Eat. Shit. Blog.

I don’t blog. I don’t keep a journal. I hardly even reflect on my day. So this may be interesting. Just insulted myself there. Sally, my super opinionated-blunt-brilliant-Grandma Honeyesque-South African cultural anthropology traveling professor says “interesting” is one of the least descriptive words in the English language and should only be used when talking about a friend’s shitty piece of art. This blog may be interesting.

I’m a bit behind in getting this started. We, the eager- eyed Cities of the Twenty First Century International Honors Program, are  two+ weeks into our journey. We’ve already left New York and have begun our Delhi portion of the trip.

New York in a pea pod: DUDE! I love cities, do you love cities? YEAH! New York City. WOAH!

New York in a nutshell (awkwardly smaller than a pea pod): You’re great. No, you are. I love you guys.

New York in succinct summary: The two weeks in New York served to orient us to group living/learning/loving. We were pretty much on program time from 8 30 in the morning until 9 at night during the weekdays. We heard lectures from professors, city officials, community leaders, and faculty. We visited treatment plants, union halls, homeless shelters, community development corporations, and a half million different neighborhoods. For each visit we would report back our findings to the group and in this way get a rounded view of the city. Everybody is very enthusiastic and in only two weeks I feel I understand more about New York than the average Northeasterner. Cocky, eh? The faculty is fantastic, the student group is remarkably cohesive and we are all a surprisingly functional family. Besides the tiny cots we slept on, the sleep we didn’t get, the amount of time we spent on the floor, and the frequency Sally called us out for saying ‘like’ or ‘culture’ or ‘weird’ we have little to complain about. Except for maybe the cold, which we defeated with the pub located in our residence hall at ihouse anyway, we were a very happy bunch.

Newark airport. 1000 dollar travel package and a free hotel room/food to give up seat on the plane and fly to Delhi only a day later? Fine, Melanie, I won’t, but you owe me a thousand dollars. 13 hour flight. On flight battle ship against other passengers. The Social Network, good flick. Nap. Pee. Nap. Meal. Nap. Read. Delhi. Customs. Lots of jokes, no smiles, airport workers have no sense of humor. Last time I was here there was a workers strike and the airport had a giant puddle full of trash by the baggage claim. This time totally dry. I don’t remember a lot of the names or minute facts of the first and only other time I was in Delhi, but the smells, sights, and noise had memories rushing back. That was a fantastic trip with Mom and Honey and I'm ecstatic to be back. No culture shock for me. I’d been jolted years ago and you can’t get shocked again. It’s like chicken pox.

We stayed in a hostel the first night. We all read our Delhi handbooks. Highlights: put safety pins in your fists to poke off sexual harassers, use pickpockets as an opportunity to practice your martial arts, rickshaws are safer than taxis because you can jump out of them, you’re single because you’re too pretty, 4S nightclub happy hour from noon to 10 30 (closes at 11 30). The toilet was a hole on the floor which required you to squat to poop and we had a bucket shower. Both things I will soon be installing into my bathroom at home and at Berkeley. They use much less water and they’re both way more fun.  I don’t think I’ve ever giggled so much as I pooped and showered (not simultaneously, although now that I think of it…)

In the morning I walked to the nearby Lodi Park, which just so happens to be the park I went to on the last day of my previous Delhi visit which I had forgotten the name of but remember really loving. It was a great park with open spaces for cricket, 15^th century gumbas, and cops with bats to beat all the couples showing too much affection. I talked to an Indian expat named Dave who moved to Sydney when he was 15 and is visiting his parents in Delhi. He's bored to death and wants to hang with people his own age. He also said the most fun thing in Delhi is the Taj Mahal, which is not in Delhi. Dave is crazy. I might call him this weekend.

Indian Food!! DUH!

The next day we were placed with our homestays. I was paired up with Big Mike and our homemother is Champak. She’s a retired dancer. Her place is on the second story of a small apartment building across from a park and market no.1. It’s awesome. Champak is super sweet (when she’s not talking about the Chinese). We spoke of our interests, her first daughter’s marriage, and everything in between during our initial two hour tea session, which I’m hoping is a regular thing. Oh hey, I’m back on the tea tip. Mike and I share a bed but we get our own bathrooms. Go figure.  The first night our household competed in the biannual first night poopathon. We reached double digits, unfortunately for Mike, it was he that was really carrying the team. Indian food is tough on the bowels. So is the water. So is the traveling. I’m sorry if this blog is defecation heavy, but we were told we should to be ready to talk about it once we got to India. I intend to follow that sage advice. Mike Wittner (other mike) ruined his homestay family’s toilet, put it out of commission for a day+. Quite the first impression. It’s ok because he made up for it by almost losing the dog, breaking a glass in the middle of the night, stepping on said glass in the morning and bleeding on his new home.

Today, after arrival to class via auto rickshaw, we had great lectures on the Imagined History of India and the Politics of Partition. The second lecture was so good I went through a five minute depression when Salil Misra stopped talking. I wanted to listen to him speak forever, everything made so much sense, it was so important, I’ll tell you about it sometime. After a quick lunch, we spent the afternoon hopping around the Mehrauli ruins. I befriended a puppy. It had fleas. I defriended a puppy. I laughed until I cried four times today, goddamn the people in this program are funny. Back at Champak’s we helped her show her younger daughter the wedding dresses she got her. Mike made a fantastic model (pics later when my camera is back up and running).

I’m going to stop here because I fear by making this first blog entry so long that I’m setting you, poor reader, up for disappointment as I inevitably write shorter and shorter entries. It’s not personal. I’m just so tired, and I don’t have a chance to catch up on sleep until April. Miss and love you all. I’ll try and get better about taking pictures or at least linking this blog to the photo albums of my snap happy classmates. Maybe I’ll start writing some more detail and analysis too. I swear I’m more than short non-sentences. Maybe.