Packed.

The fridge is empty and the closets are bare. The bags are packed and the car is loaded. My nails are painted and my arms are waxed.

No, I will not go into detail. I don’t like re-living torture.

And tomorrow, we’re leaving bright and early for Puttur and the wedding.

WOOOHOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!

-June 17th

Power Outages + Pizza = Power Combo

Today, from 10:00 – 4:00 pm, there was no power in the lab. (Which I guess was perfect timing because

I accidently left my plug-adapter at home?) Since I couldn’t do anything on the computer, I decided to

visit the library and walk around campus for a bit.

The library here is a disaster.

It’s incredibly quiet. It’s incredibly dark. And it’s incredibly out of order.

Still, it’s a library. And I found an interesting book on FE analysis, so I guess the morning wasn’t wasted.

Since I was already in the center of campus, I decided to eat my food outside at the canteen.

That’s when the excitement began.

I ordered a Limca, found a table, and started eating my rice. Life was wonderful: I had good food, I was out in the sun, and I was reading a great book.

And then a monkey came.

A monkey.

The next five minutes were a blur. I screamed, I left the table, and the monkey put its hand in my rice.

IN MY RICE!

I don’t care if I looked like I was enjoying myself. You are not allowed to stick your monkey-hand in my rice.

A lady soon came with a huge stick and chased the monkey away. As I looked around, I noticed there were two other monkeys harassing the other diners.

I quickly packed up the rest of my stuff and made my way back to the AE department. I didn’t even get to finish my vangibhath.

That’s the last time I ever eat outside.

Indian pizza is amazing. And I am fortunate enough to live right next to a Pizza Hut. (Or, as many Indian’s like to call it, Pijja Hut.)

The Pijja Hut makes pizzas with interesting toppings like baby corn and paneer and cherries. You can also substitute your beverage for soup.

Yes, I ate minestrone and cream of mushroom soup with my pizza.

Anyway, my feast of pizza and soup and garlic bread (and mangos with ice cream once I came back home) more than made up for my dismal lunch adventure.

-June 16th

Eclipse!

Indians are a superstitious lot.

The list of things you’re not allowed to do on specific days can be much longer than the list of things you actually can do.

Don’t cut your fingernails after 12.

Don’t cut your hair on Tuesday.

Don’t wear new clothes on Saturday.

Don’t even buy new clothes on Saturday.

I very rarely listen to that one.

Tonight’s lunar eclipse has gotten my grandmother into a tizzy.

I can’t watch the eclipse because it might ruin my eyesight. We have to put a special grass over any leftover
food, or it will be inedible after the eclipse. And tomorrow, I have to wash my hair before I’m allowed to eat anything.

My grandmother has tons of these rules.

Rules about when to take a bath. Rules about when to cook certain foods. Rules about when you can enter temples or when you can go out to eat. Rules about feeding animals or even going to funerals or weddings.

Everyone’s allowed a few idiosyncrasies, I guess.

And in a strange way, I’m touched that my grandmother cares so much, that she’s so worried about my well-being that she insists I take a bath in the wee-hours of the morning.

So tomorrow morning, I’ll be up bright and early, taking a shower before I’m allowed to eat any of this not-contaminated post-lunar-eclipse food.

-June 15th

The Floatie Phenomenon

I went shoe-shopping yesterday.

(Roommate, I got two pairs of super-cute flats. One has an Indian-mango-paisley design and the other has huge blue flowers, and you are more than welcome to try them, haha)

As I was browsing the displays of shoes, the attendant pointed out the many shoes they had: heels, flats, flip-flops. Shoes made of leather, shoes made of cloth, or plastic. Floaties.

Floaties?

I turned as he picked up a horrendous pair of plastic-looking, Velcro-strapping sandals.

They were ghastly.

And they are the newest addition to the disturbing trend of Indians wearing ugly chappals.

If you’ve never been to India – or if you’ve just never bothered to notice – all Indians wear chappals. They’re horrible. They’re big and plastic-looking, and they never ever match anything. They’re usually old and dirty. And they look ready to fall apart.

It doesn’t matter what clothes they’re wearing, people always accessorize with chappals.

 Wearing a lungi? Add some chappals.

Chudidar? Chappals.

Brown workers uniform? Pants and a T-Shirt? Jeans and a button-down?

All chappals.

Fancy Sari, covered in gold embroidery? She’s still wearing chappals.

I once saw a man in a full suit wearing chappals.

Even my dad, who normally refuses to wear tennis shoes, pulls out the chappals when he comes to India.

Ugh, I can’t stand chappals. I will continue to wear my cute flats, thank you very much.

I refuse to succumb to the chappal.

-June 14th

Blackberry (Un)Bliss

I love that I have a phone in India. I don’t have many people to call, but every once in a while I text Urvashi. And I play Sudoku all the time.

In three weeks, I have become a beast at Sudoku.

I do not, however, love all the advertisements I get on my phone.

I get calls every hour from vendors asking me to buy the latest ringtones. I get messages about new coupons and deals, and I get SMS’s about various stores and sales.

Every morning, I get a gem of a message from some number that likes to send out inspirational messages.

Here are some of the notable ones:

“Today I woke up with a pain in my heart. I did not know where it came from until my mind reminded me that it is the pain of missing. GM”

“Every mind like celebrations. It gives more pleasure n memorable moments.2day is 1 of that day.So enjoy it n feel the moments.Have a Nice Day. GM”

“View A Negative Experience In Life Like How u Look At A Photo Negative.A Single Negative Can Create An Unlimited No. Of Positive prints. GM”

“When u find a dream inside ur heart Don’t ever let it go Because Dreams are d seeds from which beautiful tomorrows grow.Have a great day. GM”

“A Beautiful Day waiting for U.Walk with aims. Run with Confidence.Fly with ur Achivments.So get up,Make lovely day.Good Morning.”

For the record, all misspellings and grammar-atrocities were typed word for word (or letter for letter or period for period) from the SMS’s.

Also for the record, I think I might miss this daily dose of Good-Morning-wisdom once I get back to the States and my crappy phone.

Update: In the time it took me to write and post this article, I had three missed calls and a message about buying a house in Bangalore. Wow.

-June 13th

Shopping Shenanigans

Sunday morning dawned bright and early, and after Skyping home for a good half-hour, we headed out to Gandhi Bazaar to finally do some wedding shopping.

As I’ve mentioned, my cousin is getting married next weekend; Indian weddings are elaborate affairs, and I needed at least two new, grand outfits for the occasion.

So after breakfast and a Skype session, Mother Dearest, my grandmother, and I piled into an Auto and went to Ladies Wear House, a sari shop in Gandhi Bazaar.

After perusing a few items, we decided to visit Sneha Silks. Stepping through the glass doors, we were greeted with rows and rows of bright silk saris. I could feel the air conditioning blowing against my skin. We stepped up to the counter, and a man began pulling saris off the shelves.

Every-day saris, grand saris, saris with gold embroidery, saris with gemstones and saris with tassles. Saris in teal and red and green and pink and orange and purple. Even double colored saris. The attendant unfolded every sari with a whirl, as if he were revealing a masterpiece. And many times, those saris were an exquisite work of art. We looked at hundreds of saris, holding them against our bodies and peering at the delicate designs.

A couple of hours later, our wallets several thousands of rupees lighter and our hands full with shopping bags, we made it back home.

But we only stopped to put our bags down and grab a bite to eat, and then we were out the door to scour the complex for bangles and bindhis and petticoats and more.

The sun had set by the time I finally found my second outfit and we had bought bangles and petticoats and given material to the blouse-tailor.

And I still need to find some green leggings and a pair of cute shoes.

I love shopping. I can find deals and try on clothes all day long. But today’s shopping shenanigans wore me out.

Later that evening, my mother’s cousin and his new bride came to visit.

On a side note, I have so many relatives, that sometimes I feel like I’m at least distantly-related to half of this city.

I might still have some aunts that I haven’t met yet.

Anyway, I got to meet my mother’s cousin and his wife, who works for a Civil Engineering firm in Bangalore. She works 50 hours a week, from 9 in the morning to 7 in the evening, and then she has to commute home. Regardless, she seemed excited that she only had to work 5 days a week.

How in the world can you be excited when you already have a 50 hour work week?

Even at work, the people here keep incredibly long hours; they don’t goof around – although they do take quite a few coffee breaks – and they only get paid around 10,000 rupees (less than $250) a month.

All I can say is, if there are so many people willing to work so hard, for so long, for so little pay, it’s no wonder so many jobs are being outsourced.

Because I definitely would not appreciate a fifty hour work week; I got tired from just a day of shopping.

The Indian work ethic makes me feel incredibly lazy, sometimes. 

-June 12th

Nomilicious

We had planned to go wedding-shopping today. We need, after all, four different outfits for the weekend of festivities, and we needed to buy presents for the bride and groom. But after calling my uncle, we were told not to go shopping on Saturdays – there are so many Indian superstitions, I’ve started to lose track of them all – so we spent the evening at the Bangalore Club.

We got the Club about an hour before the restaurant began serving dinner, so my uncle showed us around. He showed us the tennis courts and swimming pool, and we made our way through the Food World.

On a side note, a packet of Maggi Noodles only costs around 10-15 rupees. But a small box of cake mix costs more than 275 rupees. I now understand why my grandmother saved half a packet of cake mix.

After wandering around the Club for a bit, we made it to the “snacks” area of the Club. For anyone who has never been to the Bangalore Club, it’s a pretty posh place. The “snack-and-chat” area is different from the “sit-down-for-dinner” restaurant, which is different from the “order-fancy-drinks” bar. And there are different dress codes for each. (I still remember when we took some family friends to the Club for dinner, a few years ago, and their son wore shorts to the club. The doorman would not let him inside the restaurant, and all the kids had to sit outside and eat in the snacks-area.)

Anyway, we made it to the snacks-area, and I ordered a soda. Around 7:45, we finally decided to eat some substantial food.

Hanging onto my glass bottle of Coca-Cola (made with real sugar – none of this High Fructose business, mind you) we eventually made it to the restaurant portion of the Club and ordered our food. The Hot and Sour 

Soup arrived first.

For the record, Indian-Chinese food is amazing. I think I could live off it. (And mangos and ice cream and Gobi Manchurian.)

The rest of the food – the noodles and biryani and curries and even the curd rice – was just as amazing. What made me really happy, though, was the warm bowl of water the waiter gave after clearing up our dishes.

I wish restaurants in the U.S. gave little bowls filled with warm water for hand-washing at the end of meals. Even though I use cutlery when we go out to eat, I still love the feeling of dipping my hand in the warm bowl of water, squeezing the slice of lime and watching the juice drip over my fingers.

After we’d finished our meal at the Bangalore Club, we made our way to a kulfi stand, near a gas station. I love that my uncle knows all the back restaurants – where to get the best absolutely-anything – and I love that he’s taking me to all these places. The stick of Kesar Pista Kulfi I ate was absolutely divine.

Move over, gelato, kulfi is here to stay.

And now I’m so full, I think I’m going to fall into a food coma at 9 o clock on a Saturday night.

-June 11th

Wedding Saxophones are Playing

There’s a lot of traffic during my daily commute. Sometimes it’s because there’s a man pushing a fruit cart in the middle of the street. Sometimes, there are just a ton of cars. Yesterday, traffic came to a standstill because a large cow started peeing in the middle of the road.

Today we were blocked by a resplendent groom on a horse and his wedding party. A hired band wearing gold uniforms was blasting music while old men in matching red turbans danced behind the horse.

It made me realize that in 1 week, I’ll be heading to Puttur for my cousin’s wedding. I’ve had mixed feelings about the wedding for a while, but I can honestly say that right now I’m really excited. I can’t wait; I’m ready to party hard – Kathribail style.

I made a peanut-butter sandwich for lunch today; it was surprisingly unsatisfying. So I decided, since I was kind of reaching a stopping point in my work, I’d head out to the canteen for another bite to eat. I eventually made it to the canteen, found a table, and ordered some Gobi Manchurian. (Lord, I cannot get enough of that stuff.)

As I waited for my food, a middle-aged-but-getting-up-there-in-age-department lady in a bright maroon sari asked me if someone was sitting in the chair across from me. I told her not at all, that she was more than welcome to it.

She ordered a bowl of fruit and a jamun. (Interesting combo… though not as interesting as the time I saw a man put jamun on his rice at Rasoi, CoMo’s Indian restaurant.)

We sat in silence until her jamun arrived. She immediately cut it in half, offering me a bite. She did the same when her fruit salad came.

Why do random old ladies always try to feed me? And why are they always so insistent?

When my Gobi Manchurian came, I tried to return the favor by giving her a few spoonfuls. No matter what I said though, she declined, saying it was “bad for the health.” Gobi Manchurian is unhealthy, but you eat a jamun every day?

Right.

I have a long way to go before I can become an old lady – at least in the conning-off-food category.

But this one-sided food exchange got us talking, and I learned a lot about her. Apparently this lady was the head manager of the library for IISc. She got her masters in Physics but then did a Library-Sciences internship at Rutgers and decided to be a library manager. She’s been working at the IISc library for over 20 years now.

Her opinions on Gobi Manchurian and other chaat foods are far more interesting than her eclectic academic background.

So now I have the contact info of a successful head librarian and a recommendation to a chaat shop nearby. (I’m supposed to eat something called the Nipittu-Masala-Bun.)

I also have only an hour’s worth of work standing in between me and the weekend.

Hooray!

-June 10th

Awesome

My mother arrived today. Her flight was fairly uneventful. (Or at least, she didn’t get pestered by a bunch of Tamil-speaking grandmothers. She did, however, sit next to a large, drunk man for a portion of the journey.)

I’m really excited that she’ll be here for a month, mainly because I haven’t spent so long a stretch of time with her in at least a year. We can go shopping, and we can gossip, and we can watch movies, and we can do everything that you can’t really do when your relationship has come down to a few short phone conversations every week.

These past two years, I really haven’t felt like I have a place to call ‘home’. CoMo doesn’t feel like home anymore; I’ve moved on. But at the same time, my dorm at Tech doesn’t feel like home either. Or maybe they both feel like home. I’m in India for a month; does that mean my room here is now my home?

It kind of feels like it is.

Regardless of whether it’s a ‘home’ or not, the fact remains that there are now three generations of awesome in one house.

-June 9th

A Few Well-Timed Pelvic Thrusts Never Hurt Anybody

Indians love Michael Jackson.

My dad, who turns a shade of red that’s brighter than a cherry when asked to sing or dance, has no qualms about showing his moonwalk. (And he does it surprisingly well.) My cousins, who barely know a thing about American pop culture, know the words to MJ’s songs. And my uncle, with the help of a bottle of Royal Challenge whiskey, can imitate entire song/dance sequences from his Beat It concert DVD.

I was in India when Michael Jackson died, during the summer of 2009. The entire country entered a period of mourning. And the mourning-period was followed by a tribute-period as magazines and newspapers devoted entire sections to MJ and clubs and malls played his songs on repeat.

Two years later, Michael Jackson’s music is still extremely popular here. Clubs still play his music; cars still have Michael Jackson decals. My uncle still pulls out his concert DVDs on a regular basis.

We watched part of that DVD today. I’d never realized how incredible MJ’s dancing was. I’d never realized how fanatical his fans could be. (The DVD would cut from Michael’s face to scenes of sobbing fans every other minute.) His crotch-grabbing and pelvic-thrusting and moon-walking were smooth and refined, and he executed everything perfectly.

He was a true artist.

Michael Jackson completely transformed music and dance. Usher, Lady Gaga, even the craziest Bollywood item-number: everything just seems like a watered-down version of Michael Jackson’s antics.

PS: It rained again as I came home from work today, but this time I didn’t get wet. I seem to be learning something.

-June 8th

Canteening

I went exploring again today.

Or really, I went around campus again. The weather was wonderful, and Ajay the PDF didn’t have anything to do for two hours, so he gave me a grand tour.

This campus is huge. We walked for two hours, and I still don’t think I’ve seen all of campus.

Ajay knew all the in’s and out’s. He’s been here forever, so he knew all the hidden routes. He knew the backstories of all the buildings, and he knew which canteens were the best.

We eventually made our way to a canteen, where we grabbed a snack and he told me about himself. Apparently, Ajay did his undergrad at Caltech, and for 4 years, he lived off MTR ready-to-eat packets. As I ate my Masala-flavored potato chips, he told me about his cooking adventures in California and how he loved that he could eat at home now.

Eating out is all well and good, but there really is nothing like home-made comfort food.

I wonder if my brother will ever come to this conclusion.

-June 7th

It’s Raining, It’s Pouring: Part II

For a city where it rains for three months out of the year, I’m not entirely sure why half the vehicles either have no roof or no walls.

Today, it started raining at 3:40: exactly ten minutes into my hour-long commute.

Within minutes, I was absolutely drenched.

My Auto driver recently installed a clear plastic shield thing on the right side of the vehicle, so I was able to huddle near that. And I shoved my bag in the back and shielded it with my body, so my stuff wouldn’t get wet. (I sure have my priorities straight, haha) But within a few minutes, the Auto driver, sensing my discomfort, pulled over to the side. Thinking he was going to ride out the storm, I started telling him that I didn’t really mind getting wet when he interrupted me to ask for a screen in the bag. He then tied a big piece of yellow tarp to the left of the Auto.

His ride sure is pimped out.

But with the tarp-screen on my left and the clear plastic shield on my right, I was no longer completely subject to the onslaught of rain. Instead, only my legs and feet got wet.

As we continued on, I was amazed to see that the city had come to an entire standstill because of the rain.

Roads were completely empty; shops were closed. Even the cows and dogs had found shelter. It was amazing to see the lengths people went to stay dry; people were huddled under doorways and crowded under the awning of shops. One woman even had a plastic bag wrapped around her head.

Because there was absolutely no traffic, I made it home in record time.

And interestingly enough, the driver stayed completely dry the entire time.

-June 6th

The Club Can’t Handle Me Right Now. Or Maybe I Can’t Handle It?

I got to hang out with two Tech friends, Ankita and Urvashi, today.

Urvashi had gotten us on the guest list to a party at Bangalore Central. I wasn’t entirely sure what that was, but if it involved dancing? Sign me up.

Bangalore Central is a mall.

There is a club on top of a mall. (The floor above the grocery store, to be precise.)

And when we got there – at 3 in the afternoon – one DJ had already finished, and people were milling around the dance floor.

And at the corner of the dance floor, a group of boys were crowded around pitchers of beer. The drinking age here isn’t low; it’s non-existent. (I have now asked over twenty people – all of different ages and backgrounds – and they have all given me different answers.) Those boys couldn’t have been past junior-high school.

So at 3 o clock on a Sunday afternoon, I found myself in a club on top of a grocery store, surrounded by drunk kids (literally, kids), dancing to a DJ.

The previous DJ was walking around, passing out fans and lollipops.

Paper fans and apple-flavored lollipops.

This was by-far the strangest clubbing experience ever.

But I had a strangely good time.

-June 5th

A Foreign Affair

The title of my blog, A Foreign Affair, is fairly arbitrary; you see, I’ve never actually seen A Foreign Affair. 

I’m absolutely terrible at coming up with names for things. (When I was in middle school, I wanted to write a book, but I couldn’t even come up with names for the characters.) And this was the first thing I could think of that sounded mildly poetic.

And that was related to traveling abroad.

Although, now that I think about it, I have no idea what A Foreign Affair is about. For all I know, it’s not about anything foreign.  Maybe it follows extraterrestrial creatures with huge tentacles as they take over New York City. Maybe it’s about someone who smuggles body parts to another country.  Maybe it’s a Romeo-and-Juliet-style story about a torrid love affair.

Maybe it’s about fluffy puppies.

Luckily, my uncle is best friends with a man who owns a movie-rental store. I’ve been watching movies at a ridiculous rate – I have some great movie suggestions, by the way – and I’ll just add this to the queue.

Actually, I’m not even sure that it’s a movie. Maybe it’s a book.

Oh well. I’m open to suggestions for a new title for le blog.

-June 4th

El Baño: El Bane-O de mi Existencia

If there’s one thing I could live without, it’s Indian plumbing. (Or the lack thereof?)

Not going to lie, my parents were fairly apprehensive of me coming to India by myself. But I think I’ve settled in rather nicely, with only the occasional slight-catastrophe here and there. Unfortunately, half the mishaps I have occur in the bathroom.

Awkward.

Luckily, the city has started to steer away from the hole-in-the-ground route, so public restrooms have actual sit-down toilets.

Not so luckily, Indians have yet to discover the beauty of toilet paper.

Do you realize how awkward it is to carry around a roll of toilet paper? I don’t mind carrying around Kleenexes. I don’t particularly care if I have to keep a hand towel in my purse. But a girl should be allowed to draw the line somewhere. Unfortunately, that line cannot be drawn at toilet paper.

But it’s not just toilet paper that’s the issue.

At my grandmother’s house, I am able to keep rolls of toilet paper. The flush, however, does not automatically stop by itself, so you have to fiddle around with it every time you need to flush the toilet. (Or really, you need to fiddle around with it so it stops flushing.) Don’t even think about flushing the toilet if it’s been flushed less than an hour ago.

To add insult to injury, cockroaches and lizards seem to love that bathroom.

But as unpleasant as the bathroom at home is, the one at the lab is ten times worse.

First of all, I most definitely do have to supply my own toilet paper. There is also no soap, trashcan, or paper towels anywhere in sight. Having to bring my own toilet paper, soap and towel is manageable; it’s the toilet itself that’s tricky. The door to the toilet doesn’t close, so I have to use one foot to keep it closed. The lid to the seat automatically shuts, so I have to use one hand to hold it up. And this is all while hovering over an unbelievably dirty seat.

At least I’ll have killer thighs by the end of the summer.

Maybe I’ll be able to join the Chinese circus.

Around the city, the restroom options are even worse. They are few and far between, and yes, you have to pay to use the public toilets in Bangalore. Why anyone would pay to use a toilet in this condition is completely beyond me. Perhaps that’s why, during my commute, I see so many people going at it right on the side of the road. According to my grandmother, the city is building free toilets. But quite honestly, I don’t think I’d even take my chances with a free toilet.

T-minus 8 weeks until I get to use proper plumbing. Huzzah!

-June 3rd

Mangos and Mangos and Mangos, Oh My!

It’s most definitely mango season.

I’m practically drowning in them. Sweet mangos, firm mangos, juicy mangos, sour mangos: I’ve tried them all.  A couple of days ago, a gardener came to cut all the mangos from the tree in our back yard. Now, the mangos are ripening in the storeroom, and the entire house smells like mangos.

Not that I mind.

And ever since my grandmother realized how much I love mangos, she’s made it her personal mission to create as many mango dishes as she possibly can.

Between the Mango Rice, Mango Ice Cream, Mango with Ice Cream, Mango Curry, Mango Rasam, Mango Juice, Mango Halwa and more, I think she could probably create an entire menu with her mango recipes.

I’ve always claimed that I could live entirely off mangos.

After two weeks, I think I’ve proven that I can.

Sidenote: The word mango looks really funny now that I’ve typed it a bajillion times.

-June 2nd

Twins are Available?

Indians are extremely industrial and hardworking. At the lab, people are always focused, and they finish their work quickly and efficiently. But sometimes, people here can be downright lazy bums.

Case in point: the ID Pass Man.

My quest for an ID Pass has now lasted a week. By now, even my Auto driver is getting a bit desperate for the card. There’s a different watchman at the gate every morning, and just about every morning, I’ve had to either explain what I’m doing in broken English-Kannada-Hindi-Mix or sign the guest book.

Yesterday, I trekked all the way to the security office – it’s like a thirty minute walk – to hand over my letter. The ID man asked for my telephone number and address, and he wanted two copies of my headshot. Luckily, I had them, and I gave them right there. I asked him how long it would take to make the Pass. (The Buzzcard Office, for the record, prints the cards right in front of you, and you can get your picture taken and put on a new card in less than ten minutes.) He said to come by around 4:00 to pick up the pass. Since I normally leave before then, I asked if I could come in the next morning. Sure, he said, come around 9.

Me: Nine?

ID Man: Nine is fine.

Me: Not now, like 10 o clock?

ID Man: Come at 9:00 tomorrow morning.

So I came in this morning, at 9:10, to pick up the pass that should have been ready yesterday. I went into the office, and the watchman asked me to come back at 9:30 because the ID Man would be there by then. Not wanting to walk for an extra hour, I told him I’d just wait and plopped myself down outside the building.

Fifteen minutes later, I went inside to get my pass. The man wasn’t ready. He told me to come back after 10.

Back to the sidewalk. A couple of chapters into my book, multiple Sudoku games, and a few fights with ants later, it was finally 10:15 and I figured I could go retrieve my pass. When I went back into his office, the ID man was chatting with another man, writing something down on a slip of paper, and cutting up the photo I gave him. To my surprise, he stuck the piece of paper in a laminated card sleeve and handed it to me, telling me to have a nice day.

My ID Pass is literally a piece of paper in a card sleeve. The ID Man wrote my name and address and stuck the picture that I gave him on a slip of paper. He did this right in front of me and then went back to gossiping with the man in his office.

WTF? I waited for an hour-and-a-half for a half sheet of paper that you scribbled on? I could have done this in two minutes!

At least I have an ID pass now, I guess.

On a completely unrelated note, I had a discussion with my uncle today about twins.

My uncle frequently likes to talk about all the people he knows. This time, he was outlining the families of his cousins. One of his cousins had twin boys who looked identical, and my uncle was extremely intrigued with the concept of twins. I told him that twins were fairly common, and I knew quite a few of them. In fact, last year, I met a set of identical girl twins.

He didn’t believe me. He’d never heard of twins who weren’t boys.

Uncle: Available?

Me: Yes

Uncle: Girl and girl?

Me: Yep

Uncle: Not boy boy?

Me: Yep. Two girls can be twins.

Uncle: Yabba (*He had the most astonished look on his face. I could barely keep from laughing.)

Me: You know, boy and girl can be twins?

Uncle: Howdha?

Me: Yep

Uncle: Boy and girl?

Me: Yes

Uncle: Available?

Me: Yep

Uncle: Here available?

Me: Here also available

Uncle: Bangalore? I no know…

Me: I know

I think my uncle still isn’t entirely convinced that the idea of fraternal twins is just some American shenanigan.

Anyway, my grandmother soon joined the conversation, and it evolved into a discussion of Jon and Kate Plus Eight, puppy litters, and the forty-five children Osama Bin Laden supposedly has.

Awkward.

I think I might have preferred the food discussions. At least I could keep a straight face through it all.

-June 1st

A Year Older, a Year Wiser, and Definitely a Year Sexier

Today’s been a good day.

(And that’s regardless of the fact that if I now have any crisis, it can legitimately be called a mid-life crisis. The life expectancy is like 40, right? And to be perfectly honest, I’ve been kind of dreading turning twenty years old. Twenty, after all, is a large number. Twenty years old means I’ve been alive for two entire decades. Snaps.)

Anyway, today’s been a good day.

In the morning, we finally made our way to the Security Office to get a much-needed ID Pass. When we got there, however, the watchman told us to come back after 10. No worries! I looked good, I felt good, and nothing was going to ruin my day. I told my driver to just drop my off at the lab, and I would walk here later in the day.

He looked at me like I was a superhero for willingly walking a couple of miles to come back to the Security Office.

But I ended up not needing to walk all the way to the Security Office.

Around 10 o’ clock, I headed for the Security Office, but after walking for five minutes, a lady in a bright yellow sari stopped her scooter and asked if I wanted a lift. I hopped on her scooter and we zoomed off to the Security Office. The woman was incredibly interesting; she lived on campus because her husband was a chemistry teacher here. She, on the other hand, was the principal of an elementary school. And her daughter was currently attending college at the University of Wisconsin and was studying Japanese.

She dropped me off right at the doorstep of the Security Office and zoomed away. I went into the office, gave my paper and pictures, and headed back to the lab.

The rest of the day went just as smoothly. I derived some equations and discovered that one of my lab-mates loves The Big Bang Theory. 3:30 came rather quickly.

On my way home from the office, however, I had to wait for five minutes because 4 large cows had decided to park themselves across the road. (Maybe they wanted to wish me a happy birthday?) I’ve seen a fair number of cows in my week of commuting, but never had we been forced to a standstill because we were surrounded by cows.

It was awesome.

After about five minutes of just sitting there, the driver decided that the cows were probably too comfortable to go anywhere, so he started yelling at them. And after a few ‘Hya!’s and ‘Hut!’s the cows meandered out and we were on our way.

I came home to a feast.

My grandmother shows her love through food, and today she cooked up a storm. There were potato-cutlet sandwiches, noodles, jalebi (Oh-my-goodness-I’ve-died-and-gone-to-Heaven, piping-hot, melt-in-your-mouth, dripping-with-orangey-sweetness jalebi) mangos, cake, and ice cream.

It was wonderful.

The cake, however, left a bit to be desired. Apparently, my grandmother had saved half a packet of cake-mix and used that to make a cake in her microwave. Let me repeat that: she used half a packet of opened cake mix, put a random amount of eggs, water, and oil in the batter, and cooked the cake in her magical microwave. The cake was surprisingly tasty. It just happened to be rock-solid.

Like a cookie.

Like a spongy cookie.

But it’s the thought that counts, right? And once we added some ice cream and mangos, it tasted delicious. Like a true birthday treat. :)

-May 31st