I Speak Chinese

My internship allowed me to do something a little out of the norm today—it allowed me to practice my Chinese.

“What?!??” cries one group of readers, “you speak Chinese?!??”

“What?!??” cries another, “After all this time spent learning, you don’t practice regularly?!??”

I learned Chinese by accident in a way.

When I switched to attending a private school in 7^th grade, I had to choose which language I was to study for two years. I immediately eliminated Latin because I wanted a vibrant, living language and frankly it seemed a little pretentious. I then eliminated Advanced Beginning Spanish because I was a true beginner and did not want to start already playing catch up. Then it was between French and Chinese and it was very difficult to decide. I had taken some French in elementary school and hadn’t been particularly fond of it, but in hindsight that is likely because I attended class two days a week at 8 am before my day of reading, being teacher’s pet, and hardcore dodgeball began.

So Chinese is what was left. And it kind of made sense—I wanted to talk to people, and there are a lot of Chinese speakers in the world. Also, my grandparents grew up in Korea, learning Chinese characters so taking Chinese classes allowed for an additional way to communicate with my quiet maternal grandparents. So I took Chinese. And not just for two years, but for eight. And each year brought new internal conflicts and the temptation of quitting.

Learning Chinese is a lot like slogging through bubble gum while harnessed to a bungee cord upon which a whole team of dragon dancers tugs. It’s sticky, non-linear, and requires a lot of backpedaling and emotional negotiating.

But I am so proud of myself for continuing to learn the tricky language. Learning Chinese has inspired me to communicate with many diverse people, explore a pretty awesome ancient culture, read fortune cookies and impress hosts at Chinese restaurants, and most of all, travel to China for my junior year of high school.

I now love speaking and listening to Chinese, eavesdropping on escalators, ordering at restaurants, talking to our family friends, and meeting people who are from/have lived in China. Like today at work when I was able to discuss the implications of the current chaos in Mali with a military official who only speaks Russian and Chinese. I find that even now after I’ve been unable to take classes for two years and a full three and a half years since I was in Beijing, some words come easier in Chinese than in English. Certain phrases only pass through my mind in Chinese, such as “how do you say,” “whatever you’d like” and “oh my god!” And as I grin and converse with Chinese nationals, or show off and order dumplings in the native Chinese way, or as I wake up from a dream narrated in the language I used to despise so much, I know that the struggle was worth it.

I speak Chinese. And you know what, that’s pretty cool.

A Brief Introduction to my Internship

            I have the go-ahead to tell you about my internship!! So here goes my attempt at a summary:

I’m working at the Near East and South Asia Center for Strategic Studies this semester as an Outreach Assistant for the Communications Office. As I understand it, NESA is a Department of Defense funded organization that has the two primary roles of housing experts on relevant regions and issues and holding seminars that bring together officials from the NESA region of the world to talk about topical issues. For example, we are nearing the end of a two-week long seminar on combating transnational threats that has attracted 52 foreign officials who have been invited by their various embassies.

            I specifically intern for the Communications office, meaning my current responsibilities include documenting the seminar via photos and written summaries. I sit in on the lectures and take notes for my own research and for synopses distributed on the website. Then, during coffee breaks, off-site visits, and free moments, I take pictures of the participants looking studious, interacting with NESA staff and lecturers, and connecting with one another.

            To be honest, it was kind of uncomfortable in the beginning. Here I am, a 20-year old girl bouncing around with my Cannon, the loud shutter sound echoing and flash attachment blinding. Some of the staff have nicknames for me when I’m in photo-mode, “photo fairy,” “the paparazzi,” and “the entourage” are just a few. But what I most feel like is a hunter. (A non-violent, non-threatening, slightly frazzled one, but a hunter nonetheless.) I look around, constantly trying to spot the best grouping of participants, walk softly to avoid attracting attention, lift the clunky camera, and go for the shot.

            Almost all 52 participants seem to love the camera. They request posed pictures in different locations around the office—“like I was the speaker”, “in front of this flag”, “now in front of this one”, “with the view of the river”, etc. Sometimes they even photobomb each other, acting like long-standing friends.

            And that brings me to my favorite part of my job. Every day, I get to interact with people I would never get a chance to meet otherwise—whether they are NESA staff members that are working on The Day After Project in Syria or a Major General from Bangladesh. I get to laugh with them as they pose theatrically for the camera, learn about their countries informally, collect business cards in Arabic, Russian, and Farsi, and be invited to three different countries a day.

            I am continuously surprised by how relaxed the participants are willing to be around me. They are superior in almost all quantifiable ways—age, education, rank, experience—yet there’s little stuffiness, stilted conversations, or put downs. So, after 1-2 hour lectures that leave my head spinning with long mental scrolls of things to research and presumably leave them with a paradigm shift in views towards the US government, we interact as if I were also a participant, laughing and talking about the lectures, the city, and the world.

            And in between conversations and tourism tips about Jordan, Uzbekistan, Armenia, and Lebanon, I hunt for picture-perfect moments for them to cherish upon returning home.

Had a Ball at the Ball—The One in Which My Mom Plays Fairy Godmother

            For those of you who may not be aware, or may just not care, President Barack Obama was sworn-in for his second term yesterday morning (1/22/13). It was also Martin Luther King Day, so a three day weekend, and the cause of an absolute clustermess downtown.

As a result, the entire weekend was filled with various inauguration events, including service opportunities, many tours, motorcade chases (these are probably unsanctioned), and of course, balls and galas. And while President Obama declared there will be only two official inaugural balls (to save on money and military personnel hours), there were still lots of unofficial galas and parties. And on Friday, I was invited to one!

Gabriel, one of the students from the Georgetown Program, is working at the US-Mexico Chamber of Commerce this semester and was offered tickets to the Fiesta Americana ball they co-hosted. At shortly before 3pm on Friday, he very kindly invited me along with two other students. Would I like to go? YES!!! But what will I wear…?!? And so began a two-hour long dash around northwest DC. To the stores in Georgetown, BCBG—flat out, Karen Miller—nothing below the knee, Max Studio—gorgeous dress in black, but too expensive. Okay, onwards to Friendship Heights.

Quick call to my mom while on the bus. “I’m going to a ball!” I squee excitedly. “But help, what do I wear? Do you have anything in a six that will be long enough for me? Jewelry? How will I fit in? I don’t speak Spanish!” Feel my heart racing double-time, and try and calm down on the ride over. Finally after a few more stores, mom meets me and we find a beautiful purple strapless gown at Lord and Taylor in the return to rack section. L&T comes through again, thanks to my mom. Why don’t I ever learn to just look there first?

So we race to pay for it. Oh, and stop for a makeup session at the Bobbi Brown station on the way (perhaps this is the best time to confess that I know very little about the art of makeup. Oh, I was in eighth grade once, too. I can swipe on mascara somewhat evenly, even occasionally a little bit of eye shadow, but god forbid I try anything with blush, and I would be offered a spot in Barnum and Baileys if I even attempted anything beyond chapstick.) So to Sara at Bobbi Brown, you are an artist and you have my heartfelt thanks. Somehow you turned my eyes from shifting hazel to sparkling green, evened my skin tone, and made me feel like I glowed. In fact, I have never been so happy to be so shallowly self-content as you made me Friday night. I’ll be back for a real lesson another time.

A dash home for my necklace from prom, a quick conversation with my dad (who my mom and I both agreed just simply did not understand the situation), and a ride back to Georgetown in the mini van. “No thanks, I think I’ll take a cab to the OAS building, not hop out of the mini van, but thank you for the offer. You were amazing today. I love you”

A dash into my apartment to shimmy into my dress, being careful not to smudge my purple and silver “smoky eye”, step into my heels regretfully, twirl for the mirror (maybe more than once) and a dash to the library where I met Julio, my taxi-partner and wonderful company for the evening, for the cab ride down to the Organization of American States building.

A huge, square marble structure, the OAS building was gorgeous, surpassed in elegance only by the inside, where multiple trees stretched to reach the vast, towering ceiling. The plaza downstairs featured a large fountain and benches just meant to seat couples and friends chatting close while the mariachi band’s cheery tunes filtered out from near the double-doors to the sculpture filled gardens.

Double sets of sweeping marble staircases led to the ballroom, where an amazing group played cello and violin adaptations of popular songs and movie themes. The four of us SWP students mingled with other students from different programs, interns, and frankly anyone who would look our way. And we had pretty great food, enjoyed feeling pretty (I speak on behalf of the boys who I didn’t ask, but imagine did like feeling pretty, who doesn’t?), and got to know each other a bit better. What more could an aspiring Disney princess ask for?

As the night drew to a close, the midnight syndrome kicked in a bit. We waited for a while in the cold for a taxi, weaved through the drunken masses back on campus, and in general couldn’t wait to kick off our dress shoes and lie down for a bit. But, instead of giving in and allowing ourselves to collectively turn into sleepy pumpkins, we decided to be college students.

So we got pizza! And ate it in a dorm room at 1:30am, lounging in our formal wear, shoes kicked off, and hair ruffled. And I’ve never felt more like a princess.

Coming Soon to a Theater Near You--Why Haven't I Blogged About This Weekend

I promise I will write of this past weekend soon. There is a lot to write about: a ball, my first day of memorial touring, some musings on friendships, and of course, the inauguration.

However, as I walked down from Georgetown to the Inauguration at 6:30 in the morning (about a 5 mile walk), stood in line for two hours, clapped and screamed enthusiastically, then did it all in reverse to get back at around 5pm, I'm not even going to attempt to blog right now.

I'll write tomorrow. Hopefully my mind, thighs, and sense of humor will be awake then.

Another Work Day, Another Awesome Commute

 My first non-orientation day at my internship was awesome. I sat in on a fascinating lecture, took oodles of pictures, got to meet some really interesting, insightful people, and learned the Russian word for traffic jam—пробка (probka).

I was at work from 8am to 4pm, meaning it has now been over seventeen hours since I woke up, but my day has left me exhilarated and eager to share my experiences and observations with all of you. Unfortunately, I’m not sure yet exactly how much I can share for now, so until I receive permission, you can look forward to playful behavioral observations, new friendships, and some heavy political questions.

So for today, I’ll take you along on my commute. It begins at six when I frantically scramble to silence my cell phone alarm before completely waking my roommate, Mary Jo. Then it’s a full two minutes of shivering in the shower, as none of the other students in my apartment block have used hot water, so it needs to warm up (both literally and figuratively). Then once I’m lobster red and somewhat awake, this morning with the aide of shampoo in my sleepy eyes, it’s out and into a quick make-up and hair session. Then a jump into my sweater and slack combo (yes, it’s at least business casual every day), a quick fumble in my room for everything—purse, badge, key, notebook, coat. Then out the door—oh! Forgot shoes, okay now out the door.

Clicking and clacking down N street to Wisconsin, I greet dog walkers and the occasional jogger alike while my velveteen wedges hit the bricks, sending echoes off of pastel-colored townhouses. Then onto the bus at Dumbarton and Wisconsin, for a ride to 7^th and SW Jefferson, followed by a rushed walk along 7^th over the National Mall to L’enfant to catch the shuttle.

“Good morning sir, good morning ma’am, how are you doing this morning? Yes, I wish it would clear up. Oh, we’re getting some snow tomorrow? Wow, better hope it doesn’t affect the inauguration. Mind if I sit here? Thank you.”

A bumpy ride down to the Potomac waterfront, and I have arrived. Through the scanner, “hello ma’am how are you doing today? Oh, I’m just fine, thank you for asking. Have a great day!” Then up to my office to learn what I’ll be doing on my first real day.

At four pm, it’s the reverse. A more subdued shuttle ride, then a relaxed stroll across the mall to catch my 36 bus. With no real rush, and protesting feet, sometimes even relaxed is too strong of a word to describe my molasses-like pace crossing the wide zebra-marked crosswalks of Constitution and Pennsylvania Avenues. But my lead-footed plod breeds remarkable prizes.

I look over the crowd control barriers in one direction and could see the Capitol, in the other the Washington Monument. To my left is the Smithsonian building, still beautiful even in the midst of construction and renovations. As I continue, I take a short detour through the Sculpture Garden, which has had its central fountain turned into an ice skating rink where children, and one very graceful man, were twirling, daring to skate backwards, and laughing in the cold air. A little bit further along, a beautiful view of the glass-fronted Newseum with its prominent inaugural-banners.  And then across from my bus stop, the imposing, statuesque National Archives, impressive despite the bleachers placed in front of its four statues marking the future, past, heritage, and guardianship.

This city is sometimes overly steeped in history, politics, and self-importance, pressing down the yoke of expectations, connections, and nepotism upon your shoulders. But it’s a certain type of wonderful to be able to take in global iconic sites during my daily commute. With such a connection to one of the hearts of today’s world, how could I help but to be rejuvenated, inspired, and empowered?

If it was hard to get the visual from my description, here are a few photos I took on my way home:

On my right, the Washington Monument

On my left, the Capitol

My favorite sculpture at the Sculpture Garden (lamp post not included)

The National Archives.

This City Runs on Interns (And Giant Portions of Chocolate Cake)

 I am exhausted. (In fact, so tired that I’m afraid I will fall asleep at this table and this post will end with nonsense letter combinations banged out by my forehead hitting the laptop.) But I will persevere to talk about my first day as an intern in DC.

            Everyone who works in DC says, “this city runs on interns.” Then they give me an encouraging smile, hinting that the city or at least my organization would collapse without the work of unpaid student workers such as myself. And those words are certainly encouraging, to a point.

            But today, after my feet and fingers were numb from the misty rain shrouding the city, after failing to appropriately choose which metro/bus combination would get me to my office on time, after a (well-deserved but still gut-wrenching) lecture from the security guard at my building about always carrying multiple forms of proper identification, meeting what seemed like hundreds of people, being heartily intimidated by the site of an office building filled with extremely fit coast guard officers, and walking over four miles in heels and a suit in the now horrifyingly ugly barrier and bleacher-filled downtown area, I was feeling too pathetic to run my own life, let alone a whole city.

            But then came the chocolate cake. Well more appropriately, then came dinner sponsored by Carnegie Mellon Center for International Relations and Politics for the eleven of us participating in the Semester in Washington Program. The lovely Katie organized this gathering for us, as a way to bond as a group and to show that we have support from CMU even though we may actually be studying at another university, but also to just relax and swap stories about our first week at Georgetown, and first day as interns.

            We ate at Old Ebbitt Grill, a institution with roots trailing back beyond the 1820s, but now a beautiful, spacious, popular restaurant and bar on fifteenth street right across from the National Press Club. It was decadent, filled with suited and coifed professionals, and utterly delicious. With a menu starring parmesan trout, salmon, kobe beef sandwiches, truffle mac and cheese, an impressive oyster bar, and absolutely divine crab cakes, we couldn’t help but feel sophisticated and slightly worldly as we talked and joked in the marble atrium-like space. And the food was to die for. I went for classic favorites—super creamy, flavor-packed clam chowder, baseball sized crab cakes (advertised as 95% crab meat, with “just enough filler to keep it together”), and to finish, a monster of a chocolate layer cake. (While not quite competition for the flourless chocolate cake my sister and I made two weeks ago (recipe to come in future post), it was pretty darn good, and sweet enough to induce thoughts of cozy sweaters and a warm fire place.)

As I ate it, I found myself becoming increasingly drowsy as food coma began to set in, but also more comfortable with the chaos of my day. My hair may have been frizzy after the rain, the balls of my feet weeping after the long walk to the restaurant, my fingers just barely regaining feeling, and my mind spinning with names and floor plans I was already forgetting, but my heart rate was finally slowing, I was calming down, and my spirit was replenished.

            But now, I’m now utterly shattered. Literally staring down the short hallway of my apartment to my bedroom door wondering if I can make it—maybe if I crawl on all fours... or roll... But, I’m not upset that I’m tired. Rather, I’m invigorated. I already love my organization, despite the first day’s troubles. I know that through my internship, I’m going to have opportunities to meet and talk with people I never would otherwise get to know, including professors with expertise in regional and topical areas I love to study. The entire staff is welcoming and friendly, and I cannot wait to start contributing to the mission of the organization. But, despite these positive conditions, the sheer enormity of the challenge of this semester has started to sink in.

            I’m a student expected to produce top quality work at an excellent university. I’m a young adult in a diverse, historical, fun, unique place I can’t wait to explore further. I’m a self-aware kid with the need to take breaks, zone out, bake, dance, eat decadent chocolate cake, listen to music, or take some time every day to reflect. And I'm also a young intern with a city to help run—although I’m half-convinced it just takes miracles in the form of chocolate cake.

Museum Challenge 2013

          I’m pretty lucky to be from Washington, DC. Most people have heard of it—they may have even visited before. My hometown is a vacation destination for the likes of girl scout troops from Ohio, middle-school students from Pennsylvania, and families from around the world. Postcards depicting monuments I admire from afar are sent ever day to Paris, Tokyo, Johannesburg, Rio de Janeiro and beyond.  There are countless Facebook pictures posted in front of the White House gates, “holding up” the Washington Monument, in front of the towering marble Lincoln, and among fluffy pink cherry blossoms at the Tidal Basin.

            However, like most DC natives, I don’t take full advantage of the history and culture surrounding me. I’ve certainly covered the big five—Natural History, Air and Space, Washington Monument, Lincoln Memorial, and the White House—and I do still continue to expand my repertoire of DC sites. I event would venture to say that the Jefferson memorial is one of my favorite places in the world. However, the truth is that I am woefully behind on my hometown lore and sites.

            But, that’s all about to change. I’m hereby publically challenging myself to a self-named “DC museum, memorial, and important sites” marathon. I’m starting with the following list, and setting a goal of visiting at least two-thirds of these sites by May 3^rd, the last day of my program at Georgetown. The remainder will be visited this summer.

            For each site I visit, I’ll be completing a short post, complete with pictures (yes, I’m going to start integrating photos!), stories, and the occasional review. The preliminary list (please comment or contact me with suggestions to add) is:

The Smithsonian Seventeen:

            Anacostia Community Museum
            Sackler Gallery

            Arts and Industries Building

            Freer Gallery of Art

            Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden

            Air and Space (bonus points for the bigger one in Chantilly)

            African American History and Culture

            Museum of African Art

American History

Museum of the American Indian

Natural History

National Portrait Gallery

Postal Museum

Renwick Gallery

American Art

Smithsonian Building

National Zoo

Other Museums and Galleries:

            Holocaust Museum

            Newseum

            Textile Museum

National Museum of Women in the Arts

            Corcoran Gallery

            The Phillips Collection

            Connersmith Gallery

            National Gallery of Art

Monuments and Memorials:

            Jefferson

            Lincoln

            World War II

            Vietnam War

            Washington Monument

            African American Civil War Memorial

            Air Force Memorial

            Arlington Cemetery

            FDR

            Korean War Memorial

            Iwo Jima

            Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial (brand spanking new!)

            National Archives

            Theodore Roosevelt Island

Other Cool Places:

            Library of Congress

            Folger Shakespeare Library

            Anderson House

            Arlington House

            Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception

            National Cathedral

            Thomas Jefferson Building (bonus Civil War exhibit!)

            National Arboretum

            Old Stone House

            Union Station

            The Capitol

            Bureau of Engraving & Printing

            Ford’s Theatre

            Supreme Court

            Woodrow Wilson House

Scavenging for Embassy Admission—A Tale of Heartbreak at Orientation

            This Semester in Washington program I’m participating in at Georgetown University is an odd middle ground in many ways. I am a Georgetown student, but am expected to intern three days a week. I take classes, but they’re taught by faculty who only teach for this program. I live in on-campus housing with full-time students, but I’m only here for the semester. As a result, I feel kind of adrift between many directions, with only the other twenty-one participants to hold onto.

           

            And I met them all on Monday. We had a scavenger hunt as a fun ice-breaker type activity, followed by a delicious hors d’oeurves spread, and introduction to some of our faculty. But it was at the scavenger hunt that I realized how out of my depth I am, despite being from DC.

            Set up by ThingsToDoDC, the scavenger hunt featured iconic, and not so iconic locations for us to find, either gathering items or taking team pictures. Different challenges had different point values, and some locations were much further than others, for instance a picture of the statue of John Carroll on university grounds, or one outside of the White House. With the incentive of free admission to a formal evening at the Italian Embassy to celebrate Valentine’s Day complete with an orchestra, free food, and an open bar, we were all properly motivated.

So we dutifully attempted to persuade stubborn Banana Republic workers to give us a bag, anxiously sought out locations to buy a purple crayon, ran after a man in a suit to surround him and snap a picture, and walked up and down M Street over and over again.

We had spent the two hours inefficiently, laughing at our confusion, and anxiously consulting smart phones every step of the way, so I was not shocked to hear that we had not won.  Disheartened because I felt like I had the home-court advantage, I gritted my teeth and congratulated the winning team, secretly half-hoping that one of them might get sick and allow me to take their place (I am a complete international geek, so embassy events are to be coveted.) I couldn’t help but calculate what we could have done to get more points.

            But, after some reflection yesterday, I have come to the conclusion that not knowing my way around, getting lost en route to the simplest of locations on campus, and just in general feeling kind of clueless is to be embraced. It means I have so much to learn, seek out and explore. And I simply can’t wait.

First Year Jitters All Over Again

            I’m taking a break from Carnegie Mellon next semester, interning part-time and taking classes at Georgetown University in Washington, DC. I didn’t anticipate being overly nostalgic, but I also didn’t expect to be so nervous. After all, DC is my hometown and I am totally and utterly convinced that this is the right program for me. 

            But, to be honest I’m kind of terrified. For me, this is truly the beginning of my venture into true adulthood. And so I’ve been trying to reflect on previous experiences and gain some wisdom from my previous new beginnings….

I will never forget my third night at Carnegie Mellon. It was orientation—a non-stop, loud, regimented week of activities meant to bond us to our colleges and dorms and brainwash us into remembering spirited chants until we are 80.

We had all broken out into college groups for dinner and entertainment. True to form, the humanities students had the most formal activity. For us, it was dinner and conversation at the beautiful Carnegie Music Hall, while the scientists had a tour of the aquarium, engineers a game night at Dave and Busters, and I’m sure equally cool plans were arranged for the computer scientists and artists among the class of 2014.

           

I was excited, but anxious. With no way to impress via my ski ball abilities or to bond over how cute penguin waddles are, how was I to make friends? But I did. I just sat at a table with a bunch of other kids and started talking. And I kid you not; it was a scene from a movie. Laughter and conversation as slowly the hall emptied out around us until suddenly we realized we were the only ones left.

            “How wonderful!!” I thought, elated. One evening had confirmed that this college was indeed the place for me. And all my worries about my being the only social fiend in a sea of awkward, antisocial CMU student went flying out the window. We headed from the hall, merrily talking of IM sports and informally planning to form a humanities powerhouse team. Right as we were discussing my position of either sweeper or striker, a call of “heads up” came from beyond us where the athletic, cute CMU frat team was practicing for some sort of soccer tournament. And the ball came rolling towards me slowly, so why not show off a little?

            I took two steps to clear the ball all the way back to them, aiming to playfully pass it to the cute one smiling at me. And…

planted my foot in mud, slipping up in the air like a cartoon character victim to a strategically placed banana peel. I’m sure I was suspended for at least a full minute, before hurtling to the ground in front of my new friends and those I had been trying to impress.

            No one knew what to do or say. My cheeks were flaming and I wished I could just sink through the dreaded mud that had been the problem in the first place. And then, I started laughing. Hysterically.

It only made things worse. The others didn’t know whether to feel pity, make a joke out of it, or help me. So with tears streaming down my flushed face and an oddly springy step, I headed home to shower and try and get mud out of my best skirt. And I wish I could say we did form that soccer team and dominate the league, or even that we all met up again. But, frankly as soon as I see any of them coming, I head down a different hallway, avoid eye contact, hope they mistake me for another average brunette on campus. More than three years later, I think about that interaction with mortification wishing it had been different. And then I wonder what difference it would make.

Knowing me, my clumsiness would have won out eventually and they’d get to know me for my true, overly gregarious, spontaneous, clumsy self. And perhaps that’s the message I need for this next beginning looming just ahead in 2013.

I'll Be Back

Before you get too outraged, I do want to offer an apology to those if you who were waiting for some type of summary blog. But here’s the belated quick version:

I left India on July 29^th and arrived in the US via a ten-day vacation in Bretagne with the Elliott women (and Uncle Steve). From there it was a four day turn around with just enough time to do laundry and repack my small suitcase before it was off to a week-long Foose beach vacation. Afterwards, it was time to head up to Pittsburgh, move into my new house, paint my room and get it organized, and start training for work. Since then, I’ve been running around campus as is my tendency, attending my six classes, working at the Career Center, and in general just pushing myself to the limit—and missing India almost every day.

            Re-entry is always hard after a study abroad experience. Coming back from after my junior year was terrible frankly. I was about 30 pounds heavier than when I left, totally immersed in Chinese language and uncomfortable with my English, and very unsure of how I was going to go back to another year of high school with the big college decision looming ominously. This time it is different.

            While I felt I came back from China a completely different person, I have returned from India a stronger, more focused version of myself. And frankly, it’s a pretty wonderful feeling. I have a renewed sense of purpose in my academic and career path, I am connecting with strangers more easily, and expressing my feelings more clearly. And the most tangible part of my growth is a renewed connection to written reflection. I find myself jotting notes in the margins of my notebook to try and magically realize into stories or essays later. Yet, without the presence of an audience (even an imaginary one), it is difficult to motivate myself to actually complete one. So with the aid of my fear of letting anyone down, ever, in any way, I promise I'll be back soon. 

A Month Later, Stage 3

In our entry orientation Alliance warned us that culture shock consists of three main steps: enchantment, irritation, and enthrallment. The first is an initial sensory bombardment with an internal monologue somewhere along the lines of “Oh, look over there! The colors! Wow, this is incredible! I can’t believe that I’m here! Why didn’t I come sooner? Nothing could ever be bad in a place as vibrant as this!” And I was certainly in that zone for the first week or so.

Then I shifted towards disappointment, lethargy, and a longing for a simple routine. As previous posts can attest to, I had a couple of difficult weeks. Getting across the city was an ordeal, my internship was infuriating, and overall I was missing my creature comforts (I would still trade a lot for a hairdryer).  But I’m glad to say, with lots of apologies to those who have had to listen to me complain, I’ve turned a corner (and just in time with exactly a month having passed since my departure from DC).

I am now solidly in stage three where I spend my time desperately visiting different areas of the city, listing everywhere I still want to see, lamenting that I don’t have time to go to Mumbai, and trying to figure out how to get back to India, and soon. I savor each cold coffee as if it’s my last, frantically text Indian friends (to whom I owe most of the credit for the change in my attitude—literally, some of the nicest, most hospitable, helpful people I have ever met), treat each rickshaw ride as my own private tour of the city, and walk the streets with a bounce in my step and my held high because at this point, I belong here dammit.

As many predicted before I left, India has invaded my heart and mind. And at this point, and I’m pretty positive it’s not going to let go until I satisfy my craving for this exotic, colorful, diverse, irritating, majestic, friendly, puzzling, wonderful country. 

Some Belated Background

I feel like I’ve gone about this blog the wrong way. Here I am narrating experiences and feelings without a background on the program I am completing or my day to day routine. So, a little too late, here goes nothing:

           I am in Pune, India on the Alliance for Global Education’s Contemporary India program. There are 20 students on our program this year from many different schools in the US. We all meet in the morning at our program center in Fergusson College to have breakfast and then troop through campus to our class on Contemporary India.

           After a discussion that begins with a variety of topics and inevitably ends with an analysis of politics, we all disperse to our internships throughout the city of Pune. For me personally, internship times means either waiting at school and creating my own assignment or heading to one of the seven branches of Parvati Swayamrojgaar, a NGO with the mission of alleviating poverty through micro-finance. The branches are located in slum communities and I have now been into four of the seven to observe the collection motivators at work as they promote PSW, collect loans, and check-up on the partners in the field.

            After internships, we tend to gather again at the program center before heading home, out to eat, or to our expressive culture classes (pictures of pottery class soon to come!) The program center is that home away from home that you hate but still can’t totally desert. Littered with combed through newspapers, always occupied by one or two students, it beckons us even as we try and resist. It is safe, familiar, and static and so it is there that we regroup before heading out into the foreign land of Pune.

Scams, Rip-offs, and Scoundrels: An Exclusive Guide to Rickshaw Schemes

Pune has the most motorcycles (also called scooters and two-wheelers) in all of India. They are everywhere, with men straddling the seat, and women in saris sitting sidesaddle with incredible balance. Even on the highways, I often see a two-wheeler with a whole family of four sitting astride.  Remarkably nimble and useful for the stop and go flow of traffic, the motorcycle is ideal for the streets of Pune. However, riding one is grounds for serious punishment by the Alliance authorities.

So, we use rickshaws to get anywhere of distance. A three-wheeled, hunchbacked vehicle, the auto rickshaw is a strange beast. With its driver’s seat in the front, the back bench is used for the one, two, or three passengers, or perhaps the eight schoolchildren who cram in any which way. If you are lucky, your rickshaw has all three mirrors a car would have, although it is more than likely that at least one of the side mirrors will be tilted at such an angle as to allow a clearer view of our pale faces than of the traffic behind. And on the left hand side, between you and the driver lies the meter.

Alternately a weapon of justice wielded by meter-card carrying individuals and a device used to legitimize scams, the meter keeps track of how far you have traveled and what the corresponding fare is. For the first kilometer, the meter stays at 1.0. That way, any short distance ride will cost 11 rupees (1.0 x 10 +1). After the first kilometer, it ticks away the tenths of kilometers and your fare goes up by 1 rupee per extra tick. Staying still for prolonged periods of time, such as at traffic lights, also will cause the meter to go up, but only very occasionally.

Presumably such a uniform billing system would destroy plans to get the most out of naïve travelers or clueless Americans. Instead, it only makes said plans more subtle. Since I have been here, I have caught on to the most common scams employed by rickshaw drivers to make a few extra bucks.

The first is obvious, a refusal to use the meter, leading to a long haggle over what the price should be. Most effectively used in the pouring rain (the one time the city has had true rain this season happened to be our first Sunday as we were shopping at Pantaloons), or on busy nights in peak traffic with no other rickshaws around, this rip-off technique leads to more upfront arguing, but a mutually satisfactory end of us getting home and them making a little extra money.

Another technique is the keeping of change in a different pocket. Rupee coins seem to be a particularly rare breed here. Often, bills are in terms of round numbers so only bills (with ten being the smallest common bill) are necessary. But rickshaw fares often fall in those in between areas that require one or two rupee coins. As a result, when your fare is 33 rupees (as ours is to school), you often do not have exact change.

And finally there is manipulation of the meter system. Again, there are two options. The first happened just this morning as Liz and I were sleepily getting into our rickshaw after quite a confusing routine of forgetting our keys and then her phone. She noticed soon after we were on our way that the meter had ticked past 1.0 kilometers much sooner than it usually does.  We quickly figured out that the driver must have had the meter started before we got in, allowing the meter to count the time he stood still waiting for a passenger to push the fare up slightly.  The second meter manipulation is what I like to call, “the winding way”. The meter counts out distance traveled, not what the closest route from point of entry to intended destination actually is.  As a result, taking the long way costs you more money. Just last Friday, I had a driver try to drive the complete opposite way down a one way street to up the fare. Luckily, at that point I knew the general route home and told him to stop, yelling when he originally ignored me, got out and found a more honest (maybe more afraid of foreigners causing a scene) fellow to take me on my way.

Although assuredly not an inclusive guide, this post hopefully gives you an explanation of why even getting from one place to another in this city can be fraught with emotion and leave me drained. Even when dealing with great drivers, I have to be on guard simply because I’ve had so many bad experiences. After a long day, I just want to get home. And I’d like to do it in 33 rupees please.

Happy Independence Day!

Isn’t it silly, but I’m always more excited about the fourth of July when I am out of the country. The best Independence Day party that I went to was actually in London, on the same day that a salesperson at Harrods handed me an American flag.

Perhaps its because in the US, everyone is excited so I can just coast along with the flow. Here, there are so few of us to carry the standard (see what I did there?) of American patriotism that we all have to try extra hard. So, I am fully into the spirit of things.

Here in Pune, we 19 Americans (the Iranian is less excited) have big plans, beginning of course with a dress code of red, white, and blue. Then it’s onto our usual activities before meeting back at the program center for burgers, hot dogs, and the singing of patriotic songs. Then tonight I’m planning on going out on the roof and pretending that the fireworks from the wedding park across the street are just as magnificent and awe inspiring as those on the National Mall.

How appropriate that it is the Fourth and just yesterday I was struggling to describe American culture to my immediate supervisor. I thought up a bunch of clichés like a “melting pot” of cultures, baseball and apple pie, freedom, but eventually settled on independence as the core value of our culture.  A lot of my difficulties in India have been based on a mix of struggling to getting around on my own and pulling against the reins of obligations in order to be more independent. Even the smallest thing like a struggle for personal space while shopping can be linked back to my inherent desire for choice, freedom, and personal independence.

So, today I am celebrating Independence Day abroad in Pune for the purest of reasons, a celebration of freedom and my own independence. Happy 4^th everyone!

Making the Most of It, Part 1: To The Beach!

It's time for a vacation. I know that seems like a ridiculous statement, but as I have said to myself more times than I can count, I am sure that I have been here many months already. So, this weekend, I'm getting away from it all.

Liz, Clara, Molly, Jill and I are heading for the Konkan beach of Dahanu. Known for beautiful white sand and an abundance of chickoo fruits, my goal is to soak up some sun and relax. I’m trading my computer for my camera and old fashioned pen and paper, looking to find some inspiration and inner direction to guide me through the rest of this Indian adventure. So talk to you again on Monday, when I’ll hopefully be full of warm sunshine and a new perspective.

Of Poofy Pants and Peanut Butter

So, as previously mentioned, I’ve had a bit of a tough week. I was so excited when I first got my internship assignment. It sounded exactly what I was looking for. An internship at a micro-finance NGO working on a new project? How much more perfect could it be?

It turns out a lot could be better. For instance, my director could have given me specific tasks to complete in my first week. Or I could be given something to accomplish in the three plus days before I can start working on the actual project she set to me today. I could be feeling like I am helping, rather than a child that needs to be sent off distracted so she won’t be in the way. So, this week I needed a little something extra to help me get through it.

Enter stage right, poofy pants and peanut butter. The dress code here is such that we are expected to be dressed modestly. Shoulders and thighs should be paid particular attention to and should never be left naked. So, we’ve all gone shopping quite a bit to try and find items that will allow us to blend in. The most fun of those items has been the pants. In a vast array of colors, bagginess, and patterns, harem pants are delightful. I could legitimately wear my college finals (okay, not just finals) uniform of pajama pants and t-shirts and be praised for embracing the culture of India.

As for the peanut butter, many of you know that of all cravings besides chocolate, I have intense cravings for crunchy peanut butter and bananas. The bananas here are so little and sweet, they just needed that little extra kick to be the perfect lunch.

So with my baggy harem pants allowing me to comfortably sit with my legs curled up or stretched out anyway I please and my tiny bananas and peanut butter lunches I’ve been slowly able to calm myself down. Next step, making the best of it.

Bollywood Wednesdays

I’ve now been in India for a week and a half. Oddly enough it feels like at least two months. But, tonight I noticed an odd tradition forming. On my first Wednesday in Pune I went to a bollywood movie with Liz and Clara. Tonight, I went to another one with ten other Alliance students. Both films were in Hindi with no subtitles, and it cost us about $3.50 each to get in, with another $1.50 for the caramel popcorn that makes the experience almost too good to be real.

Although the first movie was an action spoof and the second was a typical chick flick with a bit of destiny crossing time boundaries thrown in, both nights were great in similar ways. Bollywood encompasses so many of the stereotypes about India that made me think I’d like it here. Its vibrant, filled with beautiful colors and great locations. The songs are spontaneous and radiant with choreographed moves that make me want to dance in the aisles. I can’t help but come out of a movie feeling happier and lighter.

And that’s good, because I really needed something to remind me of all the reasons I came here. I’ve been having a lot of doubts and rough days this past week. They mainly surround my internship (expect an explanation in a later post), and I feel so drained from worrying and trying to bully myself into doing something with logic that I come home exhausted and just do work until bed. But, I am here to take in India and try and make sense of my place here.

I wanted a great rainbow of colors, wonderful adventures, charming company, and lots of new acquaintances. In other words, I wanted to star in my own Bollywood movie. So that’s my new goal while I’m here, to end as many days as possible with the enthusiasm and happily ever after of a Bollywood film. And Bollywood Wednesdays are definitely here to stay.

Dreaming of Grapes and Rain

I’ve been daydreaming of grapes. Crisp, light green grapes with firm outsides that I delicately burst to release a wave of cool, sweet refreshment. Frozen or semi-liquid, I am convinced I could eat them by the bucket load if only given a supply.

           

The weather here is about what you’d expect. High 80s to 90s with a humidity that makes it feel about 7 degrees hotter. All in all, it’s actually probably better than the summer in DC, at least temperature wise. But we are all hoping for rain.

Monsoon season is measured by when the first heavy rains hit the coast of Kerala, the southern most state in India. From there, they are expected to sweep across the country until they rebound off the Himalayas and journey back. The rains hit Kerala a few days after we got here, but are still more than two weeks late in Pune.

The newspapers reported today that the dams surrounding Pune city are only at 4% capacity. This means that if no rain were to fall, we would only have enough water to last until July 15^th. As it is unlikely that it will not rain at all, we will just have to see what the actual results of this waiting game are. For us, it means some days of unannounced low or no water pressure, the threat of water only every other day, and rising prices for vegetables. For the government, it means difficult decisions, such as whether water is more necessary for agriculture or for drinking.

So for now, we are waiting and just hoping that the rains come.

Jasmine Flowers

On my first house visit in India, I was greeted by the joyful, amazing tea-maker, owner of the hostel where 6 of the other Alliance students are staying. Even before introducing herself as Swatna, I was handed a short string of small, incredibly fragrant, jasmine flowers. Without an explanation, I thought it was a nice gift and forgot about it beyond laying the strand on my pillow when I reached home.

Later, at Ganapti Temple, I saw vendors selling the strands and realized there was a symbolism beyond the beauty of the white buds. To show respect to the gods, you offer gifts of food and flowers. In India, guests are to be treated as gods. Thus, you give guests food and jasmine adornments to weave into their hair to thank them for visiting and thinking of you.

Today, was my first visit into the “slums” of Pune. As part of the introduction to Parvati Swayamrojgan NGO, two other students, our Indian interpreters, and I followed a field officer as she made her rounds to drop off health care cards to new subscribers and check-up on members who had been sick. I think I was expecting the slums to be harsher than they were—filled with the same sense of unease as a dark alley in a shady, urban neighborhood. What I observed was not that.

The houses were close together—one-room abodes made of stone, concrete, tarps, and aluminum roof siding. Inside, there was usually a blanket laid out on the floor as a bed, a television, and not much else.  And the people outside some of them were a little gaunt, their clothes more worn than those I’ve seen in other places. But their smiles were radiant, the children’s giggles loud, and their care for one another was evident as they sat outside in the tiny, long gaps connecting one row of houses to another chatting, brushing each other’s hair, and keeping an eye on the little ones.

Throughout our visits in several different areas, we were a constant curiosity, and soon became the leaders of a parade of shy children. And we were met with only questions and puzzled expressions, instead of the hostility and guardedness I thought we might provoke.  In fact, we were invited back to one household to observe and star in their celebration and rituals the next day. There would be food, they promised, as they eagerly asked our interpreters to relay the message. We would be welcomed back with open arms.

As we were leaving the last area, we passed two women and their young teen daughters. They were using wire to thread jasmine buds into the strands I had seen earlier at Swatna’s and the temple. As we were looking from afar, they must have seen our sidelong glances, and the two daughters ran over with three strings in their hands. Shyly handing them to us with downcast eyes, they explained that they sell 16 arrangements for 5 rupees, or about 10 US cents. As we tried to reach for some coins to pay them, they refused us emphatically and ran back to their mothers. 

I am still struck by their generosity. These are people who need every rupee they can get, and yet...   I have been wrestling with my feelings from this encounter for the past five hours and have not reached a conclusive communicable impression. Something about the shared bond of humanity in the situation definitely has hit me hard. But this is the best I have come up with—Tonight, I am incredibly humbled.