Written Wednesday, the day after Super Tuesday.

This post is way overdue, and I figured that today, the day I woke up and realized that yesterday actually happened, I needed to focus on something other than the horror show of an election my country has just endured. And what better to focus on than one of the greatest monuments to love ever built?

My mom came to visit us in India three weeks before her 70th birthday. As a celebration of such a milestone we wanted to do something BIG and memorable. So of course we decided to take her to the Taj Mahal, as what could be more quintessentially Indian? Many tourists make the loop between Jaipur, Delhi, and Agra, the Golden Triange, all in one trip. However, with my recent debacle in Jaipur, we cut off 1/3 of this triangle, and instead decided to only visit Delhi and Agra.

I promise not to bore you with too much history, but very, very briefly, the Taj Mahal, which is Persian for “crown of palaces,” and known as the ‘monument of love’ was commissioned by Shah Jahan in 1631 for his 3rd wife Mumtaz Mahal who died giving birth to their 14th child. It is located in the city of Agra, which is about 3.5 hours away by car from Delhi and the closest airport. The myths surrounding the Taj suggest that Shah Jahan actually killed Mumtaz’s husband so that he could marry her, and many believe that Shah Jahan was building a Black Taj for himself directly across the Yamuna river from the original as a mausoleum for himself. Apparently he was absolutely obsessed with symmetry, which can be seen in every aspect of the Taj and its campus.

Beauty. Grace. Timelessness. Artistry. Love. Damn.

Evie was spot-on when she said, “The Taj looks golden in this light, Mom.” Originally we had planned to see the Taj in the first light of day as is recommended, however, we discovered when we arrived in Delhi that the Taj is closed on Fridays (only the mosque on the property is open for prayer). So instead of driving the 3.5 hours from Delhi to Agra, going to bed, and hitting the Taj first thing in the morning, we drove to Agra, checked into the hotel, and went immediately to the Taj at about 2pm. This ended up working out beautifully because we were there to see the light change as the sun started thinking about setting. The marble changed from a bright white (or as bright white as a monument built 368 years ago can be living in the pollution of an Indian city) to the lightly toasted golden color that can be seen in the picture above.

Getting to the Taj from the main street was a short hike through an urban jungle of dusty road, underfed kids in dirty clothing desperately trying to sell souvenirs to tourists (which, despite rumors of gang association we bought tons of), hot sun, cows, and big cameraed tourists from all over the world. And at the end of the road we arrived at Disney Worldesque ride-line dividers separating the men from the women and children. We paid up for the better tickets, which provided us with a shorter line and a bottle of water, but like everyone else we also had the privilege of being groped by a female security guard as we passed through the security check point. Literally felt up. Both my mom and I. Fortunately, the girls were spared.

There are other buildings on the Taj campus other than the magnificent white marble mausoleum, which I wasn’t expecting. I thought we’d go through security and there would be the long reflecting pool and the Taj itself. Fortunately, the builders and architects knew what they were doing. The other buildings, 3 gates/entrances, and archways are rust red in color, which have the effect of making the Taj look that much more holy and other-worldly. These gates and other buildings were like the opening band that enhances the anticipation of the main event. It was at these outer buildings that we encountered the first requests for photos with the gals, but certainly not the last. (How could it be that even at the freaking Taj Mahal our kids were getting so much attention?)

As our guide was telling us the history of the 3 different gates leading to the Taj property we came upon a large archway. As we were herded along through the archway by the crowd the Taj came into view directly in front of us. There were so many people, but it didn’t matter, I wasn’t annoyed. I was elated and actually got goosebumps. We could see the hands of everyone in front of us waving in the air, as excited as we were to catch the first glimpse of the Taj, but somehow all the hands and bodies just enhanced the view.

We did the usual tourist photos of the kids on a bench with the Taj behind them, toured the gorgeous mausoleum itself to the see the tombs of Mumtaz Mahal and Shah Jahn, checked out the intricate carvings on every surface, but what was most astonishing was that first glimpse of something so well-knowns that I thought it certainly could not have a strong impact when experienced in person. But it did. It’s beauty was overwhelming, and to share it with thousands of people from all over the world was a unifying experience. It was something that we all had in common, no matter what we looked like or where we were from—our desire to experience the beauty and serenity of this most magnificent of monuments.

The other 1/3 of the Golden Triangle was Delhi. It is a large city with overwhelming poverty and wealth. The area we stayed was where many governmental officials live, and it was pristine with well tended green trees and no trash anywhere. I was so in shock by how clean it was that I mentioned it to our driver, and he seemed confused. I understood the origin of his confusion once I saw other sections of the city. Old Delhi was a chaotic market place, similar to China Town in NYC, but much more crowded and dirty. We rode around town in rickshaws and stuck out like the tourists we were. The rickshaw bikers were so completely competent in the bustle of Old Delhi foot and car traffic, even though Evie and I held on for dear life. (Masan, as usual, was much more confident, and Mia kept yelling, “Faster!”).

Another beautiful monument we visited was Mahatma Ghandi’s memorial, Raj Ghat. A black marble platform marks the spot he was cremated the day after his assassination, and a flame burns eternally at one end. The memorial was built by the Japanese, who expressed wanting to do something in Ghandi’s memory after his death, and it shows. It was a simple, peaceful, yet powerful memorial, which seemed to perfectly mirror Ghandi’s message and legacy.

Of course it wasn’t all love and peace on this trip with my mom, Dan and 3 small kids. It was a ton of work getting to Delhi by plane, driving to Agra, driving back to Delhi, and flying home to Bangalore. It was a whirlwind, and at times I wanted to cry. Especially on the flight home from Delhi, which despite the late hour, no one but my mom slept on. Mia was a disaster by the time we finally landed, but the experience of this memorable trip was so worth the hassle.

I feel so honored that we have this amazing chance to show the kids how big and beautiful and complex the world is. Hopefully this realization will help them have an appreciation for cultures and people who are so different from them, and will create a life-long passion for exploration and more importantly, excessive tolerance for differences.

I’m not sure what happened to this post. Most of what I had written didn’t save properly, since I edited it and published it from my phone. So if you happened to have read it when it was a hot mess/incomplete, I promise that I am not losing it.

I don’t know how the kids are managing to sleep. Tonight is just like the 4th of July back home if neighborhood kids set off Civil War calibre cannons instead of sparklers. The sound is all consuming, invasive, beautiful, and harmful to small animals and scared children. Tonight is just the practice run for the Diwali festivities to come. I can anticipate that after 4 nights of this I may seriously consider leaving the country for next year’s Diwali.

Earlier this evening the gals and our next door neighbors’ kids watched the fireworks set off by residents of the apartment buildings behind us from our backyard. Sitting at the picnic table with 5 kids excitedly and furiously bouncing on the trampoline with my second glass of wine in hand, watching the bright lights of the the DIY fireworks which only infrequently made the journey from just shocking sound into bursts of bright shapes of light was a perfect Indian cum childhood moment (In India when one thing has 2 functionalities, the word ‘cum’ is used. For instance, “We have a sofa cum bed in the living room for you to sleep on when you visit.”). It was one of those moments that Norman Rockwell would have painted—had he been an expat in India.

Do-it-yourself fireworks are a huge part of Diwali, the festival of lights, and can be bought at enormous, quickly erected stands on every street corner in Bangalore. In addition to fireworks, my informal anecdotal research obtained via conversations with my neighbors and driver reveled that Diwali also involves a puja, homemade meals with family and friends, bright Christmas-esque lights decorating houses, gifts, rangoli and diya. Gifts can be given to family and friends, but, like in the finance industry back home, bonuses (along with gifts) are expected from anyone who works for you. This money is counted on to make ends come that much closer to possibly meeting (and in our driver’s case will pay for his father’s eye surgery). Navigating how much to give, what exactly to give, and how to give all seem to be open to interpretation. Apparently, you can give food (rice, lentils, ingredients for a favorite meal, etc.), clothing (saris, preferably silk or ornately embroidered to differentiate from everyday wear), sweets (similar to a Whitmans sampler Indian style), but you must give money. Not wanting to get my first Diwali wrong, I checked with Indian friends, expat friends, moms’ groups, and the people who work in my home. What I found out is that it’s typical to give one month’s pay as a bonus for someone who has worked with you a year or more, but since we have only been here for 5 months we could give a fraction of that. That seemed like splitting hairs, so we just gave one month’s wages, saris, chocolates, and to make the gift-giving a bit more familiar to us, nail polish and Mac lipstick (because who doesn’t love a new lipstick?!?).

Friday Evie came home with a giant bright pink bindi decorating her forehead. She told me she was given this at the Diwali puja they did at school. According to my internet research, AKA, http://www.HinduFestivalsforDumbForeigners (joking, but if it existed, and it probably does, it would be my go-to resource), the Diwali puja is an invocation to the goddess Lakshmi to come into your house and bestow wealth and prosperity. My driver and neighbor told me that you don’t just do the puja for Lakshmi, but also for Ganesha who always receives first prayers. The on-line reading I did explained that the first step in doing a proper Lakshmi puja is to clean your home with water from the Ganga (you and I know it as the Ganges) river. Seems to me sprinkling water from the Ganga would be the opposite of cleaning my home, but it’s considered a very holy river. The puja also involves decorating your idols, giving them food and oil offerings, and saying prayers.

Diwali also involves diyas, clay lamps and rangoli, designs made at the threshold to the house with colored sand, which are both used to welcome the goddess Lakshmi inside to bless the homeowner with prosperity and wealth. To ensure that we were able to properly celebrate Diwali, our extremely thoughtful neighbor cum unofficial ambassador to Bangalore, Urvi brought us some diyas, rangoli stencils, and colored powder. The girls had so much fun decorating our porch with rangoli designs that they were quickly covered from head to toe with colored powder and soon resembled Holi celebrants instead of Diwali celebrants.

A week before Diwali, the club house in our neighborhood held a giant Diwali party, involving traditional Garba dance, which originated from the Gujarat region of India, spicy veg food, loud music, and performances done by my Bollywood/Zumba and fitness classes (no, they wisely didn’t invite me to participate). Tickets for the event were purchased, lehenga cholis and saris were bought and altered, bindis were donned, and the girls’ eyes were catted up. Getting ready for our first Diwali party felt very much like dressing up for Halloween. At the party itself, we were watching others celebrate Diwali instead of truly celebrating. Not knowing any of the dance moves, not being able to see any of the performances because of the crowds, and the kids not being able to eat anything except the ice cream cake because of the spices, the Diwali party fell flat. Without any alcohol available, we lasted about an hour. I should point out that Masan, God bless her, got into the party—she joined into the Garba circle dancing, despite being repeatedly asked to go into the center of the circle where all of the other kids were dancing.

In direct contrast to this rather boring Diwali party was Sunday night’s Diwali dinner at our friend cum driver’s house. He lives with and supports his mom and dad, his wife, 2 teenage daughters, and his brother’s son in about 700 square feet with a pug and a rooster who lives on the terrace. His mom and dad and all three kids share one bedroom with a giant wall-to-wall bed while he and his wife share the other bedroom. His mom made us traditional Indian dishes, including lemon rice, his sister-in-law made us a yummy traditional dessert which reminded me of rice pudding, and K bought my kids their favorite snacks of chips and cookies. Masan and Mia loved setting off fireworks on the terrace with K’s kids, while Evie hovered in the corner with her hands covering her ears. Their hospitality and generosity seemed to symbolize the true spirit of Diwali than any fancy Diwali party.

Some people stress eat, but for me nothing helps ease the stress of this rough patch in Bangalore like making something clean. Standing in my open garage with an electricity stabilizer nicknamed ‘the Volkswagen’ because that’s how big it is, and a half broken dishwasher, I’m feeling like the neighbors in the US who put all their vehicles up on cinder blocks in the front yard. My Bangalore villa is now truly an eye sore, and I feel the need to clean.

When the landlord’s minion tells me that the guy who is supposed to install the TV today is going to take another 48 hours because it is raining (?!?), and the part for the dishwasher will take another 4 days (this is after a month of similar broken promises and delays-my favorite was that the new TV was too expensive and that the landlord wanted to wait for a Diwali sale or try to trade in the unuseable, broken TV for credit towards a new one) I push back. I tell him in a loud voice just barely this side of yelling that this is unacceptable, and that I am done with excuses. Of course to make the situation more ridiculous he speaks Kannada and Hindi exclusively and I only speak English. Thus, my little speech has to be translated by one of the minion’s helpers. I’m seething, but keep calm because this situation is tricky—we are here through Dan’s job and I want to maintain a certain level of decorum so that I don’t get him into any professional trouble, and also I do realize the uselessness of this conversation. (I have to say that throughout all of this upheaval, Dan has been able to stay focused on and deeply committed to his job. Very proud of him!) Anyway, with clenched teeth I thank the minion’s helpers because really it’s not their fault that their boss is ineffective, and turn my back to the group of men gathered in my garage and the drivers who are rubbernecking from my neighbors’ nearby villa driveways, and do what anyone would do with similar feelings of frustration and repressed rage, which is to clean the black Bangalore dust off the shelf in the garage with a handful of baby wipes. Totally normal.

Earlier today my neighbor set up an interview for me with a potential nanny. 10 minutes before the interview a different neighbor frantically called to tell me that this woman I’m about to interview is banned from the neighborhood. Apparently she threatened and harassed my neighbor’s husband once they had to let her go for neglecting their dogs. At this point in the story I lost phone service because it’s raining, but I got the bottom line, which is that I don’t want to hire anyone who brings any sort of drama with them because as we all know, I have my fair share. 30 minutes later the neighbor who set up the interview for me got a call from the potential nanny who told her that this was unfair and that she was going to the police. I want to believe that I’m the kind of person who will give everyone a fair chance, but in this case I feel like I dodged a bullet.

India continues to be a place of overwhelming contradictions. It’s ever so hard and frustrating, while at the same time being so easy and relaxing. House renovation and improvements when you own a home has got to be exhausting, but we have the pleasure of doing them in a developing nation with a rental. Time means something totally different than what we are used to and promises will most likely be broken. As the landlord said to my driver when he complained to him about yet another delay, “What do you expect? This is India, Yar.” Yet, in the midst of this daily chaos, a cook makes me mint, ginger chai and fresh, hot chapati whenever I request it. And yesterday a lady came to my house to give me a massage and facial in my bedroom for the equivalent of 45 US dollars. Although at this point I see these things as being necessities instead of luxuries.

Despite all of the struggles, I’m very happy to be here, even though tonight I will be cleaning thoroughly.

It’s taken about a week for me to be able to write again somewhat productively without wanting to vent about wanting to bang my head against the wall in utter despair and frustration until I pass out and wake up safe, sound, sickness-free, and in an electrically-sound home far away from whatever new hurdle Bangalore has thrown at us that we are trying to crawl our way up and over with only our fingernails to keep us from slipping from the rock into the abyss. A bit dramatic? Maybe. Probably. Which is why I didn’t write. I wanted to be in a better place emotionally and physically when I wrote again. I am sure my 3 readers are getting as tired of the drama as I am. So instead of writing in the past week I have tried to rest, recover, and slow down. I have tried to be okay with the boring day-to-day, and to even be grateful and embrace the down-time. Because down-time doesn’t last around here and one has to be fully rested for the next adventure. The best part of relaxing is that I have allowed myself to be sucked in by my latest Netflix addiction ‘The Get Down’ (thank you Courtney and Chris for your suggestion, and Dan, of course I’m not watching it without you).

A quick update without going into too much gory detail: Last weekend we were in Jaipur for a few days to take a break from the electrical issues at the house and all the emotional and logistical energy which was required to try to get it all fixed (even with the amazing help of the relocation company trying so hard to help us to feel comfortable in our home again). Anyway, the Jaipur heritage hotel we stayed in was gorgeous, and from what I hear, the city itself was chock full of culture and history. Apparently there were beautifully ornate city gates, palaces, forts on hills, elephants to ride on, tons of gorgeous handcrafts, jewelry and carpets. Unfortunately, we did not see any of this. As soon as we arrived, the stomach flu hit hard and the rest of the trip was spent looking at the intricate tiles on the hotel bathroom floor and the hand-painted bedroom ceiling for me, and the hotel pool for the girls and Dan.

On a normal day I can handle and mostly embrace all that is India. The masala and curry-heavy spicy food, the smell of burning sulfur in the air, the crowds, the traffic, the hundreds of large and small cultural differences all appeal to me when I am feeling well—well, except for the sulfur smell. But when I am sick, I just want the familiar. No adventure, no excitement, just the boring. And unfortunately, India doesn’t do boring very well. Not that NYC does it well either, but at least there’s the familiar – you know where to order your favorite chicken noodle soup from on Court Street. Even the grilled cheese I ordered at the hotel once I could finally eat was unfamiliar – a strange cream cheese was used rather than the highly processed orange American cheese that my body NEEDED at that moment.

The doctor we called to the hotel said that my symptoms as well as my extremely low blood pressure indicated dengue fever, but that it could also be another type of mosquito carried sickness called chikungunya. Huh? That’s one I haven’t heard of before. Fortunately, the tests I had when we returned to  Bangalore indicated bacterial gastroenteritis. Unbelievable. A stomach flu was the cause of the horror that was the last 4 days?

Just when I was getting used to the cows on the streets of Bangalore…

The hotel pool.

Sassy at the hotel pool.

A gate, not sure of which one, that we passed through on our way to a market.

Mia being cute.

Mia’s own swimming pool AKA the bathroom floor.

My view of the girls’ bed and the ceiling from my vacation spot, the sick bed.

My trooper of a husband on the plane ride home with all 3 girls so that I could have the freedom to rush to the restroom whenever the mood struck. Earlier in the evening Dan was afraid I was going to be arrested when I screamed at the airport security officer who would not let me into the airport to use the restroom when I was going to be sick. He wanted me to wait in a huge line or use the outdoor toilets. I may have screamed, “I have Dengue Fever! You suck and I f—ing hate this country.” It’s amazing what not eating in 4 days and going to the restroom every 5 minutes will do to a person.

The good news is that India hasn’t beaten us. (And this is not an invitation for it to do so). But as enticing as it can be to be an expat with all the luxuries this position comes with, India is not a place for the weak. It’s not going to just let you be and do your own thing. It’s going to get into your cells, into your very being and change you in ways that at this moment seem daunting, but will inevitably turn out to be profoundly life changing (in a good way). If nothing else we will have amazing immune systems.

When we found out we were moving to Bangalore, besides having the burden of my domestic chains lifted, and before I knew all of the drama that would come right along with that, I was most excited about 2 things: 1) Participating in Indian festivals, like Diwali and Holi, and 2) attending an Indian wedding in India. I had been told by people who know these things that while we were living in Bangalore we would definitely be invited to Indian weddings. How were these people in the know so sure? In the US weddings are typically reserved for the closest friends and relatives of the bride or groom. How were we going to become close enough friends with a couple of marrying age in the 2 years we live in India? After all, friends our age in the US are ending marriages, not starting them. Fortunately, in India it’s not about inviting only your closest friends and relatives to a wedding. It’s more like, “Well, we are already inviting 10,000 people, so what’s a few more?” The guest list is typically in the thousands for south Indian weddings. I figured in this case, our chances of being invited were pretty good, especially given that we live in a predominantly Indian neighborhood and almost every single one of Dan’s colleagues is Indian.

I have had the pleasure of previously attending 3 North Indian weddings – 2 in the US, and 1 in the UK. These weddings were all lavish festivities and feasts for the senses, with gorgeous, heavy gold and silk saris, intricate and involved wedding ceremonies and traditions, free flowing drinks, all the most fattening and delectable Indian foods imaginable, and even nose rings. My favorite part of one of the weddings was when the groom rode up to the bride’s parents’ home on a white horse surrounded by his cheering friends and family. I should point out that he was an American of non-Indian decent. Besides the horse, what took some getting used to for someone who has previously only attended Western weddings is the fact that none of the guests were paying any sort of attention during the ceremonies. There was much chatting, eating, drinking and moving around by guests during both the Jaimala ceremony, which is when garlands are exchanged while the bride and groom sit on a dais, and the Saat Pheras, which is the ceremony of seven steps taken around the ceremonial fire.

I don’t know how much of the traditions at these 3 weddings were tweaked because they were held in the West, so I can’t say whether or not everything that went on was typical of North Indian weddings. However, what I have learned by talking to my Indian neighbor, our driver, and the Indian ladies in my fitness class is that North Indian weddings are very different than South Indian weddings, and I was interested in seeing how they differ.

The South Indian wedding we were invited to was the wedding of Dan’s work colleague’s brother whom we had never met. The wedding ceremony itself was being held at 5:30 am, and fortunately, we were not invited to that part. Instead, we were invited to the reception, which was held at the more manageable hour of 11:30 am. Dan said that his colleagues would be going to the reception on their lunch break and going back to work afterwards. I couldn’t fathom going back to work after a wedding reception or that one would last just the duration of a lunch break.

The first question for me was what to wear. We wanted to look appropriate since Dan was the boss of the sister who invited us, but also wanted to look festive. Sadly, for the previously attended Indian weddings I wore Western clothing because it was just easier. Wearing the clothing of another culture can be a bit tricky depending on the particular culture. Would it seem like cultural appropriation if I wore the clothing of a culture not mine as a white person? Not in India. In India, most people are flattered that you try to wear traditional Indian clothing. So I asked pretty much everyone I know in Bangalore what we should wear to the wedding. Dan’s work colleagues said for me either a sari or a salwar kameez and for Dan a kurta with work pants underneath. The neighborhood expats gave me some pointers on shops that would have these items, and a few even offered to loan me saris. The expat crew also told me that it didn’t really matter what we wore because we would be honored guests just because we were from the West. That would be flattering, but the bride and groom had no idea who we were, so it seemed strange that we would be honored, but okay.

Dan at Fab India holding up the one size fits all pants that go under his kurta.

Photo credit to our wonderful neighbor.

The happy couple.

Dan’s co-workers.

Family.

Mia and her bindi.

Mia with the wedding favor.

The Morgan Stanley crew.

My dear neighbor spent 2.5 hours at Phoenix Mall helping me shop for something to wear. We hit up every single Indian store in the mall. OVERWHELMING. Saris and salwar kameezes come in plain, fancy and extra fancy. Bling, embroidery, silk, cotton. Every color, every style. Some looked like cheap prom dresses, some were beautifully crafted and cost upwards of 25,000 rupees. To help me narrow down my choices my neighbor wanted to know what type of wedding it was going to be. Did the invitation have any clues. No idea – Dan hadn’t shown me the invitation at that point. To make matters more confusing, in Bangalore white is reserved for funerals and black shouldn’t be worn – I forget the reason. So the 2 colors I would typically gravitate towards were out. I started to get mall syndrome, and settled on a pretty, long dress, which wasn’t Indian beyond the mirrors on the front and the tassel on the belt. Seemed like a good back up option if the next shopping trip didn’t prove fruitful.

Fortunately, Dan and I had more luck the next day at store called Fab India. Who knew I would have better luck shopping with Dan, the man who only shops for clothing when the gaping holes in his expose too much to be worn on the street? Anyway, I think of Fab India as Indian-light because it’s an easily accessible store for expats and foreigners to score hand-made, beautiful clothing and housewares without having to venture too far out of their comfort zones. To me it felt a bit like cheating to get our wedding clothing there, but it was easy. I settled on a lehengha, which was a long, full silk skirt and a crop top. The crop top was questionable on a 40 year old mom of 3, but the salesperson helped me to adjust my dupatta in such a way that I was appropriately covered, although women of any age in India wear their cropped sari blouses with pride. Apparently, the way that I liked to drape my dupatta was in the style of the Gujarat region in India, which is where my neighbor is from, so fortunately, she was able to patiently help me get ready the day of.

When we arrived at the wedding reception we were invited to take a seat in the wedding hall with the other guests while the bride and groom had professional pictures taken on a stage at the front with EVERY SINGLE wedding guest, even us whom they had never met. We chatted with Dan’s colleagues and Mia and I borrowed bindis while we waited for our turn. Eventually we were invited to the stage, where we presented our gift of money to the happy couple, said our congratulations, and were given a blessing that somehow involved the goddess Lakshmi, red powder on foreheads, and something about being a good wife to our husbands. After the meet and greet, we were escorted to the wedding hall basement which was filled to overflowing with long folding tables all facing the middle of the room, draped with white table cloths, and covered with banana leaf plates. We were invited to wash our hands at the sinks in an adjoining room (soap and paper towels were not available) before we sat down. I opted for hand sanitizer. As we sat at our places, waiters came by every couple of minutes with metal buckets full of various kinds of delicious vegetarian food that was heaped on our banana leaves. This went on for 20 minutes. Several times during the course of the meal, Dan and I were offered spoons by various waiters since clearly we were having a hard time eating with just our fingers. However, Mia was doing just fine. During the meal, the woman who invited us to the wedding’s husband stood next to our table to keep an eye on us to presumably make sure we were comfortable.

After the delicious meal the party was over. We were ushered out of the reception hall, handed a coconut in a mesh bag as a party favor, and were back in the car on our way home. Boom, a lovely, fun wedding reception over and done in just over an hour. I can’t wait until the next one where I hope to venture into the strange new world of saris. Although I’m really hoping for bit of dancing and an open bar…

This week has been a tricky one. A trial, as my Dad says. The day after our electricity fiasco (see High BP and Electricity post), my sweet father had a near-fatal heart attack back in the US. He is now back at home without any heart damage at all, thank God. His last heart attack was on Christmas Day 4 years ago, so this time at least he only missed Labor Day.

In India, instead of Labor Day, we celebrated Ganesha Chaturthi, a Hindu festival that celebrates the elephant-headed Indian god.

According to Wikipedia:

“This is a very auspicious day celebrated to pray to the god so that every new activity that is started is successfully completed without any obstacles…

“The festival is celebrated by families at home, by people at their places of work and in public. The public celebration involves installing clay images of Ganesha in public pandals (temporary shrines) and group worship. At home, an appropriately-sized clay image is installed and worshipped with family and friends. At the end of the festival, the idols are immersed in a large body of water such as the sea, river or a lake. The clay idols disintegrate over time in the water.”

Embracing as much as we can during our short time in India, we participated in the Ganesha festivities. The girls know that we believe in Jesus, and are Christians, not Hindus, but it was important to us that they understand the cultural significance of the festivals surrounding them, religious or secular. It might at times be confusing for the girls to differentiate between Jesus and the Hindu gods we pass by on the roadside everyday. When driving by the huge Hanuman (the monkey god, and my girls’ favorite Hindu god) idol earlier in the week, Masan was praying for my dad after his heart attack and said, “Hanuman, please keep Papa safe.” When I reminder her that we pray to Jesus, she said, “Hanuman, please pass the message on to Jesus.” Hmmm…we may be completely screwing these kids us religiously.

On Ganesha Chaturhi we were invited to the club house in our neighborhood where we watched a puja, a prayer ritual, which consisted of chants and prayers; gifts of money, flowers, and food; and a heavily decorated Ganesha. We really didn’t have too much of a sense of what was going on during the ceremony, but it was interesting to watch, and we appreciated being allowed to be there. What I have experienced thus far is that the majority of Indians are very welcoming and take a “the more the merrier” approach, even during their holiest ceremonies.

Later in the day we were invited to our across-the-street neighbor’s house for what was kind of like an open house with their own private Ganesha that people could offer prayers to. Dan and I chatted with our neighbors and the girls took over the neighbors’ twin teenage daughters’ bedroom. There was also delicious food, and Mia loved the coconut puri bread the best. Not having gone to a private home for a Ganesha celebration before, we weren’t sure what to bring. Being Italian, I can never show up anywhere empty-handed so appropriate or not, we brought chocolates. We were given a coconut and a lantern as party favors upon taking our leave.

Ganesha being submerged in a lake. Made of clay so not too much water pollution.

Giant Hanuman statue in Bangalore.

Later in the evening we joined a procession of our neighbors snapping photos (there are many expats who live here) dancing, singing and carrying one large and many small Ganesha idols on a flat cart through the neighborhood to the mosquito-infested lake outside of the entrance gates where the statues were delicately dropped into the water. Masan and Evie used this time as an excuse to run wild with their school friends. Mia and Dan went home to start the grill for the Labor Day portion of our celebrating. Masan cried when she wasn’t able to carry one of the Ganesha statues down to the lake. I told her that we needed to let the Hindus carry the statues since this is their holiday. In my girl’s quest to do everything artistically and to the fullest, she wanted to be wholly involved.

Masan embracing the festivities.

Ganesha in the procession to the lake.

Puja at the neighborhood clubhouse.

When the girls and I turned into our lane to head home Dan met me in the street with a beer in hand, and asked the girls to go directly to the neighbors’ house. Uh-oh. Whatever he wanted to say couldn’t be said in front of them. That’s never good. Apparently, when he got home and flipped on a light switch, fire again reigned down from the ceiling. The fridge that had just been fixed two days prior from the first electrical storm blew out again. Along with our brand new projector for the girls’ room for our weekly movie nights. So we packed our bags and headed to the Marriott once again. It was not as unemotional as I have written, but I will spare the swearing and in-fighting.

When bad things happen, it’s only natural to turn inwards and say, “WTF?” or “Why did this happen?” “Or did I deserve this?” It’s like we have turned into the India equivalent of the Bible’s Job. Crappy things were happening to us, and we couldn’t seem to get past them. As ridiculous as it sounds, Dan and I asked each other if Jesus was angry because we had been participating in the Hindu festival. Although we never prayed to Hindu gods, was the attention we were giving to this festival day an issue? It definitely seemed like we were being punished.

Fast forward to today where it’s the third day of electricians in our house. They travel in packs and are all affiliated with different organizations—the landlord’s electricians, the Adarsh developer’s electricians, our independent electricians, the neighborhood’s electricians. Today it’s the developer’s electricians. Everyone wants to have a look at the fuse boxes and they all have a different opinion as to what happened, although no one has a clear plan of what needs to be done. I’d go into more detail about what the issues seem to be, but the diagnostics change depending on who is doing the diagnosing. I will say that there is too much electricity being used on the small grid we have. Yeah, we knew this on Wednesday. This time we will not be moving back into the house until we are 100% certain that this will not happen again. Until then it’s corporate housing or the Marriott.

Interrupting the previously started post about a recently attended South Indian wedding for a look at this week’s B’lore drama. Or rather, a chance for me to process what’s been happening so I can assess whether or not I am becoming truly irrational, as Dan indicates, or if this is a situation that calls for, or even requires, irrationality as a means of coping. As an aside, as I write this, the door to the front terrace outside of the girls’ room has been left open and the daily evening dose of chemical smoke that is used to kill mosquitos (there have been markedly higher cases of Dengue this season, apparently) has flooded the upstairs. I am hoping that this doesn’t negatively impact their fertility as I feel the smokey poison seeping into my every pore. Do I attract drama? There is always something crazy going on here. Is it me or is it this place?

Back to the drama. So Dan and I are trying to get fit. We have a gym in our neighborhood, access to inexpensive golf courses, a driver and household help, and a later work start time in the morning than in the US. So really we don’t have any excuses. Although I would like to go everyday, I get to attend Zumba/Bollywood dance class and boot camp classes on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and Dan gets to go to the driving range, work out at the gym, or play 9 holes on Tuesdays and Thursdays. This way we trade off watching Mia at home.

On Tuesday, Dan’s workout day he invited Mia and I to the driving range with him. A half hour into Dan and I hitting balls and Mia watching ‘The Backyardigans’ on my iPhone Mia needed a break, or rather the other golfers needed a break from her. We were walking together around the parking lot when she saw our driver, let’s call him K. He was sleeping in the car which he never does. When he sat up to say hi I noticed the blood on his shirt. He said that his eye was bleeding. A few days prior he had slipped down the stairs and smacked his face into the wall of his home during a smoke break, which required stitches on his lips and pain killers. K’s response to my freak out over his bleeding eye and bossy insistence that we immediately go to the hospital was that Dan needed to finish hitting balls. I told him that bleeding eyes took precedence over golf any time, and we rushed to Columbia Asia Hospital in Whitefield, which I had been to previously for myself and the girls. My doctor didn’t have any appointments available when I called from the car, but I sent her an email (one of her sons is in the same class as Masan at TISB) and pulled out the American-style friendliness and flattery with the reception staff and at the nurses station, and we were able to walk right into see her. Since K had never been to this hospital before I took charge. It was nice to finally have the chance to help him out and be in the know since the whole time we have been in B’lore he has been the one to hold my hand and show me the ropes. But I digress…

Long story short, K was not bleeding from his eye, but from his nose. His eye was severely blood-shot from the fall, but the real concern was that his blood pressure was stroke-level high, and he was immediately taken to the ER where his nose was packed to stop the bleeding, he was given saline to hydrate him and meds to reduce his bp. He was also given every single test and admitted over night. Apparently this was the first time he had ever been admitted to a hospital or given an IV in his life. He is 38, and had no idea what any of the machines were. He must have been scared. At moments I felt like an over-protective mom (not such a stretch, I know).

The next day K was feeling much better, and was ready to be discharged mid-afternoon. However, the hospital wouldn’t release any reports or the patient himself until the bill was paid. Of course, they aren’t stupid. Many people here live in places without electricity and running water, let alone an actual address. The hospital would never be paid otherwise. K didn’t have the money to pay for the hospital stay and we insisted on the really good, unaffordable hospital, so it was our responsibility to pay. That’s how things work over here. Employees ask their bosses to pay for their medical care. Without this help, many people would not be able to see a doctor even when they are very sick. Anyway, the hospital refused to take payment via the phone or internet so I had to drive to the hospital over an hour away to pay the bill in person. And by ‘drive,’ I mean have a temporary driver drive me. After paying the bill I was dropped off at a TISB second grade moms’ lunch nearby. After the lunch I called the temporary driver, who was a friend of K’s. He told me he was over an hour away because he had taken K home from the hospital and it had taken much longer than anticipated. Anyone else who lived near me had left the lunch already. So I took an un-ACed, somewhat smelly Uber home. I dug inside the dusty seat to find a badly tangled seatbelt (no one wears them here).

That evening I had put 2 out of 3 kids to bed and was watching ‘Max & Ruby’ with Masan, which, if you’re not familiar with it, is a very stressful cartoon where the younger brother bunny never does what he needs to do and his older sister has the patience of a saint. (Why can’t you just listen already, Max?!?) Anyway, all of a sudden the large light on the ceiling in the center of the room started to flicker, crackle and rain sparks along with several other lights on the ground floor. It seemed like something out of ‘Stranger Things.’ But then we started to smell smoke, and we saw fire and sparks shooting down from 2 ceiling lights. And the TV was smoking like it was a toaster which had overcooked a too large bagel. We ran upstairs, opened Evie’s door and screamed for her to wake up. I grabbed a sleeping Mia from her crib, and Masan helped me get Evie out of her bed. We rushed out of the house into the dark street with 2 out of 3 of my girls pants-less. I realized at that moment that I had no idea what the fire emergency phone number was. So I called the maintenance office for our neighborhood. They didn’t understand me. I screamed ‘fire’ and ‘smoke’—-but they hung up. Clearly I need to learn at least a few words in Kannada. I called Dan at work. We ran to the next-door neighbor’s house, but they weren’t answering the doorbell. I saw my across-the-street neighbor on her terrace and yelled for help. She rushed us inside and called maintenance for us. I left the kids with her and ran into the house to try to see what was actually on fire. I knew this was the stuff of after-school specials, but I didn’t see any more flames, so I assumed it was okay. I saw smoke coming from near the window in my bedroom. Dan arrived home. Maintenance showed up. Once they determined that nothing was on fire any longer, and we realized that the TV, fridge, and dishwasher had been blown out along with many lights and other appliances, I quickly packed overnight bags for everyone. There was no way we were going to stay in the house. The next-door neighbor came outside (she had been in the shower) and took my kids and perishable food inside her house. A few minutes later, the kids, Dan and I headed to the nearby Marriott for the night.

This morning we went back to the house. The house caretaker, his electrician, and several electricians from maintenance showed up. At one point there were at least 7 men in my house discussing what the problem may be. They couldn’t figure it out. I should back up at this point and say that every night for the past 2 weeks I have called maintenance because there have been power outages. After 2 weeks with men from maintenance coming by nightly to see what’s wrong and still no meaningful solution, I finally sent Dan and the driver to the maintenance office to talk with them (they refused to take me seriously and brushed off my concerns—sexism is rampant here along with bias against those who can’t speak the local language). The head electrician said that this was a landlord issue and that the circuit is overloaded. We called the house caretaker who said to turn off the the switches that turn on and off the hot water heaters when we aren’t using the hot water. We did. But we still had power outage issues. At this point I was incredibly angry. We called the caretaker again. He still refused to take the situation seriously. What was a $100 fix before last night will now cost his boss thousands in lost appliances. I am furious, scared, and want to move. I told one of the neighbors that I am going back to Brooklyn. I can put up with a lot of things, and overall, have really enjoyed B’lore, but I have reached my limit. When I told Dan that I want to move houses he told me to relax, which is always the least helpful thing anyone can say. He told me I was being irrational. I rationally told him that I would punch him if he told me to relax again.

This morning Dan asked our relocation company to hire an independent electrician because we don’t trust the competency of the landlord’s electricians. The pros showed up and were able to immediately tell us what was wrong and how they were going to fix the problem. I feel a bit more assured, but I still don’t want to stay here. Dan says that every house has these problems. I can’t imagine that’s true. I feel unsafe. He ordered smoke detectors and fire extinguishers, we are getting a custom-made stabilizer, and the pro electricians balanced the electrical load. But the outlets all feel hot to the touch, and I still feel unsafe. It’s the incompetence I see so often around me that makes me afraid. I don’t trust that anyone really knows what they are doing. People are so often not properly trained.

Currently it’s 8pm and we are waiting for a temporary fridge to be delivered. Apparently it’s on it’s way but the traffic is horrible, per usual. It’s time to call it a day. A big, fat, frustrating day. And a big shout out to God for preventing this ordeal from being any worse than it was. At least it’s something to blog about!

All of the bikes of the electricians who are trying to diagnose the issue.

The electricians trying to diagnose the issue.

Today Indians celebrated their independence from British rule with flag raising ceremonies, yellow, green and orange balloons and flags decorating office buildings and stores, and colorful Indian attire. Indian Independence Day is a national holiday, although Dan and his colleagues had to work, unfortunately, and due to a mistake with Indian/UK sizing on my part with the big girls’ school shoes’ order from Amazon.in, the driver had to work as well. The cook and the cleaning person were also willing to work, but the cook told me I have to pay her extra, of course. (More on this saga coming soon).

As we all know, both the US and India were ruled by the British at one time. What does it say about us that our freedom was won with a violent, bloody war whereas India’s was won over a span of 190 years through a movement which involved peaceful resistance and civil disobedience? This difference in reaction to external stress explains quite a lot about the discrepancy between how native Indians deal with this place and how a stressed out, mom of 3, type A American from NYC (does living there for 18 years a New Yorker make?) copes with, learns from, and hopefully embraces all that is this beautiful, peaceful, colorful, dirty, confusing, dishonest, pushy city of Bangalore offers. But this is not the topic of tonight’s rant…uhhh, I mean post.

Instead, this post is about my independence day, which is celebrated each year in mid-August. This year it will be celebrated tomorrow, August 16, 2016 when 2 of my 3 children return to school full-time. Tomorrow could not have come soon enough for my frazzled self. As I attempt to write this post, Evie is showing her naked butt to the 8 year old neighbor, Masan is standing next to me naked and dripping wet asking me to open her dresser drawer which is stuck, and the 8 year old boy is screaming at all the nudity. At least today he is seeing my kids naked rather than me when Masan brings him into my bathroom while I am showering to ask me if they can play Mine Craft. Deep breaths.

Masan just said to me, “Mom, I don’t want you to tuck me in because you are just going to yell at me.” Ouch. Breaks my heart. But yeah, she is probably right. The last day and night of summer vacation definitely wasn’t the calm, fun mom and daughters sweet summer goodbye that I had envisioned. Fortunately, we ended on a high with Masan reading George and Martha to Evie and I while I french braided wet hair for tomorrow’s big day. However, this was after several bouts of my screaming at the kids precipitated by their incessant fighting that sent the cook to the other room. Oops.

It would have been a much different day without a trip to Phoenix Mall for school shoes. Unlike in the US, the mall didn’t have a billion high end stores selling good quality leather school shoes. The pickings were pretty slim with mostly summer inventory of knock-off US and European brand shoes in faux leather, canvas or rubber. The first store we hit up didn’t have any school shoes (black shoes) for kids in the girls’ sizes, although the sales people seemed reluctant to tell me this so they brought be a toddler size and an adult size to see if one would possibly work. Nope. The next store brought us more luck. Although it took about 25 minutes for the 5 sales people helping us to find them in the back storeroom, we were able to snag the very last pair of faux patent leather, diamond-studded bow mary jane’s in size 11 AND the very last pair of size 11 faux leather, sparkly black ballet flats. Mia also scored a pair of sour apple green Native shoes and tried to run out of the store at least 3 times while wearing them before they were paid for. Evie refused to try anything on without me putting the shoe on her foot myself, and the older girls were bickering over who got to own the patent leather pair, which is why the baby escaped so many times. Bad mom moment, I know, but there are so many more to come in this tale of today.

At this point it was past lunch time and the girls wanted to ride the train, drink hot chocolate, go to the play space and eat ice cream. We decided on a quick bite at California Pizza Kitchen, not for it’s gourmet food, but because it was located just a few yards (meters) from the penned in toddler play area, so that I could read the menu without kids begging to use my phone or arguing over who gets to sit where. Fortunately, Masan has a great imagination so the baby slides and ride-on toys were all props in the fantastic fantasy land that is Masan’s mind. And Evie is always up for throwing plastic balls at her baby sister to make her laugh. It took several minutes to coax them to the table once their pizza arrived, but totally worth the 10 minutes of peaceful menu reading. Once we were about 2.5 minutes into the kid-friendly junk food, juice spilling, ketchup gorging, Evie announced that she had to go number 2. Of course the restroom was located several football (cricket) fields away. I paid the bill with most of the food left on the table, strapped Mia into her stroller while she was doing that screaming arched back thing, corralled both big girls and made it to the restroom just in time.

Of course there was no toilet paper because we weren’t in the VIP restroom, which was further away and required a proof of purchase at the mall of 1000 rupees (about $15 US) or a donation of 20 rupees per person to use, I kid you not. So apparently, in the non-VIP restroom toilet paper is a luxury. But with a kid about to poo in her pants (Why do so many of my posts revolve around this subject? Freud might say that it makes perfect sense that I am pretty anal about certain things because I am anally fixated) and a baby screaming her head off I am not shy about asking the bathroom attendant for toilet paper. She helpfully propped an industrial size roll behind the toilet of a nearby stall which I then asked Evie to enter. With Evie in the stall and me at the entrance to it, a tween stands right next to me looking into the stall. I assume she needs toilet paper and offer her some. She just stares at me saying nothing, but not moving. Finally, she says she needs this washroom not toilet paper. I don’t understand what she is doing at this particular stall since we are at the last one in the restroom and there were 15 open stalls before she got to this particular one. I told her that we were about to use this stall and still she tried to push us aside. At this point my stroller with Mia in it fell backwards because she kicked the wall so hard in her fight to free herself that she tumbled the whole thing (At some point in the next few minutes I could lose this post because the electricity keeps going between every 5-7 minutes, and I have no idea if it’s saving properly) and my phone won’t stop ringing. I freely admit that I lost my composure and started screaming at Evie to just go to the potty! What I really wanted to do was scream at this tween to find another damn stall and move out of mind! However, I can’t bring myself to scream at her so I scream near her, at Evie. This is not the first time my kids have taken the brunt of my frustration with other people, unfortunately. The tween finally moved.

Last night on Tango I was telling my sister about a recent excursion to a local hospital to get school forms for the girls, and because it was so trying an experience (hopefully the next post will touch on this particular visit) she asked me if I am constantly breaking down and crying because of the daily challenges of living here. I guess I could be, but I’m not. This city is great, and I love it here. And what helps is that I try to think of things as interesting anecdotes, and once I have vented to my poor husband I am usually able to somewhat calmly handle whatever craziness arises. But not today. As my dear friend Peggy who is no longer with us (I miss you, Peggy, you were very wise), some days we just don’t have any coping strategies. Amen and Amen. And today was one of them for me.

Next stop was the Mac cosmetics shop because I just needed a second of familiar (California Pizza Kitchen didn’t cut it). Shopping for make-up in a store the size of the driver’s Toyota Inova is not a good idea with 3 kids, needless to say, so I sent them for ice cream right outside of the store. As I waited patiently in line to pay, a woman a bit younger than I am wearing Western attire handed her purchases to the cashier just as I was about to take my place at the register. Seriously? Mia was screaming because she wanted ice cream too, and Masan kept running back and forth to tell me the play-by-play of Evie’s mischief. I could have silently waited and hoped that no one else cut the line ahead of me, but as my sister says, NYC has made me bold and prepared me for these type of situations (at ABC Carpet & Home I once told that actress from Weeds that I was next in line when her personal assistant tried to cut in front of me. I made him wait with his armfuls of cashmere scarves while I bought my $6 Christmas ornament), so I told the cashier that I was next in line and that those kids screaming were mine and that if he wanted them to stop he needed to let me pay. He rang me up. Not a glance in my direction from the other woman or any sort of emotional reaction. Where I was seething at her audacity, she seemed to just shrug it off as being all fair in love and shopping in India.

Outward signs of agitation or stress are rarely seen on the faces of locals in a city where the traffic is a horror show, there is very little breathing space or clean air to breathe in the first place, lakes burn fire as a result of raw sewage, work weeks are usually 6 days, invasive stimuli compete for one’s attention at all times, and there is a huge disparity between the haves and have nots. It’s like natives just breathe in and out and let it all flow past. Today I am just too burned out to even consider trying to do that, but I hope that tomorrow I can have the energy to adopt that meaningful outlook.

Now that the girls have all been tucked in with dreams of Mine Craft in their sweet, french braided heads, and the whining, begging, and fighting has stopped for the day, I can appreciate how much I am going to miss them once they are in school all day, even if right now I am still basking in the relief that tomorrow I find a bit of freedom.

Girls, I love you so much, but even Mom needs a second to breathe.

It’s a sunny 81 degrees in lovely Bangalore this early afternoon. In fact, it’s pretty much 81 degrees every day with an occasional evening rain storm lest we forget its Monsoon season. The girls are downstairs watching the making of Katy Perry’s ‘Roar,’ which isn’t as annoying this far into the summer as it could be since they are doing it for a purpose: they need to memorize all of the words, along with ‘Ebony & Ivory’ and ‘We Are the World’ for their choir class.

In yesterday’s Bollywood/Zumba class at the Adarsh Palm Retreat (APR) clubhouse a fellow student and French expat invited me to bring my kids to a choir class she teaches in her villa on Wednesday afternoons. In the vein of trying to say yes to as many new things as possible in my new city, and dragging the kids along in this endeavor, I told her we would be there.

The whole choir scenario ended up playing out like a slightly disturbing dream sequence after a night of spicy food and tequila. The villa which the class was held in looks exactly the same as ours does, just in another lane of the neighborhood. (Apparently there are 5 of these identical, non-Indianesque homes in the neighborhood). It was like walking into our own home and finding that someone had stolen all the simple grey furniture and pink toys and replaced them with musical instruments, superhero paraphernalia, video games, plants, and toy guns.

When the 3 girls, our 8 year old neighbor, and I entered the villa we were greeted by the teacher, 5 girls in the choir between the ages of 4 and 11 sitting quietly and politely on the leather sofas in the living room, my Korean friend sitting on the floor with her 2 year old on her lap, and the French expat’s 8 year old son running around the living room aiming his replica bazooka at us. Maybe it wasn’t actually as large as a bazooka, but it was definitely machine gun size, and equally as daunting when while singing ‘We Are the World’ a boy you have never met before is looking through his gun’s scope to take aim at your kids from various vantage points throughout the villa. What was most unsettling to me was that the teacher, his mom, didn’t address the gun aiming and occasional shooting AT ALL. Being our first class I had no idea what the boy’s role was. Was he also a member of the choir? Clearly he didn’t seem to want all of these kids in his home and was showing his mom and the rest of us instead of saying something. And like him, instead of voicing my concern, I took my cues for how to handle this situation from the others in the room who had been taking the choir class for several weeks. Most of the kids were cringing away from the gun while attempting to focus on the music and ignore the shooting, so I did too. I reasoned that the boy was probably friends with the kids in the choir and so wasn’t actually scaring them, and that he would eventually put his gun down and join in the singing, or that his mom would ask him to stop when it was time.

When it was clear that none of my assumptions were accurate, my Korean friend whispered, “don’t shoot, don’t shoot” to the boy while his mother’s attention was diverted, so as not to offend. Instead of putting the gun down, he walked upstairs, and slowly took aim directly at her from the balcony. The rest of us were singing, “Ebony and ivory live together in perfect harmony” and “We all are a part of God’s great big family, And the truth, you know, Love is all we need” while the boy was shooting foam balls and colorful bullets at us.

The situation finally came to a head with Masan, God bless her. She grabbed the bullet that the boy shot at one of the kids, and refused to give it back to him. She said, “Why are you shooting at us?” It was the question that had been on everyone’s minds, yet no one said anything. Once Masan spoke up, I was able to say that I thought the shooting was scaring some of the younger kids. The mom finally said something to the boy in French, who reluctantly put his gun away. He traded it in for a plastic sword. Masan and our 8 year old neighbor taunted the boy by saying that the toy sword wouldn’t hurt them. Well, he tried it out on Masan’s wrist, and of course it did hurt. She started screaming and crying, and wanted to leave. Of course she did, poor gal. She reluctantly agreed to stay when I begged her to not disrupt the class by leaving early. Heaven forbid we offend anyone with our desire to leave or not be shot at, toy gun or not.

(For whatever reason, even though Masan says she is done with choir, Evie wants to go back, however, instead of singing any of the songs, she ran around the room with Mia the entire class).

As I write this it’s about 8pm and Masan, Evie and Mia are standing on the porch looking at all the sand crabs who have come out of hiding now that the ruckus of sand play has ended for the day. They stand stock still as the girls squeel and point. A few startled crabs run for their holes for cover. “That one’s so fast it’s moving like a rocket, Dad!” And “Mom, I spit some toothpaste on that one so it could taste it. I think he liked it because he didn’t move.” There have been many little moments like this during our time in Kerala that stand out as being perfect and memorable. 

After being in India for almost 6 weeks, the knowledge that all this ends in a about year and 10.5 months weighs heavily on my mind. I know that seems like a long time from now, but time at my age zooms. And perhaps in a few days, weeks, or months living in India will feel like a jail sentence rather than an opportunity, but not right now. So we need to see and explore before its time to go back home. But where to go during monsoon season in southern India? In typical India fashion, if you can outsource it for a good price, do it. For a small price a travel agent gave us a few options for a first trip out of Bangalore, and a quiet beachfront villa at Marari Beach near the town of Kochi in the southern Indian state of Kerala seemed like an easy and doable first trip with this crew. 

The flight from Bangalore was a quick hour and 20 minutes. Flying over Kerala a fellow passenger and native of Kerala pointed out waterfalls out the window to our right. Even from flying height the beauty of Kerala was stunningly obvious-this state is probably the polar opposite of the city of Bangalore-and most likely all the other cities in India (tbd). Spongey bright green is everywhere, and our lungs don’t hurt when we breathe. That annoyingly persistent cough is gone as is that smell that permeates Bangalore. Instead of piles of molding trash along the roadsides there are lush trees and tropical plants. 

A few moments from the trip thus far: 

We stayed at the Marriott near the airport the evening we landed in Kerala. While we were swimming in the pool a crow grabbed my packet of tissues that was resting on the chaise lounge and flew off with it. He held on tight and never dropped it. There have been several occasions during this trip that the tissues would have come in handy doubling as toilet paper. 

The drive to Mararikulum and our second hotel involved an hour long wait for a 5 minute ferry ride. Apparently a bridge wouldn’t have worked because large ships like the Queen Mary are constantly going through the harbor. The ferry was packed with cars, mopeds, and pedestrians coming from a Muslim wedding. The docking of the ferry involved ramming the boat into the shore, which jolted everyone, and involved some minor pedestrian injuries. No big scene was made or assistance requested, however. 

After the ferry ride we stopped at Fort Kochi, a historic fishing village and huge tourist area for lunch. Fort Kochi was given to the Portugese in 1503 by the Rajah of Kochi after they helped him out defeating an enemy. Vasco da Gama, who if you remember from 5th grade history, which I didn’t, was the first European to land in India. He was buried for a time at St. Francis Church in Fort Kochi. In 1683 the Dutch captured the city and tore down some of the gorgeous Catholic Churches and convents. In 1795 it was the British’s turn to take control. Finally, in 1947 it was back in the hands of India. 

Fort Kochi was an interesting mix of Christian churches, Muslim mosques, Jewish temples, probably some Hindu temples, although those weren’t visible from the narrow road, and lots of Western tourists. We saw more white people in Fort Kochi than we had in 6 weeks in Bangalore. Like any touristy beachside town in all the world, there were people with long dreads and smoked out eyes alternately staring past or glaring at us while walking past, and hemp seashell jewelry decorating thin, tanned wrists and necks and plump white ones in equal number. Unlike other places in India a family of white Americans drew zero attention, except from the young, English speaking con-artist who showed up as soon as we sat down for lunch at a roadside cafe. The timing was too perfect for him not to have been tipped off by the restaurant staff, which was confirmed when he gave them part of what we ended up paying him. I wasn’t interested in his wares until he told us he was a member of a college artist collective selling their supposedly hand painted Indian scenes on antique, recycled paper. I wanted to atleast see the paintings painted with handmade sand paint. They were pretty and looked handmade, and after showing us about a hundred how could we not buy any? So we bought a few for way too many rupees, even though we haggled, and were later told by the driver that these were mass produced and that we paid triple what they were worth. This exchange was like buying one of those ubiquitous hand painted name signs sold on the streets of New York for way too much money. Or even worse, it was like getting suckered into a game of Three Card Monte near Washington Square Park in the late 90’s, not knowing it was a scam and that everyone around the table was in on it but you, the mark. As a New Yorker I pride myself on not being the typical, deer in headlights in the big city tourist, but India has turned me into one.

The road from Fort Kochi to Marari Beach was called the Coastal Highway, which may bring to mind a highway along the ocean, maybe California’s Pacific Coast Highway. Kerals’s version was nothing like that. It was a windy, 2 lane, dotted white lined road resembling a backwoods country road in all but road usage. Along both sides were green trees, shrubs, grass, dirt, dilapidated shacks and huge, gorgeous  homes side-by-side, almost on top of each other with no views of the coast. Everyone seemed to be using the Coastal Highway at once in whichever way suited their needs best. Men, women, and children used it as a sidewalk causing the cars, auto rickshaws, busses, and mopeds to swerve into oncoming traffic to avoid hitting them. Chickens, goats, cats, dogs, and an occasional cow spilled into the road frequently from sloped front yards. Cars pulled over frequently for church, funeral processions, or to shop at small stands. No one was concerned about being hit by a car, especially the man who fell down drunk in the middle of the road and decided to stay there.

Kerala is a communist state. But a very Indian, live and let live kind of Indian communism. According to the driver we hired for the trip, being wealthy is no problem and being poor is no problem, but all kids go to school.

Also according to our driver, liquor licenses cost $7500 US a year, which caused about 400 bars to close. Apparently the government thought too many people were drinking too much. So alcoholic drinks are pretty much non-existent at cafes and restaurants unless the proprietor is serving beer illegally in a coffee mug like ours did today. 

Men in Kerala favor the Mundu, which is one piece of cloth which ties at the waist and flows to the ankle. It can be raised to the knees to allow comfortable walking. I was impressed with its beauty and practicality. Most of the men we saw wearing the Mundu wore a clean, crisp, collared, colorful button down shirt with it, which to me screamed business on the top, weekend on the bottom. 

Tomorrow we stay overnight on a houseboat-the same one Prince Charles stayed on for his 65th birthday. More stories to come. 

All of our wonderful friends and family know that I was very concerned about the 4 types of venomous snakes frequently found in Bangalore. Every conversation about the move went something like, “Yes, we are very excited to move to India, but there are 4 types of venomous snakes in the city we are moving to which I am not excited about.” The first week I was here I carefully and thoroughly checked the baby’s crib and the girls’ beds several times during the night for fear of the creepy crawlies.

Two Saturdays ago I was trying to figure out what to wear for our first Bangalore night out without the kids that would translate culturally (you know, not too New York—-black or ripped, not too short, not too tight, not too young-looking, comfortable, somewhat professional since we were meeting Dan’s colleagues later in the evening). As I was getting dressed I heard a lot of screaming coming from the driveway. There is always a lot of screaming around Villa 12, and Dan was outside watching the girls while they rode their bikes so I didn’t give it too much thought. Until 5 minutes went by and there was still intermittent screaming. I went to investigate and found the 3 girls, our 8 year old neighbor, his dad, and Dan standing around a brownish-black, 2 inch long earth worm. Mia said, “Mama, snake, scared.” She kept running up to a few inches from it, squatting down, peering at it, and running away screaming. Guys, why are we screaming? Mia, it’s okay, Lovie, that’s not a snake; it’s a worm. And that’s when Dan said, “Worms don’t move like that.” I went in for a closer look and saw that indeed the worm was moving in a very un-worm like S-shape. Yeah, that’s a snake. So what kind of snake is it? Is it poisonous? Is it a baby something or is this a full grown snake? Do we need to call the snake catcher? Just then, Dan, our brave hero picked up a piece of cardboard from the recycling bin, lifted up the snake by the edge of the cardboard and threw her in the storm drain at the edge of our driveway. We mutually decided that it wasn’t anything to be concerned about because it was so small and probably harmless, although Dan played up his heroic act all evening.

During around the 4th round of cocktails at a local bar, Dan casually mentioned that unbeknownst to me the driver told him that he thought that the snake was probably a baby cobra. Wait, what? I sobered right up and proceeded to start panicking. Apparently the driver told Dan that it probably fell out of a tree or crawled out of the drain when it rained. So if that was a baby cobra, where was the mom? And where were the other babies? Was the cobra nearby in our yard? Should we call the snake catcher? Should we call security? Someone? Although no one else present seemed all that concerned, for me the rest of the evening involved me and Google trying desperately to identify the driveway snake.

From what my research revealed, our snake was not a baby cobra. Baby cobras are indeed black, but pretty much look like small cobras, not worms. Just that much knowledge helped me settle down a bit and continue in the revelry. The next day, when I was able to see straight, I did some additional research and found that the snake was probably the Brahminy Worm Snake AKA The Brahminy Blind Snake or the Flowerpot Snake, and was the world’s smallest snake species. What I found most interesting from http://www.indiansnakes.org/content/brahminy-worm-snake (please excuse the grammatical issues as this was copied and pasted directly from the website) was the following:

“Almost always non-offensive and cannot harm large bodied enemy (like mammals, rodents, birds etc.) except poking their spiny tail on body to distract their attention or make surprize for a while. no aggressive display is known for this and probably all other Worm/Blind Snakes. It is an all-female triploid species having no evidence of male individuals till now. It reproduces parthenogenetically without fertilization by sperm and thus can build up a population from just one individual.”

Big sigh of relief. We had our first and hopefully only snake spotting and it was literally with the world’s smallest snake species. I get the feeling that God is teasing us. We get the street-cred for surviving our first snake encounter, but can sleep soundly at night because it was so puny and benign. Reminds me of my basal cell skin cancer: it’s cancer, but the puny kind.