Nomad Notebook

The Room in their Hearts

2010-03-30T11:31:00.008+05:30

A bone thin, wide-eyed little girl tapped on the window of Rebecca Sullivan’s Honda CRV and signaled for food by touching her fingers to her lips. Rebecca felt a tug in her heart.

But the scene was nothing new for this Australian expatriate. After 10 months living in Mumbai, all her car’s windows bore the dusty fingerprints of child beggars who dart in and out of the chaotic traffic every day. Even her two young daughters had grown accustomed to the cupped hands of Indian children peering inside with equal parts curiosity and despair. Yes, such heartrending episodes were beginning to feel normal for the Sullivan family.

Looking back, she calls it her “car window moment,” the moment in which Rebecca knew she had to do something to help.

“I saw the great need for me to make a contribution to the people of India—the country we had chosen to call home for the coming years—and to show my own small children what it means to make a social contribution and how we as a family can play a part in helping,” she says.

Rebecca needed to find the best way to make a difference. She had the desire to help. She had an educational background in business and years of work experience in Project Management and Finance. How could she make use of her strengths to give back? What would her Mumbai calling be?

In November 2009, Rebecca got her first hint.

Laura Entwistle, a Canadian expat and current President of the American School of Bombay, lent Rebecca a book by John Wood called Leaving Microsoft to Change the World. The memoir describes how a trek through Nepal inspired Wood to quit his high-flying Microsoft career and establish the NGO Room to Read, which promotes education and literacy in nine of the world’s poorest countries. Mrs. Entwistle spearheaded the Mumbai chapter of Room to Read and encouraged Rebecca to consider joining the chapter.

Rebecca’s interest was piqued, but there was more. She soon learned that Room to Read does not run like most non-profit organizations. This NGO operates on a unique business-like model, by concentrating on low overheads and high sustainability and efficiency. John Wood’s story and his work struck a chord with Rebecca. She saw how her business background and her desire to help the children of India could both be engaged with Room to Read.

“Room to Read believes that world change starts with educated children and that all children deserve access to quality education. The vision resonated so strongly with me, and the results-driven, scalable, focused nature of Room to Read, which runs like a finely tuned business, led me to ask how I could be more involved. I was amazed, impressed, and excited. I was hooked!” Rebecca exclaims.

The Room to Read business model is a success. In just ten years, the non-profit has reached the lives of four million children and plans to more than double that amount by 2015. The developing world has gained over 1,000 schools, more than 9,000 libraries, nearly 200 computer labs, three million donated English language books, and over four million local language books thanks to Room to Read.

Rebecca Sullivan now co-leads the Mumbai chapter of Room to Read with Laura Entwistle and Yuti Dalal. With the help of nine dedicated volunteers, the chapter raises awareness and funds in the Mumbai community. Their events and social functions connect Room to Read with individuals, corporations, foundations, and schools interested in providing education for children in the developing world.

For the Mumbai chapter, promoting literacy and gender equality in education throughout India is the main objective. According to the United Nations, India is home to over 269 million illiterate people, a shocking thirty-five percent of the world’s illiterate population. Making matters worse, about 52 percent of Indian students—the majority of which are girls—drop out before completing secondary school.

“Room to Read focuses on establishing libraries and building the capacity of teachers to encourage the habit and joy of reading. We also publish high-quality, illustrated reading materials for young readers to respond to the dearth of appropriate children’s literature, especially in rural India. And our Girls’ Education Program helps disadvantaged girls complete secondary school so they can develop the skills needed to negotiate life decisions. This includes slum dwellers, migrant workers, child laborers, girls without parents or guardians, Dalit and tribal girls, girls who are physically challenged, and girls living in very remote and rural communities,” Rebecca explains.

In India alone, 3,200 libraries have been established. Over 2,000 girls have been awarded education scholarships. And over 600,000 local language books—in Hindi, English, Garhwali, Rajasthani, and Telugu—have been distributed to schools. In just five years, there is no doubt that Room to Read India has substantially impacted its target communities.

Room to Read maintains sustainability by coaching local communities to bring about change. Rebecca clarifies: “Our model is one of empowering the local people to work to create change. Room to Read does not rely on people from outside the community coming in to help with the project work in the needy communities. Instead, we ask the village residents to build the schools; we rely on teachers who grew up in the countries where we work; and we hire local staff to implement our project work in a given country.”

Have you had your “car window moment?” Do you think you’d like to be a part of this amazing organization?

The Mumbai chapter of Room to Read welcomes volunteers with backgrounds in event planning, event management, communications, and PR, though anyone with a go-getting attitude is encouraged to participate.

Visit Room to Read online at http://www.roomtoread.org for more information about volunteering, donations, and employment in India and around the globe.

Written for Shetizen Journalist: http://www.shetizenjournalist.com

The Swell Hitting

2010-01-26T10:07:00.005+05:30

Yesterday afternoon I was crouched on my hands and knees, picking up bits of food from the kitchen floor that Isabel had either dropped or thrown. As I stood up, I banged my head directly into the door of an open cabinet making a loud thud; I fell to the floor, blacked out for a few seconds, and the next thing I can remember is my maid Julie fussing over me with an ice pack. The pain was sharp and I choked back tears. Isabel laughed. After I spent a minute or two feeling sorry for myself, crumpled up on the floor, I went to the couch to recover.

Over the next couple of hours, I became dizzy and mildly nauseated so I thought it'd be best to have my head checked out at the local Lilavati hospital, one of the most reputable in Mumbai, and which is conveniently located in my neighborhood. I knew there would not be much they could do about the injury itself, but there are too many stories about neglected bumps on the head that end up being more serious than they seem. I wanted to go for reassurance more than anything.

Martin drove me to the hospital that evening. We walked into the casualty, a small, poorly lit room. An old man was lying on a gurney in one corner. Four or five men were gathered around what I suppose was the front desk. No one paid any notice to us when we walked in. I made my way to the counter to explain my situation to the only woman in the vicinity who I guessed was the receptionist or nurse. She wore a putrid yellow uniform and she seemed irked that I had a question to ask her.

"There's the doctor. Tell him," she said gruffly.

To my left stood an Indian man in a candy pink shirt, high-waisted jeans, and a black belt to cinch up his already secure looking jeans for added security. I turned towards him and started my story.

"I was on the floor picking up something. I bumped my head into a cabinet and I just want to have this bump checked out," I said while fingering the top of my sore skull. I totally confused him.

"What? Tell me what happened," he said with a furrowed brow. I repeated what I had said this time remembering to include the important detail that I had blacked out.

Then putrid yellow woman ushered me into one of the three curtained sections where I was to repeat my story for a third time. By this point I felt ridiculous, but at least the doctor finally understood what I was trying to convey. He felt the top of my head, pressing lightly to locate the tender spot.

Once he did find it, he said, "This is no worries. It is no worries." With confidence, but without questioning me or further inspecting me, he assured me the bump on my head would be gone in three days. Or 72 hours. Who would have guessed this doctor would also be a mathematician and a soothsayer!

Martin asked if I should rest or do anything, to which the doctor replied, "No, it is no worries. It is called a swell-hitting. That is the term, swell-hitting." I glanced sideways at Martin. The doctor found the bump on my head again and pressed it firmly with his thumb.

"Ow!" I cried and shrunk away from his hands.

We smiled and nodded politely and left shortly after my "swell-hitting" diagnosis. I had only wanted reassurance that I was fine, that it was just a negligible bump on the head that would soon heal without any issues. And that is what the doctor told me.

But a key question remains: Did he have any clue at all what he was talking about?

Watermelon Wishes

2010-01-15T18:00:00.015+05:30

When the blade of the knife hit the cutting board, releasing a mist of intoxicating watermelon fragrance, I was no longer a mom in Mumbai chopping up fruit with the maid. I was a skinny thirteen year old. I was home on Cape Cod. I was sitting on the sidewalk outside my house, knobby knees pressing into hot tarmac, with a red and juicy half-moon clamped between my fingers. I was sinking my crooked teeth into the fruit, catching slippery seeds with my tongue, letting the July sun dry the pink, sticky droplets to my chin.

It only lasted a second, but the pleasantness of my memory enhanced the joy of watching Isabel experience her own watermelon wedge this afternoon. Even though she was a mess from ears to toes, even though she rubbed the watermelon rinds into the just-cleaned kitchen floor, and even though I had to give her a third bath, seeing her enjoy that summer fruit with so much bliss was magical. Maybe one day, I thought, she too will sit on a Cape Cod sidewalk, in the buzzing heat of summer, watermelon juice running down her chin, with her mind as clear and blue as the July sky above...

One Fine Thursday

2010-01-14T17:51:00.015+05:30

Today was one of those days that made me love my life, just as it is. I loved being a mom. I loved being in Mumbai. I loved being able to stay home with Isabel and do whatever I feel like doing. In fact, the only thing I didn't love is that Martin had to go to work. But of course that's a necessity, and it was only a Thursday, after all.

When I woke up this morning, I could have been waking up in Cape Cod on a warm day in May. It was sunny, not humid, and just warm enough to go out in bare shoulders and flip flops. Just as bad weather can put me in a bad mood, good weather brightens me and gives me extra energy.

I did the usual routine in the morning with Isabel to prepare for the day. When Julie came in, I caught up on emails with friends back home. Then I went and baked some chewy, oatmeal raisin cookies. I love baking, but not when it's a million degrees outside. Since today was so lovely, I felt totally fine heating up a 300 F oven. And the cookies came out pretty well:
After baking and clean up, Julie and I took Isabel out for a walk. It was the first time I've taken her outside without a stroller and without the Baby Bjorn- just with a pair of cute baby sandals on her little feet. Isabel can walk a few steps without help, and she can walk very well with help, so Julie and I held her hands as we took a slow, wobbly stroll to the park in our neighborhood.

Isabel's excitement was palpable. She wanted to stop and touch and pick up everything on the streets (not actually a good thing in a messy city like Mumbai), she laughed at the people we passed along the way, and she pointed and giggled at dogs and pigeons and trees, when she wasn't too focused on her footing.

And I couldn't get over how grown up she seemed- walking like a big girl, looking like a fashion plate in her cherry shirt, patched jeans, and bright pink sun hat. I can't believe she's the same tiny baby I cradled in my arms just thirteen months ago! I took lots of pictures. Julie was smiling. It was a relaxed, happy afternoon.

Now the day is winding down, but the night has not begun! This evening I am planning to make a trip up to Thane for a girls' night of chit chat and drinks. Good weather, good cookies, good friends and family- I really couldn't ask for more.

Fish Fetish

2010-01-12T21:46:00.015+05:30

Here are Isabel's new fishy friends: Big Fish, Yellow Fish, Orange Fish, Red Fish, and Blue Fish. Not all that creative, but we are keeping it simple. Isabel is only one year old, you know. :)

Big Fish is big. Big and scary....
So Isabel won't play with Big Fish. That leaves us with his four little companions, who Isabel is 100% determined to get back into their natural or semi-natural habitat.

It all started yesterday with Blue Fish.
I was finishing my business in the bathroom, and Isabel was playing with Blue Fish. The toilet seat has a slow release on it so that it never slams when you close it. As it was slowly closing, Isabel was able to sandwich Blue fish in between the toilet seat and cover. I was sure Blue Fish was already going for a dip, so I quickly opened the lid and "plop!" in he went. When Blue Fish was retrieved from the toilet to be washed and dried, Isabel screamed her protests until I managed to distract her with something else. Blue Fish has a new name now- Swirly.

Today, the fishy business continued. During snack time, Isabel found it far more entertaining to soak her goldfish in her cup of water rather than to eat her goldfish and drink her water. Evidence:
Then it was Red Fish's turn for some H20 action. I was taking a shower with Isabel and she had all her fish, except Big Scary Fish, out to play with. Then she noticed the drain and that the drain cover can be removed. If you remove the cover, there is a bit of water that gathers when the shower is on. Perfect for Red Fish! Isabel held him by the tail and sloshed him around until he was good and soaked, then covered him up with the lid. Just like this:
We can call Red Fish "Draino" after his baptism.

Now I'm left to wonder where the last two fish will be relocated à la Isabel. In a cup of juice? In a puddle? In a bucket of soapy water? In a soup, perhaps?

In Love with Isabel

2010-01-11T23:11:00.012+05:30

This evening as Martin was taking his post-work shower, I sat in the bathroom and told him about Isabel's latest tricks and antics:

Isabel started the day by deliberately dropping a toy fish into the toilet. Almost understandable, really, what was the fish doing out of water in the first place? And do we need to start calling the royal throne a "toylet" now?

During the afternoon, Isabel raced around the house pushing her walker, laughing effortlessly. She looks so tall when she's walking. Dawn and Ena came over and Isabel loved playing with Ena, in spite of her reluctance to share all her toys. She got feisty when I tried to help her eat some fruit because she just wants to do it herself. In keeping with the fishy theme of the day, she gobbled too many Pepperidge Farm goldfish and flopped (like a fish) onto a floor pillow for some cuddling when she was feeling tuckered out.

When I finished the baby report for the day, Martin and I both sighed "Oh, Sveske*," dreamily and simultaneously. Martin paused for a moment, towel dried the left side of his head and said, "We are both very much in love with our daughter, aren't we?"

Yes, we are.

I'd always heard that having kids changes you forever, that you feel so in love, that you feel extremely protective. And it's true what they say, but I never knew how strong I would feel about my child until I had her.

Becoming a mother and feeling such love for Isabel has changed me inside and out. I don't wear heels nearly as much as I used to, my hair isn't always neat, and my makeup rubs off pretty fast if I do manage to put some on. I am full of worries and fears and sentimental feelings. I am terrified of flying, though I never was before, not even during pregnancy.

But there is much more joy in my life now. I laugh more often. I smile more often. And I've reclaimed all those wonderful things we let go of when we "grow up," like the right to be ridiculous, the right to be silly, the right to be playful and messy and ridiculously silly!

Here are some pictures of my inspiration, my reason to be on this planet, who potentially has the most contagious smile the world has seen yet:

* Sveske is a Danish nickname that literally means "prunes," similar to saying "cutie."

Heart and Sole

2010-01-11T00:06:00.004+05:30

Here's a plus to living in Mumbai: Pedicures with all the scrubs and soaks and unidentifiable pink gunk and lotions and pretty polishes you want or can handle for $6.00.

As I sat in my comfy chair with my feet in a swirl of bubbles, I did something I don't usually do. I picked up a copy of Cosmo- the Indian version- and actually enjoyed flipping through all the fluffy fashion articles. It was mindless and colorful entertainment for 35 minutes, just what a weary jet lagged mama could use upon returning to Mumbai.

Thoughts after the pampering? 'Wow, that was cheap. I could get used to this decadence. I should read more Baudelaire.'

The Shape Sorter

2010-01-07T16:53:00.008+05:30

We spent seventeen days in Denmark for Christmas and New Year's. Martin and I could not keep from proclaiming how amazingly clean it was there. And how organized! And how not smelly! In Copenhagen we declared the city and its buildings as the epitome of beauty. Which brought us to an important question: How crazy are we to be living in India instead?!

Now that I am back in Mumbai, with the sun rapidly defrosting memories of a snowy Denmark, I am forced to readjust to India. When we exited the airport, I felt eyes all over my body: Oh yea, they stare at me here. When I breathed in the air outside: Oh yea, the air is moist and smells of sulfur. When we were picked up by Mohammed: Oh, right, we have a driver and the roads are terrible. The next morning when Isabel was being cared for as Martin and I slept until 12:30 pm: Oh yea, we have a nanny. (A nanny who is a godsend.)

I am also inclined, due to my introspective nature, to figure out exactly what I feel about this place, what I feel about my life, what I feel about what I am doing, where I am going, and everything in relation to those thoughts and feelings, now that I am back in Mumbai.

Sifting through and analyzing "my feelings" is a bit like Isabel's shape sorter toy. It's like I've got a box with shapes cut out into the top. That would be my brain. And the challenge is dropping the correct shape, or feeling, into the correct slot. To do so, I need to pick each one up, feel it with my fingers, decide what to call it, and, once satisfied with my analysis, drop it into the appropriate hole until my emotions fall into place and begin to make sense. That might sound crazy to you or like a waste of time. I don't think my husband, for example, ever spends much time sorting and categorizing his emotions. Instead he sorts and categorizes material objects. But we are opposites. He needs a system to his outer life; I need a system to my inner life.

In keeping with one of my New Year's resolutions, there is a surplus feeling to be discarded as I try to get my head on straight again. He's called Negativity. There is really no place for Negativity in my brain, but like a virus he is quick to infest and infect. When you live in a foreign country, away from a support system of friends and family, when you stay at home with a kid instead of work, it is so easy, too easy, to become depressed and full of negative thoughts.

It picks at you until you bleed: "Maybe you are wasting your time. Maybe you should look for a job, even if it's on a peanuts local salary, because maybe you just aren't good enough to be a full-time, around the clock, wife and mother. But you probably have been out of work too long to be able to get a job!" Negative thoughts do nothing except cause dizziness and frustration. When I find them in my pile of triangles, circles, squares, and stars, Negativity is the big black block which needs to be tossed. Pronto.

In my assortment of emotions, there is Negativity's arch nemesis, a bright and shining star called Positivity. This feeling promotes productivity, creativity, and happiness. If I hold her in my hand right now- I admit she looks a little tarnished- what does she say?

She whispers that my life full of excitement and adventure.
She says I have a daughter whose blue eyes twinkle when she smiles and laughs and who loves me most of all.
She tells me I have a husband who is fun and silly, yet so stable and responsible.
She reminds me of my health.
She encourages me to try new things, explore new places, meet new friends.

She hops into her star shaped spot on my brain with one last hint: I am in charge of my life, more than I think I am on a daily basis. Make the most of it!

New Beginnings

2010-01-06T20:50:00.006+05:30

New Year's is my least favorite holiday.

I realize such a statement makes me sound incredibly boring- who doesn't want an annual excuse to wear crazy hats, explode fireworks, and drink until you puke? In my case, it's a strong dislike of hangovers more than a strong dislike of hats and fireworks which puts me off. But I think what bothers me the most is, like birthdays, New Year's Day is a petulant reminder that I'm not getting any younger, that I probably have more wrinkles, and that there's less time for me to do all the things I want to do in life before I die.

And now that I've established myself as both dull and morbid, I will tell you one thing I do like about New Year's Day. Making lists.

We all do it. With each new year comes our new list of goals. In notebooks, iPhones, and blog posts, we itemize the things we want to do and the things we want to stop doing during the next year. There are the common resolutions: exercise more, eat less, read more, watch less TV, quit smoking. Others make it a point to reconnect with a family member or to forgive someone. Or simply to be more compassionate, more loving.

Of course the majority of us run out of steam long before the next batch of New Year's resolutions and fall back into old habits before Valentine's Day. I am no different. One year during college, I made a resolution to do twenty sit-ups every evening and I'm not sure I made it past one week. But never mind whether a resolution quickly fades into a weak intention; it's better to aim for self-improvement. So on New Year's Eve, when I was on the couch at my husband's house in Denmark - we skipped partying as we were both ill- I punched out a list to tackle in 2010.

It was surprising and a little disconcerting to see that I could come up with twelve goals for myself in about twelve seconds. I set tangible goals and intangible goals, ranging from easily attainable to challenging. In the easy bin, drinking less coffee. In the difficult bin, worrying less.

My resolution relating the most to this blog is to write more. In the past six months, I've settled into a new apartment in Mumbai. It was not easy, and I wish I had recorded my feelings as I dealt with culture shock and the not-so-funny-now-but-will-be-funny-later experiences of an expat new to India. Traveling to the United States in September, to Bali in October, to several locations in India in November, and to Denmark in December were also blog-worthy topics. In October, I took on a two month assignment to write a guide about expat life in Mumbai which was extremely time consuming but also good fodder for journaling and blogging.

In 2010, I want to make sure that traveling and other writing projects don't get in the way of personal reflections. If you've set a resolution or two or twelve, then I wish you luck with being consistent and meeting your goals. Happy New Year.

Monsooner or later?

2009-06-22T18:17:00.011+05:30

Southern India has two main climates: hot or hot and wet. When we arrived in Mumbai at the end of steamy May, Mumbaikkers were already eager for their shirts to be soaked with rain instead of sweat. The local people told us the monsoon season would begin by June 6th. (The monsoon is a big conversation topic around here.) But June 6th came and went without a drop from the sky. The newspapers reported a one week delay. Then a two week delay. Three days ago, the Times of India said the monsoon would start today, almost for sure, and though the air is heavy with moisture and it is breezier than normal, I haven't popped open my umbrella or ducked for cover yet.

Until it pours down steadily every day, I've been retreating to the pool. On Saturday, new friend Dawn (also American) and her cute daughter, Ena (Indian American), joined me and Isabel for a loungy day of chitchat and sunshine.

Isabel is new to swimming. She doesn't laugh or smile more than usual when she's in the water, but I think it's a good way for her to cool off when it's 95 degrees. Three-year old Ena jumped right in and went to town with watering flowers, pouring water on my head, playing with plastic toys.

The babies splish splashed, and the grown-ups got to know each other over diet cokes and lime sodas. It's great to meet people in similar situations when you are living abroad, and it is extra nice for me when they happen to be American. :)

Here are some pictures Dawn took:

On Bread Alone

2009-06-17T02:17:00.004+05:30

Whenever you want to go somewhere in Mumbai, you're bound to spend a lot of time in the car. Today I clocked in 2.5 hours in traffic just to cover a combined distance of about 25 kilometres. An entire day is easily consumed with one short trip to Shopper's Stop! To pass the time, I made a little small talk with our driver while we were stuck in a horrendous traffic jam:

"So, what is your favorite Indian food?" I asked.

"My favorite food?"

"Yea, like your number one, all-time favorite thing to eat."

"Ok, it is a roti- you know, the bread?"

"Yea, yea, I've had roti." I said, leaning in and wondering what would go with the roti.

"You take a roti and put butter on it..."

"Ahuh..." Now what sort of stuff will he add, I wondered? Onions, potato, maybe some kind of chutney?

"Then you roll it up...."

Roll it up already? Maybe he's gonna dip it some sort of curry. I waited for him to finish, but he had stopped talking.

"And?" I asked, still waiting.

"And?...And you can have it with tea. If you want."

That's it?! There are only a million amazing Indian spices and vegetable purees and paneer and yummy fruits in India, and his all time favorite thing to eat is buttered bread?? Lame! That's like someone asking me what my favorite American food is, and instead of replying with an enthusiastic "Apple pie!" or "Mac 'n cheese!" answering with a flat "Toast. Toast and maybe some tea."

B-O-R-I-N-G.

He's going to bring me some from home so I can try it out. That roti and butter had better be heavenly!

Hello, Dolly

2009-06-15T19:46:00.007+05:30

Just about every day, I've been taking Isabel to the day care room in the club next to our hotel. It gives me a little break from being a mommy, and there are lots of toys for Isabel to enjoy. (A Spiderman bouncy ball, in particular.)

A couple days ago, I brought Isabel to the day care in her stroller for the first time. That day an inspector who came to examine the room asked if she was real. And not believing the response of "Yes, of course! He asked again, "Really?" Then a little while later, a woman looked in and saw the nanny talking with Isabel. She asked her, "Why are you talking to the doll?" :)

Home Sweet Home

2009-06-14T11:34:00.011+05:30

Thirty-eight apartment viewings later, we finally have a place to call home. Yesterday, one of our real estate agents, a kind Indian man with a puffy pompadour, came to our hotel so we could sign a rental agreement. We will be living in a brand new apartment building in Bandra. (Insert big smiley grin here)

The location is perfect- very close to shops and restaurants, not too far from Martin's work, and there is a large playground area which will be wonderful for Isabel once she starts walking. I am excited about decorating. I've been daydreaming about intricate Indian statues and colorful satin pillows. The flat isn't entirely done yet, but there are only a few small things which need work, like the kitchen cabinets. No one else has lived in the apartment before; it's always nice to be the first ones. Everything will be spic 'n span.

Our moving date is July 1st. I will feel more like a resident and less like a tourist once we are moved in, and I'm looking forward to it very much. Pictures to come, of course. I will document setting up the place from start to finish so you can follow along.

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Gumshoe Hotel

2009-06-09T16:37:00.007+05:30

When I was a little girl I loved Nancy Drew. In fact, I wished I was strawberry blond, just like Nancy, and I wished I had friends named Bess and George, just like Nancy. Most of all, I thought it would be fantastically glamorous to crack cases and save people from crime. This afternoon, I had a taste of Nancy Drew style sleuthing right here in my hotel.

I've been staying in the same hotel suite for the past two weeks. By now, I have a pretty good idea of who works here as I frequently chat with the friendly, helpful staff. So last night when a young Indian fellow offered to help me- I was toting a laptop in one arm and a baby in the other- it wasn't totally strange except that the fellow's face was not familiar. And I wasn't sure if he was a guest or a new staff member- his outfit could pass for a uniform, just not the kind they wear in the hotel. Needing the help, at any rate, I accepted his offer and he made small talk about Isabel as we walked down the long corridor to my room.

He left the laptop on a table in the living room. I said thank you, expecting him to leave, and went about getting Isabel ready to go in the car. He lingered though, looking around in the room. So I said thank you again, louder, and that my husband was coming. He didn't seem to take the hint. Finally he was backing out of the room as Martin was coming in, and the stranger mentioned something about the monsoon to Martin. Being his cheery self, Martin smiled and laughed, the strange guy left, and soon we were out to look at another apartment.

In the car, I thought about how the guy seemed a bit odd to me and explained to Martin how he was hanging around in our room. We decided he was another curious person, perhaps just interested in practicing English with the foreigners.

This afternoon, I was sitting in my room, attending to some emails. The service here is really great, but sometimes they offer too many services, so I had the "Shhhh!" sign up on my door while I typed. Sometime around noon, I heard a quiet rapping on the front door. I got up and peeped through the peep hole to see who it was. No one was there. I opened the door and looked down the corridor to the right, and suddenly stranger's face appeared. He looked a bit surprised as he said, "Did you call me?" "No," I said, very flatly. "Oh, someone called me and....ok." Then he walked away. Now, why would I call someone who I don't know and whose number I don't know, particularly when I am not sure if the person is a guest or staff? One thing was different about him today- he had on a name tag. And he had on the same clothes as yesterday- not the same uniform as everyone else.

I was suspicious. What was this guy doing gently knocking on my door? I locked the door from the inside and went back to the bedroom. Feeling too nervous to leave the room, I called room service and ordered lunch. A green, smooshy, spinach dish and naan was delivered to my door by a staff member who I recognized and like. I felt a bit better as stranger was no where in sight.

After lunch, which wasn't good- I won't get the spinach goo again- I opened the front door to leave my tray outside. I heard familiar tap-tap footsteps in the hallway. It was stranger! I didn't want to face him again so I stood very still just inside the room, pressed against the wall. I heard him coming closer to the door, then walking away. Coming closer...Then he stuck his head into the room from the side and jumped a bit when he saw me. "Need any help?" he said. "No." I waited for him to go away before walking out with my tray.

I had enough. There was no reason for me to find him snooping around my room twice within two hours. I called the manager on duty and asked if they had hired any new staff. She said, "No, well, we always have some new recruits. Why?" Then I explained to her what had happened, that this young man I don't recognize seems to be loitering outside my room, that one day he acts like a helpful guest, and the next day he acts like staff complete with a name tag. "N" something was his name. (It wasn't Nancy.) The manager, sounding concerned, said she would phone security.

A couple of minutes later, I was repeating my story to the manager and the head of security in my room. I stopped when I heard those tap-tap footsteps in the hall and stuck my eye against the peephole. There he was! He had come down the corridor, which is very long and twisty, took a glance at my door, the only one you can see from his standpoint, then turned on his heel and walked back to where he had come from. "There he is!" I shouted, and the manager and the security guy ran down the hall to catch him.

It seemed to me like he was checking out the status on my door, which can be only one of three things: Shhhh!, Tidy Up, or nothing. I had left the Shhhh! sign up all day. Maybe stranger was waiting for it to switch to Tidy Up, so he could enter after the housekeeping guy came in and do whatever it was he wanted to do.

A few moments later, manager, security guy, and stranger were all at my door. I opened up and looked stranger right in the eye, just like Nancy would, and said, "Yes, that's him."

By this point, my stomach was all in knots because I'm not used to sleuthing. I wished Martin was home. I feel much safer when he is with me. So I held onto Isabel for comfort and paced the room while I waited to hear back from management.

It turns out that this guy, "N" something, was not supposed to be wandering around on my floor, let alone hanging out around my door. He was a new recruit, but there was absolutely no reason for him to be near the guest rooms. He was recently hired to start training for the reservations department, not to be interacting with the current guests in the hotel.

Another couple of managers came to my room to apologize. They told me stranger was confronted and then escorted off of the hotel premises.

"So, I will never see that guy again, right?" I asked, feeling equally like the detective and the victim. "No, ma'am, you won't," said the lady manager. A different manager smiled at me and said, "And thank you for reporting him or else we might never have found out."

And there it was. My Nancy Drew moment.

Horn OK Please

2009-06-09T12:51:00.009+05:30

An accurate portrayl of the life of a taxi driver in Mumbai:

Apartments and Rickshaws

2009-06-08T11:49:00.010+05:30

Apartment hunting in Mumbai is not an easy task. The asking price does not necessarily correlate with the quality of the flat, which is why we have viewed almost forty apartments already. (My theory on this is the real estate agents are trying to sell the crappy places at a high price so they show us them first, assuming we have no expectations because we are Mumbai newbies.) It is tiring, especially with a baby. If it were just me and Martin, then no problem. But it's hotter than Hades (it is Summer in India) and the constant in and out of the car with a baby and then carrying her around is exhausting. So we are very much looking forward to making a final decision.

We saw two beautiful, new apartments on Saturday and have made bids for both. They are in Bandra, which is a happening neighborhood in Mumbai with a lot of shops and restaurants. Like most places we've seen, they have cool marble floors and a lot of windows. The living room is in the center, and the bedrooms and bathrooms are in the wings. That's a very common layout. Usually there is a toilet and shower for each bedroom, something I think is unecessary. I would rather have the extra space because there's no need for 3 or 4 showers when you are only two adults and a little girl.

On Sunday, we toured an older place in Juhu- a beachy location dotted with the bungalows of Bollywood stars. It had an amazing view of the sea, which is a rare and luxurious plus, but the apartment itself wasn't exactly our taste. We will see how it goes. The real estate agent should get back to us shortly. Our next hurdle will be working out advance payment. The apartment owners often ask for 1 to 2years of rent up front. Absolutely ridiculous. We might as well buy an apartment!

Yesterday we also did a little bit of shopping in downtown Bandra. I probably had at least two heart attacks and sprouted half a dozen ulcers after that experience. If you've ever seen throngs of people in downtown Tokyo, imagine all those people transformed into rickshaws and then imagine them coming at you and your baby willy-nilly in 35 C heat. That is what it was like. We had just purchased a little pink stroller for Isabel (she gets too hot and heavy in the Baby Bjorn), and for the first time ever pushed her around on wheels in the middle of Mumbai traffic. I really do mean "in the middle" because there are no safe places to walk. You see, the sidewalks ain't made for walking. Bathing, sleeping, hair cutting, sugar cane juice pressing, selling stuff- sure! But going for a leisurely stroll is impossible. That explains why everyone was staring at us- no one else in Mumbai pushes their babies around in Barbie pink strollers. It's just too difficult. You have to shoo away people peddling trinkets and grow eyes on all sides of your head to avoid being run over. Try to envision all that if you can. Sweltering heat, people staring at you as though you're from Pluto, a billion unpredicatble vehicles honking their way at you, steering around the people living their lives on the sidewalk, turning away from people trying to sell you crap, while frantically worrying about the saftey of your infant whose little toes are centimeters away from cars and trucks and tuk-tuks. Heart attack city for a mother.

I also had my first ever tuk-tuk experience on Sunday. It was more like a game of Mario Kart than real life. I still haven't had the opportunity to take photos, so here is a picture from Wikipedia if you aren't sure what an auto rickshaw looks like. Indian rickshaws have no doors and no seatbelts; you have to hang onto a thin metal bar in front of you and pray you don't lurch forward and crack a tooth. There's probably a trillion of those little rickshaws in Mumbai. Three wheeled, rumbling, black and yellow beetle-like things. The drivers fit a standard profile- somwhere around 25-45 years old, thick black mustache, khaki shirt and pants, and either barefoot or wearing chappals (flip-flops). Like all Mumbai drivers, they only look directly in front of them, so they make turns and change lanes (if there are designated lanes) without glancing first at who might be in the rear or on the sides. Honking the horn is the only kind of precaution they take before squeezing into whatever narrow space is available or making a sharp turn. Needless to say, riding in a rickshaw with Isabel on my lap gave me another couple of ulcers. But a rickshaw ride is preferable to navigating the chaotic mess on foot, and it hardly costs anything- if you come out of it alive.

Before I forget, here are some pictures Martin took while out apartment hunting. Gives you an idea of what a typical expat flat and its envrions look like:

Some of those crazy life threatening rickshaws!!

So, what's it like?

2009-06-05T16:39:00.007+05:30

The first thing an expat or traveler does when they arrive in a new country is compare and contrast, compare and contrast. They make comments like, "Wow, it's a lot cheaper here than in Denmark!" or "Oh, the bread is MUCH better in Italy. And the women are hotter, too." or "Everyone seems so much smaller in Japan than in Sweden!" These sometimes sweeping remarks are often partially true. So I decided to jot down a few of my own observations, drawing on my experiences from living abroad and from traveling. Of course keep in mind that I have been in Mumbai for 10 days, which is only 240 hours or just long enough to start gathering my thoughts about this city. Here it goes:

1) Indian food is much more flavorful and spicy than any cuisine I have sampled.

2) Parts of Mumabai are like downtown Miami (if the people in Miami gave up building repair and maintenace for, say, 15 or 20 years.)

3) The heat and humidity in Mumbai is comparable to the heat and humidity in Singapore or Costa Rica.

4) Japanese people wait patiently until the crosswalk signal tells them to walk, even if no cars are in sight. Indian people risk their lives crossing the street wherever and whenever, directly in front of vehicles.

5) Cloudiness is to London as sunshine is to Mumbai. (^_^)

6) According to the news and the people, Indians smoke a lot. But I don't think they can be anywhere near as bad as the Greek.

7) Rotterdam has a lot of concrete. So does Mumbai, but at least they have some trees to cover it up.

8) In France they drink wine. In India they drink moonshine.

9) I wear a t-shirt and pants on most days. Indian women wear pretty, brightly colored saris or salwar kameez and lots of jewlery. (I've never felt so plain before!)

10) When it comes to famous, silver-haired actors of the silver screen, Hollywood has Harrison Ford. Bollywood has Amitabh Bachchan.

11) Water from the Danish countryside is pure, clean, and natural. The water in Mumbai is anything but.

12) In America and Europe, trendy people tan their skin for a sun-kissed look. In India, the naturally tan people use creams to whiten up.

13) England has a lot of double decker busses, America has a lot of SUVs, Holland has a lot of bikes, and India has a lot of rickshaws.

14) Us Americans, we order Big Macs and Biggie Fries. Cow-hugging Indians order a McVeggie or a McAlooTikki.

This list has much to be added once I really begin digging my heels into this new land. Up until now, most of my Mumbai time has been spent in traffic, shopping, and looking at apartments. There is so much to see and experience still. I wonder what it is like in an Indian home, what an Indian wedding is like, what the monsoon will be like, what the festivals (there are many!) are like. I have that "night before the first day of school" kind of feeling. Anxious, nervous, excited, hopeful. A wonderful mix.

Bella Isabel

2009-06-04T17:34:00.017+05:30

One thing that amazes me about Indian people is how they are totally baby crazy. I read about a cultural love for little ones before I came here, but I wasn't prepared for the level of enthusiasm about my daughter in particular.

Whenever I am with Isabel, which is 99% of the time, she grabs the spotlight. I was shocked and amused when I went with Martin to his office last week. All the employees, all males mind you, whipped out their cell phones to snap photos of her before she was even out of her car seat. Then, while I was chatting with one of the guys about masala tea, the security guard who was holding Isabel waltzed away with her down the hall to show her off in the neighboring office. I went out to find Isabel chewing on some woman's dupatta, surrounded by a gaggle of starry-eyed women snapping and clucking at her.

The snapping, clucking, touching, and photographing have happened in the hospital (Isabel was sick a few days) and in shopping centers, too. The worst case was when we were getting into the car and were approached by an Indian mother with her young daughter. The mother commanded her daughter, who was a little reserved, to touch the baby. She explicitly told her to reach out and "Touch the baby! Touch the baby!" No, thank you! She was already sick and we were on our way to the hospital, for heaven's sake. Extra germs really weren't necessary. It is certainly nice to know that people think she's cute- how else to make a mother happy? but I can do without the paparazzi or at least without the touchy-feely stuff.

I realize Isabel gets special attention because she's a blond, blue eyed girl. Indian people may be somewhat accustomed to caucasian adults, but caucasian babies are a rarity. (After all, you must be out of your mind to move to India with an infant, right?) I wonder how raising Isabel in an environment where eveyone gushes about her cuteness will effect her later on. Her first two years of life will be in India. What will she think when we return to Europe or some other western country where fair features are the norm? Or in tanorexic countries, including Denmark and America, where fairness is considered plain, sad, and sickly? Unless we stay in Asia forever, she'll have to retire her princess tiara and celebrity shades one day.

What's in a name

2009-06-04T16:30:00.008+05:30

Something lovely happened yesterday. An older Indian woman knocked on my door to replace the freshly cut flowers in our hotel room. She came in and snipped eleven cheerful blossoms from long, spring-green stems. As she arranged the flowers, I noticed the tag on her blouse. Her name was Hyacinth.

How to Eat a Mango

2009-06-03T16:01:00.038+05:30

The first food I ate in India was a fresh, sliced mango. Sweet and tart, melt-in-your-mouth mango. With the first piece still on my tongue, I said to Martin, "These mangoes must be from heaven." The variety considered to be the best, a type of Alphonso mango, grows in the Maharastra region of India. I guess that makes India heaven.

Unfortunately, mango season is short lived in India. The delicious, expensive fruit is only available in the months of April and May, causing two months of mango mania. And, much to the delight of Indians and tourists alike, there are a million ways to enjoy a mango. The orange oval fruit is slurped up in smoothies and lassis, smashed into chutneys, beaten to a pulp and served with puris (bread), and manufactured into sodas and candies. But the most sensual, indulgent way to eat a mango is with your hands and teeth, raw and naked, straight from the skin.

This afternoon our driver, Mr. Shah, helped haggle the price for two boxes of Alphonso King mangoes on the streets of Andheri. We left with 2 boxes for 700 rupees (about $15.00). Even after expert bargaining the price was steep, but it's worth every rupee.

In my hotel room, twelve fragrant, shy mangoes hid under clumps of hay and newspaper. They were still warm from the sun and their smooth peels felt just like a baby's soft skin. I was surprised to find that I could undress a mango much like a banana- by piercing the top and slowly pulling down the skin off in sections. Then came the sinful part. With my fingers already orange and sticky, I pressed the fruit to my lips. Instant salivation- or should I say gratification? I used my top teeth to pull on the fibrous pulp, and I let the juice drip everywhere. It felt a little bit naughty. And I liked it.

I know of one young lady who feels slightly differently about the decadent mango. For your entertainment, here is a video clip of my daughter Isabel sampling some baby food mango last night:

Horny Indians

2009-05-31T21:16:00.014+05:30

Indians are horny. You can see it and hear it all day, all night. They can't seem to get enough! You would never witness this kind of behavior in Europe or the States- well, maybe occasionally in New York City or LA, just not to this extent! Recently the government has tried to intervene by posting signs, but old habits die hard. So when you are in Mumbai, cover your ears and hold onto your pants, because Mumbaikars love to honk their horns.

I'm not talking about a single angry blast to avoid an accident. That kind of horning is perfectly understandable. What I mean is a curious constant tooting Indians keep up for any reason you can imagine or couldn't imagine. Passing a car? Honk honk! Changing to the right lane? Give a toot! Changing to the left lane? Try out that horn! Speeding up a bit? Sound the alarm! You are even reminded to use your horn, if you somehow forgot, with "Horn OK Please" hand-painted on the back of every truck. And it isn't because the cars and trucks and rickshaws are ill-equipped. They have directionals which probably work. But why would you flip on a light when you have a horn! In India, directionals would be more aptly named optionals, or, better yet, ornaments. It seems all you need to drive in Mumbai is a functioning horn, ballsiness, and a hell of a lot of luck.

I am not sure how this method of driving has developed. The government would like to change it; maybe enough people have complained of noise pollution. There are signs up asking drivers not to horn: Silence zone, No honking, or, my personal favorite, No Horn! Unless absolutely necessary. I have a feeling I will never witness horn-free traffic in Mumbai, though. How can you change the horning habits of millions of people? Unless the government funds a mass hornectomy of all vehicles, the horn is here to stay for a long while. Bring your earplugs if you choose to visit.

P.S. I am going through camera withdrawal right now. I will post pictures as soon as I can, but before I can go out snapping pictures, we need to find an apartment, move in, find a reliable nanny. Then! I will be able to enjoy Mumbai and get shutter happy. ;)

On the Inside, Looking out

2009-05-27T15:39:00.021+05:30

I wish I could tell you what I think of India, specifically Mumbai, but I am not really there. Yes, sure, we landed in Bombay International airport yesterday; geographically India is my location. I have not left the ridiculously comfortable hotel premises yet, so this isn't it, this isn't the real thing. Not yet.

Looking for the real India has been postponed until the weekend. Because we have a young baby, Martin and I want to wait until I have a cell phone and a driver before venturing out. That leaves me with the hotel and its neighboring country club to enjoy for the rest of the week, where I feel absolutely spoiled rotten. I'm not used to it. Martin quickly adjusted; he lived in Singapore for three years and knows what "expat" life is like in Asia. My homely ole self is not accustomed to being waited on hand and foot. But who's complaining?

The level of service here is astounding. For the first time, the phrase "never has to lift a finger" is a reality and I mean it. I don't even have to press the elevator button myself. It is a little bit over the top. The staff offer to do everything and constantly ask if we have any suggestions. I feel a little embarrassed about it... Undeserving, I guess. While I am here for the next five weeks, I figure I might as well relax and enjoy all these services that are not normally part of my daily life.

Today, I did just that. After breakfast with Martin in the cute hotel restaurant, I packed up the diaper bag and took Isabel to the club next door. The club has a daycare room attended by a sweet Indian woman who I trusted right off the bat when I met her yesterday. She greeted Isabel in typical motherese, but with a staccato, sing-song Indian accent: "Hello leetle blue eyes bay-beeee! Do you like me? I like your summer hair, yes, veddy nice. Softy, softy!" Isabel must have trusted her too, since she responded with smiles and flapping arms.

Baby-free, I made a bee line to the spa for a massage. I wanted to try an Indian style massage but only a masseur was available and that particular style is not an option cross gender. I settled for the Swedish massage, and a heavily mustachioed man from Kerala (definitely not Sweden) worked and chopped my muscles for 60 minutes, leaving me feeling like a well greased and finely diced vegetable.

One quick shower and one quick check on a sleeping Isabel later, I went for a dip in the gorgeous pool. Surrounded by jagged green things called plants (almost forgot about those after living in concrete Rotterdam), and bordered with round, white stones, the pool was warm, calming, and glittering with sunshine. I dried off on a lounge chair with a copy of "The Times of India" and scanned the headlines: Guards turn jewel thieves, Suburb roads may cave in this monsoon, Rickshaw runs over boy, Mumbai Congress to fund Slumdog kids' homes. Ah, some of the real India seeping into my protected oasis.

I went back to pick up Isabel and had a small chat with daycare lady Reshema. She is born and raised in Mumbai. I asked her about the upcoming monsoon. The news people say it should start around June 6th, and she said it's awful and rains a lot each day, but that is when the club members go on vacation so at least we would have the place to ourselves. I've been wondering what kind of things people wear on their feet when it is raining and flooding, and she told me I can buy special monsoon shoes in various styles, but they aren't like wellies, they cover only as much as ballerina flats. I suppose tall, rubber boots would be too hot. The monsoon season. That will be some of the real India, flooding in!

I walked back up to my air conditioned fancy hotel room, staring out the windows in the hallways as I went, like I was gazing at a different planet. It may be beautiful and luxurious on the inside, safe in my hotel, but outside, where I keep thinking I can find the real India, is totally different. From my floor, I can see the heart of a shanty town- a dirt square with a couple of run-down, ramshackle convenience stores. Dozens and dozens of poorly constructed homes crowd in on the square, leaning on each other and crossing over each other like a mouthful of bad teeth. When you see them the only thought in your head is poverty. A couple of kids rode by on bikes, a woman got into a rickshaw, and I wondered: what is that life like? Then there was the guilt. I just spent a carefree afternoon in a spa and at a pool while someone else watched my daughter, and meanwhile there are millions of people right outside my glass luxury bubble wondering if they'll get to eat today. Somehow, this didn't seem real either.

Is India the view out my hotel window? Is it the headlines in the newspaper? Or the western influenced services lavished on me today? Maybe it is all of these things together and at once, highly contrasting but equally real. I won't know until I break out of this bubble and see for myself. This weekend maybe I will know a little more, but I am just getting started on the real India quest. Stay tuned.

India: A Preamble

2009-05-16T01:00:00.038+05:30

I loved telling people we were moving to India because their reactions were so funny. Many of them were similar. The conversation would usually go something like this:

Me: We are moving to India.

Person: (Short pause) India? India?!

Me: Yea, India. *chuckle*

Person: Okay...Wow. India.

That was the standard incredulous, italicized response we received. Even Martin and I fell into that category when we heard the news. We were both living abroad at the time, so it wasn't like we were new to the idea of living away from home. But ironically India was the one place on Earth we agreed we would never, ever live in. No way, no how. And there we were, repeating back and forth to each other, eyebrows furrowed, "India? I mean, India?"

Here are a few of the more original replies I remember:

My neighbor's response: You can't do that!

The manicurist's response: Bombay? Where is that, China?

My sister's response: Think of all the salmon tikka!

The bartender's response: Bombay? I hear that goes good with tonic.

My mother's response: Since when does India have sea ports?

So it was clear from the beginning- most people we knew thought moving to India sounded insane or remarkable, and most people had limited to no knowledge about the country. I am no different. I took a class in high school on Asian countries; I used to dine at Indian restaurants on Sundays with Heather; and I knew a few trivial bits of information about the subcontinent. However, I didn't (and still don't) know much.

It is now ten days until my flight to Mumbai. I read a few books, perused my trusty Lonely Planet, asked umpteen questions online, and dreamt many dreams about India. At this moment, if I close my eyes and think India this is what I envision:

Air heavy, hot, and moist; incessant honking, rumbling motors; seas of elbows and toes; bobbing heads of shiny black hair; dust, dirt, and prickly sweat. Busy, buzzing outdoor bazaars; beggars imploring bewildered tourists. Skinny kids scurrying past giant posters of Bollywood stars. Billions of sandals and sparkly bindis; people haggling, rupees exchanged. Mountains of powdered pigments in turquoise, chartreuse, indigo, magenta. A random cow.

Fresh, ripe mangoes and heaps of vegetables. Chanting street vendors frying snacks both sweet and savoury. Sticky chutney-covered fingers, spicy fragrances meeting salivating tongues. People shouting, mosquitos hovering. Sad skyscrapers towering over sadder slums. Sun beating on wet, glistening foreheads. Trains heavily fringed with limbs. Chai slurped from clay cups; clay cups smashed on pavement. Wheels on rickshaws motorbikes bicycles buses cars taxis trucks, all moving spinning whirring twirling all at once. Everything, all at once.

How dizzying! Of course what I wrote above is simply a small sliver, a fraction of a snapshot, of grand Mother India. Because it is such a vast and diverse country (a billion people, two dozen languages, countless cultures, religions and ways of life), I must remember and you must remember that what I write here is and will be shaped by who I am. My observations will be filtered through the eyes and ears of a young woman, a "westerner" (for a lack of a better term), a mom, a wife, an introvert, an American, living in Mumbai in this particular year, producing experiences as unique as the handmade Indian carpets I hope to find in one of my imaginary, bustling bazaars.

Image credit: Heather Murphy

First Impressions in Real Time

2009-05-03T13:03:00.016+05:30

One of the many things I appreciate about my Gmail account is Gchat. It is simple, fast, and doesn't come with any annoying pop-up ads. And, with Gchat, I can communicate with Martin through his Blackberry in whichever corner of the Earth he may be. So when Martin first landed in Mumbai, to start working and looking for apartments, I could gather his first impressions, just as he was gathering them for himself:

Martin: Hiiii

I just touched ground

Still on the flight

me: yes i know i was tracking it on lufthansa.com

hehe

Martin: My oh my I am excited to see our new dirty and poor home city

me: was it the slums you saw

9:25 PM Martin: The flight was sooo boring and a bit long I think

One thing hit me: how do you change a diaper on a flight?
There is absolutely no other paces then at the seat

Fortunately our trip with turkish air is divided equally into two stretches of 4 hours

We should be fine

Lots of chuildren on this flight

Oh, I did not see anything at all

I'm in the middle row

I just assume its horrible

me: oh like thaaat

(yadda yadda yadda)

Martin: Guess what

me: oh no what

Martin: I already made first friend

me: haha what do you mean by friend?

Martin: Indian guy who has lived in the states for the past 8 years

He is moving back to mumbai TODAY haha

me: haha ok good!

Martin: And his wife and child will join soon

me: hey! just like youuuuuuuuuu

(Blah, blah, blah)

Martin: I'm in the very back of the flight and I can already feel the heat from the front door

me: its gonna hit you like a wall

Martin: Yep

Wow everyone is so polite

me: ok all good things so far!

Martin: I just spoke to a couple about diaper change

me: hahah

Martin: There is a table

me: i looked it up online

9:40 PM Martin: Ok

me: yea it said sometimes theres a table and sometimes the only table is your lap. depends on the plane

Martin: Go to bed love

Omg

me: jamen sveske kan ikke sov (english: yea but prunes- that would be Isabel- can't sleep)

Martin: The airport is shit

me: ta da!

Martin: Lol

Martin: Ok, better now

Lots of aircon free standing types

9:42 PM me: better than nothing

Martin: Oh, and marble floor now instead of dirty carpets

9:43 PM Ok, hit immigration

Right at the end of the escalator

Big disaster

me: your first disaster! congrats

Martin: ;-) I survived it

me: you are through [immigration] already?

Martin: Nope

Looooong queue

me: yea

i figured that would happen

try to imagine everything with me and isabel

Martin: Its not too bad

The luggage band is the fastest ever haha

People have to run to get thir luggage off it hehe

me: oh fun so it's like a game!

and i guess you came through immigration no problem then

Martin: Very easy

me: great :)

now are you looking for someone holding a sign with your name?

or will you soon, rather

Martin: Already found the driver

So easy :-)

me: wonderful!!

Martin: Its like singapore...just 100 years ago haha

me: is this going to be our driver?

lol

Martin: No, he is from the hotel

Standing outside waiting for the car

me: ...so you have a driver but no car? i thought the two would come together

Martin: One in charge of meeting me, one in charge of driving etc

All super inefficient but creates jobs haha

I feel good being back to asia babe

me: and one to fasten your seatbelt, and one to tie your shoes...

Martin: I can't stop smiling

me: really! awww

this is good honey

Martin: Excellent service

Just checking in

The hotel is litterally just outside the airport

me: you are there already! whoa

Martin: Brand new I think

me: haha you could have walked then

Martin: Yes

Then again... Terrible roads

me: is it hot? is it smelly

Martin: Hot

me: unpaved?

Martin: Not smelly

me: ok well thats good

hotter than singapore?

Martin: About the same heat at night

me: ok. i hope your room is nice

Martin: It isssss

I have a 40 inch flat screen

Very nice room

The water looks clean so not too bad like russia where it is yellowish

Oh, I have to tell you...

The room is completely quiet:-)

me: hahah!

i think, so far, it has been a good experience

unless you are saving the theft, elephant trampling, and food poisoning stories for later. wink wink. ;)

Life-in-a-box

2009-04-20T03:15:00.034+05:30

Snapping bubble wrap, taping cardboard boxes, balling up newspaper- yes, it's moving time. This weekend, Martin and I started packing up the apartment. It's strange how much space you suddenly have when everything is tightly sealed into squares and rectangles. The apartment feels bigger, colder. And bit by bit, box by box, our current home is becoming as foreign as our future dwelling in India.

Many people, including myself, can see obvious downsides to relocating every one or two years. Never quite feeling settled, bidding farewell to friends, dealing with the exhausting rigamarole of setting up bank accounts and residence permits, etc. However, as I went through my stuff today, sorting what to pack, what to ship, and what to toss, it occured to me there is at least one benefit: simplicity of belongings.

As a kid, I would save all kinds of paraphernalia religiously for the sake of sentiment. I saved notebooks, spelling tests, book reports, and report cards. I kept personalized napkins from weddings, neatly folded. There were my boxes of assorted buttons, unsharpened pencils, and unused erasers. I hoarded BonneBell chapsticks in every possible flavor. I even controlled sugar urges to save candy-- a particular lollipop cherished for years in a ballerina jewelery box comes to mind. Perhaps disturbingly, I kept a crayfish dissection from 7th grade because I was proud, and oddly enough it didn't rot or smell. Not that much.

But constantly packing and unpacking your life makes this kind of neurotic squirreling impossible. Today I threw out jeans I'll probably never fit in again (such is life post-partum), outdated CD-ROMS, companionless socks, old mail, crumpled receipts. Sadly, I found nothing as ridiculous as the treasures of my youth. I'm sure living around the world with hyper-organized Martin will only increase scantness on my part. And until I start collecting every homework assignment, scribble, and 3-D diorama Isabel brings home from school, I'm OK with that.

Kiss These Tulips Goodbye

2009-04-18T03:17:00.029+05:30

It's official. We're moving to India. No more if, maybe, probably- just a "Yes!" And I don't mean to make it sound like this has been a long, drawn out process. Not in the least. Hardly a month ago, the idea of transferring Martin to an office in India was put forward. There were some bumps along the way, but now that we have the green light- in the form of a signed contract- we'll be scrambling to pack up, ship out, and fly to our home of the next two years.

The imminent move has stirred me to wax nostalgic about Rotterdam, something a bit unexpected. Given all the complaining Martin and I do about this city, from its eyesore buildings to predominantly concrete structures (and parks), it seems bizarre that I might actually have a soft spot for ole R'dam.

Which things will I miss about Dutch or European life? Cheese is absolutely at the top of the list, closely followed by clean running water. I'll miss fresh, cool mornings and hot mugs of coffee at sidewalk cafes. I'll miss our friends and family. Our apartment. Our car. I'll miss Holland's kaleidoscopic fields of tulips in April and May. I'll miss taking Isabel out for walks in her stroller through the shopping plazas and malls. I'm sure I'll miss sticky stroopwafels or pancakes when I'm up to my ears in spicy curries, too. Then there are the intangibles, like Europe's overall efficiency, orderliness, cleanliness. Breathable air. It probably won't be long before I'll pine for the serenity of an empty city block free of vehicles, people, and sacred cows.

At least the move will be exciting. And while we are leaving our Western comfort zone, it's only a matter of time until we adjust to our new lives in India. Colorful, tropical, chaotic, crazy India.