to those complainers. Get over it freaks! Try having an Indian woman feel you up right before you buy some mangoes and other breast-shaped fruit.  It just doesn't feel right.

I'm kidding.  At first, all the frisking and searching and scanning made me wonder what, exactly, all the precautions were protecting us from.  Although I haven't completely rationalized it to myself, I do understand that it's just a way of life here.  No one makes a big deal about it, no one complains, and honestly, it's not that bad.  If all else fails, it'll wake you up on that sleepy morning run to the store.

mangoes. mmmmm.

I've always liked mango, but they are so expensive at home, so I hardly ever get them at the grocery.  India is the land of plenty when it comes to mangoes, though.  They cost about 20 rupees here, or less than $0.50.

Did you know....

• 50% of the world's mangoes are grown in India?
• Mango is the most consumed fruit in the world?
• You can eat the skin of a mango if you want?
• Mango is the national fruit of India and an important symbol in Hinduism?
• Exported mango and fresh mango have distinctly different flavors?
• Mango makes a delicious breakfast?

Me either!  I have one for breakfast every morning, and I will miss them dearly when we go home and can't afford to pay $3 for one. If you can, have one and think of us!