Mental collections

So one thing I have a habit of doing in India is keep mental collections of certain kinds of things. Sometimes they become a material collection: like my photos of funny sign names, a la Engrish. One collection that's in my head but certainly alive and well is of "american" things that Indians love and I have never heard of. Yesterday I encountered completely foreign beast dressed up in an American outfit: domino's pizza with boiled corn on top. Surprisingly delicious, like really good. Add some cayenne and salt and it would be love, cheesy cheesy love. The whole phenomenon of boiled corn here is something that I love. At movie theaters or malls you can get "American corn", which is corn off the cob, usually in a little cup. My favorite thing about that is the contrast to pop corn, which is clearly not American

Love,
Violet (who's as American as American corn)

Cheesecake

See that purple thing? Next to the tart with three balls on it? That's cheesecake in India. Now, not only do I love cheesecake, when I want cheesecake, nothing else will do. This is particularly distressing because here when you order said item from a menu, something is delivered to you that is almost, but not quite, entirely unlike cheesecake. That's not to say that it's bad. Theoretically. But it is bad, because I want cheesecake. Now, being a persistant person, I have a tendency to repeatedly try to order cheesecake, hoping that someone in the country has gotten this dessert item right. The experience pretty much always follows the same pattern:
- look at said cheesecake and assess it's dubious color and distinctly gelatin like texture
- take a reluctant bite, and be overwhelmed with disappointment and moderate disgust, the kind of disgust that only comes from thinking you are going to taste one thing and then tasting another, like zucchini disguised as cucumber
- take a break, sip my coffee, resolve not to ever try cheesecake in this country again
- feel bad about wasting said item
- take a second and then third slow reluctant bite
- realize that it's not all that bad, it just is pretty much entirely unlike cheesecake
- eat the whole thing, which is a decent but not great take on a jello creme pie
- be relatively disgusted with myself

Love,
Violet

My workout routine

So I have been going to the gym, really, I have. Between the paneer, butter parathas and ice cream it's necessary. But sometimes I just can't wake up in the morning to get it done. When that happens, I remind myself of my daily workout:

Strength training: on my daily commute I run up sixteen flights of stairs with a ten pound backpack (yay ancient laptop).

Resistance training: I fight through a sea of women at rush hour eight times, four times coming out of the train, and four going in (out is worse).

Cardio: crossing streets is a double shock to the heart, sprinting and stopping and a serious adrenaline rush (don't worry mom, I'm careful and NYC has prepared me well).

Stretching: using squat toilets (a porcelain hole in the ground) takes care of my legs while reaching for plates and other things for my co-workers and other things for other small comrades, gets my back and arms.

Needless to say, I'm always breaking a sweat. 4 of the liters I drink are just dedicated to the back sweat that gets sucked into my backpack.

Oh, and of course, there's the mandatory hour of dancing a day!

Love,
Violet

the best and the worst

I forgot to add two things about the metro! One thing will always make me angry, and get me muttering under my breath, and the other will make me giggle, sigh and generally turn my day around.

The first, which I have probably mentioned before, is getting regularly bumped into. Now this isn't ordinary metro jostling, which happens on a regular basis but can be tolerated. This is the: oh man, there's a white girl, maybe her physical consistency is different from the people I know, let me go knock into her, mentality. I honestly don't know if these guys (though sometimes ladies) are just so nervous while trying to touch me that they miscalculate distances, but regardless of the reasoning, I get unnecessarily shoulder smacked/body checked/almost bowled over on a semi-regular basis. That makes me mad.

The other is something that I really could never imagine happening in the states: watching people use an escalator for the first time. The mix of awe, fear and trepidation is positively adorable. The other day I was walking on the platform and saw a man so nervously and cautiously get on the escalator that he forgot his suitcase at the bottom. He was then as nervously and cautiously forced to run down the upward moving stairs to catch it. I walked toward him to pass him his bag, but he managed to grab it just as I got there. Turning back to get on the train, I caught a glimpse of his face, determined and experienced, stepping onto the escalator. 

Love,

Violet 

Delhi Days/Daze

So before I post about the mountains, I thought I would give a little snapshot of my daily commute in Delhi. There are a lot of things that can be super frustrating or really fun/funny depending on my mood, and let me tell you, early in the morning that is a highly volatile variable. The one thing that I love no matter how I feel is going through security, yup, security. And this is coming from a girl that hates airports for the very same reason. Why? Well after you put your bags in the x-ray conveyor belt thingy, the ladies go through a metal detector (that always goes off) and into a curtained off little box. While inside a lady cop waves you down with a wand and frisks your pocket area. I find this little pet very reassuring in the morning! Sometimes there's a little butt pat involved! It's just a little encouragement from a lady that's always a little more chipper because your a foreigner, and a love tap, sometimes even a push to send you on your way to start the day. That's how I start my commute.

The metro is by far my favorite thing about Delhi. It makes me feel super comfortable travelling in the city, and gives you these weird moments where you are so shocked that you are in India, but that leaves room for the realization: holy crap, I live in India. One thing that hasn't made it over here is the concept of let people get out first. Even when it's the last stop on the train, and everyone knows that everyone is coming out women push, out and in, and I mean push. Why? Because they want a seat. That much energy expended to sit. Conserve your energy and then stand! Anyhow, on the days when I am either a little pissy or feeling feisty, I admit that I throw an elbow out. I mean I am huge here, people should move. When I'm just giggly about the whole thing (sometimes Anika and I spend our 20 minute ride together cackling), I just ride the wave of women pushing. The air pocket that I get above everyone's heads really helps in those moments.

On the way home, I love looking out the window as the metro goes over the city. The sky at that time is always a beautiful dusty rose color. Even better are the signs you see along the way: PUKIE PIE DAY CARE and Hotel Arpit Palace, that my brain as well as autocorrect on my iphone change to the illustrious armpit palace (not an inappropriate name for the metro). And speaking of which, the most lovely feeling of all is coming home hot after a long day feeling slightly guilty about being stinky and having your BO get off at the next stop. LIFE WIN!

Love,
Violet

Backwater Boating

 So one of my days in Kerala, we went boating in search of somewhere to swim. When I first met the captain, he immediately started speaking to me in French. I managed for a little while but eventually gave up and switched to English. He said to me, "you don't speak French that often do you?" And I agreed that yes, it had been some time. While that's certainly true, I was really grappling with his accent. Malayalam sounds like a cross between Xena's war cry and change in a dryer. The tongue acrobatics that Malu's do are impressive and visible. So every other sentence I was hearing from this man, who's French was definitely better than mine was, "lelelulu lhelelulu maintenant".

The boat was a big dingy with plenty of room for the two drivers, and three passengers. On the way we stopped to pick up some delicious local food (photo 1). This consisted of fish fry, fish curry, tapioca mash and sting ray. All the dishes were great, and only made better by the fact that we were on a boat, and that eating with your hands is strongly encouraged (sorry mom, undoing years of training). To wash it down we had toddy, which is a slightly alcoholic fermented drink made out of coconut water ("cidre du coco", says our captain).

We went at least two hours down the backwaters in order to find a swimming hole because our qualifications were pretty specific. The water had to be shallow enough for Ammu, Vik's cousin, to be able to swim in, and deep enough for me to be able to swim in and empty, so that I wouldn't cause an incident in my bathing suit. Eventually we found a place that satisfied two out of three of our desires, and settled. It was perfect temperature, and got deep like a swimming pool. It was also a ferry crossing. Luckily after everyone in the tri-village area confirmed that yes, white people can swim, we were more or less left alone.

On our way back I dried off on the front of the boat. I could have been on the French rivierra, except that every time we went under a bridge, traffic literally stopped to peek at me. With my mild sunburn and moderate toddy buzz, it didn't bother me at all.

Love,
Violet