Heart Attacks in Trinidad

As a kid growing up in the middle of Virginia, I told myself I would one day see the world. Now in my late 20s, I am happy to report that I am doing a decent job of fulfilling that kid’s dream, though I had envisioned more glamour in the travel and less cramming my shoulders in a coach seat for 12 hours at a time and trying not to fall asleep at my morning meeting in the middle of Africa or Europe or wherever. When the opportunity to take an actual vacation abroad instead of going for work or school came along, I went for it. I’ve always been one to make random decisions, and randomly decided the random country of Trinidad would be my random destination. I booked the ticket and painted the decision as a brilliant move few people would understand.

And indeed it was a brilliant decision few people understood! My career may not be good for things like obtaining health care benefits or, you know, progressing in life, but my God, it is really good for assessing the vacation quality of a country in under 20 minutes! Not only is Trinidad not bombarded with the average, annoying selection of Caribbean tourists – including the mid-life crisis population of Canada, Americans who can’t bring themselves to leave North America, and every law student ever – it has a brilliant landscape, a rich history, a number of cultural and architectural monuments, and solid public transportation, all of which I knew about before going.

Thanks to the auspices of Couchsurfers and friends of friends, I am happy to say I took advantage of a number of these things. But. Let’s be honest. As intellectually curious as I can be, at some point my trip to Trinidad really was a summer vacation, and all I wanted to do was fall asleep in the sand of a pretty beach while listening to the same mediocre song on repeat because I am too lazy to make a playlist on my iPod. So I decided to go to Tobago.

Even though taking the bus to the airport instead of a taxi required waking up 3 hours earlier, walking 2.5 miles in the blazing hot sun, enduring a bumpy ride along some beaten paths, and…riding the bus (I hate buses), I decided paying 1/30^th of the price was well worth the effort. Those of you who know me have probably realized that I assume it takes 30 minutes to get anywhere, regardless of the distance, time of day, traffic patterns, whatever. Ergo, in predictable fashion, I left myself 30 minutes to walk to the bus station even though I had done the same thing the two previous days and knew it would definitely take 40 minutes.

So I missed the bus. To kill time before the next one came, I decided to go to the Trinidadian equivalent of Starbucks and get a donut the size of my head. Nothing like loading up on sugar right before you take pictures of yourself in a swimsuit. Of course whereas the first bus I tried to catch left precisely on time, the second bus came 15 minutes late, putting me 45 minutes behind the arbitrary schedule I had calculated in my head. But no matter, after successfully appropriating an entire row of seats to myself, I determined I still had 30 minutes of leeway.

Riding the subway in New York is an Olympic sport. Between hauling all of your things up and down staircases meant to accommodate a fraction of the people underground, nauseating performers demanding money for their ridiculous songs, and tourists who fail to understand why the city does not stop because they think they’re going the wrong direction, riding the train requires a good amount of physical agility. That’s why old people rarely ride the subway; they take the bus. New York City buses are certainly more forgiving than the subway, but buses in this fair concrete jungle still require a lot of flexibility. Are you handicapped? Too bad, you still might have to stand. Forgot your metro card? Too bad, you have to go buy another one and wait for the next bus. Missed your stop? Too bad, get down and ride the return bus back. There are simply too many people in New York for anyone to make special accommodations because you or the driver screwed up

Apparently this is not the case in Trinidad. Not 20 minutes after I settled into my row of seats with my head-sized donut did I hear a woman start screaming for bloody mercy.

            “You missed my stop! You didn’t STOP!! YOU HAVE TO GO BACK!!!”

But the driver kept going, arguing that the stop she so vehemently demanded was only an actual stop going in the other direction. So the screaming continued for another five minutes, with each second finding a new bus passenger echoing the concern. My happy little picture of Trinidadians as a peaceful people was abruptly spoiled with a full out screaming match between the other passengers and the driver. I, on the other hand, was a happy New Yorker with a giant donut, and could care less if this woman missed her stop. It happens all the damn time in New York – take the next bus back! Missing a stop is so not a big deal. Besides, I thought, I now only had 25 minutes of leeway and that driver continuing on was saving me time. Right? Ha.

A few hundred feet from the next stop, the screaming woman began walking down the aisle to jump straight off as the bus doors opened. As I was about to go in for the next bite of donut, I heard a loud thud right next to me. Looking down, I saw the woman was not in her mid-30s as I had guessed from her voice, but was much older – like 60. She was also face down in the aisle. I know by now that my first reaction to these situations is to freeze, so as I sat there stupidly with sugar crumbs all over my face, I heard a set of panicked passengers crowd around her and begin to pull her tight grip from the row of seats I had appropriated for myself.

From my cardiologist father, I know all of the heart buzzwords; it wasn’t until someone plopped the woman down in a seat and she muttered “nitroglycerin” that I realized what had happened – this woman had had a f**king heart attack! Suddenly my donut was not so delicious.[1] By then, one other passenger in particular had made tormenting the bus driver her personal vendetta. Somewhere in the middle of her threatening to pull out a knife and cut off his testicles, the driver fortunately had the clarity to call an ambulance.

I have to hand it to Trinidad – though the ambulance and all of its equipment were positively filthy, the EMTs made it to the bus in under 15 minutes. Sadly, they worked as fast as a blind monkey. After ten minutes to finally get the gross oxygen tank out and operating, it was clear that the woman who had the heart attack would be fine. She was breathing almost normally, was talking and moving, and I knew she could easily make it to a hospital to rest. Unfortunately, the second woman had returned to her “batshit crazy” mode and had resumed making death threats against the driver. I did my best to curl up into a ball and stare out the window, but could not completely avoid the scary moments of eye contact this woman made with me. On the third of such occasion, she looked straight at me said,

“This bus driver should die! This bus is for the people, it is not his bus! Yes!?”

Of course in my head, I was thinking something like,

“Why me?! I’m going to miss my flight! Sand! iPod! Beeeeaaaaach!”

But all I said was a garbled, 

             “Yeaasssh!...Die!”

Thankfully, Trinidadian Indians have some common characteristics with us American Indians, namely – work before all else. After the other EMTs had finished fumbling with the oxygen tank, the Indian origin EMT took one look at the other passengers and forced the heart attack woman off the bus, explaining,

            “These people need to get to work.”

Normally I would have been in full echo of the EMT’s concerns, though I could really only think about one thing:

            “Beeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaacccccccchhhhhhhh!!!!”

Very happily, crazy woman decided to go with heart attack woman to the hospital, leaving the bus driver with his testicles intact to take us to the rest of the stops, and finally, the airport! I had planned to save half of my head donut for the plane, but the unnecessary drama of the incident forced me to eat the rest. That is not a logical statement. But shut up. Beeeeaaaaaaaaaaaccccccccccchhhhhh!

As we pulled into the airport terminal, it was my turn to shove my way to the front of the bus, though I managed to avoid having a heart attack in the process. It turns out the flights to Tobago from Trinidad have their own little dingy security area, so showing up a full two minutes before check-in was scheduled to close was 30 minutes earlier than absolutely necessary. The (Indian origin) airline employee even gave me a slight pat on the shoulder of reassurance before handing me a napkin to wipe off the sugar crumbs. So sweet, literally.

In case you’re curious about whether I had an amazing time that day once I got to Tobago – the answer is no. Five minutes after I got to the beeeeeaaaaccch, it started raining like crazy, like batshit crazy. But the next day was amazing! Look at the picture I got below!

---

[1] Who am I kidding? It totally was.

Mala(droite) is Mala(ly) Dressed in Trinidad

When I was 20, there was one place I always wanted to go to: Europe. As you may recall, this unhealthy obsession with the continent resulted in many episodes, a particularly traumatizing one of which resulted in a maniacal bubble bath incident. Now that I am older (no comments on the wiser), my tastes have become less geographically dependent. In other words, if I have to see another European church, I will throw up. Then perhaps I will take a bubble bath.

These days, my only criteria in traveling are to see something I haven’t seen before, or see friends and eat junk food.  So when I finally knew for sure a move to South Africa would not be happening for work, I decided to use 9 days of the inevitable downtime brought on by a lackluster New York international development community summer to go to a new country. That box must be ticked every year; it’s imperative.

Even though my understanding of the world has dramatically changed over the years, my decision making process for most things still consists of the same three steps:

1.     Choose something random

2.     Justify said random thing in my head through mind tricks and self-conditioning

3.     Bombard friends, family, or unsuspecting interns with unanswerable questions to reinforce my justification of said random thing.

After spending an hour zooming in and out of the world on Google Earth, I finally landed on a small country I’d once heard has a ton of my brethren – Trinidad. A little scared off by the prospect of once again assuming my position as the awkward Indian, I decided that the cost to get there trumped all other factors. After all, the plane ticket price difference between Trinidad and EUROPE could buy at least 10 hours of therapy. I figured that should be enough to work through any identity crises.

In the midst of my mind tricks and self-conditioning to justify my decision, I took the occasion to demonstrate to the world the degree of my nerdiness by looking up the following:

·      Weather data to see if rainfall patterns will make it an enjoyable experience during the specific period I am there

·      The GINI coefficient, GDP per capita, infrastructure, and transparency indexes

·      The 3G and WIFI coverage across the country

Satisfied with the information I found, I then moved to step three of my decision making process in the form of interrogating our office interns. Like most people in America, they both knew of people who were from, had been to, or had heard of Trinidad. Based on the combined twelve seconds of conversation this country had taken in their lives, I asked a series of questions pertaining to specific cultural phenomenon, the transitioning economic status, and the logistics of getting around the country. Though their answers mostly consisted of blank stares and a few hints that end of my tenure in the office could not come soon enough, I felt I successfully fulfilled step three, and booked a ticket.

For those of you international development/affairs/anthropology people reading this post, I know you can relate to the very complicated and delicate process of packing for a trip like this. Though I was going on a vacation, assembling my outfits required a semi-sacred ceremony that comes with fieldwork: the Ceremony of Clothes Separation.

The Ceremony of Clothes Separation is especially important for the female sex, and involves the painstaking process of organizing clothes by both appropriateness and crappiness. Ceremonies generally result in four categories of clothes, as follows:

-       Category 1, Bumf**k Developing Country: These are clothes that have once doubled as rags, your dog’s chew toy, or clothes you wore while painting your apartment. The ONLY appropriate location to wear clothes that fall into Category 1 is in bumf**k Africa, Asia, South America or the like. No matter what dirt surface you must use as a bed, no matter what insect, animal, or child attacks you, no matter how blazing hot the sun may be, no matter how much you sweat, poop, or urinate yourself, it does not matter; there are no standards to be met in Category 1 clothes.

-       Category 2, Big City Developing Country: One solid step above Category 1, Category 2 clothes are appropriate to be seen in big African, Asian, South American, or the like cities, but are still meant to be sweated through in poorly ventilated markets, public health facilities, or government offices. These clothes provide moderate comfort while ensuring those around you that you are neither a prostitute nor trying to be blatantly disrespectful of the prevailing culture or religion.

-       Category 3, Middle America: These are clothes appropriate in the company of middle, suburban Americans (and Canadians), and are generally found in Kohl’s, American Eagle, or other blah stores.

-       Category 4, Normal Life: Normal life clothes are those you wear in your day-to-day existence at home in New York, San Francisco, Europe, Dubai, Tokyo, Montreal, or the like. One or two Category 4 outfits must be included in your suitcase regardless of the final developing country destination, as completely leaving these outfits out will inevitably be met with your long lost friend inviting you to dinner during your layover in Paris, forcing you to roam the streets in smelly, sweat-stained Category 1 or 2 clothes, and resulting in immediate entry denial at the door of your favorite restaurant. No crêpes for you, Mademoiselle, no crêpes for you.

Being a woman traveling alone, assembling the clothes I would take could make or break my experience in Trinidad, for how to not draw attention to myself while also not passing out from heatstroke while also being allowed in public places in proper cities is a delicate balance. Somehow, some way, after all of my trips to Africa and Asia, I made a cardinal mistake – nearly all of the clothes I packed fell in Category 2. After all, there would be no major European or Middle Eastern city layovers on this trip. Made sense to me. Unfortunately it did not make sense to Trinidad.

From my nerd research, I knew Trinidad is solidly a middle income/medium economically developed country. What I forgot is that countries that fall in this area of the economic development spectrum often take on a strange phenomenon – a lot of people in major cities have enough money to buy nice things, including nice clothes, nice shoes, good jewelry, etc. BUT, the idea that economically developed countries have of appropriateness still has not taken root.

Put another way, people are always overdressed. Go to a casual dinner, and the majority of the people in the restaurant look like they’re about to go to prom. Go to an informal meeting at a temple or church, and everyone has on a suit. Sure, many people, especially those who have lived abroad in Europe, Canada or the States understand the importance of jeans and shoes that don’t kill your feet, but the majority of the wealthy people on any given outing in a major city in a middle income country will be wearing something I would consider appropriate for a wedding.

Then there was me. In Category 2 clothes. Sweating. A lot. Don’t get me wrong; the people I met in Trinidad were by and large very kind, though they all asked me the same question: “Why are you dressed like a homeless person?”

And compared to everyone else in the country, it was a valid question. Some examples:

Location One: Zip-lining

What I am wearing: Shorts, stained t-shirt, 3-year old tennis shoes

What they are wearing: Tightly fitted jeans, halter-top, new Pumas, jewelry

Location Two: Hiking in the middle of the mountains

What I am wearing: Same shorts, a different stained t-shirt, 3-year old tennis shoes

What they are wearing: $100 tights, $100 sport shorts, new Pumas, $100 basketball jersey. And a similar outfit to change into after hiking

Location Three: Temple in the Sea

What I am wearing: Linen pants, t-shirt (no stain), Converse shoes with holes in them, $20 kameez I bought in Queens to take one picture before ripping it off out of fear of passing out

What they are wearing: Tightly fitted jeans, tightly fitted kameez out of every Bollywood movie ever, 4-inch stilettos, ton of jewelry, full make-up, incredulous look at what I have on

As evidenced by the Ceremony of Clothes Separation, one of the most stressful parts about traveling abroad for work is trying to look at all professional after pulling your shoulders out of that terrible 12-hour coach flight seat AND trying to feel safe AND not trying to ruin your clothes at the same  time. Hopefully you can thus understand why completely misjudging where Trinidad sits on the Ceremony of Clothes Separation, drawing attention to myself for no other reason than looking like a hobo, and not having to care about my appearances was AWESOME.

Normally I have a heightened paranoia about someone stealing my stuff. In Trinidad, I that paranoia was not to be seen. When I found out I’d need to pay the guesthouse in cash, I marched straight up to the closest ATM, withdrew 2600 Trinidadian dollars (about US $420), stuck the cash in my linen pants pocket and slowly sauntered back. Usually withdrawing that kind of cash would result in at least four plastic bags, 5 rubber bands, three pockets, a lock, a bat, and the fastest non-suspicious walk possible. In Trinidad, I accidentally dropped the giant wad of cash on the ground and barely blinked in response.

Normally when I buy any expensive article of clothing, I take hours to get on and off the subway in New York. The painstaking process of making sure no one scuffs my new shoes on my commute home is exhausting. In Trinidad, I didn’t care what the hell I stepped in, who the hell stepped on me, the amount of rain that soaked my clothes, or what stains I amassed running around the island. It made for much more efficient travel, I must say.

All in all, I had a great time in Trinidad, because I could give a crap about how I looked. Of course within 2 hours of returning home, I was back to doing my expensive shoes, new glasses, "Do you like my pants?" dance, but I will always relish admiring those beautiful Trinidadian landmarks while looking like a slob. If you ever get the chance to go to a random country and not care about appearances, I highly recommend taking full advantage. Just make sure there are no Normal Life layovers in the process. Crêpes are important.

Senegal: Part - I'm baaaack!

This one time in Senegal: Part I’m baaaack!

For those of you know me, you know I am good at many things, like exaggerating how many things I’m good at. You probably also know that my nearly non-existent sense of direction has gotten into trouble with burly German bus drivers and almost got me kicked out of Switzerland from a heinous bubble bath incident. Despite this fact, when I found out I would be returning to Senegal for the first time since my hilarious banterings of running around in blue shorts, I took it upon myself to subtly announce to the world how well I know the city of Dakar. Among my announcement methods were:

-       Shouting through a megaphone on Third Avenue

-       Posting flyers on the lockers in the gym

-       Texting random combinations of numbers on my phone

Needless to say, by the time we got to Dakar, every last one of my colleagues had a detailed run-down Mala exposure au Sénégal.

Because this trip involved two countries back-to-back and leaving the day after a full work week, the first day we had in Senegal was the only day in three weeks that did not involve travel and/or work for most of us. To revel in the limited freedom, we bargained down from the original asking price of the taxi drivers (five bazillion francs per person) to a more reasonable rate (500 francs per person), loaded up, and made our way over to a nice resort for lunch.

Two seconds after walking into the resort, I made the harrowing discovery that this was the exact same ex-pat-y venue I and my fellow classmates summarily told to go to hell four years ago. Two seconds after that, I made the even more harrowing discovery that I no longer give a sh*t about how ex-pat-y the place was – they serve lobster and éclairs! After selling my soul in the form of 1500+ calories, my colleagues I and went for a stroll by the beach to get pictures and make comments about how the Dutch members of our team are like four feet taller than the rest of us. Not wanting to squander any part of our one free day, we again loaded up and made our way to the western most tip of the city.

Two mostly unwanted beers later (add 400 calories), and we decided to head back to the hotel for the night. I plus the two others in my cab all speak French with a very solid command. Trust me, I can tell you all about basic insurance terms and drought models in said language – I’m really good at it. So after bargaining our price from seven-hundred bajallion francs per person down to 400 francs per person, the three of us settled in the car for our quick ride back to the hotel.

These are some characteristics that I knew about the ride between where we were and our hotel:

-       It is about 15 minutes

-       There is no giant statue of a family along the way

-       We do not pass the delicious evil resort where we had lunch

Yet at some point in the taxi, I noticed the following about our ride:

-       I've been in the taxi for 35 minutes

-       We passed a giant statue of a family along the way…twice

-       Hey! That’s where we had lunch! That place is delicious evil!

I suppose someone with any logical reasoning skills would tell their brain to make the connection, but if I had logical reasoning skills, there is no way the UN would hire me. (Kidding! Sort of.) Fortunately, one of my Amazonian-statured Dutch colleagues only works part time for the UN, and thus pointed out that we were in fact no where close to where we were supposed to go. The driver didn't take too kindly to this little revelation given that he had been expecting approximately 4000 times more than what we agreed to pay in cab fare. He was even less pleased when I and my two colleagues decided to pick up a fourth person we had never met, hand her the cab, and leave the car without paying anything at all. After all, the driver had just squandered 20 minutes of our precious non-working time au Senegal.

If there is one thing I cannot criticize about the UN, it's the diversity, especially in thought. While some of think that éclairs are only mildly delicious, some of think that éclairs are very delicious. It's this diversity that brings relevance to the often criticized set of institutions. Oh, also, we all reacted very differently to the situation. Here's a basic breakdown:

The Italian: Deny we ever got lost. If someone does find out we got lost, blame it Berlusconi, because in a way, it probably is his fault. Also, Berlusconi is just generally despicable. Then go watch the rest of your country vote for Berlusconi.

The Dutchwoman: Be very straightforward in what happened, this is a learning process that requires thorough evaluation to avoid any repeats in the future. Then complain about how low the roofs are of Senegalese taxis.

Me (the American): Aggrandize the entire adventure, make sure I was the hero of the story while vehemently denying any associated fault with the entire situation. Then get another evil éclair or two. Eating doesn't cause obesity, obesity causes obesity. That's what the NRA told me.

Needless to say, the story got out...because I told everyone. I prefer to look my unabashed announcements as a nice chuckle of a break between the following deep discussions about drought, rain, saving Africa, and how terrible Berlusconi is for the world. I'd also like to make a deep connection to the many life lessons this fine land of Senegal provided to me all of those years (like 4) back. Unfortunately, this trip au Sénégal really was just about work and a brief catch up session with Ngoné (her father died the week I was there, we saw each other at the funeral. Seriously.). Normally this lack of conclusion would be upsetting, but as Ngoné reminded me during my first round, "There is always another trip to Senegal waiting to happen." Indeed there must be. Those éclairs were really delicious. I should know how hard it is to find good éclairs. I'm really good at it.

A Literary Adventure in South Africa

For those of you who have had the...pleasure of interacting with me in the last year face-to-face, on the phone, via email or by sighing annoyingly at my Facebook statuses, you may have heard that I, through the help of a good friend and that magician's kit I bought, landed myself an awesome job at the UN. I know, right!? I show up to the same location every day! And I'm on time like 65% of the time! I'm growing up! Where the hell did I put my Legos?! 

In my short time at the UN thus far, I have learned many things. Mostly, how to go to my inner happy place while the really smart people I work with talk about the weather and Africa. It seems that I have also learned how to throw around impressive phrases like "disaster risk management" and "pre-planting coefficients" enough that I got myself included on a few trips for work, the latest of which was in South Africa. Despite my absolute fascination (obsession?) with relatively benign things like puppies, miniature objects, and iPods, I think I do a decent job of taking advantage of where I am in terms of cultural, political, and artistic activities and events. But saying "disaster risk management" 50 times a day while using magician's kit is exhausting, so when I had the opportunity to go to Cape Town for a few days after work, I settled on one requirement for my vacation:

I don't want to learn anything.

Of course this excluded learning basic things like:

- Where is my hotel?
- Is there a museum of miniature objects in Cape Town?
- What kind of puppy is that?
- Am I wearing pants?

But you get the point. Anything involving history, books, or words with more than two syllables were thus summarily banned from my vacation repertoire, including the words "summarily" and "repertoire." Then I looked at the list of things I had to do in Cape Town. And realized only three things on the list were actually in Cape Town, two of which were closed. Being the American't I am, properly driving a stick shift car is out of my range, and driving on the left side of the road is like asking me to fit in at a Republican convention, so I figured I'd last approximately 3 seconds if I managed to convince some unsuspecting South African to let me rent a car. This created a dilemma, for my lack of preparation in coming to Cape Town masked the simple reality that there is not a lot to do in Cape Town unless I am willing to learn something. Bleh.

I instead settled on putting on pants and going to see a mountain that is flat and apparently famous. Smart phones are both empowering and destructive, for I feel total confidence in walking outside in a new country with zero inclination of where I am, yet I scream bloody murder if my phone doesn't have all the answers. Siri was being a sassy that day, and instead of telling me how to get to the bus, decided to lead me down a few harbors and two cafes (she was thirsty). So I shut her up and stormed in the only direction that makes sense (backwards). Two hours later, I realized all I had managed to do was make twelve wrong turns and walk halfway to Pretoria.

As though the God of Nerds had commanded its wish, I realized I was 30 feet away from the main venue of a literary festival someone told me about the night before. My un-learned instincts told me to stay away, but the rain told me to get the hell out of the middle of the street, so I went inside. What I saw inside was frightful...there they were - the ultimate evil of all mindless vacations: BOOKS. Despite all efforts of resistance, the God of Nerds used its awkward pocket-protected power to push me to the table of bound paper that would inevitably make its way into my bag and proceed to sit on my nightstand for 10 years in a guilty dust-gathering silence.

Slowly but surely, the God of Nerds infected me with its learning virus, and I found myself back at the literary festival two days later after another failed tourist attraction visit. (Castle of Good Hope, my ass.) The most interesting event on the literary event agenda was a conversation hour with two people I'd never heard of and Kiran Desai, who wrote a book called the "Inheritance of Loss", which, over the years, has taught me how to spell the word "inheritence" "inheritance." Being the Grade A planner I am, I forgot to get tickets. So when I walked up to the cashier and expected to be gladly ushered into the event, I was annoyed to find out that the only event that still had tickets available for that time was a few French people talking about a bunch of short stories they wrote that no one really cares to read. C'est geniale quoi. NOT. But eh, you know, je speak francais sometimes, so I got tickets anyway. The God of Nerds was pleased.

The other American I was with and I stood in the middle of the waiting area to demonstrate the poor walking skills of what appears to the whole of South Africa (seriously, they're worse than New Yorkers). Five minutes and 4 broken toes later, we were pushed (literally) in with a giant masse of people towards the back of the venue. The woman ushering the audience told us we could either sit in the very back or the very front of the theater. As appealing as the nose bleed section sounded, the God of Nerds virus had successfully infiltrated my brain, and I vraiment speak francais de temps to time, so the front it was.

There are many passions in my life, one of them being complaining about artificial overhead light, of which there was a lot in said theater. After giving myself a few minutes to adjust to the grating waves, my eyes focused in a small stack of books that looked anything but francais and short. Then I saw the first part of the title on one of the books: I-n-h-e-r-i-t-a-n-c-e. Oops. I was in the event that was sold out.

My first inclination was to tell someone we had wandered into the wrong event. That lasted approximately 0.2 nanoseconds. Screw that, Cape Town ruined my "me no learny" policy for vacation, so if I was going to commit to breaking my only requirement, I was going to go all the way! As I relished in this moment of Nerd rebellion, the person I was with reminded me to not be a dumbass and get rid of my ticket that clearly said, "Pretentious French event." In a classic Mala exaggeration, I decided the only ways to get rid of said ticket was to do one of the following:

1. Light it on fire
2. Eat it whole
3. Bust out the magician's kit and make it disappear
4. Create a wormhole and send it to another dimension.

But my friend suggested I put it in my pocket. Oh.

After sweating bullets for another ten minutes, the authors and the moderator took the stage, and I determined I would not indeed get caught and thrown out of the city of Cape Town for life. (That's an appropriate punishment for crashing the event, right?) The authors and moderators engaged in a series of quips, anecdotes and senseless banter before the moderator opened up the floor for questions from the audience. Apparently the quips, anecdotes and senseless banter flew straight over the audience, however, because the 100+ people in the room sat in a strange silence for a solid minute since no one seemed to have a question. Finally, I raised my hand.

I have a tendency to say a smattering of the stupid thoughts that run threw my head, so I fully suspected I would blurt out something like,

"I'm not supposed to be here."

or

"Where's the bathroom?"

But instead, I managed something like this,

"You all spoke of the nascent stages of your writing career; as I suspect I am one of several burgeoning writers in the audience, how did you address the issues of intersectionality your books cover? What advice can give to someone trying to carve their space out with agents and publishers without being pigeon-holed in a particular discipline or genre?"

YES! NERD, I AM!

One of the authors gave an answer that completely missed the point of the question, which of course made me cross-eyed and cross-armed. A few seconds later, though, a small smile crept over Kiran Desai's face. The moderator noticed, and asked Kiran if she wanted to say something. Kiran simply shrugged. But then! She looked directly at me and said,

"I just want to wish the young lady good luck. Keep at it."

Yeah, that happened. A world renowned author told me to keep at my writing. And that, my friends, was my Literary Adventure in South Africa.

"It pays to learn."

- God of Nerds

The Awkward Indian of Uganda

As you may recall from a very uncomfortable marriage proposal, Indians who grew up in the motherland often lose basic bodily functions and any trace of manners when seeing another Indian outside of said motherland. Though I have been graced with a number of uncomfortable encounters across my smattering of travels, which proves the existence of Indians wandering the streets from Milan to Manila, this awkward reaction never seems to waver in the African and European continents. Then I went to Uganda.

For those not in the know, Uganda is a little country in eastern Africa that is often overshadowed by its bigger, more diverse, and more Obama-y neighbor, Kenya. It is also one of the most homophobic countries on the planet. Ergo, after dropping gentle hints to my boss that I'd like to travel at least once to Africa for the "African Risk Capacity" project, you could understand my slight internal conflict when the first opportunity presented itself in the form of Kenya's neighbor Uganda. But beggars can't be choosers unless they're idiots, so Uganda it was.

Normally before I go on a trip to a new country, I make sure to do the basics:

• Read the Wikipedia page. Unless it's long, in which case, skim the Wikipedia page/acknowledge the Wikipedia page's existence
  
• Contact anyone I know who has been there and drop vague, useless information.
  
  "I'll be staying in a hotel with a pool!"
  
• Practice a few lines about how my experience ten years ago in a country 2000 miles away is at all relevant to the upcoming quest
  
• Pack Pepto Bismol

Unfortunately, my new life in the UN has firmly cemented itself in my inner being, and I found out for sure that I would be going just 10 days before. Preparing the materials for the workshop I'd be helping lead left me all of 12 seconds to do any general research, so I left for Nairobi Kampala without covering any of the basics, and ill prepared in every sense of the Kenyan Ugandan country save its tricky drought profile.

OMFG, there are so many Indians in Uganda! Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew the basics of the history of religious persecution that brought a cohort of Indians to Eastern African a few generations back, but damn! I thought it was like maybe 10 or 20 that went over, not half the state of Gujurat! I suppose I should have been better alerted to the Indian invasion of Uganda seeing that "Prabhat" was supposed to pick me up from the airport, and every email from the hotel concierge was addressed, "Dear Madam." Still, I was a bit shocked to see the following establishments in Uganda are Indian-owned:

• My hotel
• The restaurant I went to to meet my roommate's old roommate
• Everything else.

There are so many Indians in Uganda that none of them bothered me the entire time I was there. Coming off of 27 years of stupid questions, pointing, grunting, and the occasional prod, this was a bit more than I could handle. By day three, I had all but gone into an existential crisis questioning my very appearance. Sure, my dad swears that the most Indian thing about me is...well, him, but I still look Indian, right? Right? RIGHT!?

Wholly convinced that I had somehow morphed into a white girl, I decided I'd spend my last day in the country asserting my Indian-ness. Unfortunately I ended up falling asleep for 8 hours (hello, exhaustion!), so by the afternoon, I realized I only had 5 hours before I had to leave for the airport to rectify the lack of awkward encounters with my Indian people.

My last ditch opportunity presented itself when going out to meet the roommate's old roommate for an afternoon stroll through the city of Mombasa Kampala. She, her boyfriend and I started by climbing up a few random hills to see a few random churches in an attempt to crash a few random weddings. Not seeing any stores, I knew this would be less than fruitful in verifying my Indian-ness, as all the Indians there are Muslim. They suggested we take a scooter ride down to a few local markets so I could buy the obligatory worthless crap to distribute to friends, family and boss to prove I indeed make it to Africa. After stalling with a few stupid lines ("I'm allergic to two-wheeled vehicles"), I finally heard the words I'd been looking for, "Okay, want to go to a bar and get a beer?"

Yes! Because a bar is an establishment, and every establishment in Uganda is owned by Indians. So after a quick stroll back through the weddings, the churches and the hills, we ended up at a grocery store/bar/thrift store/satellite dish store and got a beer. Before settling down at the one plastic table of said establishment, I made a concerted effort to point out everything Indian.

     "Look at these! These are biscuits frequently eaten in India!"


     "You have a Bata shoes across the street! I used to buy all my Indian shoes from there!"


     "You're from Gujurat! I'm from Bangalore, in southern India!"

Confident I successfully showcased my Indian-ness, I sat down and proceeded to have a very confusing conversation about Marxism and Indian accents in (mostly) English and French. With an extended interruption of Indian shop owner #2 trying to get us all to buy satellite dish subscriptions, the three of us passed a fine hour of nonsensical theoretical talk to prove we are all intelligent and sometimes gainfully employed.

Before leaving, I decided to drop more Indian-ness in the store by moving a few of the very Indian items around and making hilarious and clever comments about the variety of spices and naan the shop stocked. As I rounded the last shelf to make sure I had covered all corners, I moved just out of sight of the owners. That's when I heard the most harrowing words of my life.

     "That girl is very strange, always commenting and pointing at us with Indian products in hand.
     Very strange."

It was then that I realized my worst nightmare had come true.

I was the awkward Indian.
.
.
.
But other than that, Kenya Uganda was awesome.

The Weird Photography Shoots of Belgium

What do Belgium and the state of Virginia have in common? They're the same size! Only Virginia is much bigger! Since my 2011 Euro agenda included four days in the former, I naturally felt compelled to see more than just the city of Brussels. My first suggestion was Antwerp because, well, let's be honest, that was the only other city in Belgium I had ever heard of. Susy, the first of the two friends I visited in Belgium suggested that perhaps Bruges, a quaint touristy town with pretty scenery, might be better.

Since France dominates my European points of reference, my constant compulsion is to compare everything ever in Europe to something French. After listening to the description of Bruges, I of course blurted out that it sounds like Annecy, a gorgeous touristy town northeast of Lyon. Unfortunately, no one in Belgium understands my damn French, so the conversation went like this:

Me: Bruges is like Annecy.

Belgium: What?

Me: An-nUh-cey.

Belgium: What?

Me: An-nEh-cey.

Belgium: What?

Me: Ant-sy?

Belgium: What?

Me: ::Sigh:: A town in France.

Belgium: What?...this isn't France.

Me: No kidding.

Belgium: ...What?

As I debated the merits of making my French understood in this droplet of a country, I was presented with another challenge in the Annecy/An-nUh-cey/An-nEh-cey/Ant-sy of Belgium: the jacket that I had used approximately two times decided to crap out on me.  Benetton's ten million dollar ads failed to report their ten cent zippers, and as a result, I had been reduced to slipping in and out of my jacket like a skirt. I do not mix well with skirts. We had an argument in 2004 and have not spoken since.

Between the pronunciation wars in my head and the jacket skirt around my waist, by the time we got to the city center of Bruges, not Ant-sy, I was starving. Fortunately, Susy and I have bonded over our common interests in human rights, global migration, and junk food. For those who eat together...should really encourage each other to see a cardiologist. Naturally, the first thing we did once we reached town was eat junk food.

As those of you who failed 'World Religions 101' know, Hindus eat a lot of beef. No dummies, that's the midwest, BUT, I am a poor example of a Hindu and devoured a burger in six seconds flat. Successfully covered in grease and guilty satisfaction, I started in on the healthier part of my meal (French fries) as we people-watched near a statue of some god or prince or duck or whatever. 

Like me, most of the people outside were there for a nice afternoon stroll or a sacrilegious snack. One man, however, was apparently there to set the world record for walking the most number of pointless circles around the god/prince/duck statue. Of course this man was Indian. Decked out in the official Indian tourist outfit of white New Balance tennis shoes, formless jeans, a rain jacket and beltbag, circling Indian tourist man shot at least 100 pictures of the same damn statue in less than 2 minutes. I'm 78 percent he was one of two things:

1. A Google maps employee

2. Crazy

(The 22 percent of doubt is based on a complicated algorithm involving quantum arbitrariness.) 

On the off chance circling Indian tourist was indeed the second of the two, we decided to let the windup toy proceed uninterrupted.

Seconds after the weirdness of circling Indian tourist disappeared, a second set of weirdness materialized in a far creepier form. Against the backdrop of buildings from the 12th century, little children enjoying waffles, and grandmothers returning from the Farmer's Market, a woman appeared in booty shorts, black stockings, 4-inch heels and enough cleavage to blindside Hugh Hefner. Her objective? Have a boy of about 13 take pictures of her in (what she thought were) seductive poses.

No matter how hard I tried to be distracted by my fries, conversations about human rights and junk food, or my jacket skirt, this woman managed to draw my attention using her gross powers. While listening to Susy describe her work in rural Thailand, the woman struck no less than five poses with her jaw unhinged in a very Anna Nicole Smith fashion. While fussing with my crapped up zipper, the woman struck no less than five poses while stretching and shaking her dry, crumpled hair. In case you were wondering, nothing is more awkward than an obese woman in booty shorts catwalking down 800-year cobblestones while trying to make deep eye contact with innocent bystanders. Oh wait, unless she's being photographed by a 13-year old boy.

Susy and I stood frozen in a masochistic wonder for at least 15 minutes before one of us made the suggestion we walk for five minutes and get more junk food. During our happy pit-stops on the boat tour of the city's canals, our visit to the city's most famous bar, and our visit to a waffle stand, chocolate shop, second waffle stand, and second chocolate shop, catwalker made random appearances with her 'photographer' in tow. As the tour guide explained the significance of the Bruges university, there she was stroking her chest in front of the library. As the bartender explained the 600-year old fermentation process, there she was splashing beer on her face. As we ate our first waffle, there she was slowly licking chocolate off a spoon.

By 8 o'clock or so, Susy and I decided we had had enough junk food (until dinner), so we picked ourselves off of the window sill we had been sitting on for the past two hours (sorry neighbor) and walked back to the bus station to catch the train to Brussels. Around that time of day, the buses come about every 60 seconds. New York could stand to learn a lesson from Bruges. But even with this knowledge, whenever I see my bus of need pulling away, I have a second compulsion that always wins: run for bloody murder. As I made my sprint down the cobblestone station, I stole a quick glance to my right to take one final look at this quaint Annecy of Belgium. And what did I see, you might ask? 

Indian tourist making maniacal circles...around catwalker. 

A 3 AM Bus Adventure in Berlin

By the good graces of no rent situations and high hourly wage rates, I was able to throw together a nice lump of constantly devaluing dollars and haul myself over to Europe for a quick two-week vacation filled with junk food and friends. Of course as soon as a trip to Berlin even vaguely presented itself, I jumped on the chance. After successfully booking the wrong EasyJet flight from Brussels to Berlin, I unsuccessfully haggled with the Indian call center woman and ended up having to book another flight earlier that same day. More out of principle than anything else, I was absolutely determined not to miss my 6 AM return flight to Brussels. Damn you, EasyJet, and your ridiculous exchange policies!

My three days in Berlin were marked with grey, gross, and dreary weather, but if there is one city in the world where that atmosphere works, it's Berlin. Having caught up with old friends and made a few new ones, I forced myself to go to sleep at 8 PM on Wednesday night so I could awake at least semi-coherent and with refreshed contacts in the obnoxiously early AM hours to leave for the Schönefeld airport.

The first four hours of sleep went by with little disruption. Around midnight, however, I went into paranoid mode and woke up once every five minutes to make sure I hadn't missed my previously determined awake time of 3 AM. Instead of turning around and checking the clock like a normal person, my body decided to use jerking wannabe acrobatic movements. Fifteen sideways somersaults, four leg kicks, and seven epileptic-like seizure movements later, I decided that 2 AM is close enough to 3 AM and got up using a cannonball motion to hoist myself off the mattress.

With veeeery few exceptions in Manhattan, I hate the bus in every city, in every country, in every situation. Having been born with the directional sense of a pencil and the attention span of a 6-month old baby, I will inevitably get lost after being on said apparatus for 30 seconds. As such, finding a decent route to the airport at 3 AM on a weekday in Berlin literally took an hour and a half. The first five routes would get me to the airport in less than 40 minutes, but required knowing where the hell I am going...on the bus. The next three routes listed S-Bahn rides that would take me 2+ hours to go less than 4 miles. Finally, after a series of silent prayers to Subway God, a route popped up that entailed an idiot-proof bus ride and two trains and would get me to the airport in an hour. Totally doable.

There were two reasons the bus ride portion of the trip was idiot-proof: the pickup point was less than 500 feet from the apartment and I would have to ride the bus all the way to the end of the line, so unless I managed to wedge a portion of my body in the bus such that only a blowtorch and an angry construction worker could free me, there would be no way to miss my stop. Unfortunately, this plan was German idiot-proof. American...no, Mala idiot-proof is much harder to attain.

After waiting out in the cold for 20 minutes with a burly looking Turkish woman and her 10 bags of dog food (who the hell gets dog food at 3 AM?), I boarded the bus. I knew in my head that all I needed to do was get on and wait for the livid bus driver to curse at me in German to disembark, but for some reason, I also made note of the final bus stop: Hermannstrasse.

The German Hopstop equivalent told me I would be on the bus for about 25 minutes. Around minute 13, I heard the driver announce "Hermannplatz." Now for those of you who can hear, read, write, or see Roman letters, you can understand that Hermannstrasse does not equal Hermannplatz. You can also see that 13 minutes does not equal 25. Finally, you could have seen that there were still a lot of people on the bus at Hermannplatz. I could do all of these things too. So what did I do at Hermannplatz?

I got off the f*cking bus.

As soon as I stepped off, I knew what I had done was beyond the limitations of idiot-proof. As soon as I stepped off, I knew I should step back on. As soon as I stepped off, I debated a few seconds too long whether it was worth looking like an idiot to the bus driver who would certainly recognize the Indian girl who can't speak German. Guess what, it was totally worth looking like an idiot. So what did I do?

I did not get back on the f*cking bus.

Watching the bus drive away, I made the harrowing discovery that the next one would not come for another 20 minutes, which meant I would miss the S-Bahn, which meant I would be stuck somewhere in south Berlin nowhere near the airport. Unlike the bus stop by my friend's apartment, this bus stop did not come complete with a taxi every 15 seconds. Completely at a loss for what to do, I did a two-step dance number (seriously...I don't know why) and crossed the street. Then I crossed back, and then I danced again (seriously...I still don't know why). Finally, I decided to look up and inspect my surroundings.

As though it was sitting in a gilded frame, I made eye contact with the most brilliant sign in the world. "Schönefeld." It appeared I landed along the bus route to the airport. To celebrate, a German guy came up to me and proceeded to have this stupid conversation:

"Do you speak German?"
      "Why would you ask me that in English in Germany?"
"Are you going to Schönefeld?"
     "Yes."
"You have to cross the street. Come, I will show you."
      "You'll show me how to cross the street?"
"Don't step in front of that moving car."

Anyway, after being 'escorted,' I whipped out the iPod touch I sort of stole from my mother and pulled up the U/S-Bahn metro map I downloaded. Somehow, someway, I just happened to get off at a U-Bahn stop of one of the few trains that run that early in the morning. And where does this line, the U7, go? Straight to a bus with a very strategic final stop: the Schönefeld airport.

Five minutes later, I was on the next U7. Fifteen minutes after that, I was on the bus to the airport. This time I made sure I was literally the last person to get down. And no, I did not get a body part wedged inside. By 5:20, I was at the gate. And yes, I did indeed make the flight. Also yes, the next day in Brussels was one of the best days all vacation. The end. Genau!

The Creepiest Part of Queens

For those of you who follow this blog with any consistency (thanks mom...), you may remember that during my 2005 study abroad semester in Switzerland, I learned the indestructible nature of Swiss bubble bath bubbles. I was also obsessed with trying to make people believe I'm European. I attribute this to the fact that the overwhelming exposure I had had to Americans was...I'll stop there.

After an internship in New Orleans, living in France, and having been in New York for a few months, I finally started to realize that Americans can be waaaay cooler than Europeans. Indeed, Europeans are not equipped with a microchip at birth bestowing cultural awareness, the ability to wear clothes that fit, and understanding the merits of portion control, as I originally thought. There are actually a ton of cool people (MY definition of cool) everywhere in the world, and I am very thankful that many of them, North Americans, Europeans, Africans, Latin Americans, and (maybe 10) Asians alike, ended up as my classmates in grad school.

One random weekend, 9 of my classmates, and my friend Daniel and I decided to go to Jackson Heights and get Indian food. I organized the dinner, and told everyone to meet by the subway station around 7. Wanting to make this an authentic Indian experience, I showed up at 8:30. Since I hadn't actually picked out a restaurant, we ended up wandering around until we finally found a place that would take 11 people at the last minute on a Saturday night. I'm such a good host!

Regardless, my New York friends are the perfect combination of smart and hilarious, so we passed the perfect night of exchanging witty jokes, astute observations, and taking way too long how to figure out how to split the check. (Splitting the check properly is hard for everyone, smart and stupid.)

Happy times in Queens

For those of you who have ever been to Jackson Heights, you may know of this one store that sells 10-year old CDs, 20-year old videotapes, and the prize above all other prizes: the Indian workout DVD. This said Indian workout DVD is prominently showcased on the TV sitting above the entrance of the store. In fact, the same 90 second segment has been on a constant loop every day from 10 AM - 10 PM for at least the past three years. Naturally, we danced to the beat before getting back on the train. I'm such a good Indian!

Heavy Indian food tends to put people in a food coma. Since it was a cold weekend in February and most Queens stations are above ground, that ride back to Manhattan was one of the rare instances where being on the subway was actually a desirable alternative. But it was only 11 PM on a Saturday night, so after a few nonsensical remarks, Daniel and I decided to explore one of the no-man's lands of New York City: Roosevelt Island. Trying to make a dramatic exit, we waited as long as possible to awkwardly hurl ourselves through the doors. Sadly, the doors bounced back open for at least 30 seconds afterward, so we just looked stupid.

Anyway, Roosevelt Island is a thin strip of land in between Manhattan and Queens. There is only one subway stop to the island, which provides the only public transportation to get on or off after hours or on the weekends. Roosevelt Island is also the creepiest part of Queens.

After making our failed dramatic exit, Daniel and I got on the giant escalator that takes you up to ground level. As though people knew that we weren't residents of the island, nearly every person silently turned to stare at us as we made our way up. Once at the top, I noticed a teenage boy who was mechanically spinning his yo-yo. Right as we passed by the boy, he whipped his head up and made eye contact, giving me the most horrid deadpan look.

We started down one of the walkways going towards the south end of the island. A few minutes in, we heard a macabre whistling noise. If Daniel and I were cats, we'd both have used our nine lives before the age of two, so we continued down the path. Coming up to a giant brick structure, we peered around the building and saw five men, each electronic wheelchair bound, each making giant loops around each other. Not a single man uttered a sound, allowing the macabre whistling of their chairs to echo through the entire complex. They seemed completely unaware of where they were going or why they were doing what they were doing.

Completely creeped out, but lacking any real judgment in the situation, we kept walking down the path. Eventually, we found one the strangest landmarks I have ever seen. Jutting out onto the river, half of a fake metal ship sticks out from the bank of Roosevelt Island, almost as if implying a ship was once wrecked on the spot. By this point, Daniel had been complaining about the terrors of his job for at least 20 minutes. Maybe it was the job angst, maybe it was the creepiness of the island, but for whatever reason, Daniel began pretending to throw himself overboard the fake ship. At least I hope he was pretending.

Creepy times in Queens

In the midst of Daniel's overboard throwing, a pickup truck came driving down the road. Then it came down to the path. Then it came down to the ship. And then it blocked us in. For a solid 60 seconds, the massive pickup truck's lights shone directly in our faces. Then without rhyme nor reason, it backed up, and turned around.

That did it. As soon as the truck was out of sight, we half-ran, half-cursed heavy Indian food all the way back to the station. Avoiding possessed trucks, circling wheelchairs, zombie teenagers, and robotic people, we got the f*ck out of Roosevelt Island. This time, our dramatic jump between the train and the platform was totally genuine.

In conclusion, stay away from Roosevelt Island. Right? Nope! I've been back like 5 times.
Curiosity works in mysterious ways.

How to Deal with a French Cereal Addiction

For those of you who know me, you know that I love trying different types of food (well...minus Rat), learning about regional cuisines, and cooking. When I eat out at a new restaurant, I usually do my research to find out what the restaurant specializes in serving, and I am definitely one of those people who will give you half of my entree if you give me half of yours. But, I am also a sad creature of habit. If the restaurant we are going to is one I often frequent or if I am eating for a more utilitarian purpose than for pleasure, chances are that I have a set dish, and I will not wane from this selection. In fact, I have been eating the same sandwich from Subway for nearly 10 years. Out of my last 200 breakfasts, at least 150 have been two eggs topped with feta, basil, tomato and garlic powder alongside two pieces of sourdough toast with butter and strawberry jam.

Rightly so, one of my first tasks after moving to Lyon was to figure out what set of food I would buy from the grocery store on a regular basis. The first rule of France is that their dairy rules the world. Thus, my composition of food generally tended to consist of milk, butter, yogurt, crème fraiche, and chocolate. At one point, I had to determine if I could afford to get my own studio. It was then that I realized nearly half of my weekly shopping was spent in dairy products.

Part of the reason my dairy expenses got to be so high was the beacon of all breakfast lovers: Choc'o Pétales. Marketed for kids, but inevitably in my basket, Choc'o Pétales is quite possibly the most satisfying cereal known to mankind. Not too light, not too heavy, just the right amount of chocolate flavor and sugar in the form of small morsels of crunchiness. At nearly 5 euro a box, this satisfying snack quickly depleted by bank account, as I tore through a box almost every 3 days.

The last month I was in Lyon, I awoke in my studio (yeah, I ended up getting one despite the dairy expense) to find that I was out of Choc'o Pétales. Most people would probably just eat something else for breakfast, but as a relentless creature of breakfast habit, the only thing I could think to do was throw on some clothes and go buy a another box. Unfortunately, it was Sunday, which as you might know, is the day of the week Europe dies. In other words, almost nothing is open.

But I was a woman on a mission. And by mission, I mean addiction. Yes, I was a Choc'o Pétales addict. Nothing stops an addict trying to cure their craving. First, I tried my street. Then I tried the avenue connected to my street. Then I tried five of the adjacent streets to that avenue. Then I took the metro to another neighborhood. Then I realized I was four kilometers from home. And then, finally, I found a grocery store that was open. With total trepidation, I walked to the aisle with the dry goods, and spotted one lone box of Choc'o Pétales. As I ran to the shelves to grab my prize, I was intercepted by, I kid you not, a cute little girl with a stuffed animal. She tapped me on the waist and in a very not-French sweet manner, asked if I could hand her the box of Choc'o Pétales.

Oh the moral dilemma. Give up the fruits of my labor to an innocent little girl, or be the heinous Choc'o Pétales addict I had grown to become? After she blinked, smiled and politely asked me again, I knew I had to surrender the last box. If I was in America, I would have asked the grocer if they had more boxes in storage, as customer service in America goes like this:

The customer is always right. Work with the customer to find a solution that fits everyone's needs.

But in France, it goes like this:

What the f*ck do you want? I'm taking a coffee break.

So I left the grocery store in defeat. Not knowing what to do next, I stood on the sidewalk debating whether to try and find another grocery store. As I made the decision to concede, I heard the little girl coming out of the store with her mother. The mother did the typical Lyonnais listing aloud of the groceries she just purchased, "Oranges, milk, brie, spinach, onions, soup" until she got to the bottom of the bag. "Choc'o Pétales!" She screamed! Turning to her daughter, she continued, "I told you no more Choc'o Pétales, Marine! This is all you eat! You're becoming addicted!"

And then a beautiful thing happened. The little girl's mother threw the box of Choc'o Petales in the trash can. As the girl and her mother walked away, I inched my way over. For the first time ever, I was grateful that Europe dies on Sunday, for nearly no one was on the street as I opened the giant lid and pulled out my grand prize.

Finally back at my apartment, I had a glorious day of eating my free box of Choc'o Pétales and watching Will and Grace. La vie est belle! Sometimes.

Oh, and for those of you who are curious, I got off my Choc'o Pétales addiction quickly once I came back to the States. It turns out cereal with crappy American milk is not nearly as appealing.

How to Cancel a Gym Membership in France

From ages 4 - 18, I spent the bulk of my time...oh, how to say this in a sensitive manner...fat. My grandmother, who is from an impoverished area of Chennai, India, had spent much of the 60s and 70s in America discovering all of the ways we package sugar after she immigrated to the States. She passed this knowledge down to me during my many childhood visits. Unfortunately, without the lesson of moderation, I went from a typical skin and bones Indian girl to a rather round Indian teenager.

After seeing myself a little too jiggly on camera, I decided to make a life change, and have been an avid gym goer since the era of blob-dom. Even though I spent my first few months in France...oh, how to say this in a sensitive manner...poor, I joined a gym in Lyon, and lived off of eggs for three months to cover the cost.

Florian, the guy who signed me up, treated me like a celebrity because he saw I was born near Los Angeles. The rest of the staff, however, failed to acknowledge my existence. Sadly, this is what I prefer. But, the weight room smelled like a dead animal, the rest of the patrons looked at me like vermin because I wore brightly colored shorts on occasion, and the equipment itself was outdated. And even with the student discount, it was overpriced. Still, at the time, this was the best choice for gyms in the city of Lyon, so I stuck with it the entire time I lived there.

Seeing as buying a SIM card in France took more paperwork than opening up a small business in America, I decided to ask about closing my membership a full three weeks before I left the country. This took some dancing (I accidentally ended up in a Jazzercise class), but after four days, I finally found my trusted Florian, and asked him how to close my account. The conversation went like this:

(Translated for your convenience)

Me: Hi Florian! I am leaving France in a few weeks, so I need to close my account here.
Florian: Why are you closing your account?
Me: Uh...I'm leaving the country.
Florian: Why?
Me: What? Because...wait. No, I just...I want to close my account.
Florian: Is there something wrong with the gym?
Me: No! Well, that's not the reason I am closing my account.
Florian: What if you come back to Lyon and want a gym membership?
Me: Yeah, I'll deal with that when it happens.
Florian: Hmm. Okay, well I will need a letter of explanation along with proof you are leaving for good.
Me: Proof I am leaving?
Florian: Yes, like a copy of your plane ticket, or a letter from your employer. Like that.
Me: (In English) Geez. At the last gym I belonged to, I told the guy I wanted to quit the gym because the cardio equipment smelled like potato salad. That was enough.
Florian: What?
Me: Nothing. ::sigh::

A week later, and I hadn't been able to catch Florian to present my "proof." Stupidly, I decided to try my luck with another employee. After she carefully eyed how poorly dressed I was for their gym, and spent a little too long eying my arm fat, she looked at the letter, threw her arms up in the air, and exclaimed how insufficient that was. Apparently, writing down my flight numbers in the letter and showing a copy of my e-ticket wasn't enough proof. "We need to see a copy of your boarding pass," she explained. I tried reminding her that paper boarding passes died at the invention of the internet, but she wouldn't hear it, and told me "try again."

Great. I felt stupid asking my boss for a letter to cancel my gym membership, so I tried handing the same letter to two other employees. One told me that the gym has never had to cancel a membership before, so he wasn't sure whether my letter was good enough. Another one told me she wasn't sure a one way ticket constituted "proof." To this, all I had to say was, "Where the hell is Florian?"

Finally, two days before I was set to leave France, Florian magically appeared at the gym. I hid behind the giant stair climber machine until I was sure he was alone, and carefully approached.

(Also translated for your convenience)

Me: Florian! (I half whispered.)
Florian: Oh, Ms. Los Angeles, hello!
Me: Hey, so I have that letter to close my account.
Florian: (Takes sheet) Hmm...I don't know. We usually need a boarding pass.
Me: ::sigh:: I can't get that until tomorrow! It has to be less than 24 hours before take-off...
Florian: Oh, well I'm sorry, this is not enough proof.

So I paused. I knew I would have to lie. But which one!?

This one:

Me: Oh really? That's too bad...I'm flying to Los Angeles (LIE!) after I get to New York. I was hoping you could come visit me sometime (LIE!)...
Florian: You still live in Los Angeles?
Me: Yes! (LIE!)
Florian: Oh, well you know, I know you, so I will just go ahead and close this account for you.

Florian clicked the mouse like twice, and out spat a membership cancellation confirmation. As he handed it to me, he said:

Florian: So where do you live in Los Angeles?
Me: Oh, um...Hollywood? (LIE!)
Florian: Ah okay! Okay okay, I will come visit you then! I will email you soon, okay?
Me: Okay! I look forward to that! (LIE!)

You would think I darted out of there after that conversation. But no, I stayed to work out. That damn place was so overpriced, I wasn't about to get cheated out of my money!

Oh, and Florian never emailed me. Thank God.