Today, I hit a wall (hit the wall? ran into a wall?). I'm not sure what the fitness jargon is, but today was day five of my new routine and the day I was willing to chuck the whole thing. I had to force myself out of bed, and once on the track, turned into a whiny baby -- Most of it stemming from the pain radiating from my left shin. I've decided to blame my new sneakers. I bought the Reebok EasyTones because like most people, I'm looking for a quick way to get fit without much effort.
My favorite line from the show Absolutely Fabulous happens when the mother walks through the door with a HUGE stack of diet and exercise books and explains to her daughter that she is going to read every single one of those books to find the secret to losing weight. The daughter looks at her and tells her that she doesn't need to read all those books. The secret to losing weight is to eat less and exercise more to which Mum replies, "Don't be ridiculous darling. If it were that easy, everyone would do it!" Ah, how true.
I too thought that maybe, somewhere I would discover the magical secret to losing weight. Surely there was a plan/food/pill that with very little effort and probably exorbitant sums of money, the pounds would melt away or I would grow a few inches, really either way would be fine with me.
But now I realize that once you resign yourself to the fact that you just need to eat less and exercise more, the you really don't need anything except a brain (or in my case half a brain) to do it.
Yet, even though I resigned myself to that basic fact of fitness and weight loss, it didn't stop me from buying the shoes. Because the shoes would magically transform my butt into, well, what was promised to me in the Reebok ad which was a butt that looked like a tight, little, upside down heart instead of my current jumbo bowl of large curd cottage cheese.
So my legs were in pain and I was willing to consider blaming the shoes. My brain probably went there first because of the article I read this Sunday about this man who continued to run in the latest running-fad shoes despite the extreme pain he was in. I thought, what an idiot. Why didn't he stop? But then here I was, thinking, I'm taxing new muscles, working my body in ways it has not worked in, well, ever. So, I'll just tough it out and I'm sure it will get better. Yeah, that's what the guy in the article thought too. In a few months when the research comes out that these Reebok EasyTone shoes are an easy way to wreck your body, I'll be the idiot who the reporter quotes saying, "yeah, well they hurt real bad but I thought that meant they were working..."
Which brings us to the painful point of this blog entry: No pain no gain right? This morning, I could not get my pace up. No matter how badly I yelled at myself or sweetly encourage, or blatantly bribed, my legs just wouldn't bust a move. And the thing that I have learned by tracking my exercise on my new iPad is that pace is everything. That woman who I watch on the track in her best Talbot’s clothes, hair and make up pristine, getting a quick little bit of exercise in before she sets off to the office... well she might have spared herself the trouble and got an extra 30 minutes sleep since she’d burn about the same amount of calories with a lot less trouble. At her pace, she'll be lucky to burn 25 calories which she'll probably put back in her coffee with her first mini-moo. So, I thought, maybe the pain in my shins was the price I am paying for my 4mph pace which is the slowest you can walk and still break 100 calories burned for 30 minutes.
And then, just when I was getting a little hopeful that the end was near, and I watch my clicker and the clock get ready to do the Flintstone whistle in my head, I remembered I had an appointment this morning with my new personal trainer. What the hell was I thinking?
He was a nice enough man, my new best friend Wally. Retired high school science and gym teacher (yep about cliché as you can get), he started me on my new "resistance training" program. By the time I got home today, I could barely move my left shoulder and my legs were like jelly, and of course the ever present pain in my shin. But hey, no pain no gain right? That means the exercise is working right? Can someone pass the Advil please....
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Random Thoughts (after all isn't that what blogging is all about?)
There is nothing like watching the snowfall out the window of the Y as you are walking the temperature-controlled, indoor track to make you feel good about the money you spent on your Y membership.
There is nothing like watching the very fit, skinny woman running on the street in the snow in front of you as you pull out of the Y parking lot to make you feel bad about the money you spent on your Y membership.
Worrying that the heavyset woman on the track approaching behind you is purposefully plotting ways to make you walk faster, move to the shorter lane, or feel bad about your pace since she's heavier than you and is moving faster than you, is proof you suffer from paranoid delusions. She doesn't give a shit about you, she just wants you to get out of her way.
The euphoria you felt over solving your concentration problem by buying a mechanical clicker is short lived as the novelty will wear off in 24 hours and you will yet again find yourself staring at your starting point from across the track and wondering, "did I click off that lap?"
After accidently copying my entire music library onto my iPod Shuffle instead of just the Super Pep playlist, I find that certain songs are really better for keeping up my 4mph pace than others. Good songs for brisk walking:
Here it Goes Again (Ok Go)
Karma Chameleon (Boy George)
Step into my Office Baby (Belle and Sebastian)
You Can't Always Get What You Want (both the Glee version and the Stones)
You Spin me Right Round (Billy Idol)
Mrs. Robinson (Simon and Garfunkel)
Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard (Paul Simon)
Love you Madly (Cake)
Black Horse and the Cherry Tree (KT Turnstall) -- sadly, I cannot keep myself from singing along with this one no matter how hard I try.
Golddigger (the Glee version)
I would walk 500 miles (The Proclaimers) -- favorite line: "If I get drunk yes I know I'm gonna be, I'm gonna be the man who gets drunk next to you. And if I haver yeah I know I'm gonna be, I'm gonna be the man who's havering to you."
Just what I needed (The Cars)
Fluorescent Adolescent (Arctic Monkeys) favorite line: "You took a left off Last Laugh Lane."
Songs that aren't so good and need to be deleted off my shuffle:
The more we get together (Raffi)
Defying Gravity (Wicked Cast Album and Glee)
Tiny Dancer (Elton John) Sorry Elton, love you but you don't get my heart racing anymore....
No matter how cocky you feel because you have a big honking 4-wheel drive car with anti-lock brakes and high end snow tires, if you don't slow down you are going to skid in the snow. And as a corollary to that, putting a "skid indicator light" on the dashboard of a car is really stupid since I don't think anyone really doesn't know when they are skidding. But then I grew up in Florida, what do I know about driving in snow....
Friday, January 7, 2011
Clicking off the laps
Today I started my new routine. Up at 5am. Arrive at the Y at 5:30. Walk/Run 30 minutes on the track. Go home, shower, get dressed, write for 30 minutes and then start work. So far so good.
Although, I must say, I'm not really sure if I fit in at the Y with the 5:30AM crowd.
I used to think that all the people in my town were fat. I felt like Twiggy everywhere I went. Which I admit was kinda nice. Brian once said, that he didn't think we made the weight class to shop at the local Walmart. But now I know. There is a leaner more fit contingent of Warehamites (Warehamians?) and while I've obviously never frequented the same haunts as they do, I know now they hang out at the Wareham Y at 5:30AM. And even though I was there the second the doors were unlocked, the best parking I could find was in the last row.
It looks like most of those people though, hang out in the "wellness center." Which is basically a room full of what looks like ancient torture devices including weights, treadmills, etc. I prefer the track which for a brief moment today, looked like I would have all to myself. That was fine with me, no point in badly embarrassing myself on my very first day.
The first person to join me on the track was a woman with a good 20 years on me. I felt pretty good (and young and fit) as I lapped her the first time around. She was walking on the inside lane I was walking on the outside. (I have chosen to walk on the outside lane because it only takes 17 laps to make a mile instead of the 19 it takes on the inside lane. My brain has not yet figured out that the reason it's fewer laps is because the laps are longer, and please don't tell it. I'm hoping it won't figure it out.) I felt pretty good about myself as I was sure she felt the whoosh of my air current as I passed her several times on my way to a 12 minute mile. Of course, she weighed probably about 50 pounds less than I do so maybe she wasn't so jealous of me after all.
This brings us to two points that are true potential causes of embarrassment that may force me to find a time at the gym when there are more old, fat people like me.
First, I've had to buy a clicker. You know one of those little metal round things that sit on your finger and you press a little button on it and it keeps a count. Like the one the guy at Costco uses. Why Costco needs to pay a guy to stand at the door and click off people is beyond me, but it's another guy off the unemployment line so I guess it's fine. And after this experience at the Y, I will have mastered the clicker, and if I ever need to maybe I can apply for the Clicker job at my local Costco because I will have had clicker experience.
Anyway, I need the clicker because it became clear to me, when I came to the Y for my guest visits, that it was impossible for me to focus enough keep track of how many laps I did in my head. The only reason it's important is because when you calculate how many calories you burn by walking/running, you have to tell the tool what "pace" you are going and the only way I can know that is if I count the laps/miles.
The first time I went, I tried to keep track in my head. Ok, I thought, every time I pass the door, I'll add one. That worked up until about 3. Suddenly I found myself across the track looking at the door thinking, "did I count that lap?" or having my mind wander off to whereever it disappears to when I'm not looking, only to find that 10 minutes had passed yet I still only held the number "4" in my head.
The second visit, I tried keeping track on my fingers, I'm not sure what I was going to do when I got to 11, possibly employ some form of ancient chinese abacus methodology, but again, too many laps went by without my mind being present, and I completely lost track. Amazingly the clicker did the trick. Something about having the cold metal pressed in my hand kept me focused, and while I garnered looks from some of the other people who had joined me, I thought maybe they'd just think it was cute in that pathetic way you think old people are cute.
Speaking of those other people who joined me, that too was a problem for a couple of reasons. A very very very fit young guy, I'd say early to mid 30s entered the track about 15 minutes after I got there. Every once and a while, my internal filter gets tested and this was definitely one of those times. When I first saw him, all hard body and short shorts, I wanted to say, "excuse me, would you have time for a quickie in the locker room when you are done here?" But I didn't. Internal filter on. Check. He lapped me over and over again and then, as fast as he came, he flew out the door. I thought, good, go. But then he was back and I realized, he was going out the door, running up and down the stairs and then taking a few more laps around (I couldn't count his laps since I only had one clicker). That's when I had to employ the filter again and suppress my gut reaction to scream out, "fucking show off...." The problem is, that while I might be able to filter what comes out of my mouth. I'm not always aware that things are leaking out.
There are several noises that really get on my nerves. Not like "nails on a blackboard" get on your nerves but like people smacking their lips when they eat kind of get on your nerves. The kind of sounds that make you want to walk over to the person making the noise and simply strangle them. A bouncing basketball is one of those noises. I have never been able to tolerate listening to a bouncing basketball for more than a few minutes before I want to put an ice pick through said ball. That's kind of a problem for me because the track at the Y is right over the basketball courts and surprisingly enough, at 5:30 in the morning there are people playing basketball. I wish they'd get a life. But until they do, I'm destine to crank up the volume on my ipod to drown out the noise that would otherwise be driving me batty. Ok, more batty than usual.
So the problem with this is that remember, I often suffer from mouth leakage. And with the ipod so loud, I can't always hear what's coming out of my mouth. My intention is to sing along with the peppier songs on my ipod playlist that Sara made for me, ONLY in my head. But often times, I will catch a glance of someone smiling at me, in the kind of way you would smile at young child doing something cute or a senile old woman just out of sheer embarrassment for her, and yeah, then I realize that while I THOUGHT I was belting out "don't stop believing...." in my head, in fact, some of it may have leaked out of my mouth and been ever so slightly audible to everyone else on the track.
Maybe there is a tool I can use, like I solved my lap counting problem, to remind me to not let noise leak out of my mouth. You think duct tape would look bad?
Friday, April 30, 2010
Of packing, pesticides, and pagans
That's it. I have to resign myself to the fact that I was not born with the packing gene and just get over it. I'm doomed to be dragging a steamer trunk for weekend trips. And on long trips, despite having emptied out my closet into my busting bags, I will never have the right clothes with me.
Despite having started weeks ahead of time and planned and planned and planned for this trip, I sit here typing in my bra and underwear stressing out about which of my few precious clean clothes I will sacrifice to the clothing gods today. And because I've grown tired of watching them mock me from the closet, I have packed up all the (you brought what?) clothes that will never see the light of day here. My bathing suit? What I was I thinking? EVEN if I could live with being the ugly American (in more ways than one) who bared too much pool-side, exactly when did I think I'd have time to frolic in the pool? back in the suitcase you go. And shorts? Ok, well shorts was sort of a purposeful mistake. People told me that people don't wear shorts in India, but then people told me that they don't wear shorts in Paris and when I got to France there were tons of people in shorts. So, as I sweltered in the heat, I cursed myself for listening to the advice and not going with my gut. So this time, I said, "it's 100 degrees in Bangalore, I'm packing shorts." And I'd be brave enough to wear them even if I could just see ONE, JUST ONE other person wearing shorts. I'm already attracting enough attention dressed conservatively.
So I'm not finding the bugs here as bad as I thought. I haven't really been religious about putting on my insect repellent and maybe I'm feeling a little cocky because I'm taking malaria pills. (Go ahead, bite me, I dare you....) But the thing that is making me sick is the smell of the fogger that they spray everyday. Apparently, I've been missing the morning spraying. Either I get up after it's dissipated or before.
But some how, I've managed to time it so that I walk into the hotel at the exact second the spraying has completed -- at peak smell. Think of a skunk spray immediately after spraying. And I can't decide which is worse, the smell of the insecticide or the hundreds of scented candles they light in the lobby to mask the scent (good luck on that). And it doesn't seem to matter what time I return to the hotel the spraying has always just happened. Maybe my driver calls ahead to say, "we are on our way, go ahead and spray."
The problem is as I walk into the hotel I start to gag, which I'm sure is endearing me to the staff (who is already suspicious of me due to the "ugly grape incident" as we are calling it -- more on that later). I do feel bad, it really isn't commentary on them, just a low threshold gag reflex. And of course, my mind can't help race to how these people will fair 20 years from now with their daily (twice daily actually) exposure to this. If there is one thing overall that is making me glad to leave this country, it's that.
So this weekend, I did what I do on any given weekend in the US: I went to temple and I shopped. Ok so maybe I don't go to temple as much anymore in the US, but I visited at least 6 here so I think that gets me ahead in the count. I almost feel like this story is the start of a joke: So a Catholic, an agnostic, and an atheist walk into to a Hindu temple. The Catholic says, "you know maybe it's all the years of Catholic school, but I can't believe that I'm not really comfortable with the whole "idol worship thing." The agnostic says, "Well, I don't mind because I think it's all the same path to the same goal." The atheist says, "Well it's all idol worship to me. What's the difference between bowing down to pray to a wooden cross with a man hanging from it, or a closet with a roll of parchment paper in it, or a statue of Ganesha? What's the difference between lighting candles and lighting incense? And speaking of incense, the smell is killing me I can't breath let's get out of here..." ok well that last part wasn't part of the philosophical discussion but you get the picture.
As an American abroad, I'm always conscious of how I'm being perceived. I never want to be that ugly American that plants prejudice in the hearts and minds of the people I encounter. It's a lot of pressure representing an entire nation. Ryan once told me that flying was exhausting to him because he had to expend so much of his mental energy on keeping the plane in the air. I feel the same way about traveling. It takes so much energy to have the weight of an entire country on my shoulders. So in being so self conscious, it's been interesting to speculate on how I've been perceived traveling around the world.
But in India, I seem to be a genuine source of curiosity. I feel like back in the day, I probably could have gotten a job at a circus side show in India "Come see the pale skinned, balding, fat woman wearing drab clothing. She's so pale she's practically translucent!"
At the Harikrishna temple, I was choking so bad on the incense that I bolted out. My travel companions decided to stay and listen to the guide. So I had quite a long wait for them. As I stood on the walkway waiting, I cannot adequately describe the surreal experience I had.
First a group of "MBA" students gathered around me. They allegedly spoke English and yet, some how it was painful to communicate with each other. But they wanted to talk, about everything. As we talked, more of their class came until I was basically holding court of a group of about 40 people. I was running out of conversation (or maybe just too exhausted to keep it up) but that was fine because they were just as content to stand and stare at me. That was so awkward, I was forced to come up with more small talk. Thank god when their chaperone called them to move on. But right when they left, a man accompanied by 4 or 5 older woman, and I mean OLD, came up to me with them in tow and asked if I would shake their hands. I was waiting for Alan Funt or even Ashton Kutcher to jump out and let me know I was being punked, but I shook all their hands, he thanked me very much, and they moved on. Do I look like some celebrity that I'm not aware of? And if that wasn't weird enough, as we left the building a group of young, seemingly hip, Indian 20somethings came up and asked if they could take their picture with us. Ok seriously, who put them up to this? come on, admit it....
Ok, well sorry this is so long, I started it on Sunday and could not bring myself to finish it. But since I'm leaving in 24 hours I figured it was kind of now or never. I'm leaving just in time. IF I have to drive ONE MORE day on the street of Bangalore, I think I will be forced to get out of the car in the middle of the road and SCREAM at everyone. Of course, they'd probably stop and ask me for my autograph.
I cannot begin to tell you how happy I will be to get back in my own bed!
Bye bye from India,
Despite having started weeks ahead of time and planned and planned and planned for this trip, I sit here typing in my bra and underwear stressing out about which of my few precious clean clothes I will sacrifice to the clothing gods today. And because I've grown tired of watching them mock me from the closet, I have packed up all the (you brought what?) clothes that will never see the light of day here. My bathing suit? What I was I thinking? EVEN if I could live with being the ugly American (in more ways than one) who bared too much pool-side, exactly when did I think I'd have time to frolic in the pool? back in the suitcase you go. And shorts? Ok, well shorts was sort of a purposeful mistake. People told me that people don't wear shorts in India, but then people told me that they don't wear shorts in Paris and when I got to France there were tons of people in shorts. So, as I sweltered in the heat, I cursed myself for listening to the advice and not going with my gut. So this time, I said, "it's 100 degrees in Bangalore, I'm packing shorts." And I'd be brave enough to wear them even if I could just see ONE, JUST ONE other person wearing shorts. I'm already attracting enough attention dressed conservatively.
So I'm not finding the bugs here as bad as I thought. I haven't really been religious about putting on my insect repellent and maybe I'm feeling a little cocky because I'm taking malaria pills. (Go ahead, bite me, I dare you....) But the thing that is making me sick is the smell of the fogger that they spray everyday. Apparently, I've been missing the morning spraying. Either I get up after it's dissipated or before.
But some how, I've managed to time it so that I walk into the hotel at the exact second the spraying has completed -- at peak smell. Think of a skunk spray immediately after spraying. And I can't decide which is worse, the smell of the insecticide or the hundreds of scented candles they light in the lobby to mask the scent (good luck on that). And it doesn't seem to matter what time I return to the hotel the spraying has always just happened. Maybe my driver calls ahead to say, "we are on our way, go ahead and spray."
The problem is as I walk into the hotel I start to gag, which I'm sure is endearing me to the staff (who is already suspicious of me due to the "ugly grape incident" as we are calling it -- more on that later). I do feel bad, it really isn't commentary on them, just a low threshold gag reflex. And of course, my mind can't help race to how these people will fair 20 years from now with their daily (twice daily actually) exposure to this. If there is one thing overall that is making me glad to leave this country, it's that.
So this weekend, I did what I do on any given weekend in the US: I went to temple and I shopped. Ok so maybe I don't go to temple as much anymore in the US, but I visited at least 6 here so I think that gets me ahead in the count. I almost feel like this story is the start of a joke: So a Catholic, an agnostic, and an atheist walk into to a Hindu temple. The Catholic says, "you know maybe it's all the years of Catholic school, but I can't believe that I'm not really comfortable with the whole "idol worship thing." The agnostic says, "Well, I don't mind because I think it's all the same path to the same goal." The atheist says, "Well it's all idol worship to me. What's the difference between bowing down to pray to a wooden cross with a man hanging from it, or a closet with a roll of parchment paper in it, or a statue of Ganesha? What's the difference between lighting candles and lighting incense? And speaking of incense, the smell is killing me I can't breath let's get out of here..." ok well that last part wasn't part of the philosophical discussion but you get the picture.
As an American abroad, I'm always conscious of how I'm being perceived. I never want to be that ugly American that plants prejudice in the hearts and minds of the people I encounter. It's a lot of pressure representing an entire nation. Ryan once told me that flying was exhausting to him because he had to expend so much of his mental energy on keeping the plane in the air. I feel the same way about traveling. It takes so much energy to have the weight of an entire country on my shoulders. So in being so self conscious, it's been interesting to speculate on how I've been perceived traveling around the world.
But in India, I seem to be a genuine source of curiosity. I feel like back in the day, I probably could have gotten a job at a circus side show in India "Come see the pale skinned, balding, fat woman wearing drab clothing. She's so pale she's practically translucent!"
At the Harikrishna temple, I was choking so bad on the incense that I bolted out. My travel companions decided to stay and listen to the guide. So I had quite a long wait for them. As I stood on the walkway waiting, I cannot adequately describe the surreal experience I had.
First a group of "MBA" students gathered around me. They allegedly spoke English and yet, some how it was painful to communicate with each other. But they wanted to talk, about everything. As we talked, more of their class came until I was basically holding court of a group of about 40 people. I was running out of conversation (or maybe just too exhausted to keep it up) but that was fine because they were just as content to stand and stare at me. That was so awkward, I was forced to come up with more small talk. Thank god when their chaperone called them to move on. But right when they left, a man accompanied by 4 or 5 older woman, and I mean OLD, came up to me with them in tow and asked if I would shake their hands. I was waiting for Alan Funt or even Ashton Kutcher to jump out and let me know I was being punked, but I shook all their hands, he thanked me very much, and they moved on. Do I look like some celebrity that I'm not aware of? And if that wasn't weird enough, as we left the building a group of young, seemingly hip, Indian 20somethings came up and asked if they could take their picture with us. Ok seriously, who put them up to this? come on, admit it....
Ok, well sorry this is so long, I started it on Sunday and could not bring myself to finish it. But since I'm leaving in 24 hours I figured it was kind of now or never. I'm leaving just in time. IF I have to drive ONE MORE day on the street of Bangalore, I think I will be forced to get out of the car in the middle of the road and SCREAM at everyone. Of course, they'd probably stop and ask me for my autograph.
I cannot begin to tell you how happy I will be to get back in my own bed!
Bye bye from India,
Toto, we're not in Boston anymore...
Here I am in room number two of the trip. Bangalore, brilliantly, does all its road construction at night. Traffic is bad enough during the day, they don't need road construction adding to it. However the Taj hotel, in not such a stroke of brilliance, gave me the room with the window right on top of the construction. So last night instead of making a dent in my sleep debt., I wound up channel surfing pretty much all night long. And let me tell you, it's a little disconcerting seeing Billie Mays hocking his wears on late night television in India. I don't know which was worse, knowing that he's dead or the bad dubbing into Kannada.
Part of the reason I'm in such a sleep debt, besides the 36 hours that it took to get here (crammed into coach like a sardine on two very crowded planes) is that you arrive in Bangalore at 1am in the morning. There's just no way to recover from that and get on a normal sleep schedule in one day. My driver said that all the international flights arrive after midnight and leave after midnight. He said this is to help cut down on city traffic. I think it's so that visitors arrive under the cloak of darkness so they can't see the slums that you pass on the way into the city. They can't fool me though. One, I've seen Slumdog Millionaire, and two, I recognize that silhouette anywhere. It's the same silhouette I've seen in Cairo and Mexico only substituting Kannada for the Arabic and Spanish written across the buildings. I can't decide which country does poverty better, us or them. After all their poor live in shanty towns without sanitary living conditions where as ours are out in the fresh air, in cardboard boxes, on the streets. It's a toss up I guess.
On the plane, I met two other IBMers coming here to audit one of the other divisions. I just thank god it's not mine. It was great to have someone to hang out with since all my coworkers are all staying at different hotels. I probably would have just rotted in my hotel room all day yesterday, but they invited me to tag along with them to the botanical garden which was just lovely. http://www.horticulture.kar.nic.in/lalbagh.htm but it was such a spontaneous invitation, that I completely spaced on grabbing a hat, sunscreen, or even comfortable shoes. I had a little sweater with me which I draped over my poor bald head trying to at least protect my scalp. My coworkers tried to convince me that we were attracting attention because we were American, but I'm pretty sure the woman with the purple sweater on her head was the topic of many a dinner conversation in Bangalore last night.
Speaking of dinner, apparently Valentines day is a pretty big thing here. I wonder if they know it's SAINT Valentines day? We panicked about getting a dinner reservation somewhere, but thanks to a trusty list of choices one of my coworkers gave me before I left, we found a great little restaurant that managed to squeeze us in on the patio. Eating outside was a very strange experience, because it was warm, and I'm definitely not used to that. Because Bob Dylan was playing on the sound system which was a little disconcerting. But ultimately, because they put us under this tree where things keep flying in and out of it. It took us about 20 minutes to realize they were bats. The waiter confirmed, Fruit Bats, "nothing to worry about ma'am." Of course that didn't stop me from flinching every time one left the tree. I was pretty darn proud of myself for containing the scream that I really wanted to let out.
The food over all has been excellent. Although I have been avoiding traditional Indian cuisine for fear of my allergies and digestive system. I have been playing a pretty fun game after each meal called, "I wonder what's making me itch this time?" I'm trying to be pretty careful about what I'm eating but clearly there are just somethings I'm not aware of. Like the granola this morning had an awfully strange crunch to it, and I started to think, "I wonder if they ground the shells up with the nuts?"
So, today it's Hi, Ho, Hi, Ho, off to work I go. I don't think I'll be doing anything during the week, because of course, my team here works second shift and therefore, so will I. Everyone else I've met here is working a normal day shift. Tonight I'm not going to mind because I absolutely have to get some sleep. Later in the week, it might get a little lonely.
Part of the reason I'm in such a sleep debt, besides the 36 hours that it took to get here (crammed into coach like a sardine on two very crowded planes) is that you arrive in Bangalore at 1am in the morning. There's just no way to recover from that and get on a normal sleep schedule in one day. My driver said that all the international flights arrive after midnight and leave after midnight. He said this is to help cut down on city traffic. I think it's so that visitors arrive under the cloak of darkness so they can't see the slums that you pass on the way into the city. They can't fool me though. One, I've seen Slumdog Millionaire, and two, I recognize that silhouette anywhere. It's the same silhouette I've seen in Cairo and Mexico only substituting Kannada for the Arabic and Spanish written across the buildings. I can't decide which country does poverty better, us or them. After all their poor live in shanty towns without sanitary living conditions where as ours are out in the fresh air, in cardboard boxes, on the streets. It's a toss up I guess.
On the plane, I met two other IBMers coming here to audit one of the other divisions. I just thank god it's not mine. It was great to have someone to hang out with since all my coworkers are all staying at different hotels. I probably would have just rotted in my hotel room all day yesterday, but they invited me to tag along with them to the botanical garden which was just lovely. http://www.horticulture.kar.nic.in/lalbagh.htm but it was such a spontaneous invitation, that I completely spaced on grabbing a hat, sunscreen, or even comfortable shoes. I had a little sweater with me which I draped over my poor bald head trying to at least protect my scalp. My coworkers tried to convince me that we were attracting attention because we were American, but I'm pretty sure the woman with the purple sweater on her head was the topic of many a dinner conversation in Bangalore last night.
Speaking of dinner, apparently Valentines day is a pretty big thing here. I wonder if they know it's SAINT Valentines day? We panicked about getting a dinner reservation somewhere, but thanks to a trusty list of choices one of my coworkers gave me before I left, we found a great little restaurant that managed to squeeze us in on the patio. Eating outside was a very strange experience, because it was warm, and I'm definitely not used to that. Because Bob Dylan was playing on the sound system which was a little disconcerting. But ultimately, because they put us under this tree where things keep flying in and out of it. It took us about 20 minutes to realize they were bats. The waiter confirmed, Fruit Bats, "nothing to worry about ma'am." Of course that didn't stop me from flinching every time one left the tree. I was pretty darn proud of myself for containing the scream that I really wanted to let out.
The food over all has been excellent. Although I have been avoiding traditional Indian cuisine for fear of my allergies and digestive system. I have been playing a pretty fun game after each meal called, "I wonder what's making me itch this time?" I'm trying to be pretty careful about what I'm eating but clearly there are just somethings I'm not aware of. Like the granola this morning had an awfully strange crunch to it, and I started to think, "I wonder if they ground the shells up with the nuts?"
So, today it's Hi, Ho, Hi, Ho, off to work I go. I don't think I'll be doing anything during the week, because of course, my team here works second shift and therefore, so will I. Everyone else I've met here is working a normal day shift. Tonight I'm not going to mind because I absolutely have to get some sleep. Later in the week, it might get a little lonely.
Driving Ms. Robin
I once thought that driving in a car in Mexico was the scariest thing I ever did. And then I went to Egypt. And I knew that driving in a car in Cairo was by far the scariest thing I'd ever do. But trust me, all seem like a kiddie ride at Disney World compared to today's experience of driving to and from work in rush hour traffic in Bangalore. Driving in Bangalore seems to be one horrific, extended game of chicken played by cars, buses, motorcycles, scooters, these weird little 3 wheeled things called Tuk Tuks, pedestrians, bicycles, the occasional cow, and an army of rolling fruit stands.
My guys in my office tell me that Bangalore has a very low traffic fatality rate and I say, then they obviously have just stopped counting. I clearly did not bring enough pharmaceuticals with me and I'm too cheap to raid the honor bar, so I'd figured out the only alternative is to keep my eyes closed at all times. This has cut down tremendously on my screaming, "oh my god, we're going to die, we're going to die," which oddly enough doesn't seem to distract the driver one bit.
In the few times I managed to pry open my eyes for a few moments, I realize that the problem seems to stem from (and I admit I'm no urban planner) the fact that there don't really seem to be any rules of the road here. There seems to be a faint suggestion that cars drive on the left side, but that seems to get pretty fluid during rush hour. Unlike the stringent rules of "right of way" that us uptight American's subscribe to, the right of way here seems to be yielded to the person who doesn't flinch in the big city wide game of chicken. Motorcycles seem to be especially brave, possibly because all the drivers are wearing helmets but the 6 other people perched on the seat don't seem to be all that concerned about the big blue bus coming straight for them either.
I rented a car at Hertz, which here, comes with a little Indian man who drives you around. And I say "man" because they are all men, no women drive here. Proving once again that we are by far the smarter of the two sexes.
It takes us an hour and a half to get to the office but for all I know, it could be just 2 blocks away. And the honking! THE HONKING! it's incessant, relentless. I have only seen 2 traffic lights and 1 intersection where a police man was directing traffic and no one seemed to be paying attention to either. Whether making a left from the far right side, crossing over 6 lanes of on coming traffic, or cruising through an intersection, the protocol seems to be just to lean on your horn as if to say, "pardon me, coming through, excuse me." and then just plow right though and expect the other guy to stop. crossing over multiple lanes of traffic though is exciting, because just because you intimidate the first lane into stopping doesn't necessarily mean subsequent lanes will stop for you especially when the bicycles, scooters and tuk-tuks are taking advantage of the small whole you've created in the vortex of traffic causing an amazing cacophony of horns, which my driver said is not meant in anger at anyone. So, is road rage a cultural thing? Because several times I wanted to get out of the cab and scream "JUST STOP IT!!" But then I just closed my eyes and pretended I was on mr. toad's wild ride.
When I got back to the hotel, I went straight to the bar and threw back 2 cosmopolitans which have finally allowed me to unclench my hands from my purse and back pack long enough to get the key to my room out.
As I sit here, I hear the god awful symphony of horns penetrating the window of my room behind me and wonder, "exactly what time IS rush hour over?" That and the fact that it sounds like they are rebuilding the room next to me makes me think, "who really cares how much the liquor in the honor bar costs anyway?"
My guys in my office tell me that Bangalore has a very low traffic fatality rate and I say, then they obviously have just stopped counting. I clearly did not bring enough pharmaceuticals with me and I'm too cheap to raid the honor bar, so I'd figured out the only alternative is to keep my eyes closed at all times. This has cut down tremendously on my screaming, "oh my god, we're going to die, we're going to die," which oddly enough doesn't seem to distract the driver one bit.
In the few times I managed to pry open my eyes for a few moments, I realize that the problem seems to stem from (and I admit I'm no urban planner) the fact that there don't really seem to be any rules of the road here. There seems to be a faint suggestion that cars drive on the left side, but that seems to get pretty fluid during rush hour. Unlike the stringent rules of "right of way" that us uptight American's subscribe to, the right of way here seems to be yielded to the person who doesn't flinch in the big city wide game of chicken. Motorcycles seem to be especially brave, possibly because all the drivers are wearing helmets but the 6 other people perched on the seat don't seem to be all that concerned about the big blue bus coming straight for them either.
I rented a car at Hertz, which here, comes with a little Indian man who drives you around. And I say "man" because they are all men, no women drive here. Proving once again that we are by far the smarter of the two sexes.
It takes us an hour and a half to get to the office but for all I know, it could be just 2 blocks away. And the honking! THE HONKING! it's incessant, relentless. I have only seen 2 traffic lights and 1 intersection where a police man was directing traffic and no one seemed to be paying attention to either. Whether making a left from the far right side, crossing over 6 lanes of on coming traffic, or cruising through an intersection, the protocol seems to be just to lean on your horn as if to say, "pardon me, coming through, excuse me." and then just plow right though and expect the other guy to stop. crossing over multiple lanes of traffic though is exciting, because just because you intimidate the first lane into stopping doesn't necessarily mean subsequent lanes will stop for you especially when the bicycles, scooters and tuk-tuks are taking advantage of the small whole you've created in the vortex of traffic causing an amazing cacophony of horns, which my driver said is not meant in anger at anyone. So, is road rage a cultural thing? Because several times I wanted to get out of the cab and scream "JUST STOP IT!!" But then I just closed my eyes and pretended I was on mr. toad's wild ride.
When I got back to the hotel, I went straight to the bar and threw back 2 cosmopolitans which have finally allowed me to unclench my hands from my purse and back pack long enough to get the key to my room out.
As I sit here, I hear the god awful symphony of horns penetrating the window of my room behind me and wonder, "exactly what time IS rush hour over?" That and the fact that it sounds like they are rebuilding the room next to me makes me think, "who really cares how much the liquor in the honor bar costs anyway?"
The India Essays
In February I spent a few weeks in India for work. What follows are the three essays I wrote to my friends and family at home about my experience.
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