Breakfast-not later than 7 am,Lunch-not later than 1 pm,Dinner-not later than 10 pm.
Breakfast must be heavy;avoid drinking water during meals.Fill the stomach half part,1/4 water,leave 1/4 empty.Avoid oil in breakfast.
Lunch must have leafy vegetables,nothing should be deep fried,oil to be used minimally,use spice rarely,drink butter milk,minimal use of meat and root vegetables.
Dinner-avoid milk products and curds and desserts like ice cream.
Do not engage in conversation while eating.( Source;Indian food habits as per Smriti)
Take fruits in empty stomach.
ScienceDaily (Nov. 26, 2009) — When you eat may be just as vital to your health as what you eat, found researchers at the Salk Institute for Biological Studies. Their experiments in mice revealed that the daily waxing and waning of thousands of genes in the liver — the body’s metabolic clearinghouse — is mostly controlled by food intake and not by the body’s circadian clock as conventional wisdom had it.
See Also:

“If feeding time determines the activity of a large number of genes completely independent of the circadian clock, when you eat and fast each day will have a huge impact on your metabolism,” says the study’s leader Satchidananda (Satchin) Panda, Ph.D., an assistant professor in the Regulatory Biology Laboratory.
The Salk researchers’ findings, which will be published in a forthcoming issue of the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, could explain why shift workers are unusually prone to metabolic syndrome, diabetes, high cholesterol levels and obesity.
“We believe that it is not shift work per se that wreaks havoc with the body’s metabolism but changing shifts and weekends, when workers switch back to a regular day-night cycle,” says Panda.
In mammals, the circadian timing system is composed of a central circadian clock in the brain and subsidiary oscillators in most peripheral tissues. The master clock in the brain is set by light and determines the overall diurnal or nocturnal preference of an animal, including sleep-wake cycles and feeding behavior. The clocks in peripheral organs are largely insensitive to changes in the light regime. Instead, their phase and amplitude are affected by many factors including feeding time.
The clocks themselves keep time through the fall and rise of gene activity on a roughly 24-hour schedule that anticipates environmental changes and adapts many of the body’s physiological function to the appropriate time of day.
“The liver oscillator in particular helps the organism to adapt to a daily pattern of food availability by temporally tuning the activity of thousands of genes regulating metabolism and physiology,” says Panda. “This regulation is very important, since the absence of a robust circadian clock predisposes the organism to various metabolic dysfunctions and diseases.”
Despite its importance, it wasn’t clear whether the circadian rhythms in hepatic transcription were solely controlled by the liver clock in anticipation of food or responded to actual food intake.
To investigate how much influence rhythmic food intake exerts over the hepatic circadian oscillator, graduate student and first author Christopher Vollmers put normal and clock-deficient mice on strictly controlled feeding and fasting schedules while monitoring gene expression across the whole genome.
He found that putting mice on a strict 8-hour feeding/16-hour fasting schedule restored the circadian transcription pattern of most metabolic genes in the liver of mice without a circadian clock. Conversely, during prolonged fasting, only a small subset of genes continued to be transcribed in a circadian pattern even with a functional circadian clock present.
“Food-induced transcription functions like a metabolic sand timer that runs for 24 hours and is continually reset by the feeding schedule while the central circadian clock is driven by self-sustaining rhythms that help us anticipate food, based on our usual eating schedule,” says Vollmers. “But in the real world we don’t eat at the same time every day and it makes perfect sense to increase the activity of metabolic genes when you need them the most.”
For example, genes that encode enzymes needed to break down sugars rise immediately after a meal, while the activity of genes encoding enzymes needed to break down fat is highest when we fast. Consequently a clearly defined daily feeding schedule puts the enzymes of metabolism in shift work and optimizes burning of sugar and fat.
“Our study represents a seminal shift in how we think about circadian cycles,” says Panda. “The circadian clock is no longer the sole driver of rhythms in gene function, instead the phase and amplitude of rhythmic gene function in the liver is determined by feeding and fasting periods — the more defined they are, the more robust the oscillations become.”
While the importance of robust metabolic rhythms for our health has been demonstrated by shift workers’ increased risk of developing metabolic syndrome, the underlying molecular reasons are still unclear. Panda speculates that the oscillations serve one big purpose: to separate incompatible processes, such as the generation of DNA-damaging reactive oxygen species and DNA replication.
Panda, for one, has stopped eating between 8 pm and 8 am and says he feels great. “I even lost weight, although I eat whatever I want during the day,” he says.
Researchers who also contributed the work include postdoctoral researcher Luciano DiTacchio, Ph.D., graduate students Sandhyarani Pulivarthy and Shubhrox Gill, as well as research assistant Hiep Le, all in the Regulatory Biology Laboratory.
The work was funded in part by the National Institutes of Health and the Pew Scholars
Story Source:
Adapted from materials provided by Salk Institute.
http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2009/11/091125094321.htm

Hi everyone! I’m back

It feels so good to be home, with this laptop, being in my room. It’s pretty much heaven on earth if you ask me! Well, I arrived in KLIA at around 7:40pm just now, today, Tuesday. In my Twitter, I forgot to write the day, I just wrote 7:40pm. Well, because of the time difference between Switzerland and Malaysia, I became confused, of course!

My flight back home was at 10:15pm (Zurich time) and at that time, it was actually around 5:15am in Malaysia!! Can you imagine how sleepy I was!? Waiting at the airport. Our flight was delayed actually. For 30 minutes. The original boarding time was at 9:45pm.

The flight was for 11 hours and 40 minutes if I’m not mistaken. So, at around 4:30pm (in Malaysia), we arrived at Singapore. Yeah, we had to take a transit flight from there. Then, we had 2 hours, bid farewell to dad because he had to go to Johor instead of coming back home to KL with us. I almost cried just now but had to stay strong (long story, will blog about it later, maybe)

Then, at 6:45pm, we were on our way to KL. And arrived 40minutes later.

The first thing I did when I got home was edit the pictures! Ha-ha! I am crazy, I know. I just had to upload them all in my Facebook and Myspace. Facebook was having an error when I tried to upload just now but thank God, after a few minutes of waiting, they were all safely uploaded

Then, now, of course, I would LOVE to blog about my trip though nothing special happened. Dad was still busy with his work. Didn’t even go to Mt Titlis due to some problems. So, yeah, it was just pretty much a normal trip. Dad was feeling all guilty because he didn’t manage to entertain us and our plans didn’t really go well, but yeah, we had a great family time and I am grateful for that.

And now, it’s 1:47am and I can’t sleep though I have class tomorrow! At 8:30am! I am soooo dead! But while I was there, I went to sleep at 8:00pm which was around 2-3am in Malaysia! It was winter, so it was pretty much dark after 5:30pm. So now, I am not sleepy yet.

I am going to need lots and lots of caffeine and FOOD tomorrow to keep me awake!

Oh well. I think I shall try to go to sleep now. Oh yeah, I can’t really blog about my trip tonight because it’s already late and I am tired and feeling dizzy from the long hours in the airplane. Plus, I have class to attend tomorrow. So, I will find some other time to blog about it. Have to do it fast before I forget all the details

Wish me luck not to fall asleep in class tomorrow!

xoxo, Fanah.

ps: I watched one episode of Gossip Girl season 3 while I was there! I seriously felt like killing myself for not knowing that Gossip Girl now has a new season! Grrrr. Oh, and it seemed way more interesting than season 2!

Mi
manca
sempre
il
tempo.
Non
perdo
tempo.
Non
lo
ottimizzo.
Non
lo
becco
mai
quello
giusto.
Io
sono
una
vittima
del
jet-lag.

—————-
Now playing: Tre allegri ragazzi morti – Dipendo da te
via FoxyTunes

♦♦♦

That’s what jet-lag and sleep deprivation do to you; plenty of ideas (new and old) goes through your mind; your brain is in hyperactivity; thoughts flow like a torrent.  So instead of jotting ideas on loose pieces of paper and Post-it notes, another bright idea came through: start a blog. Oh yes, I’ve done that before several times on Blogger and probably on most new blogging systems that came along.

But today is different. Today I’m taking the bull by the horns; I’m starting my life blog to organize one corner of my digital life, put some structure, share thoughts, ideas, things I see, things I do or will do or may do one day, and let the power of the tool perform it’s magic.

C’est parti!

♣♣♣

Los lifestyle consultants también nos enfermamos, porque —es bueno que lo sepan—, también somos seres humanos. Hace días que me aqueja una rinitis primaveral espantosa, tanto que agoté las existencias de papel tisú que tenía en casa. Y eso que siempre estoy bien provisto. Si junté fuerzas para escribir estas líneas y entregar la columna a tiempo es gracias a las infusiones de equinácea que vengo tomando desde ayer, cada tres horas.

¿Que qué es la equinácea? Es una planta herbácea que ayuda al sistema inmunológico, pero no me escuchen a mí, lo buscan en Google y encuentran todo lo que necesitan saber. Es bárbaro Google, no me digan que no.

Qué mejor manera entonces de arrancar hoy sino con el tip express del día. Tomen nota: recomiendo tener siempre a mano algún sobrecito de equinácea, que se compran en cualquier farmacia. La bebida resultante es rica y no necesita azúcar ni nada, pero mi receta incluye además un poquito de miel y jugo de limón. Cuando uno siente que está por agarrase un resfrío o anda un poco decaído, este cocktail no falla. (Igual, como siempre digo, ningún remedio casero sustituye la consulta al médico.)

GOOGLE. Es bárbaro, no me digan que no.

Una vecina me vio en el ascensor sacando de apuro un pañuelo de papel tisú y me dijo “ah, m’hijo, el cambio de estación…”, y dejó así, la frase inconclusa. Supongo que hablaba de la pelusa de los plátanos, de la temperatura que sube y baja a lo loco. Pero creo que hay un factor clave en todo esto al que no le damos importancia: el horario de verano para ahorrar energía.

Cuando digo ésto mis amigos se matan de la risa y está bien, me gusta hacer reír a mis amigos, pero vamos a aclarar los tantos. Aunque el horario oficial se haya corrido solamente una hora, produce el mismo efecto que el incómodo jet lag. Sí, es exactamente igual y sin siquiera pisar un avión. Si tendré historias para contar de jet lags, pero no vienen al caso. Lo que quiero decir es que está estudiado que por cada huso horario que atravesamos, nuestro cuerpo necesita por lo menos un mes para ajustar su reloj biológico, que parece no es nada fácil de poner en hora. A algunos nos lleva todavía un poco más. Yo, con este resfrío y este cansancio, tengo un jet lag que no puedo más.

HISTORIAS DE JET LAGS. Tengo muchas, pero no vienen al caso.

Aclaro que no estoy para nada en contra del daylight saving time, porque entiendo que en estos tiempos de crisis energética es una medida necesaria. Es bueno saber, simplemente, que el beneficio de ver la luz del sol durante varias horas después de salir del trabajo tiene su precio. A mí, en particular, me despista mucho para la cena, y con esto les doy mi segundo tip express del día, para ir cerrando: ojo con cenar después de las 10 de la noche, que engorda y no nos deja dormir bien. A nadie le gusta que 15 minutos antes de la hora de salida aparezca nuestro jefe con una montaña de documentos para revisar, corregir, firmar y ensobrar. Bueno, al estómago tampoco le gusta ponerse a trabajar a esas horas. Ténganlo en cuenta y hasta la próxima.

• Nuesto lifestyle consultant residente, Jean Font de Bon, es una presencia habitual en conferencias internacionales sobre “nuevas tendencias y estilo de vida”. El mes pasado dictó en el Fashion & Lifestyle Trade Show de Dubai la conferencia Beneficios y contraindicaciones del prêt-à-porter infantil, que será editada próximamente como coffe table book titulado Talle 12. Su columna, Saberes para el buen vivir, se actualiza todos los viernes.

A study published in the journal of Minerva Cardioangiologica reveals Pycnogenol, pine bark extract from the French maritime pine tree, reduces jetlag in passengers by nearly 50 percent. The two-part study, consisting of a brain CT scan and a scoring system, showed Pycnogenol lowered symptoms of jetlag such as fatigue, headaches, insomnia and brain edema (swelling) in both healthy individuals and hypertensive patients. Passengers also experienced minimal lower leg edema, a common condition associated with long flights.

Pycnogenol has been shown to be beneficial for flight travel in previous studies pertaining to edema, deep vein thrombosis (DVT) and blood circulation improvement. A study published in Clinical Applied Thrombosis/Hemostasis recorded passengers supplementing with Pycnogenol on long distance flights lasting 7-12 hours were significantly protected from thrombotic events, complications resulting from deep vein thrombosis (DVT) and superficial vein thrombosis (SVT). In 2005, a study published in Clinical and Applied Thrombosis/Hemostasis showed Pycnogenol to be effective in reducing leg and ankle swelling (edema) during long airplane flights lasting seven to 12 hours.

The study, conducted at the G. D’Annunzio University in Pescara, Italy, consisted of 133 passengers who took flights that were seven to nine hours in length. Fifty mg of oral Pycnogenol was administered three times daily, for seven days, starting two days prior to the flight.

Read more here:

http://www.elements4health.com/pine-bark-extract-reduces-jetlag.html

Disclaimer: CarolinaLifestyles does not endorse any particular pharmaceutical regimen. Always check with your physician and/or pharmacist before taking any drug or supplement.

Eu diria que faz diferença quando vc viaja a trabalho, a turismo, por pouco ou por um longo tempo. Eu nunca fui vítima de jet lag (claro que a maior diferença que peguei foram umas 5 hs), mas desta vez eu fui abatida!!!  Demorou uma semana para me recuperar. Tive que ficar me forçando a dormir (ao menos ir pra cama) no horários certos . Dormia às 6 da tarde pra acordar que nem zumbi à meia noite. Fiquei exausta o tempo todo… isso sem falar na surra que o travesseiro duro me aplicou… fiquei mais de duas semanas com dores nos ombros, até desistir e tomar antiinflamatório (e mesmo assim a dor volta de vez em quando… preciso fazer exercicio).

Claro que a melhor atividade para uma pessoa com jet lag não é ficar assistindo palestras em japonês com alguém traduzindo… Garanto que não ajuda em nada!!!

Have you ever noticed how we talk about time? We often address it like a fierce competitor we have to beat to the finish line. We crunch it, beat it, and race against it. But I wonder what would happen if we were to treat time as a partner, as a friend, as the Siamese twin it was meant to be? In my book, time equals existence, not money as Benjamin Franklin was apt to say.

Let me back up. Time, in truth, is a construct. It is an organizing principle that helps us meet expectations, such as getting to the same restaurant at the same moment as your friend so you can have lunch. It is a useful tool in commerce, too. You wouldn’t want to miss that shipment coming in from abroad, now would you? In fact, global time wasn’t properly introduced until October 13, 1884 when a few folks from 26 nations gathered in Washington, DC to agree upon the prime meridian that sliced through the Greenwich Observatory’s telescope in England. In that agreement, the Earth was placed into a girdle with 24 strands. We call them time zones. For anyone who’s suffered jet lag, as I just have after a two-week trip to the US, you’ll know the effect time change can have on you.

So if time is something we’ve made up, why do we engage in clock combat, that insidious striving to beat that which we cannot control? We often attempt to cram so much into our day that we are left breathless even trying to ‘keep up.’ But, what exactly are we keeping up with? My guess it is an imaginary standard as made-up as time itself.

I would claim multitasking is symptomatic of a much broader issue. We attempt to do two or more comparably difficult things at once (texting while driving comes to mind) because we think we don’t have enough time. Truth be told, we are living longer than we ever have in human history. With an current average life expectancy of 78.11 years in the United States, we have a lot more time than we used to.

Time as friend? Now there’s a thought. What would your life look like if you embraced a time abundant mentality?

Here’s a fun task to try. The next time you are going somewhere and you think you might be late, turn off all distractions (radio, cell phone, iPod, etc) and simply concentrate on where you are going while observing the speed limit. Breathe deeply as you do and tell yourself “I will get there at the exact moment I need to.” Chances are you will arrive in a state of bliss. Even if you are a few moments late according to the clock, you will have lived one of the basic priniciples of the power of slow ~ mindful living while being fully engaged in the here and now.

So go for it. Then tell me how you did!

Original post from Psychology Today.

Sky Tower, Auckland

So, I’ve been in Auckland for 3 days now… seems like so much longer, but that is probably because jet lag has had me asleep and awake at all hours.  It’s no fun, and I get all the dizziness and tired-wired symptoms.  The good news is that I now know what day it is, even if I’m still zonked by tea-time!

Auckland.  I don’t love it.  Not yet anyway.  Maybe given time it will work it’s charms on me.  It’s a geographically huge city, and my first accommodation is way out in the sticks, meaning a long bus journey to get anywhere of any interest.  Aucklanders mainly rely on their cars, which explains why rush hour goes on for 3 hours in the morning and 3 hours at night too. 

Butterfly Creek is great.  Loads of friendly people, and lots of things for me to do when I start volunteering there.  Apparently they are going to get me feeding the crocodiles… I’m not sure if they were pulling my leg at that point, but I’ll definitely give it a go if I get the chance!  As well as butterflies and crocodiles they also have tarantulas, giant and tree wetas (eek!), fish and loads of fluffy creatures for the children to pet.  As long as my visa comes through okay I should be starting there soon!

Have also managed to sort out a room to rent until January.  Quite a big room with ensuite bathroom and it’s own sundeck, in the lovely leafy Mount Eden.

Hard work done (for the moment), time to have some fun!

No, not like that. I am under no grand creator illusions regarding my existence here on earth. I mean why am I here in Sydney, sitting at 6.30am writing my first blog? Well the 6.30am part can be explained away by jet lag and a lengthy flight back from Scotland. And the reason I am writing a blog now may have something to do with this trip too. I just spent 3 weeks back home where my past, present and future collided in such an emphatic way that the Hadron scientists were probably a little jealous. I made contact with my past, I made big plans for my future….all in all it was 3 weeks that will more than likely change my life. And that also explains the name I chose for my blog. 180degrees means many different things to different people, but to me it refers to a strong belief I hold that no matter how long you continue in one direction, holding a certain belief or following a decision that has taken you somewhere unexpected, you can change. There’s always another choice, another point of view, another direction. And while some change is good, some unpleasant  – all of it is necessary.

I have spent much of my adult life making decisions and choices that, while seeming random and ill thought out sometimes, have led me to many places and people that I would never have encountered had I not been open to change. 180degrees is especially relevant to me now. I am moving back to Scotland next year after 8 years away – a turn of events I would have said was nearly impossible only a few months ago. But things do change….I am going to study journalism, something I am incredibly excited and nervous about. I’m looking forward to spending time with my family and loved ones…it has been far, far too long since I did so.

I’m looking forward to going back.

Why should I go?

It’s a few years since I last visited Abu Dhabi, and from what I have read and seen the expansion – and the opulence – has continued apace.  Dubai’s lesser-known neighbour, Abu Dhabi is a great place for a break at any time of the year, but particularly in the winter.  Its benefits are two-fold; the weather is warm throughout the year (October is an especially good time to go, in my experience) and the flight is only six hours.  The four-hour time difference means you’re not jet-lagged and it’s short enough to get over there for a long weekend.  Perfect.

Its other key advantage lies in the fact that it is not Dubai.  Abu Dhabi has everything Dubai does – the trendy shopping malls with brands like Gucci and Prada; the spectacular five-, six-, and seven-star hotels; beautiful beaches with watersports – but without the tacky, over-commercialised feel that Dubai has.  If Dubai is the playground of the rich and famous, Abu Dhabi is their well-furnished living room; spectacular, fashionable, and oozing glamour and class.

The lobby of one of the Hilton Hotels in Abu Dhabi

What’s it like?

Driving in on the immaculate roads, everything looks a little bit unreal.  That’s because it is; it’s not so long ago that Abu Dhabi was effectively a small fishing port on the outer rim of the desert.  Then the oil was discovered and the rest, as they say, is history.  Palm trees line the streets, and everything is pristine and new.  Most people seem to drive shiny 4×4s (which are, like the petrol, incredibly cheap) and wander about looking like they’ve just stepped out of Vogue.

Relishing the warmth of the sea

The hotels compete with one another to look increasingly spectacular, and they certainly succeed.  But on the inside, they are even better.  Aside from the wonderful facilities, they serve exceptional food.  Each hotel generally has two or three different restaurants and bars, so the variety of choice will suit any palate – Italian, Indian, Chinese, American and English dishes are all on the menu.

But if you go out into the city itself you can eat a sumptuous meal for just a couple of pounds as the restaurants cannot afford an alcohol licence and therefore use rock-bottom prices to tempt in punters.  I went out in a group of eight or nine and I think a very good curry (two courses with sides and soft drinks) set us back £24 altogether.

Holding on for dear life - the seven-star Emirates Palace Hotel is in the background

 What do I do for entertainment?

There are a vast range of watersports such as tubing, parasailing, banana boating and water-skiing to try, and they are exceptionally good fun.  The fact that the sea is warm makes the experience of falling in somewhat less unpleasant…  When I was there last I did have the misfortune to be on a banana boat which broke down about a mile into the middle of the bay and we had no radio, so I spent a long time standing on the front of a speedboat trying to rock it to get the dregs of the fuel through.  We ended up spending about 40 minutes cooking in the sun before someone finally noticed we were missing!

The most unmissable attraction, though, is the opportunity to do a bit of dune-driving.  You pile into a Toyota Landcruiser and a slightly crazy driver takes you out into the desert.  You jump out and visit a camel farmer for 10 minutes while the 4×4 drivers let all the air out of the tyres before you get back in for the ride of your life.  They race up 60 feet high dunes and then just let the jeep slide down sideways – you feel like you’re going to topple, but the flat tyres and the fact that the sand gives means you don’t. 

A new Lawrence of Arabia?

The adrenaline rush is unbelievable, and you can try it out in yourself when you reach the camp in the desert with a bit of quad-biking through the dunes.  At first it’s really hard to trust that it won’t just roll over and crush you but as soon as you get used to the sensation of sliding down the dunes uncontrollably it is absolutely fantastic.  The more timid can be content with the camel riding…

The camp is next to an enormous dune which you can use a snowboard or skis to travel down at breakneck speed (and end up in a sandy heap at the bottom).  The food is lovely, with a range of meats – including the chewy but tasty camel kebab – and curries on offer, as a belly dancer entertains everybody. 

Little does he realise he is dinner...

Then the staff get everyone to lie on their backs and switch off all of the lights in the camp; the view of the stars is just breathtaking, and the feeling of remoteness and solitude is very relaxing.  Then it’s either a retreat to the tents for those who are spending the night in the desert or a trip back in the Landcruisers for those who need a raturn to the creature comforts.

Can you tell by our faces who is enjoying this?

Dubai is a worthwhile day out, but only if you’re in Abu Dhabi for more than four or five days.  The Wild Wadi Water Park at the Jumeirah Beach Hotel (next to the sail-shaped Burj Al Arab) is a great place to spend a few hours, and it is worth getting there as early as possible to avoid the queues.  The interconnected rides in the two-person rings are the most fun, but that is another story altogether…

I can’t be the only one who finds so-called “daylight savings time” disorienting now, can I? For instance, now that we’ve “fallen back,” one must endure the following mental gymnastics:

• What time is it now, really?
• Why is my body so tired, when my clock watching eye so awake?
• Which time is “right” — the time before we “fell back” or before we “spring forward”?
• Why is all of a sudden so f&cking dark when I’m leaving work?

But most of all, what is the point of this government imposed jet-lagging of the masses? Does it really save any daylight? What is the point?

Does it save energy? Yes. Or no. Or, no one really knows. So, no answer there.

Does it improve public safety. Inconclusive.

Is it good for our health? Probably not. Remember Circadian Rhythms?

As it turns out, one thing it does do is help some folks make more money. Wall Street likes the extra hours to trade w/ London. Chicago financiers want to keep up with New York.  Clorox, 7-Eleven and Potato farmers pushed extensions to DST so we’d have time to buy more bleach, Slurpees and french fries. The Sporting Goods Manufacturers Association and the National Association of Convenience Stores were behind the latest extension under the Bush Admin.

DST keeps getting longer and longer w/o evidence of public benefit.  C.R.E.A.M.

Of course, before “daylight savings time,” the day began and ended when the sun came up and set. Now we just eat our Twinkies and and try to forget its happening to us.

Come spring, we’ll get all dizzy again. Fun.

(By the way, if it is any consolation, Fall is apparently “real” time; comes Spring we start “saving” time again).

What a day, though as unexciting as it was.  Simply, because all I did was work all day.  We had the “falling back” Of time though, so the sun set a little “earlier”.  But beyond that I’ve felt sooooo weary all day.  A word I don’t use often, then as the sun was setting lower I got loopier and loopier.  So I coined the phrase, “Seasonal Jet Lag”.  It was the only thing I could compare to how I was feeling was extreme jet lag I have experienced.

Yesterday itself was a FANTASTIC day.  Holloween was  fun, probably one of the most enjoyable I have had.  Though, my Holloween experience is quite minimal.  This being my second one where I have gone actual Trick Or Treating.

Having grown up in a completely strict and rigid household, Holloween was frowned upon and so I never went trick or treating as a child, dressed up ect.  Since it was such a “evil”  Holiday.  I don’t understand how anyone could view a holiday where people give away bags of free candy as evil, but to each their own.  So now all these years later, my parents views have shifted completely.  And they have let my brothers and sisters dress up and go out.

I deeply enjoyed spending time with my family, my brothers, Zach, Caleb and sisters, Grace Sarah as well as her friend who showed up about 30 min after we had been out.   Zachery was a tiger,  Caleb was a vampire, Grace was a bumblebee, Sarah and her friend were barbies.  My other brother, Daniel was a Zombie.  He went with other friends.  He created his own costume, it was amazing, he did a great job on it.  Then, Leah who was able to join us for the evening was a vampire, but a very majestic looking vampire, classy would be another word.  I was a vampire as well, 17th century looking style.  I really liked the costume, would have had the fake teeth as well but when I was setting the mixture for them I goofed it up and it wouldn’t stick so I gave up on it.

We hit one neighborhood and cleared it out, then came back into my dad’s neighborhood, my mom took Grace and Zachery home.  Then Leah, Caleb and I did door to door.   It turned out to be a much greater pull in my opinion because two things.  In my dad’s neighborhood, not a lot of people had been through, and they gave much larger candy!

Then we watched a movie called, “A dog’s breakfast”.  Was very bizarre and VERY funny.    It was really nice to spend time with my family, an Leah, it felt very “family-ish”  Probably one of the most family feelings I’ve ever had sharing time and life with Leah involved in something my family was doing.

Off to sleep now, need rest and have a 10 am meeting with Dr.John and everyone for Red Book & Cotton.  Then going to go to the tmobile store and hopefully see this Motorola Cliq so I can get a hands on experience with it.

The variations of time change are catching up to me. It’s not enough that I’m suffering normal jet lag, but our return from London has left me biologically befuddled thanks to daylight savings time confusion.

So, I woke up this morning at 4 a.m., which may or may not have been 8 or 9 a.m. for my body. Or, it could’ve been somewhere between the two.

When we arrived in London on a Tuesday, the time difference was 5 hours. They were 5 hours ahead of the U.S. east coast. I normally rise at 5 a.m. or so, and naturally, the time change meant that, for the first few days, my bod wasn’t ready to go until much later.

But, one slowly adjusts. By later in the week, I was rising at a semi-normal hour, say 6 or so.

Then England’s time changed. “Summer time” ended. “Summer time,” that’s what they call it, in their quaint British way. Not “daylight savings time.” Whatever its name, naturally, I forgot to change my watch the night this happened, and found myself playing with my computer at what I thought was 6 a.m. but was really 5.

And, now we were just 4 hours ahead of home, which didn’t really matter, except when I was wondering if people in the states would be reading my e-mails yet. But, I had to adjust to sleeping an extra hour, and had but two days in which to do it.

And, so, when we flew home, now biologically 4 hours ahead of our house clocks and 1 hour behind our London clocks, real confusion set in.

I keep waking at 3:30 or 4. Lord knows what will happen this Sunday when our “summer time” ends. The clocks will again go back an hour. Will I be up at 2:30 or 3?

Probably.

I’m puzzled by several things international that seem like they should be universal but aren’t:

• why some countries drive on the left, some on the right
• why all countries don’t use the same electrical wattage and outlet styles
• and, now, why all countries don’t change the time at the same time.

I mean, why wouldn’t England change the time at the same time as the U.S.? Why wouldn’t everyone? Think how much easier it would be for us international travelers who happen to be traveling when the time changes.

Boy, am I tired.

Ajavahe ei lasnud vahepeal üldse magada – ükspäev isegi juhtus, et suutsin uinuda alles kell 7 hommikul. Ent leidsin ööseks väga õdusa ajaviite – ETV arhiiv Doris Kareva luulesaadetega – üks isegi aastast 1982! Ja siis tema hiljutised ETV õhtused luuletused.  Lisaks veel tõesti inspireeriv vestlus õnnest Ööülikoolis. Väga diip! Nojah, igatahes, magamise suhtes läksin ma kergema vastupanu teed, võtan nüüd unerohutablette – Dormicum Olen väga rahul, uinumine on lihtne nagu nupule vajutamine.

Eelmisel laupäeval avastasin Mees, kes teadis ussisõnu lauamängu (Andrus Kivirähk, Asko Künnap). Haa, ikka nii super vaimukas huumor, Kivirähk ikka nagu tõeline eestlane! Olen kuulnud, et kirikuinimesed olevat jubedalt pahandanud selle asja pärast ja ma saan aru ka, mispärast. Metsik kirikute põletamine ja munkadega võitlemine. Ainult eestlased tuleksid selle peale, et taoline lauamäng teha. Täielik klassika. Veel Kivirähku – käisin Eesti Draamateatris “Vombat”-it vaatamas. See oli nii naljakas. Mulle eriti meeldisid need joodik-sõbrad, kes Elmot grünesse õlut jooma kutsusid. Need olid nagu otse elust. Ja naabrimees Rulling – arvas, et on saksa soost, aga välja tuli, et hoopis neeger.

Vombat

A mi me gusta viajar en avión, los viajes largos, sentarme en la butaca y sentir que estoy solo, a 10.000 metros de altura; me gusta comer y cenar, tomarme una copa de vino, y conversar con gente desconocida, con los que llegas a intimar durante un breve momento de tu vida y a los que seguramente no volverás a ver.

Hoy he cenado agnolotis de espinacas y queso con salsa de zanahoria al estragón en un menú seleccionado por Sergi Arola (desde aquí un abrazo a su hermano Eduard, de Arola Tapas en Arts Barcelona) Es curioso que te puedas encontrar en el aeropuerto de una ciudad suramericana a alguien a quien conoces y raramente te cruzas en tu propia ciudad (un abrazo Idoia)

Viajar es aventura, libertad, coincidencias, curiosidad y cuando lo haces solo, un viaje a tu interior.

Y por suerte, nunca tengo “jet lag”.

I am deceived.  I wake this morning after a solid 8 hours of sleep and feel pretty good.  Until I step out of bed, that is.  It was like the end of a long scuba dive—you feel good in the water—but the party’s over when you climb up onto land.  This is what it feels like when I get out of bed.

Everything still aches, and the fullness of my weight is immediately realized by every cell in my body; even my hair hurts.  And I feel start to feel sick again. 

As I walk downstairs I realize how much I’ve come to love the floors here; I’ve been reading an Indian culture book in bits and pieces and have now learned that it’s common to not wear shoes in the house, so I’ve taken to walking around barefoot.  The feeling of feet on extremely smooth, clean marble is really nice.  I’ll have to remember to reenact Risky Business later, sans prostitutes. 

I check my work email and eat a granola bar and water (which I have now started to drink from the reverse osmosis filter on the tap, with no horrifying results yet) until shrieking outside on the balcony catches my attention.  Monkeys?!  Will I once and for all be able to settle Mike’s query about the use of large guard monkeys to keep the pesky little ones away?  But I know that rabies is rampant and deadly here, and to open the door would be a remarkably stupid risk.

After I open the door and step outside, I am attacked by three or 4 vicious monkeys that bite my neck and take my Mastercard.  No, that’s a lie; I have a Visa.  Ba-dum.  I actually walk out onto the balcony to the screeching of wild parrots, which are a noisy but welcome replacement to the gentle cooing pigeons who’ve been waking me every morning with occasional cage matches on the air conditioner (get it?  Bird? Cage?  This is gold).  And if you’ve never seen two pigeons fight, you’re missing out; it’s like watching two guys in fat suits try to kickbox.  But the parrots—these guys are rockstars, screeching and darting zooming through the archways on the top of the balcony roof.  As soon as I get the camera, however, they blast over to the next high rise. 

After a while Alam calls me to let me know that Surender has come down with a fever and won’t be able to cook for me this morning, which is fine, and I give my wishes that he feel better soon.  On a selfish level, this gives me a reprieve.  I think Surender is a wonderful cook, but between being taken out by both Abhishek and Shubh and then by Alam, I did not have the chance to eat the chicken dish he had made for me, and god knows I don’t need another strike with him.  I still feel like I’m on thin ice for refusing tea my first night.

So I set about making my own food, and I think I do a pretty good job mimicking what had been made for me the day before; I’m just extra careful to cook everything as thoroughly as possible and use filtered water for everything. 

After I’ve completed my breakfast the doorbell rings, I open the door, and in darts the tiny cleaning woman.  She looks down and quickly sets to work, and I do my best to stay out of her way and not bother her.  The only interaction we really have is when she comes in to say “Done” and waits for me to signal that she can leave.  It’s a very strange interaction for me.

After lying down for a little (malaria pills again), I get up to work and there is another knock at the door.  I go to it and open it.  Another small woman is there in a sari and says something to me in Hindi.  I smile and shake my head—“English?”  She says something in Hindi longer and faster.  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”  She turns to her coworkers to say something and they begin to talk amongst themselves.  I take the opportunity to gently close the door.  I’ve got to stop answering the thing if I’m not ready to deal with people.

That’s not a fair rule, but I hate feeling like an idiot and not knowing a language in a country (which is not an unimaginable situation in a country with over 23 of them). 

*                                                                      *                                                                      *

Shubh shows up at around 2:30 with a rented cab and we make our way to Delhi.  I’m feeling bad about waiting in the apartment this long, but do my best to remind myself that I’m here to work, believe it or not, and the rest will be good in overcoming my illness and my jetlag.  Also, I don’t really know how to navigate this country very well yet.

English is the language that connects this country; this is what everyone says, but it is misleading.  It is true that English is the common language that connects groups that otherwise speak different languages from different regions, but this does not mean that everyone speaks it by any means.  Actually, relatively few people speak English, a fact exemplified by the cab driver who doesn’t speak a word of it.  Fear, however, is universal, and I experience this full-on as he is driving.

While my first experiences as a passenger in a Delhi car have been exciting, the cab takes it up a notch—just the same as a US cabbie would drive recklessly compared to a regular driver in the states, this driver takes us from unnerving to insane in 3 seconds flat. 

There really are no traffic laws.  Lanes are on the road, but the more I watch the drivers, the more I see that they aren’t even considered.  Vehicles squeeze past, 2, 3, 4 a lane.  At several points, we are on what appears to be an eight-lane highway as the driver drives—not passes—in the oncoming lane, drifting back into our lane only when the blaring horn and oncoming light are within about 10 feet of us.  And we are not traveling slowly. 

When the lanes are too crowded, we take exciting detours onto the sidewalk, or otherwise through ditches—at one point I’m positive he driver is going to shoot us through an impossibly small space between a stone wall and a large tree, but he refrains.  He was thinking about it, though. 

Besides the speed, the disregard for anything that might be considered a traffic law, or the lack of safety belts (which Shubh proudly tells me we aren’t compelled to wear), is the belief that no space is too small to squeeze through, and if it is, speed will fix the problem.  Even on open road the driver has a desire to practice his skills and buzz oncoming cars and pedestrians on the side of the road terrifyingly close.  Inches, literally.  We come so close to walkers that should they move 2” to the right, they’d be spilling over our hood.

Our first destination is to the tallest minar (which is a tower with intricate carvings) in Delhi.  After parking we cross the street, and Shubh takes me by the hand, which I don’t protest as 1) this is common in India, and 2) I don’t feel like being run down.  Male friends are often seen walking arm in arm or hand in hand, which I think is a nice gesture, and certainly more understandable in a country without the luxury of a concept such as personal space.  When crossing, there is no waiting for a signal, nor even waiting for a break in traffic—it’s a game of chicken.  You start across, hold your ground, and look to the next driver you are crossing and do you best to will him to stop.  If he falters and starts to slow, you step out in from of him because you know he sees you and likely doesn’t want to deal with the hassle of hitting you—but you remain ready to step back, which in itself poses a problem because those cars in the line you just came from are now blasting past you with a few inches of space between you. 

Once we are inside the monument area I am again on display as much as the minars.  People look very curiously at me, particularly children.  It’s friendly curiosity and I reciprocate with a smile or a nod, which invariably causes the looker to smile and cast his or her eyes down politely.  If I were a part of this culture, I’d be looking at me too; I look very different with western clothes, looks, and mannerisms.  Also, I also forget that I am much larger than most of these people—I tower over the women and children, and many of the men come only to my shoulders.  But there is an air of harmony, and equal time is spent looking at the minar and the large, goofy Westerner as he glances up at the array of beautiful clothing and friendly people that surround him.

The carvings of the minar are incredible, as is its size, which is probably about as tall as my apartment building—add in the fact that this particular minar is over 700 years old and one gets a real appreciation for the ingenuity and work put into this structure.  The rest of the compound consists of temples, parts of temples, and an unfinished minar that was suppose to dwarf the one I’d just spent several minutes marveling at.  The number of unfinished or destroyed projects in just this region of the country dwarfs the entire number of accomplishments of my own. 

Shubh makes the call that we are to head to Red Fort now, which is near old Delhi; here we will see one of the forts of the old dynasty and see a light show this evening that will explain its history.  The driver darts down narrow streets lined with shops that peddle colorful snackfoods in bags, pots, cookwares, carvings, and all manner of jewelry.  Before long we are we stop at an intersection that isn’t; it’s a morass of cars converging from 5 different directions with barely considered traffic signals.  “Let’s go,” says Shubh and steps out into the maelstrom.  I follow, and we begin our game of high-stakes Frogger.  We are parked in something like a lane, but isn’t, and we make our way through the cars that jump and nudge forward, the rickshaws that zip by in between, and the mopeds and motorcycles that shoot through open spaces with inches on either side.  “Hold on to your camera,” Shubh tells me “Someone will pick it.”

We now stand in the middle of the road as the cars honk, then see a break by Delhi standards, which would be suicide in Washington.  We step and continue to walk across as three lanes speed toward us, assuming that since they must see us, they will stop.  They do not stop.  We run, jump, and land on top of the median bisecting the roadway just as one of the cars catches my right heel as is speeds by.  “Now you have the flavor of Delhi!” cries Shubh.

Crossing the rest of the street is easier since it abuts the monument equipped with a hefty number of guards at gun turrets instead of a raucous market.  Even though he has addressed the issue for me several times before, Shubh takes to time to explain to me that this is for protection against terrorism, as India is not as secure as the US.  I understand it, but am at a loss as to what they are really expecting.  Every corner of the fort has three guards station with machine guns and assault rifles behind 6’ high piles of sandbags.  They look ready for an invading army, which is highly unlikely as any aggressors would likely be killed crossing the road.

The Red Fort reminds me of the Kremlin—it has large red towers and looming walls that extend for a remarkable distance around the compound, which is encircled with a moat that, in the day, Shubh tells me, was filled with crocodiles.  The overkill nature of the fort seems justified when the literature indicates that due to it’s location, Delhi is a great center of opulence, but since there were no geographical barriers to protect the plain-centered city, it was frequently raided.  In fact, Delhi is so large because it actually consists of 7 cities—a new one was adjacently build every time its successor was raided and destroyed.  You can’t blame a city for fortifying itself after it’s been razed 7 times over.

Inside the compound are a number of structures—mostly courts—in which citizens would appeal for rulings from the monarch.  A red one was for commoners, a white one for special audience, and another for the most privileged.  These courts represented the highest laws in the kingdom, and during the last ruling monarch in the 1800s, after Delhi had been raided again and before British rule would monopolize the next 90 years, the then-monarch soberly admitted to two arguing citizens that he could not rule on their dispute since the riverbank in question was out of his jurisdiction.  It was a quarter mile away. 

After purchasing our tickets for the light show we again cross the Intersection of Doom and head into old Delhi to kill the next two hours.  Shubh tells me this is a very busy area of the country—the most densely populated yet, and that I should be ready for this.  Don’t worry, I tell him.  I’m ready.

I am not ready.  Crowds—I have experienced, but this is not a crowd.  This is a colony.  A crowd implies a group of individuals, but immediately upon entering the market place there is a feeling that you have become one of something larger.  Personal space ceases to exist, and people move in the streets as one organism.  We are not a group; we are one entity; we are blood moving through the veins of Delhi.  People move with an interconnectedness I have never seen.  We move through and around each other with touches and arm motions, but the aggression that would exist in an American crowd is not there.  Shubh later finds it strange that I have seen it this way—he saw much frustration—but I think the fact that people were able to move so smoothly because there was no cultural taboo of invading someone’s personal space.  Men and women brush right past me, but it’s not that they are brushing past me—they are simply navigating where to where they need to go.  People walk in the middle of the streets and rickshaws and motorcycles move along the sidewalks.  Overhead there are birds nests of electrical cabling, glowing signs, and believe it or not, apartment buildings.  It’s by far the most confining space I’ve ever been in—a space that would make me panic normally—but I’m at ease.  I feel privileged to be a part of something so raw, human, and interpersonal.  Then someone goes for my wallet.

I’d been expecting this, and had my hand strategically clasping where it was.  I grab the hand, which is just making its way into my pocket and shoo it away.  These people are poor, I’m a whiteface—this is how it goes.  I take it as more of a “just checking to see if you were looking after that” gesture.

Inconceivably, we hang a left down a side alley; we’ve been on the main road, the wide road.  The alley is suffocating; smoke from engines and cooking hand in the air, floating past the tangles of electrical wire criss-crossing the walkway 10’ above.  On both sides people sell local foods from boiling pans on the ground, in shops, or from carts. 

Restaurants are the sizes of closets.  People sit over each other to eat, and the Western idea of uniformity is beyond a world away.  One restaurant is about the size of my old dorm room (9’x11’).  In front a man boils roti in an enormous cauldron—inside, the patrons sit wherever there is room.  Some sit up high on plumbing, plastered structures that were the result of hasty repairs, or countertops.  Others sit on the floors, their arms and legs inter-tangled—but floor is a misnomer.  There is no floor—all there is relative surface here; some higher up, some down lower, none of it uniform.  I have the hardest time contextualizing this place. 

To get an idea of what this is like, image a wide hallway in your house.  Now picture both walls actually being stores and restaurants packed with people similar to the ones just described.  Now imagine that on one end of the hallway, there is a concert letting out with people streaming out.  From the other, there is a line of people streaming in waiting, say, for a restroom.  Both groups, thousands strong, are interested in looking in the shops and buying things.  Above, slanting in, are crooked buildings covered in advertisements, neon lights that block out the night sky, and a web of wires and cable so thick that a human would not be able to pass through them.  It is extremely loud, the air is filled with smoke, humidity, and the suffocating expelled breath of this collective humanity.  In the midst of this, given the width of the hallway and the people, imagine there are now rickshaws carrying enormous bundles of fabric one way, while motorcycles pulling carts of fruits and vegetables come from the opposite direction.  The only thing more impossible that this scenario is the fact that it exists, and that these people make it work. 

I am saddened that I am not able to take many pictures, but it is nearly impossible; attention must be given to everything and at all times.  More than once, even though I am taking great care, Shubh pulls me out of the way of an oncoming rickshaw or moped.  Every niche is occupied; if there is an open spot on the ground, it is occupied by a man with a pile of beans sitting on a bamboo disc.  Open ground is a place for a cart.  Nothing is wasted; everything is used.

The food looks so exotic and exciting that I opt to try some; this is what travel is for—to eat the real food and see the real lives of the people who live in a place.  No, says Shubh.  “This food will make you very sick,” he says “very, very sick.  Not safe.”  He can tell I’m disappointed, so he takes me to a sweet shop where he orders me what looks like a small orange pretzel.  “Try this,” he says “dry sweets are safe.”  It’s delicious—a homemade cheese that’s been fried in sugar water.  Amazing.

Just the same it’s hard to feel safe eating it; when you come from a hyper-sterile society that washes hands before even putting on gloves, to eat something given to you by a man with dirty bare hands in one of the dirtiest alleys you’ve ever been means taking a bit of a risk.  It’s hard to not be on complete guard in this place; anything, even touching the wrong thing, could make me very sick.  There are water outlets everywhere, and people drink and bathe, and it’s hard to imagine that if I did the same I’d be in a very bad place very quickly without the help of medication.

There are also several very large places of worship in the market, though they are completed camouflaged as they are enshrouded with peddlers and carts.  I pass a Sikh gurdwara and see a man at a podium speaking.  There are also several mosques, and a number of Hindu temples.  I’d like to go inside, but I’m already overwhelmed and fear that I might commit some egregious faux pas in my befuddled state.  Perhaps later in my trip.

As it turns out, I will not have to wait long for some religious exposure; as soon as we cross the street again there is a wave of commotion; a parade.  “This is for Krishnu,” Shubh tells me.  The streets become even more crowded as waves of people move through with floats of Krishnu, illuminated dances, stages with singers, and children throwing packets of what appear to be crystals.  A truck full of them notice me, I turn and smile, then whip my hand up and snatch out of the night air the bag they have thrown to me.  This makes them very happy, and the small man next to me presses his hands together and nods to me “Namaskar,” he says, and I reciprocate and offer him the bag, which he refuses.  Shubh tells me this is a bag of sugar crystals to be eaten.

I’m very thankful to have him here; without him, I would have long ago been lost, likely pick-pocketed, or generally distressed beyond cognizance.  We walk on, down a cramped alleyway, and something—someone—brushes my left leg.  Strange.  Then a hand runs up my left arm.  I glance back to see a tall boy in a sweater vest and pants with no shoes.  Startled and confused, I turn to Shubh.  

Shubh, what does it mean when they touch your leg and your arm?

“What do you mean?” 

When they touch your leg and your arm. 

“Oh no,” he says shaking his head “that’s not good.  Not good.”

Shit.  I hadn’t reacted because I wasn’t sure if this was a gesture of kindness—a blessing?  Was it a curse?  It hadn’t been aggressive, so how could this be problem?

“Who did this to you?” Shubh asks.

Well, I say, glancing back, feeling like a child tattling on a bully, the guy right behind me. 

“Right there?” Shubh points with his chin.

Yes, I say. 

And right then, the Shubh I have known ceases to be and Shubhendu the Enforcer breaks out of his cocoon.  Pushing his shoulders up and forward, Shubh rounds on the kid, who quickly scampers out of the way as Shubh steps in front of me with a swiftness that surprises me.  There is an exchange of words, Shubh makes dismissive gestures, and all I can think as I stand there like a big helpless infant is how much this looks like an animal fight.  Shubh is extremely kind, polite, and gentle—in look and nature—but he is a man, not a boy, and that really has pull in this situation; even though the boy is about the same size as Shubh, he is clearly intimidated by him.  After a further exchange the boy leaves.  “He wanted money,” Shubh informs me, shrinking back down to Bruce Banner size.    

We again cross the huge intersection and walk back to the Red Fort, which is not nearly as intimidating now—in that it seems possible that it could be done—but it still remains a difficult feat to accomplish unscathed.  But this time I make it by without Shubh holding my hand; the Great White Baby is growing up a little.

Back at the Fort we get tickets for the light show, which amounts to a retelling of the history of the former fortress through pre-recorded voices and strategic lighting of monuments to signify where this happened.  It’s a good way to gain an understanding of exactly how old this place is; and it’s also a great way to get Malaria. 

As we sit I swat at a bug and Shubh makes a sound of distress.  “That is what I forgot,” he admits “Alam told me to bring bug spray for the mosquitoes.”  This is alright, I say, as I have some, and pull it from my bag.  I’m grateful he said something; the mosquitoes that have been after us are much smaller than I am used to, and don’t make any noise.  While the chances that they would carry Malaria are somewhat less in an urban area, it probably wouldn’t have been wise to sit and be bitten for an hour.  Sheer numbers suggest that might not end well for me in a few weeks.

We go to a restaurant after dinner and talk more about what I’ve learned and my impressions of Indian culture.  The nice thing about Shubh is that he seems just as interested in learning about my culture as I am about learning his.  Every time one of us asks a question to the other, that same question is asked back.  Is there a weekend?  How long to people go to school for?  What do families look like, and what happens to elders in your society?

It’s very true that Indians are centered on family culture—it’s a topic that I repeatedly discuss with each person I meet.  It seems like a nice way to stay grounded; perhaps that’s why this culture is so patient and understanding in nature—the focus is the family, rather than individual paths to happiness.

The restaurant is continental, which is a nice break, though I’m still not hungry.  When it comes time to eat, I feel the pull of hunger fully, but the idea of eating makes me feel sick.  It’s hard for someone who’s used to housing anything put in front of him with savage vigor. 

The restaurant is for a younger crowd; is has louder music, low lighting, and a very modern feel.  On a small stage by the bar is a couple singing karoke, but I learn this really isn’t the case—they are the night’s performers.  Apparently they input songs into a machine and sing along to the music—a bit of a strange concept, but nice just the same.

On a trip to the washroom I make a few friends and get a better feel of the divide between old and new India.  There’s a line for the restroom, which consists of one toilet.  I wait behind two New Delhi kids who, after scaring out the previous occupant with slaps on the door, go in together and commence about their business with the door open.  It’s then that I am joined in the hallway by three other young guys from Gurgaon who work as mechanical engineers for Suzuki, India’s biggest car manufacturer.  We all shake hands, exchange names, and laugh when we learn we are staying in the same town.  When they ask about the restroom, I tell them there are two people in there, and as one of my new associates peeks in, he shakes his head when he sees the legs on the toilet through the open door.  He gives a “these people…” sigh and laughs.

Back at the table Shubh and I collect our things and exit outside, and I step around a very small woman in a red sari.  I know what’s coming, so I try to use Shubh as a shield as we walk, but I feel her hands brush my arm.  I say no and shake my head, but she persists.  And again.  Her voice is a deep rasp, and I’m more than a little freaked out by it.

Shubh, I ask, what am I supposed to do here?

And The Enforcer is back.  He steps between us, and immediately starts firing questions at her, gesturing with his hands.  She tries to step around him, but he moves and makes a tsh tsh tsh sound and attempts to shoo her away.  Her growling has become a little louder now.

We try to keep walking, and she follows; I can feel her eyes behind me and it’s creepy knowing she’s following in the night.  The other beggar was young and lively—there’s something very dark about this one, and I wish she’d go away.  All at once, she’s between us, holding my arm, stroking it.  She does it so quickly and slickly that Shubh doesn’t even see her, but when he does, his eyes flare.

Wedging himself between, he takes his leg and forcefully brushes her backwards, then takes his index finger and holds it up in front of her, sternly telling her to back off.  She does not like this, and this is big business because I know that pointing is considered very rude.  She begins shouting—or presenting her discourse—very loudly, in her rasp.  We walk away and don’t talk about it.

Waiting for the cab we run in to my washroom friends and I introduce them to Shubh.  They all joke about work, and I see how much title and position matter in professional life here; it’s the first line of questioning aside from family.  Who do you work for?  What do you do?  Where is that?

When we finally rouse the driver (who has been sleeping in the car), we ride back through Delhi and back to Gurgaon.  The roads have become a little more amusing than intimidating.  We talk amidst the honking of horns the shouts of a group as we pass a car fire, which causes a bit of a commotion.  They drop me off back at my place and I walk in, greet the night guard, saying namaskar.  In the elevator I feel good about the experience today.  I think I’m getting a good feel for the country, and a lot of my fears are melting away, and as I enjoy the new feeling of empowerment, the electricity goes off, but I’m just as empowered when the elevator comes back on and I get to my apartment 5 minutes later.