Fate hated my outfit today.
It started this morning: Confident from my successful interactions with both the grocer and the 7 hr. photo guy I stopped by my favorite coffee shop to make a 'normal' morning of it. Upon leaving I sashayed halfwittedly straight into the closed door. Clearly labeled "PULL" from the inside I instead chose to PUSH, sandwhiching my grande iced cafe mocha between myself and the single-way-swinging hard space. Donned with sweet sticky espresso, I didn't cry over my spilt condensed milk. Instead I collected any salvaged dignity I may have dropped on the floor and I walked home to change my shirt.
I've had bigger embarrassments in India...
Like a few hours later, iPod in hand, I dance/walked to Death Cab for Cutie's "Marching Bands of Manhattan" pretending to star in my very own personal music video back toward the photo store to collect my printed memories. Two blocks from my apartment suddenly a bucket of (I'm certain) well-used bath water rained from the apartment complex heavens to my left like a shower of body drool landing directly on my favorite BR jeans and trickling slowly toward my Tevas.
I should have noticed the pool that had been collecting outside the building where previous showers had been discarded. It was my own fault. But whatever, I'm beginning to enjoy the workout of bucket washing my clothes.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Sunday, October 12, 2008
it's been a while
I need to talk about something...and that something is DANCE.
I never thought I'd be one to say something like this, but I need to dance! India's most interesting trait so far is the awkward gender roles. For instance, men walk around holding hands with men, with no sexual attraction they are merely friends looking for affection. You will rarely see a man and woman walking together hand in hand and will NEVER see a male/female couple kiss in public. This is a stark comparison to the U.S. where when I was in N.Y. just before I embarked on my journey overseas, I saw a couple in Central Park "doing the nasty" in broad daylight, next to the big carousel where children who go unfazed by this type of physical goings on due to an extreme distraction caused by the ice cream man.
Honestly, I don't care who is or isn't holding hands when they walk down the street. And to my extreme disappointment I've yet to snag myself and Indian boyfriend so I really don't care if PDA is socially inappropriate (honestly it makes me feel more comfortable being sans b.f.)
. My underwear starts to bunch when I get a hankering for some good music and a dance floor. Get dressed up, which pretty much means put on your nicest Indian wear (aka pajamas), find a club nearby and get ready to shake it!...or not. First of all, you can't get into a club without a date. Girls have to be with guys and vice verse. So, whatever, not that big of a deal and it kind of makes sense. Secondly, upon admission, there are without fail about 35 people standing around in small gender specific groups. Not one person is dancing (except that guy who's at every club I've ever been to: He's about 55 and no one's told him that WHAM hit their plateau in 1986). It's the most disappointing thing and it keeps happening to me. So disappointing that I've decided to boycot all dance clubs until I return to the United States where I will be greeted with all of the hip-hop-bump-and-grind-ridiculousness a girl can dream of.
For now, I'm content with the new Beyonce CD I bought which has been on loop since Wednesday.
I never thought I'd be one to say something like this, but I need to dance! India's most interesting trait so far is the awkward gender roles. For instance, men walk around holding hands with men, with no sexual attraction they are merely friends looking for affection. You will rarely see a man and woman walking together hand in hand and will NEVER see a male/female couple kiss in public. This is a stark comparison to the U.S. where when I was in N.Y. just before I embarked on my journey overseas, I saw a couple in Central Park "doing the nasty" in broad daylight, next to the big carousel where children who go unfazed by this type of physical goings on due to an extreme distraction caused by the ice cream man.
Honestly, I don't care who is or isn't holding hands when they walk down the street. And to my extreme disappointment I've yet to snag myself and Indian boyfriend so I really don't care if PDA is socially inappropriate (honestly it makes me feel more comfortable being sans b.f.)
. My underwear starts to bunch when I get a hankering for some good music and a dance floor. Get dressed up, which pretty much means put on your nicest Indian wear (aka pajamas), find a club nearby and get ready to shake it!...or not. First of all, you can't get into a club without a date. Girls have to be with guys and vice verse. So, whatever, not that big of a deal and it kind of makes sense. Secondly, upon admission, there are without fail about 35 people standing around in small gender specific groups. Not one person is dancing (except that guy who's at every club I've ever been to: He's about 55 and no one's told him that WHAM hit their plateau in 1986). It's the most disappointing thing and it keeps happening to me. So disappointing that I've decided to boycot all dance clubs until I return to the United States where I will be greeted with all of the hip-hop-bump-and-grind-ridiculousness a girl can dream of.
For now, I'm content with the new Beyonce CD I bought which has been on loop since Wednesday.
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