I have been on more flights than I can count. (Meaning I lost track, not that I am only capable of counting to around 130.) This experience has led me to one conclusion: I wish I could travel by submarine.
Though social media sites such as Facebook, Twitter, and Four Square expound more detail about our lives than anyone should ever need to know, Google Analytics has not yet bridged the gap to computing trends of my aerial life. If it could, I’m sure it would look something like this:
- Crying baby within three seats of you on 23 percent of flights
- Creepy Indian stares at you for more than 10 seconds on 78 percent of flights
- 1465 peanuts, 128 cookies, 23 pounds of genetically modified chicken, 45 ounces of alcohol consumed
- Seat located right over plane turbine on 56 percent of flights
- 32 in-flight movies that would not be worth the time in any other situation
- Obese, hypertensive man sitting next to you on 83 percent of flights
For any of you who have the sad fortune of partaking in short domestic flights, I’m sure you’d find this last statistic particularly harrowing. In some Indian crowds, my stature is considered Amazonian in nature. For the vast majority of the Western world, I’m average at best. Average-statured people tend to fit comfortably in current domestic airplane seats, unless of course they try to move or breathe. The rest of the world, including the obese hypertensives, find sitting in domestic airplane seats a challenge. Sure, the airline requires some to buy the seat on either side of them to accommodate extra…luggage, but us average-statures know this is rarely enforced, and in fact, on 83 percent of flights, I am next to one of them.
Obese, hypertensive man is usually a nice person. In fact, he might actually have a good reason for why his body weight went so astray. But in the moment when I realize that I will once again be sitting next to an obese, hypertensive, I. don’t. care. All I can focus on is whether there is a conceivable exit strategy to avoid another set of the most uncomfortable 60-120 minutes of my life. I’m sure Google Analytics will be tell me this is not possible 71 percent of the time.
Usually domestic flights are the only time I am truly distraught over the prospect of this particular set of people. There are so many other fascinating people to worry about on international flights: droolers, snorers, alcoholics, and tourists with the insatiable desire to tell you about the exotic lands they are coming from (usually the Eiffel Tower or something lame in London). However, on my last Dubai to New York flight, I began to worry about the obese, hypertensives once more, as volcanic ash decided to make a European Air Traffic Control nightmare from hell.
As the co-pilot and head flight attendant began to explain the trajectory, I knew this would be the worst flight ever. Emirates has a policy of only hiring gorgeous people who speak 4+ languages and have very soothing voices, but even their models couldn’t bring me comfort at the prospect of being on one single plane for 16 straight hours. We’d basically have to go against the air stream, fly through the entire Mediterranean Sea, cross half of Morocco, fly across the Atlantic Ocean, and travel up from North Carolina to New York.
I looked over at the seat next to me. Empty. Ha. Like that would ever happen. My obese, hypertensive was probably just running late. Right on schedule, I felt someone walk up behind me and wait for me to get out so they could get in to the aisle. In a painstakingly slow fashion, I got up, turned around, and saw…a short skinny guy!
It turns out this wasn’t the worst flight ever. The beautiful flight attendants of Emirates and the quietest, short, skinny guy ever made the 16 hours relatively comfortable. Sure, it was a bit odd that short skinny guy would use indecipherable hand motions when he wanted to get up or drink something, but I’m not complaining.
I can now happily report my flight statistics as such:
- Crying baby within three seats of you on 25 percent of flights
- Creepy Indian stares at you for more than 10 seconds on 80 percent of flights
- 1465 peanuts, 140 cookies, 25 pounds of genetically modified chicken, 50 ounces of alcohol consumed
- Seat located right over plane turbine on 59 percent of flights
- 37 in-flight movies that would not be worth the time in any other situation
- Obese, hypertensive man sitting next to you on 82 percent of flights
But I still wish I could travel by submarine.
Showing posts with label India. Show all posts
Showing posts with label India. Show all posts
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Saturday, June 26, 2010
India: on the art of cockroach musings
There's a famous expression whose origins I do not know, and in fact, I have no idea if it is really famous, or if I made it up. Either way, it goes: "Truth is stranger than fiction." Clearly the author of this quote did not grow up in Virginia, because I assure you that nearly nothing about the first 18 years of my life was stranger than the crap I managed to find in the public library; however, I am happy to report to you fine people that I have indeed heard a story that makes this quote, every "Fear Street," and every "Babysitter's Club" seem entirely possible. (Side note: "Babysitter's Club" was in fact quite boring, but the amazing qualities the series possessed were the facts that what's her face author managed to publish so many books, and I continued to read them until the age of 13.)
Bring Your Own Cockroach to School Day
My self-congratulating plug in this post is as follows: Thanks to the help of a friend, I managed to land myself a nice little grant to do thesis research in Bangalore, India. Go me.
As it so happens, said city houses the majority of my blood relatives. My dad decided to join me in India a week after I landed, and as expected, a series of visits to each of his sibling's houses took up the majority of our nights. My brother and I are perpetually reminded by every person in this city that neither of us speak either of the two local languages. As kids, our cousins couldn't speak English well enough to communicate, so our visits usually consisted of the two of us seated on one couch staring at our cousins seated on another couch. Needless to say, this staring, blinking, awkward coughing, and warding off large, unwanted quantities of oil-laden Indian food didn't do much in the way of bonding with our Indian counterparts.
Thankfully, through the perils of Indian education, my cousins all speak English now. Unfortunately for my appetite, but fortunately for this blog, these English speaking skills relayed the stranger than fiction story of "Bring your own Cockroach to School Day."
For those of us who went to American schools, we can all recount at least one story of dissecting a random animal or worm. My childhood stories include two girls and one guy storming out of the room in near vomit spurts during rat dissecting, one guy seeing how far he could drop kick a kidney during frog dissecting, and one teacher nearly cutting herself on a blade during worm dissecting, prompting an emergency room visit for a Tetanus shot. What's my point? I had to dissect a lot of creatures.
Anyway, on father's sibling visit #43, one of my cousins, Pallavi, told me that her school required her to dissect a cockroach. For those of us who live in New York, Chicago, LA, or really any city ever, the "cockroach" equals five things:
1. Gross
2. Disease
3. Really gross
4. More Disease
5. Your first apartment
But, I figured hell had indeed frozen over, and someone, somewhere, decided that there aren't enough cockroaches in the world, and they should be grown en masse in a lab and neatly preserved in formaldehyde. Apparently, I am a still too much of a Western thinker, for this was not at all the case.
Pallavi's instructions went something like this:
"Each student must obtain his or her own cockroach that is to be measured at least 6 centimeters in body length. Appropriate places to obtain cockroaches include trash piles, sewers, and under buildings. Students shall bring the cockroach alive to class, and will dissect the cockroach alive. Please bring scissors."
Somehow, after hours of rummaging through the trash heap outside of her parent's house, poor Pallavi was able to find a large enough cockroach, and lure it into a container. So she tossed the little bugger (see what I did? huh? huh!?) in the carrier of her motorcycle, and spend off to school.
To make these even more disgusting, when Pallavi opened the carrier of her motorcycle, she found Mr. Cockroach dead…and fried. Apparently the engine sits under the carrier of the motorcycle, which produces enough heat to fry the damn thing to a crisp. Ironically, the bug was cooked to exactly the same point that upscale restaurants in northwest China cook cockroaches to serve as delicacies. THAT’S A LIE. Restaurants in northwest China don’t serve cockroaches. WHY!? BECAUSE THEY’RE DISGUSTING! Every freaking person on the planet knows that. But I bet you believed me, right?
Anyway, so Pallavi was a little stranded. Somehow, this family genius faced failing her first assignment ever because she didn’t successfully wrangle a live cockroach for class. Not to worry. Finally, dirty kid comes in handy.
Every class has dirty kid. Dirty kid is, well…dirty. He or she bathes less than three times a week, has things growing in their hair, and is probably in possession of an ant colony. My class dirty kid kept his ant colony in his backpack, which I discovered by accidentally kicking said backpack while trying to retrieve a school graphing calculator. Damnit mom, you were right. I should have put my stuff in my bag the night before.
Needless to say, cockroach assignment was Pallavi’s class dirty kid’s glory day. This little dirty girl managed to secure not one, not two, but 20 live, 6+ centimeter cockroaches – enough to outfit the entire class. So “luckily,” Pallavi was still able to participate in the class exercise. Then the real fun began.
Guess what the scissors were for? Yep. A star quality decapitation. To be completed while the cockroach was still alive. Makes me think of this. After the decapitation was complete, Pallavi was instructed to [censored, because even though cockroaches are f-ing disgusting, describing this the slow dissection of their body parts is about a million times worse.] And then she was done!
Her parents are thinking about changing schools next year.
Bring Your Own Cockroach to School Day
My self-congratulating plug in this post is as follows: Thanks to the help of a friend, I managed to land myself a nice little grant to do thesis research in Bangalore, India. Go me.
As it so happens, said city houses the majority of my blood relatives. My dad decided to join me in India a week after I landed, and as expected, a series of visits to each of his sibling's houses took up the majority of our nights. My brother and I are perpetually reminded by every person in this city that neither of us speak either of the two local languages. As kids, our cousins couldn't speak English well enough to communicate, so our visits usually consisted of the two of us seated on one couch staring at our cousins seated on another couch. Needless to say, this staring, blinking, awkward coughing, and warding off large, unwanted quantities of oil-laden Indian food didn't do much in the way of bonding with our Indian counterparts.
Thankfully, through the perils of Indian education, my cousins all speak English now. Unfortunately for my appetite, but fortunately for this blog, these English speaking skills relayed the stranger than fiction story of "Bring your own Cockroach to School Day."
For those of us who went to American schools, we can all recount at least one story of dissecting a random animal or worm. My childhood stories include two girls and one guy storming out of the room in near vomit spurts during rat dissecting, one guy seeing how far he could drop kick a kidney during frog dissecting, and one teacher nearly cutting herself on a blade during worm dissecting, prompting an emergency room visit for a Tetanus shot. What's my point? I had to dissect a lot of creatures.
Anyway, on father's sibling visit #43, one of my cousins, Pallavi, told me that her school required her to dissect a cockroach. For those of us who live in New York, Chicago, LA, or really any city ever, the "cockroach" equals five things:
1. Gross
2. Disease
3. Really gross
4. More Disease
5. Your first apartment
But, I figured hell had indeed frozen over, and someone, somewhere, decided that there aren't enough cockroaches in the world, and they should be grown en masse in a lab and neatly preserved in formaldehyde. Apparently, I am a still too much of a Western thinker, for this was not at all the case.
Pallavi's instructions went something like this:
"Each student must obtain his or her own cockroach that is to be measured at least 6 centimeters in body length. Appropriate places to obtain cockroaches include trash piles, sewers, and under buildings. Students shall bring the cockroach alive to class, and will dissect the cockroach alive. Please bring scissors."
Somehow, after hours of rummaging through the trash heap outside of her parent's house, poor Pallavi was able to find a large enough cockroach, and lure it into a container. So she tossed the little bugger (see what I did? huh? huh!?) in the carrier of her motorcycle, and spend off to school.
To make these even more disgusting, when Pallavi opened the carrier of her motorcycle, she found Mr. Cockroach dead…and fried. Apparently the engine sits under the carrier of the motorcycle, which produces enough heat to fry the damn thing to a crisp. Ironically, the bug was cooked to exactly the same point that upscale restaurants in northwest China cook cockroaches to serve as delicacies. THAT’S A LIE. Restaurants in northwest China don’t serve cockroaches. WHY!? BECAUSE THEY’RE DISGUSTING! Every freaking person on the planet knows that. But I bet you believed me, right?
Anyway, so Pallavi was a little stranded. Somehow, this family genius faced failing her first assignment ever because she didn’t successfully wrangle a live cockroach for class. Not to worry. Finally, dirty kid comes in handy.
Every class has dirty kid. Dirty kid is, well…dirty. He or she bathes less than three times a week, has things growing in their hair, and is probably in possession of an ant colony. My class dirty kid kept his ant colony in his backpack, which I discovered by accidentally kicking said backpack while trying to retrieve a school graphing calculator. Damnit mom, you were right. I should have put my stuff in my bag the night before.
Needless to say, cockroach assignment was Pallavi’s class dirty kid’s glory day. This little dirty girl managed to secure not one, not two, but 20 live, 6+ centimeter cockroaches – enough to outfit the entire class. So “luckily,” Pallavi was still able to participate in the class exercise. Then the real fun began.
Guess what the scissors were for? Yep. A star quality decapitation. To be completed while the cockroach was still alive. Makes me think of this. After the decapitation was complete, Pallavi was instructed to [censored, because even though cockroaches are f-ing disgusting, describing this the slow dissection of their body parts is about a million times worse.] And then she was done!
Her parents are thinking about changing schools next year.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
American Movie de l'Inde
As a partial attempt to get out of the often limited Western world view, and a whole-hearted attempt to get out of paying for anything for a few weeks, I decided to break up my time in
Fortunately, I mostly hail from
Ever since I was kid, trips to
14-year-old cousin, Pranav, decided it would be best to have 20-year-old cousin, Swetha, buy all six tickets at once. “Just to make it faster, you know?” So we got our tickets, stood in line, and had the ticket collector take all the tickets, tear them, and then prevent the younger two from entering. Apparently new movie theaters with unpirated versions of films require actual enforcement of rating laws. After, of course, you render all tickets non-refundable. Thus began the fighting…
Pranav, in his pre-pubescent wisdom, demanded to speak to the manager, which promptly began a thorough shouting match of how mature Pranav is, and how it is the “duty” of the manager to let him see the movie since the ticket was already sold and validated. My other cousins decided it would be a good idea to use me as a pawn, “But sir, she came all the way from the
Eventually, to avoid 7 headaches and missing the beginning of the movie, the manager agreed to let the two youngest into a Hindi movie for free instead of letting them into “I am Legend.” (Nevermind the fact that Pranav doesn’t speak Hindi, he’ll learn eventually). That left me and the three oldest to “I am Legend.”
“I am Legend” vaguely follows the theme of “Children of Men,” and “28 Days Later.” Mankind is coming to an end, and the plot of the movie follows one man’s attempt to keep going for the sake of continuing the human race. It is also one of the goriest and violent movies I’ve seen the past 5 years. In my cousins’ excellent research, they walked into the movie theater expecting a lighthearted comedy. Ha. 1.5 hours and 702487502 screams later, we walked out of the movie; they very visibly shaken, me in desperate need of Ibuprofen.
They asked the standard questions, “What did you think?” “Do you like scary movies?”, along with “Why the hell is it so violent?” “Why did we see that movie?” “When is the sequel coming out?” 30 minutes later, the two younger cousins came out of their Hindi movie, which apparently, was absolutely amazing. When asked of “I am Legend,” the three older cousins just squealed and rolled their eyes. Merry Christmas. Ho Ho Argh.
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