This post was written 4 days ago. New developments in the ongoing house-help saga at the end of the post. 

Today is a good day, and I feel like there is peace at Villa 12, or at least a cease-fire. Household matters (yes, this is currently the focus of my time in Bangalore instead of actually seeing India, but I guess this is part of the deal) are more under control and less up in the air than they were last night, and no one is crying or complaining to me about anyone else. And the best thing about today besides the peace in the house and being able to sleep in past 6 am because Dan gets up with the girls, is that the housekeeper just brought me a cup of chai that the cook made. She delivered it to the bathroom where I was showering so that I could have it right when I got out. Yeah, that totally happened. There’s no privacy, but I get hot chai practically in the shower. And I didn’t even request it. It just showed up.

Currently, the cook is busily cooking not one kind of food for lunch, but Western-style chicken pot pie AND Indian chicken biryani (Christen, I heard you and will definitely take more pics of the food) because Dan’s work colleagues are in town for a week and are either not big fans of Indian food or are afraid of getting sick. They are lucky we are in India and have a cook. If Dan’s colleagues wanted to come for lunch back in Brooklyn, they would all be squeezed next to the kids at a table for 4, and there would be take out, probably pizza, and maybe if they were really fortunate, a homemade salad since I could never, ever whip up a meal for 10 without having a massive panic attack. But the cook does it seamlessly with a big smile, and time to make me chai. She is truly a gem. I keep hugging her. And that’s when she knows to ask me for money for “petrol” for her long commute and upkeep for her old scooter. Her timing is impeccable. But she’s worth every penny.

I am so grateful for today because last night was exhausting for everyone. There was so much drama in the house. And it wasn’t drama with those of us who actually live in the house. As soon as the gals and I arrived home from swimming, the driver told me that the housekeeper was very rude to him. From what I gather from the story he told me, he asked her to come eat lunch with himself and the cook (they eat at the kitchen table jamming out to Indian tunes on their cell phones at full volume. I always feel like a third wheel and go upstairs so that they can have a relaxing lunch break and don’t have to deal with the “madam” being around—which is what I am called by the housekeeper even after numerous requests to be called Sharon. I finally got the driver and cook to call me Sharon after I told them what a madam is in the US—think ladies of the night) several times, she said no, that she wanted to do her work and would eat later and he persisted until she got fed up and said, “Get out of my head. You are giving me high blood pressure,” which I take to be a really big insult judging by the level of driver upset. The vibe I have been getting for the last couple of weeks is that the housekeeper feels he is overbearing and annoying. And she, being 18, isn’t so nice to him, and additionally, sometimes talks trash about her workload here to the neighbor’s housekeeper.

Two sides to every story, of course, so after getting the driver’s story, I asked the housekeeper what happened at lunch. I probably should have just stayed out of it, but I often feel so ultra-responsible for everyone’s happiness, and had to get involved. Mistake. What I think she told me in Kannada with gestures and a drizzling of English words here and there is what I mentioned above–she was annoyed because the driver wouldn’t listen to what she was saying and she just wanted to get her work done. As she told me the story she started crying. Poor thing! She’s just a kid! And she spends all her time cleaning my house! She isn’t the best housekeeper, but she tries! Well, she tries sometimes. I think she actually does work for about an hour and a half each day although she is here about 9 hours. I asked her if she thinks she can be nice to the driver even if she finds him annoying. She shrugged. The cook had to translate the conversation since my Kannada isn’t up to par. I wondered if there was anything going on at home to upset her. This gets a bit confusing, but apparently the housekeeper’s former employer whom her mom now works for keeps telling her mom that her daughter needs to train her properly. Ouch. And apparently another reason she is upset is because she thinks the cook tattled on her to me about her complaining about her work here. She told me she hadn’t been complaining, but several people heard her. But it wasn’t the cook who told me—it was the neighbor’s housekeeper who told her boss that my housekeeper said that the money is good, but that she has to clean the floors twice a day (that totally sounds like something I would ask her to do, right? And yeah, it is. But you should see how many people come through the house each day. Sometimes the doorbell rings and it’s not even for me. Today, for example, there was the housekeeper, the driver, the cook, Dan’s 4 co-workers, my awesome neighbor and her housekeeper, and her two kids, oh and my 3 kids). The neighbor’s housekeeper told her boss that my housekeeper is crazy for complaining because she gets Sundays off, works only a half day Saturday, and gets 200o more rupees a month than any other housekeeper on the block. And I let her hang out and draw as much as she wants to (I’m a sucker for artists). At this point the cook said that she was starting to feels stressed out because she wants everyone to be able to work together well, and she has never experienced this kind of conflict before at any of her jobs. Great. If the cook get stressed out and leaves we are all screwed.

Meanwhile, elsewhere in the villa…While I am having this intervention of sorts, Mia has taken off her dirty diaper, thrown it on Evie’s bed where the poo has seeped through a quilt, duvet and a sheet, and she is running through all the rooms upstairs with poo on her leg. Masan is screaming because she doesn’t want to get it on her. I throw Mia in the shower with Evie who holds her nose and starts screaming about poop getting on her. I stealthily cleaned Evie’s bed while she was in the shower so she would’t freak out any further.

Back to the saga…Long story longgggggg—-the housekeeper ignored the driver today and that seemed to work. Although she left the house as soon as I left for the pool today and never returned. Apparently her mom slammed her hand in a door?? And the neighbor’s housekeeper who ratted on mine is now helping us clean over here. So this should be awkward. I know that I probably need to fire my housekeeper. There are so many reasons why she has to go, but I feel badly firing someone who really needs the money. And she is always smiling. Maybe I can figure out a way to just keep paying her but not have her actually work here. I would rather do that than fire her.

Fast forward to Friday. We fired the housekeeper. Well, Dan did while I hid upstairs crying. He said that it was harder than any firing he has ever had to do at his job, although he gave her double what he owed her for this month. She was tearing up when she left, Dan looked like he was about to cry, and I was crying upstairs. The whole day I kept finding pictures around the house that she had drawn, the kids were asking for her, and I saw that she had actually organized Dan’s closet like I asked her to earlier in the week. It was like a really sad break up. Dan and I kept calling each other to process how horrible we felt. The neighbors and Dan’s co-workers thought we were ridiculous. Apparently, firing house help is very common in India, and not a big deal. But to us, we were so concerned about this girl’s feelings and ability to make a living. In the US if we don’t want a cleaning person to return we just don’t call them back. It’s the same thing with dating in the US—avoid confrontation at any cost. Maybe it’s not an American cultural norm at all, but just me. But in India, it’s important to be upfront and break up face-to-face, which is ironic because in India no one wants to be upfront and tell you no, even when there is no way they are going to be able to do what you are asking. Contradictions.

The good news is that our former housekeeper successfully found a full-time job down the street in just one day.

Yesterday I was able to get the gals out of the house for 2 expat outings. After Masan being sick in bed all day Tuesday, and me being sick all day yesterday, I was starting to get a bit stir crazy. First, we went to the Overseas Women’s Club (OWC) coffee at The Leela Palace Hotel, which is what I think of when I think of Indian luxury. Lush gardens, decadent decor, plush seating. Love this place. If you’re in Bangalore, and you don’t want to stay at Hotel Otmar, definitely look into this staying at Leela. Or you can stay at our place and we will stay there.

When Dan and I came in February to look for housing I was supposed to check out the OWC coffee hour at Leela, however, with the timing of our flight it never worked out, which I was not so secretly glad about because it seemed very exclusive. And I was coming to India to see India and make friends with Indians, and OWC membership was only open to those holding non-Indian passports are able to attend. Flash forward to July and me not being as connected here yet as I was back home (it only took me 10 years to feel settled in NYC), and I was willing to give OWC coffee hour and membership a try.

For the first time since landing in Bangalore, I was not the minority at a gathering. Not only were there other white ladies in attendance, but there were other Americans, and even one other child who the girls hung out with. That was the first time I had met other Americans in Bangalore. We live in a community where the majority of people are native Indians (although most have spent at least a few years in the US or Europe) or European (mostly German since Bosch is nearby). I hear that there are some Americans in this neighborhood, but they are thus far as elusive as the common cobra.

The OWC ladies were very helpful and welcoming. There were a couple who really went out of their way to chat with the gals and I. Overall, the group was not as friendly as most of the Indians I have met thus far, but neither am I—culturally Indians are so warm and loving. However, I’m excited to join the OWC. It’s another community of people to be a part of–they have a listserv for members as well as various volunteer and social opportunities. As we career development folks tell our clients, you never know where a job is going to come from so you need to try all avenues. It’s like that, you never know where your Bangalore best friend is going to come from. Of course, at one point at the coffee hour Mia and I spent about a half hour talking to a native Indian mom and her baby who were at Leela for a wedding. Somehow it was just easier to chat with her, and maybe it was a way of dealing with the guilt I felt at being at something that excludes others.

Later in the day Mia and I went to a weekly expat play date for toddlers down the street. I left the big girls watching a movie with their 8 year old neighbor with the housekeeper (more developments on this end with her being rude to the driver and gossiping about us to our neighbor’s housekeeper) and cook in charge. We had been casually invited to this play date by 3 different moms with kids we had met in while walking around the neighborhood, but I felt rude just showing up at a stranger’s home so up until this point we hadn’t been. But this week a very helpful mom held my hand and basically brought me with her. Over the past 3 weeks I have often felt like the only white person in Adarsh Palms Retreat, but at yesterday’s play group everyone was white except for one woman and her 2 daughters who were from S. Korea (and the cook, babysitter and maid). (BTW, I mentioned to Lilly, the babysitter that I really needed one, and this morning at 9:30am there was a woman on my stoop telling me her sister babysits and could she bring her by on Monday. Some things are just so easy in this country! Dan’s colleague told us help would just show up, and that’s what happens). Almost all the kids were blonde, and the moms were from all over Europe. I was definitely the loudest and most talkative person there. I tried to tone it down and listen more than I spoke, but who knows how we were received. It was hard to read these moms. I brought chocolate cupcakes and a bottle of proseco when everyone else brought homemade muffins and bottles of water. And the wine was never opened! The introduction of wine at our weekly Brooklyn playgroup was my biggest contribution, so maybe I’ll carry that tradition on here in Bangalore.

At the play date there were about 10 other moms with kids ranging from 9 months to about 3 years. Everyone was very welcoming without the bending-over-backwards, in-your-face, US friendliness. Mia had a fun time playing with all the toys and other tots. The host’s house looked like a montessori school. I have never seen so many toys outside of a preschool ever. Mia lost her mind. The trampoline was her favorite, of course, but she also loved the slide, the swing, and the puppy named Milo. (That’s another thing about Bangalore—there are so many dogs around here. You can easily adopt any dog you see, and by ‘adopt’ I just mean take home with you).

As fun as the playgroup was, and as interesting as it was to meet so many other expats, I didn’t quite feel like I belonged. It was that first day of a new school feeling where all the cliques are already established. It was similar to how I felt when I hosted movie night for our Indian neighbors a few weeks ago. I was just trying to feel my way without knowing quite how things were done. Fortunately, the cook was there to make Indian food because I get the feeling that much of Indian life revolves around food and if the food is good, the event is a success. In fact, I think it has been much easier for me to feel at home with my Indian neighbors than the expats I have met. We will see what happens once I meet some American expats. I’m hoping that there’s a way to include expats and Indian moms all in one big group. Being in Bangalore has made me appreciate how inclusive NYC is in so many ways. I know it’s not perfect and racism is ever present, but equality is something that we strive for, and segregation isn’t just accepted as being okay. It’s not only apparent in groups of moms, but is also clearly demonstrated in how ‘the help’ is treated. The women who cleaned for us back home ate dinner with us, sat on our sofa, used our plates and bowls, while here ‘the help’ has their own plates and cups (we have these), sits on the floor to eat their lunch (not at our place), doesn’t use the inside bathrooms (not at our place), and are basically treated like they are less than, and acting mean and rude to them is almost expected. That’s one part of the culture I hope to not embrace wholeheartedly, although I am fully taking advantage of having inexpensive labor which brings up many uncomfortable feelings.

Next post will hopefully be about today’s trip to an Indian dentist…

Not going to sugar-coat it. Today I feel annoyed, frustrated, short-tempered—BITCHY. I keep yelling at my kids because I am too programmed by my upbringing to be non-confrontational to yell at the housekeeper like I want to, although I did tell her I was upset that she was an hour and a half late without calling, which is a huge step for me. This is going to sound very ‘poor little rich girl,’ but it’s worth the possible label and criticism to be able to vent. Today this smiling, beautiful, probably overworked, incompetent teenager tried to wash the girls dry clean only, hand blocked quilts I told her last week were dry clean only (this is after washing 4 of Dan’s work pants and putting 2 in the dryer when I told her they were dry clean only), who spent 2 hours today watching her sister’s wedding video on Dan’s computer (she invited me to watch too, so in the middle of working on a client’s resume in the one second of time the kids would let me work, I obliged) after taking a lunch break, who left for the day without mopping the floor with the kids’ dinner rice scattered around like I had asked her to. She has also turned everything white I own to light blue or grey, burned a hole through my favorite shirt while ironing, may have stolen a ring of Evie’s that my dad made, sits around talking on the phone when she thinks I’m not looking, and cleans Mia’s room when she is napping inevitably waking her up or getting her up out of her crib when she cries for more than 5 minutes even when I have asked her numerous times to NOT DO THAT. But yelling at her or firing her would be acting entitled and unkind, and aren’t I here to try to help instead of becoming a pampered housewife? After all, she needs the work and has so little. I feel guilty that I have so much, and am so demanding of her. But swallowing my anger has made me grouchy and passive aggressive and I am paying her, so who does sucking it up really help? But she seems like she is trying some of the time, so how can I be angry with her? And she doesn’t have a computer at home so I need to let her use ours to watch her own sister’s wedding video, for goodness sake! But if I say nothing about what she is doing that I don’t like I am not training her, but when I ask her to do things I feel like I am being too bossy, which is something I was accused of all the time while I was growing up until I turned into a shy little girl, too afraid to raise my hand in school to voice my opinions for fear of being called “bossy,” but that’s another post all together.

And it’s not just this incompetent young housekeeper, and my inability to express my feelings about her work, but I’m also grouchy because I am an expat in a strange, new land and I am trying to figure this place out while being a full-time mama to 3 little kids on summer break. I am trying to meet people, plan outings for the girls, make sure they are well rested, healthy (easier said than done—today I found out I have to get them dewormed every 6 months), happy (some days this is impossible), having what we need for food and for the house, all while the kids are fighting incessantly, begging for unhealthy food all day long, interrupting when I am trying to understand what someone in Kannada is trying to tell me over the phone, pulling off diapers and peeing on the rug, and whining at the top of their lungs about pretty much anything and everything. I NEED A DRINK RIGHT THIS MINUTE.

We have been in Bangalore about 3 weeks at this point, so the shock and awe is beginning to wear off and now the daily grind and reality of living here has started to sink in. I love this neighborhood and our villa, but going to the pool or the in-community play space can’t be all that we see of this city and country. Although that’s pretty much all the girls want to do, but diving in is good for all of us, even if it takes us out of our comfort zone.

In the spirit of trying new things, having adventures to prevent stagnation, and check off our to-do-while-in-in-Bangalore checklist, on Sunday we went to church at St. Mary’s Basilica in the city center, which is one of the oldest churches in the city, and the only one in Karnataka to be called a Basilica. This church with a neon cross at the alter was way over capacity with patrons flooding the streets and in overflow chapels on either side of the main sanctuary. People meandered in and out of the buildings and were talking throughout the mass, similarly to the Indian weddings I have attended. I liked the casualness. I wasn’t worried about the girls’ manners or behavior disturbing anyone. Again, the gals were a hit—they met other Indian kids, had their pictures taken a dozen times, danced around, and said some prayers. Mia had a great time giving hugs and kisses to Indian babies, although she didn’t like it when some of the bolder folks picked her up. I was the only one who actually disturbed anyone—apparently a churchgoer had such an issue with my knee-length, baggy shift dress being way too short that he complained angrily to his wife and gestured so aggressively that Dan caught on to what he was saying even though he doesn’t know Kaanada.

After church we walked around the neighborhood, which sounds simple, but was actually pretty challenging. Imagine Chinatown, NYC where everyone is selling something in small stalls, but Bangalore’s scene was much, much dirtier and more crowded, with the smell of burnt rubber and fried food permeating the air already bursting with unfiltered exhaust fumes from busses, auto rickshaws, cars and mopeds. And the sidewalks were so cracked and narrow that they were non-existent. Even the small umbrella stroller was useless, and each step was a leap of faith that we wouldn’t be mowed down by a moped. At either side of the entrance to the stalls were heaps of trash, puddles of brown, flies diving and swarming, and people everywhere selling lots of dusty merchandise. I was oblivious to what was being sold because I kept my head down and trudged along, clutching Evie’s hand on one side and Masan’s on the other, while Dan carried Mia. My senses were overwhelmed, to say the least, and I got into speed walking, winter-in-NYC-mode to try to outrun my immediate environment. Evie and Masan kept complaining loudly about how badly it smelled, and kept asking to go home, and although I shushed them because they were being rude, I felt their pain. But we made it to Russell Market, which seemed like a haven in the storm after our 5 block walk from the church. Russell Market is a local indoor produce, flower, and meat market, which was in reality, only ever so slightly cleaner than the walk we had just taken. The produce was beautiful and exotic, and a man selling toys tried to sell me a dirty blow up punching doll for 250 rupees. I wanted to buy flowers and dragon fruit and veggies and the largest kidney beans I had ever seen, but alas, Dan didn’t have change, and pulling out 1000 rupees and trying to get change would have been tricky. We have noticed that if a store doesn’t have change, it never works in the customer’s favor: The shopkeeper keeps the money with a shrug.

It’s monsoon season, but in Bangalore the rain is not debilitating as it is in other cities. It’s cloudy mostly every day, but only rains in the morning or evening, usually. And traffic seems to get a bit worse with the rain, but other than that, I find the rain to be cozy and cooling, and we can even wear a sweater when it rains! Love that! But this post isn’t about the weather, lovely as it is, but instead about our middle class family moving around the world to suddenly find ourselves members of the 1%.

Last Sunday we went to the zoo, which involved a 2 hour drive one-way in bad traffic, unappealing views out the window of soggy mounds of trash along the road-side, skinny cows meandering in and out of trash piles and the middle of the road, and exhausting complaints from my kids. But once we finally arrived, it was well worth the trip. We went on a safari in a dusty car with two Russian expats we were paired with by the zoo ticket booth staff, and had some great, close-up encounters with cute, furry-eared bears, sleepy-looking lions with gold wise eyes, and lounging tigers (pics on FB and Instagram). As we progressed on the drive we passed through gates to get to the next animal’s habitat. The gate operators seemed as interested in catching a glimpse of us as we were of catching a glimpse of a cobra in the brush. And this continued after the safari as we strolled around the zoo. Many zoo visitors stopped us to take our picture, well, not us so much as the kids. I was surprised that in Bangalore where there are so many expats that we would be of any interest, but we were quite a hit, especially Masan who posed theatrically for all the pictures. After awhile I told people it would cost 500 rupees for a photo opp with the kids, after all, the toilet, which was a traditional Indian hole in the ground cost money to use.

After the safari, we visited the butterfly conservatory, which was a lot like the Natural History Museum’s except that it was outside and no one seemed to care of you touched or even stepped on a butterfly. There were tons of butterflies landing on flowers and visitors alike. Both beautiful and mundane. At one point a zoo employee was in the process of letting newly hatched butterflies out of mesh baskets. He took one look at us and asked us to join him for a special tour of the butterfly hatching area. We were the only ones he invited back. Strange, but maybe it was because we had so many kids with us that we were asked. We walked into a small building with signs up all over reading, “Employees Only,” but the guide seemed to be cool with it so we continued to follow him and found ourselves in a mesh garden with tons of flowers, butterflies and butterfly eggs on the underside of leaves. The zoo employee (keeper?) went right into what was a very well-rehearsed speech about what we were seeing. Most of it I couldn’t catch because of his thick accent, but he was clearly an expert. At one point he wanted to wow us by putting a butterfly on Evie’s cheek. It fell right off to the ground, which is when we realized that it was dead and that there were quite a few dead butterflies on the ground. The zoo guy didn’t seem to find this distressing. Masan, Evie and Mia loved the experience of having butterflies flutter all around them, except that one time a butterfly landed on Mia’s shirt. At this point the zoo employee started his spiel about the cost of the fine he’d get for being caught with us back here being from 1000-2000 rupees (about $15-30 US), and I realized that he wanted a bribe. Of course. That’s why we were the only ones offered a behind-the-scenes tour—because of the way we look and because it’s assumed we are clueless. So we gave him a bribe. We may have been suckers but it was well worth it for the kids.

The Sunday before we had been leaving church when two women with babies strapped to their backs started urgently and incessantly asking us for money. I gave them food, but they wanted money. They practically got into the car with us. They were relentless and the girls were confused because at home we try to give to whoever asks us for money. But here apparently the people who beg for money are run by gangs and the babies are drugged to appear hungry and listless. And all the money goes to the gang leaders. So it’s a scam, and again, we were a target because of the assumptions made about us because of our skin color–that we are rich, that we are new, and are clueless about the scam.

Yesterday the cook made an amazing fish curry dish. I hugged her and told her how happy we are to have her cook for us. She seemed pleased, and then immediately started to ask me for more money. She said that we live too far away and that another expat family offered her 30,000 rupees and is only 2 km away from her house. She says she likes our family so it’s a hard decision. I told her that we love her cooking, but that it sounds like a great deal and she should really consider it. She also told me that her past employers paid for her daughter’s private school. Lately, she has only worked for expats and I have come to realize most expats’ companies pay for the cooks, housekeepers, drivers, etc. so they don’t typically mind paying much more than the going rate. Although Dan’s expat package through work is beyond generous, any help comes out of our pockets. We knew when we moved to India that we wanted to help however we can while we are here. Today Dan and his whole team volunteered at an organization for young adults with developmental disabilities. And I am looking into helping out at some children’s homes. But maybe paying more than the going rate for helpers and paying for their kids’ school tuition is also part of the deal. Like a tax for being wealthy expats in Bangalore.

I feel guilty for admitting this but it makes me angry that the cook that has only worked with us for 2 weeks is asking me to pay for her daughter’s private school education. My kids go to public charter school in the US. We lived in a walk-up rental. Dan has a good job, but we have one real income, 3 kids and are by no means wealthy. And yet, by Bangalore standards we are the 1%.

According to the driver, who I asked about this, we are seen as wealthy because of the color of our skin. People just assume. I find it interesting that in a way people, especially helpers, want us to flaunt our wealth. Our driver talks incessantly about his former employers who would spend 100,000 rupees on alcohol (about $1500 US), drove a Range Rover, had multiple houses back in the US and rented a 7 bedroom here in Bangalore with large quarters for the helpers. When he tells us all this on a daily basis, I laugh, and say that Dan is probably the least materialistic and ostentatious employer he will ever have, and although our housing allowance would have paid for a 7 bedroom, we choose a beautiful house with lots of light near Dan’s work so that he can see his kids instead of being stuck in traffic for hours a day.

So although we aren’t wealthy, and want to use this time we have in India to save up to be able to send the kids to college and possibly one day buy an apartment in the city (pipe dream I know), we also want to do some good. So that’s the rub. Everyone and their brother wants a piece, but how to dole it out and when to say no. I guess we will figure it out as we go.

My sweet, sweet Mia. Like her big sister Masan did at her age, she actively and exuberantly explores her world through her sense of taste. With her tongue she explores rusty, forgotten closet locks she finds in the drawer, a guest’s weathered flip flop sitting by the front door, and what she describes as “spicy” Indian food from her favorite dinner plate—the front porch floor. Everything and anything goes into her mouth.

If Mia had been the first born I would not be able to live in Bangalore. When both Masan and Evie were toddlers I used an extraordinary amount of caution when it came to Brooklyn germs. We sanitized hands and feet every time we were done playing on the playground, washed our hands when we returned home from being outside even for a second, changed clothes after going to the baby gym, washed Crocs in Clorox once a week, and forbid playing in the sand at Cobble Hill Park after hearing rumors of rats using it after hours. Fortunately, for my kids and my sanity, I have become a bit more relaxed about germs with the third kid. For example, I didn’t change Mia’s clothes when she came home from school (unless she was going to take a nap). Before we left the US, I was about as relaxed about germs as one with OCD can be.

However, I can feel the OCD rearing it’s ugly head as I try to do battle with the real germs in this town. Trying to keep my kids germ-free is pretty much impossible. Although there aren’t any shoes in the house (local custom, not my rule) and the floors are cleaned each day, everyone and their mother comes through the front door—from neighbors, to helpers, to delivery people. And each one of them wants to squeeze Mia’s cheeks, and has his/her own individual understanding of and appreciation for hygiene. At a recent doctor’s appointment I mentioned the fact that Mia has been throwing up once every few days, to which the doctor’s response was, “yeah, typhoid is going around like crazy right now.” Typhoid. Okay, got it.

If you happened to read last night’s post, you are familiar with poor Mia’s bout of upset stomach. Well, tonight Mia had an episode which was just as explosive and dramatic, but expressed itself in the opposite manner…errr…direction. Similarly to last night, it was a soapy shower for her, one for myself, a full change of bedding, and an entire bottle of Clorox wipes affair. Poor Love. Although 4 out of 5 of us have had some sort of gastrointestinal issue since landing in this city, Mia has had it the worst. Bangalore laughs in the face of my OCD habits, which kept my kids safe in Brooklyn, but are no match for this place.

I have asked people to use sanitizer before they pick up or touch Mia, but I can’t go around like a first time mom with a newborn spraying it on everyone within a mile radius of her. I’m new here, and I don’t want to be offensive. I have asked the driver Kiran to bring me gallon sized bottles of Purel, which I will display around the villa like expensive antiquities, hoping everyone will get the idea without blatantly calling into question anyone’s hygiene. I did put soap and toilet paper in the staff bathroom (i.e. the extra room off the side of the house that the driver, the maid and the cook are supposed to use, which is just a hole in the floor without running water, which by Brooklyn standards could almost be considered a half bath), and invited everyone to use the one inside the house instead. (Indian friends, I know this is shocking—yes, I am doing this staff thing all wrong, I know, I know, but I’m a dumb American, and it’s for a good cause).

Speaking of being a dumb American, during dinner prep tonight the helpers decided that they wanted to put Jasmine in my hair, like the locals do. While my hair was being braided and prepped for the lovely flowers, I was simultaneously helping Masan do a maze in her activity book and feeding Mia on my lap (we still don’t have any dining chairs). When my attention was brought back to my hair I noticed that there was a dirty comb lying next to my clean hair brush and that the comb was the instrument being used in my hair. AHHHHHH!!!! What do I do? This woman was braiding my hair! How could I ask her to stop using her comb? So I said nothing. And when she left I washed my hair for 15 minutes in scalding water.

I give up. Bangalore wins. My only hope is that my kids and I have immune systems of steal after all this.

Having lived in New York for the past 17 years I have become competitive as a means of survival. In a city so beloved by so many of us resources are scarce, and seemingly more often than not, we are required to fight for what we need and want. We elbow our fellow passengers to get onto a subway car during rush hour, we set our alarms for 6 am to be the first to sign up for openplay at the baby gym so that we don’t get shut out, we kiss up to everyone and anyone to get our kids into 2’s programs and put up with group and individual interviews to get a spot, we fight over who hailed a cab first, we put down 3 months deposit on a hole-in-the-wall apartment sight unseen if it’s a good deal on rent to beat out the other renters, etc. You don’t need me to go on, you live this everyday, ridiculous as it is.

It is in the vein of competition that I would like to highlight a few ways in which Bangalore is better than Brooklyn. It’s well-known that one can get all sorts of luxuries and services for cheap in this city, but I want to go beyond the $10 US in-home massage or the full-time cook for $150 US per month. In a sense, this is my apology to India for the hundreds of times Dan and I have turned to each other during the last 10 days when a frustrating or seemingly ridiculous situation arises (like when hospital registration requires one to fill out 5 different forms, one for each family member when the only varying information is the name of each family member; or like when the nightly power outage session exactly coincides with the baby’s nightly crib vomiting session and you’re trying to clean her and the crib while holding a flashlight in your mouth because you only have 2 hands and your husband now works until 9pm; or when you have been prescribed a week’s supply of pills for your ailment by your doctor at Columbia Asia hospital, but after waiting for 30 minutes while the hospital pharmacy staff looks for the meds in the basement you are told that they only have 3 pills and is this fine?) with shoulders raised and palms up in resignation and said, “Fucking India,” which is to say, “what are you goin’ do?”

Reason 1 Bangalore beats Brooklyn:

Amazon.in: The box that my swimming goggles box was packaged in was just slightly larger than the goggles box itself instead of being the size of a refrigerator like my Brooklyn Amazon orders. Way to save the planet, Bangalore!

Reason 2 Bangalore beats Brooklyn:

Plastic: It’s outlawed. You can barely buy Ziploc or cling-wrap (believe me, I know, because for some reason this was very important for our driver to try to find for us) let alone get your groceries packaged in plastic bags. I know this plastic ban is in the works in NYC, but so far, Bangalore is in the lead. Although what I wouldn’t give for a Glad trash bag right now to put the baby’s vomit-soaked sheets in.

Reason 3 Bangalore beats Brooklyn:

Classes: Instead of signing up for a class on the second day of sign up and being told that it’s all full because everyone else had the same brilliant idea to spend $500 for a one-day a week 1 hour art class, you can just call up the instructor and are registered for a mere $30 US for 2 kids for a week-long class (and that’s a rip-off).

I’m sure there are a million other reasons that Bangalore beats Brooklyn, but at the moment I am feeling a bit resentful at the power outage and the vomiting to be any more generous with my new hometown.

We have been in Bangalore for almost a week now and I feel like I have been here a month. I am still in a jet lag, melatonin, moving-in haze, which I think has protected me from being as homesick as I expected to be. Plus, I have been so busy taking care of the kids, trying to figure out how to “manage staff” (yes, that’s a thing) and how to buy food that I recognize in the grocery store and know how to cook that I haven’t had time to really think too much about being homesick. Except at 2 am, which is when I miss you people the most.

Things are good so far. (Thank you for the prayers!) I like it here. Dan likes it here. The kids love it here. We live on a palm tree-lined street in what looks like a Florida vacation community (we love you, Orlando). We walk to the pool each day where there are all of 2 other people swimming, even on a Saturday. Dan goes into work later than he did in NYC so that we have coffee together, or more often, I sleep and he watches cricket in Hindi while the kids play in the converted Hindu prayer closet which is now their clubhouse. (Apparently, this is only offensive if we keep shoes in it). Dan is going to sign up for his golf membership this week, so he couldn’t be any happier.

We have a driver named Kiren, who has been extremely helpful in getting us things we need for the house and educating us on the interesting and almost never logical ways of Bangalore. We also have a housekeeper named Shanta who just showed up here last week saying that her mom used to clean this house so now she would. Fine with us. So far she has showed up an hour late each day and left an hour and a half early. Today (Saturday) she asked if she could work 9-11 because she had a birthday party to go to. I didn’t even know she worked Saturdays so that was fine with me. She’s 18 and beautiful so I feel guilty that she’s cleaning my house when she should be modeling. But I have acclimated enough to upperclass Bangalore housewife life to complain about her lack of commitment to her hours to the neighbor. She says that I’m too nice. I’m giving tough New Yorkers a bad name.

Today we interviewed a person to cook for us because who doesn’t need a cook? When in Rome…What’s most surprising is that even with a driver and a housekeeper, I have never been more exhausted. I have help except when I could really use it, which is in the morning when getting the kids up and ready and in the evenings with dinner, bath, bed routine (Dan works until 8 pm or later now). And because things don’t run smoothly here (getting to the grocery store can take 10 minutes or 2 hours depending on traffic; opening a bank account takes 5 phone calls, an in person meeting, and knowing the right bankers to pull some strings; absolutely everyone needs a copy of my passport for absolutely everything; the furniture delivery guy needs my signature on a separate piece of paper for every single piece of furniture I bought as well checked off on his phone; getting internet access takes a week and clandestine meetings at the ATM in the rain to pay for it; setting up my iPhone to work here requires something called a jail break, which means that it won’t work in the US, and a new one costs $1000 US) help is needed. I have been wondering if the system is so complicated to make sure that helpers always have jobs.

As I lay awake in bed each night, unable to sleep because of that 4 pm cup of coffee, which was a necessity at the time to get me through dinner and bedtime, but that now I regret, my mind is busy reflecting on the past week here in Bangalore, a few moments are most salient, and they are in no particular order:

-We arrived at the Marriott from the hotel late last Saturday night. The jet lag affected us all big time, but Mia most of all who just refused to sleep for 2 days and had a horrible cold. In the hopes of getting everyone to acclimate to the time change, Dan and I gave the girls a small dose of the all natural hormone melatonin. At dinner Sunday night all 3 girls were falling asleep at the table during dinner. Masan was holding a chicken nugget and nibbling on it as she nodded in and out of sleep. At one point she landed on Evie’s shoulder, and without opening her eyes, Evie punched Masan in the arm to move her off of her.

-Driving around (more accurately, being driven around by the helpful driver Kiren) Bangalore buying groceries and other house-related items on Tuesday we passed a snow covered lake and I did a double take. Wait, what? Snow? When I questioned Kiren about it he said that it was the chemical waste and sewage in the water making it look soapy and white. He showed us the mesh fences erected to keep the stuff out of the school bus windows on the bridges. I was informed that often the lakes catch fire. This prompted me to ask about clean up plans, but apparently that would mean redoing the entire sewer system of Bangalore, and that’s out of the question.

-On Thursday morning the 8 year old boy who lives next door was playing cricket in the street in front of our villa with his driver. The girls ran outside and joined in. Organic playdate at 8am on a Thursday. Dan and I sat on the stoop having coffee watching, and this place felt less lonely and more like home. Since then we have had several impromptu playdates and drop ins with these neighbors at both of our villas. The kids immediately took to one another, and I think Masan may have met her match and has found a kid who likes to be in charge as much as she does. It’s interesting to watch her defer to this boy like I rarely see her do to kids her own age at home.

-I stopped by the neighbor’s house to pick up Masan and Evie who they had been watching while I tried to sort out my phone situation. The mom promptly sat me down, gave me lemonade and some rice dosas her cook had made, and started “managing my spice level” to see how much spice I can handle in my food. I just ate whatever she put in front of me since it was all amazing. My favorite part about this culture is its need to feed. Reminds me of growing up across the street from the Khosla family who fed me almost every day after school until I was in high school, my Italian father’s hospitality, and my Grammie Brown making food for the ‘elderly’ (the woman herself was 88) in her community.

-Dan and I were talking in front of the driver about how much fun Masan was having digging in the dirt in the yard behind the villa. Kiren mentioned that may not be the best idea because of the centipedes and scorpions which can sometimes be found in the dirt. Duly noted.

-The woman who does some sort of work for the family across the street stands in front of our villa on the sidewalk and just stares at us. Every day. I think she wants to be our cook since that’s the only word she says that I can understand.

-The driver has bought Dan 2 cases of Kingfisher beer thus far. We have been here a week. Guess he doesn’t want him to run out.

-A woman came to the door today to inquire about being my gardener. Do I need one? Apparently so. She quoted me 2000 rupees a month to water the plants in the front yard and cut the extremely small area of grass we have in the back. While she was in the yard checking it out, I ran next door and asked the neighbor how much I should be paying. She said 1500 rupees for coming every day for a month. I told this to the potential gardener and she quoted me 1800. I then haggled again and got her down to 1500 because I told her how small our yard is. I was so proud of myself because I currently have a reputation amongst all the housekeepers and “helpers” as our neighbor calls them, up and down the street for being a push over. So I was trying to prove that I can be tough. But now I feel guilty for not giving the woman some extra cash which she could probably really use. I can’t win.

– The gals and I met Dan and his new team at Morgan Stanley for lunch last week. Mia was having the time of her life being passed back and forth to all of the young, sweet, lovely ladies and the one young gentleman.

-I am proud to say that I have not shopped at the expat grocery stores, but with all 3 girls (and the help of the driver, of course) have ventured into Indian grocery stores where the food is exotic, the flies are plentiful, and the cheek squeezes from strangers are common (Evie hates it!).

-Dan, who has been suffering from dysentery all day, is feeling much better after some Aleve and Papa John’s pizza, which tastes pretty much the same here as it does in the States.

On our way to the airport right now. 2 Suburbans, 2 drivers, 3 kids, 2 adults, 10 suitcases, 3 backpacks and 1 computer bag-oh, and 1 canvas bag filled with milk boxes for Mia, 2 booster seats and 1 car seat. Mia is on a luggage tag phone saying “hello, hello, hi,” Evie is whining because Masan is singing and wants to finish her song. Dan says he needs another shower since we did the luggage parade with the suitcases we had at the Air BnB (story to come about the horrid upstairs neighbors who weren’t happy their downstairs neighbor was renting out their place and was terribly rude, even stepping on Andree’s box of cupcakes) down Court and Butler to the Smith Street apartment followed by Dan lugging 6 suitcases down the Smith Street stairs to the waiting SUV’s. 

Masan cried buckets saying goodbye to her teacher on Wednesday, as well as her BFFs after a sleep over, epic craft party and movie night play date yesterday. Our amazing pals really know how to make us feel loved! The evening even ended, as all good blow out shindigs do, with a bit of drama: Masan’s fall down a tree house ladder, and bloody eyelid and trip to pediatric urgent care for 5 stitches for our friend. (Poor Cece! We love you!!! Glad you’ll be fine!) 

Mia started screaming just now since she hasn’t napped again today, and we are listening to Vered’s CD-the first one-the only thing to calm my baby. She just pooped.

Out the window there’s no traffic and is it my imagination or does Queens look really green, lush and peaceful right now? Oh and there’s a great view of the Freedom Tower. Love you, NYC!

Dan just pointed out that there’s thick, black smoke at the airport in the distance. Apparently it’s fire safety training day at JFK.