Into the mountains

For my next long overdue post, here are some pictures of Kasol, a mountain town in Himachal Pradhesh. In order to get there you have to drive up terrifyingly windy dirt roads that are cut into the mountain. It's hard to figure out whether you want to close your eyes until it's over or have them glued to the driver and the road in case there is anything you can do to prevent disaster. But only 11 hours after leaving Delhi (that qualifies as a short trip here), you arrive in a cool beautiful place. A little town in the mountains, with a ridiculous amount of Falafel and weed, but also with incredible hikes to other beautiful villages, a raging river, and yak gouda!

The view from the hotel in Kasol

A parade of neon goats

Drinking mango lassi by the river

Rasta = dreds 

Getting Shanti and warming up with chai in a cafe on a roof top

The town

Mountain village houses

The first stop on the hike - colorfully clothed girls playing hopscotch 

Lots of things growing here

Beautifully dressed woman hauling tar for road construction

The hike 

the reward

View from the hotel -- really a treehouse

The outhouse that I had to grope around for in the dark in the middle of the night, why yes, that is a massive cliff right beside it.

Love, 

Violet

Jaipur and Udaipur

While I am stuck in the states (woe is me: clean air to breathe and eating steamed vegetables without anyone making fun of me) I have decided to catch up on some posts and upload photos. These pictures were taken last March on my trip to Jaipur and Udaipur with Anika around Holi.

Scaffolding in Jaipur

One of the many floating beauties in Udaipur 

Touring an expensive Haveli - if you can manage to smell good enough to afford it, they let you look around. Not as easy as it sounds.

Spying from the roof

Monkeys hang out - it's crazy how often they seem like humans

Ganesh 

Love,
Violet 

Monday Wins and Losses

Today is monday: loss

win: productive day at work today

win: non-disastrous haircut and the cleanest hair I've had in months

loss: said clean hair made it only 10 paces out of the salon and into the humidity

loss: managed to step in gum in such a way that it was somehow adhered to the inside of my sandal, under my heel, double loss: not even among the top 100 grosses things that have happened to me in Delhi

loss: realized I have forgotten how to spell sandal while texting the news to Anika (chapal zindabad!)

win: bizarrely clean heel when I got home

loss: got splashed with puddle water, read: raw sewage

loss: while lost in thought, planning this blog post, got spooked by teenaged boys

win: spooked same teenage boys by thinking their joke was way funnier than they did and proceeding to hysterically cackle in the street, I mean, they really got me good

win/loss: peanut butter for dinner

I admit it

So here in Delhi, and I'm going to go ahead and unflinchingly extend this generalization to all of India, there are some pretty fabulous sartorial choices, some hilariously heinous ones, and also some that are down right outdated. For example, the metro is usually filled with a rainbow of colors and enough patterns to make your head spin (or induce flashback hallucinations, really it's no wonder so many people vomit in the metro).

There is certainly an art to pairing Indian clothes. Matching is ideal, the idea of things "going" together is not a universally recognized concept, and no black and brown do not go together, yes your bag and shoes do have to match, and yes, three or more people at your office will tell you within 30 minutes of entering if you have done anything wrong. Even if you thought you were pretty stylin, and feeling kind of sassy that day. You will be knocked down some pegs, be warned.

For the most part I stay true to myself. I take considerate advantage of the new incorporation of legging into the "Indian clothes" category (as opposed to "Western clothes", by the way). However, in much the same way that I enjoy certain things that I am not allowed to do at home for example, eat with my hands, be visibly sweaty, take my shoes off in nice places, and push, I do admit to breaking certain rules. I wear pants under dresses: usually my baggy Indian ones. This is something that Anika does and it looks good, this is something I do, and I look like I forgot to shave my legs, which is usually true. Also, my legs rarely see the light of day, so I worry for the safety of people's retinas when I take them out to play.

The next thing I'll admit to is something that I am actually sort of embarrassed about. I have succumbed to one of the larger trends of the late 90s early 00s, a trend that is only eclipsed by the scrunchy in its uncoolness, the claw clip. Everyone wears them here and there's a reason. It's hot! They don't pull all your hair out! (hairfall is an epidemic in Delhi). It doesn't mess up your hair if you just want to put it up for a second, or keep the front from plastering to your face. That's my justification and I'm sticking to it. To be fair, I resisted for the better part of 5 months, and the hottest months as well. That has to count for something.

And the last thing I'll add: you know that feeling when you get up and all you want to do is put on something cosy, or stay in your pj's and the thought of tights or jeans makes you want to just kiel over (Dad, you know what I'm talking about, sometimes tights just don't cut it!). Well I basically just get to feel like I'm wearing PJs to work most days, so that makes most of the other rules worth following.

Love,
Violet

Je m'amuse my muse: The Metro

So what could bring me back from the proverbial dead to blog another day? Of course a highly amusing, uncomfortable metro ride! I mean, the metro really is a capsule of this city, especially the part of the city that I engage with. Here you can test out all your psychological theories about Dilliwalas (or Delhi-ites for my international readers).

Today on my way to work, I was truly punished for being early. You know when you say that you were packed like sardines, into a car, into an elevator. You. have. no. idea. In fact, I want you to think of me every time you use that phrase and laugh to yourself at how you are exaggerating. You know, the way all you people in the states do when someone says it's hot. Somewhere in your mind a cartoon version of me pops up, with a pool of sweat around her, you sigh and think "ok, it could be worse".

That's how bad this was. I honestly don't even think sardines have it this bad. I was wedged in among the women in the ladies car, with my backpack suspended about 10 inches away from me, lovingly cradled between the smalls of two women's backs, one chatting on the phone and the other audibly sighing and visibly sweating. That's the other thing! The body heat! Development is super into innovation these days. I want to propose some device that can generate electricity from the body heat trapped in these cars. I can't even really claim to experience the worst of it, since I have a full foot of head clearance at the top, but I could feel people radiating from the six or so points of contact I had. 

I want to write something romantic about the small of the women's back that I was permanently pressed against, since I could geometrically map it out and even sculpt it based on how intimately I got to know it over the course of our twenty hot, sweaty minutes together. I'm sure the other girl felt the same way about 60% of the surface area of my body. 

Despite the frustrations about everything when you are packed in so tightly, there are two really fun things that can result from this critical density. 1: eventually you can really just relax and let everyone support you, like a jellyfish, ebbing and flowing with the aanewala/jaanewala. 2: you can understand molecules. You know that lesson in chemistry when your teacher tells you everything is made out of particles bouncing against one another, and the difference between air and the chair you are sitting on  is how close together the little blips are packed. My mind was blown, and I just couldn't believe it. Actually and seriously, until today I had no practical understanding of this fact. I get it now. 

And the difference between when the doors are open and when they are closed? Liquid and solid:

Missed me?

Love, 

Violet

A bloglet

So, even though I haven't had time to post in a while, I have been keeping a list with all the little things I want to write about. One of them is a little thing that makes me giggle. In Delhi, there are a lot of Sikh's who keep their hair. As most you probably know, this means that they wear turbans. There is an extra accessory that they have in Delhi though, with I can only think to refer to as a beard cosy. Anyone who has contended with the elements in Delhi with long hair, can understand why it makes sense to cover it in transit. 

There are a multitude of different modes of transit, and each comes with its own very particular  set of dangers in terms of arriving at your destination intact. Motorbikes/scooters can be the bomb, your hair rippling in the wind, feeling the air rush into your face, simulating decent weather. But really, you are just acting as a giant net, with your hair lovingly filtering the air for the lucky person breathing behind you. Not only does this mode of travel result in a hair nest that someone in Delhi could and would make it home in and that is impossible to politely fix, it is also adorned with dust, bugs, all kinds of pollution, and tiny samples of each smell pocket you passed through. Metros are not without woe. I won't go into graphic detail, but yes, I have been puked on, in the morning, on the way to work. Autos have similar issues as motorbikes, with the added bonus of street children's tugging hands, and collateral splatter from auto-drivers spitting paan. And walking? Just add it all together, and splash some mud around your ankles. 

Now that you understand the dangers, you can see why there are many different styles of these cosies. A very common one is a strip of cloth that covers the beard and is tied in a knot on top of their heads. Having my brain, I don't register the many men for what they are, normal guys commuting to work, and trying to look presentable when they get there. I mean, obviously I know that's what's going on. But in my mind, I like to pretend that there are handfuls of guys walking around, scootering to work and riding the metro with comically old fashioned tooth aches. 

Love,

Violet

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

Kerala: the driving beach

So I just got back from Kerala last night. I had a lovely week staying with Vik's family in Mahe being stuffed with delicious South Indian food and fresh fruits. The first day of my trip was spent in bed, recovering from a small stomach bug that I had contracted on my way over from Delhi. In between my bathroom runs, I kept busy by reading and looking at a carton of old pictures that Vik's dad had taken in the 70s. The fashion, the mustaches and what americans would think of as closer to 50s technology kept me thoroughly entertained. By the second day, I had largely conquered the bug, so Vik and I took a tour of some of the nearby towns including the beach in these pictures.

Now this isn't just any beach, it's a driving beach. The sign said so and everything, with an arrow pointing to the entrance. What does that mean? It's like a drive through for the ocean (photo 1). Who wants to walk in the sand like a crazy person (photo 2)? Get your feed wet? Get sweaty (Kerala is very hot and muggy this time of year)? When you can just stay in your air conditioned car and soak in the scenery from there. One might even spot a crazy foreigner begging her lovely host to let her swim! Only if you have incredibly good look though, there aren't very many white people in this neck of the woods.

On the driving beach (where I insisted on walking), I found the shells of a local delicacy (last photo), I kind of shell fish that tastes similar to a cherry stone (for my cape cod followers). They are delicious, especially fried up with spicy seasoning, but the most incredible thing about them are the aqua color of the edge of the shell. I had truly never seen anything like it. In fact, this trip to Kerala had a lot in store for me in terms of weird flora and fauna. More on that later.

Love,
Violet