humans are funny

Category: transition to the west

  • Let’s try it again, America


    Why hello, USA.
    It’s so comforting to set eyes on you again after this long time apart. I admit I was fed up with your normalcy and celebrity-obsession when I left (I mean, just the fact that Heidi & Spencer are famous pissed me off). But now my fresh eyes see so differently. You’re like an ex boyfriend I haven’t seen in a while, and as the butterflies fill me up, I remember only the good; Heidi & Spencer who?

    My dear, lovely ex-country, I find so much comfort in our familiarity. No guessing. I don’t have to wonder if I’m saying something correctly or accidentally insulting you. To be where I came from makes me feel cozy wherever I stand. I love that I can sit on a bench and be invisible to everyone around me. I don’t look like a tourist here even though I feel like one. I’m home. But the comfort of familiarity is always friends with the comfort of predictability. And THAT sends me leaping into a fit of non-commitment. Yes, USA, you are my ex. This is all too familiar. And, since I’ve never been able to mend my ways with any ex, I might have to leave you again.

    But not just yet. For now I will use you for all your relief and luxury before I ditch you again for some other, more exotic country. For now I will take this time to enjoy all those things I didn’t realize I was missing. Things I’d forgotten. Things I never really noticed before but are blinding me now. These, USA, are your idiosyncrasies:

    Supermarket Sticks – USA! What is with the obsession to get that stick between your groceries and mine? The cashier isn’t going to make our grapes mingle. But even if she does, it’s going to be okay. You don’t have to glare at me because I didn’t put the stick behind my soy milk.


    Inside temperature. It’s a beautiful day. The breeze is swinging the leaves, and you can still sit comfortably under a tree in just a tank top. Yet, when you walk inside, nipples cringe and people build snowmen in the corner. In supermarkets, office buildings, libraries, it’s below 40. What gives, America? I haven’t been cold in 9 months and now I can’t even buy a few bananas without getting frostbite.

    Diversity. Yes, I heard that Republicans have become racists since I’ve been gone. But man, America, we are lucky. I teared up the other day as I drank from a water fountain next to a black man. He told me I was a crazy white woman. But I couldn’t stop. So many other countries are faaaar behind us when it comes to accepting other people. I’ve missed diversity since Australia. I feel so free to be riding an LA bus with a rainbow of skin colors. Yes, America! This is what you’re all about.

    Dollars. What is this green shit? It’s so boring, so monochromatic. Who designed this? Every other country gets pink or blue or yellow money adorned with handsome faces of recent rulers. We don’t even understand our money with its pyramids and random floating eyeballs. And all the guys on dollars are wearing wigs. Lame.

    Unknown substances. I innocently made an oatmeal at Cata’s house and spit it out onto her carpet. That taste… Fake sugar. Diet stuff. Not found in Asia. I think the chemical companies probably said, “Hey Asians, want to ingest these gross synthetic powders instead of sugar so your bodies will look skinnier ?” And the Asians kicked those chemical company people in the mouths. This stuff is nasty.

    The astounding variety of capitalism. Do we really need to choose between 20 different toothpaste brands? I mean, really? It makes life so hard. Do I want the whitening with fluoride or do I want the whitening with crystals or will the whitening take off my enamel so I’ll stick to just breath-freshening or maybe that will hurt the environment so I’m going with a natural baking soda paste. Geez. It’s just toothpaste. In Laos, it was either Nivea face cream or Nivea face cream. And Laotians are surviving! With lovely faces, I might add.

    Wow… They’re everywhere. “If you’ve ben injured in an accident, CALL NOW!” Haven’t seen a lawyer ad in a while. And now they’re inescapable. How I’ve missed you, Larry H. Parker.


    Technology. It’s sort of gross. On my NY layover, I could tell I was in an American airport strictly due to the head positioning of the fellow layover-ers. I would say that 80 percent of people were texting or typing on some device. And the others were talking to people on the other end. I think we should all just ta– hang on, getting a call…

    Restaurant service. My first trip to an American restaurant was of course to Swingers, an American diner, for some tofu chilaquiles! YES. The food was exceptional, but I thought the waitress was stalking us.
    “No, I don’t need more tea…. Nope, do not need anything else…. Nope, I’m good on the napkins, but thanks lady. Nope… LEAVE US ALONE.”
    If you want the bill in a Vietnamese cafe, you might have to walk back to the bathroom or chicken coop to find someone who remembers what you ordered. Come to think of it…. Most people who don’t speak English know the restaurant word for ‘bill’ and the word for “Bill Clinton.” I wonder if they think Bill Clinton is named after the tab of things you’ve eaten.

    Lawn ornaments. I’m almost positive America can claim this one all on its own. Nobody else could possibly have a fascination with plastic animals in the yard. I have to stay, fake geese are pretty fucking amazing.

  • I don’t know. What do you want to do?

    For the past eight months, I have been asking and answering the most important questions: Where do you want to have dinner? What do you want to do today? What country do you want to see next?
    I sometimes felt like a lunatic, sitting on a lone hotel bed talking to myself:

    “Ok, do we have enough money to see south India?”
    “I don’t think so. Plus I’d rather go to Kerala when we have much more time.”
    “I know! But who knows when we’ll be back. We should definitely go.”
    “Oh, you’re such a free spirit.”
    “No, you are.”

    Ah, those were the days. Now, upon crossing into the West, I’ve found myself in the arms of several friends. Shit. I mean, I want to see my friends. I have yearned for some time now to be in the presence of someone who already knows me and why I’m me, someone who doesn’t need to ask from where I come, how old I am, and how many siblings I have (and then, like everyone does, say ‘Oh, you’re an only child. You must be spoiled. Ha ha ha.’).

    BUT… This is the abrupt end to my independence. Now I will have to be asking questions and waiting for someone else to answer. And when those answers are not the same answers I would give, I might have to…. compromise! Yikes. No No No!

    Compromise!? Why? How? It’s all hogwash, I say. But these aren’t travelers who will recede to faraway lands and occasionally say hello to me on Facebook. These are people I’ll be seeing for the rest of my life. So here I go, armed with phrases like ‘I’m open to suggestions,’ ‘It’s your turn to choose a restaurant.’ and of course, ‘I could go either way.’

    Alas, the days of letting the wind carry me wherever I please have ended. I guess I could possibly work to prolong them, but now I will have to ask out loud, “Is it ok if the wind carries us to wherever we please today? Did the wind just carry you to a place that pleases you or shall we use our feet instead of the wind to get us out of here?”

    Sigh.
    It’ll be okay. As long as my friends mostly want to do what I say.

    Roberto wanted to go bowling. I wanted to drink wine in a cave. Here, we are in a cave. Compromising at slow start.

    Melissa wanted to go to the Prado and sketch Goya’s works. I wanted to go shopping. We compromised by shopping.

    Um, my compromising was not going well here. I tied Catalina to a leash so she would go Javier Bardem hunting with me. And I made her wear a diaper so she wouldn’t slow us down.

    Here the compromising is getting better. I came to this park because she wanted to. But when it was boring, I pushed her over the ledge. Sorry ’bout that Catalina. How’s your cast?

  • Dear olives, bow ties, and ham drawings: I love you!

    Madrid is alive. With people. With culture. With men who have sexy accents. With retired couples who hold hands and take walks at night. With loitering teenagers. With street musicians. With people and more people enjoying dinners on patios throughout the city.

    It’s metropolitan, and everyone walks with purpose through the maze of the city, around behemoth government buildings and through the cozy cobblestone streets. But that’s not all that I love about it. There’s also: the smell, the fresh bread, the people, the accent, the olives, the plazas, the way everyone talks with such emotion, the fact that you order a wine and they automatically give you a tapa, the possibility to see Javier Bardem around every corner, the sangria, the tradition, the bow ties worn by waiters at traditional cafes, the churros and chocolate, the theaters, the beautiful beautiful coffee, the park, the men playing futbol in the park, la musica, the cheery voice on the metro that tells you what stop is next…

    but especially the people. I was sitting alone in a plaza smiling, of course, because I was observing the magnificence around me. A hunched old man walked passed me, turned towards me on his cane and said, “Que cara tan bonita tienes! Tienes cara de muñeca.” (What a pretty face you have– it’s the face of a doll.) The fact that we were both enjoying the other’s presence almost brought me to tears. Ah, Madrid. Estoy enamorada.

    How could you not love a city where they draw cute little hams to advertise their meat section:


    Or where old people sing their hearts out and play accordions!:


    Or where random drag queens congregate:


    Or where they sell horchata with big farts (adding -on to a word in spanish means ‘big’):


    Or where you can get a free fake mustache with the purchase of any two wigs:

  • I am different this time. I swear.


    I left India feeling lighter. Refreshed. New. I knew I was a cliché, but that’s the thing– I didn’t care. I felt like I had shed the load of caring about what others think. Thankfully, this was discarded along with my need for make-up, new clothes, and all material goods. In my previous life, I always swung on the fence between hippiedom and yuppiedom. It seemed dreamy to have a nice house and comfortable car, but in India I finally confirmed that it feels nicer to not have. To me, being able to travel with one pair of pants beats worrying about a mortgage.

    Phew. Glad I realized that. No more brand names. No more high heels. Done.

    Then British Airways lost my backpack.

    “What’s that you say? You say the airline usually reimburses about one-hundred Euros per day?”

    Immediately I became one of those shoppers with glittery packages. The moment I bought the first tight-fitting jeans, my seal was broken. Like an addict looking for a spoon, I was on a rampage. I happened to be in Spain during their semi-annual countrywide blowout sale, and my hands couldn’t flip through the discount racks fast enough. I had to have that dress. And those shoes. And pajamas. And of course a purse. And look at that– a whole store filled with stuff I wanted to buy in India but didn’t. I fluttered through dressing rooms and beeped through register transactions.

    When my backpack finally arrived three days later, I am ashamed to say that nothing I bought fit into it. I then had to buy a suitcase to carry all my new purchases.

    I hung my head in shame.
    But then I put on my new heels!

    Just this once. I swear. I need to feel feminine for a short time– then back to stinky shirts and baggy pants. I hadn’t realized how grimy I’d felt over the last eight months. It’s nice to remove leg hair, wear jewelry, and put on deodorant once in a while. I’d forgotten. Our minds and bodies have the ability to get used to anything. What you thought was crazy before just becomes your life, and there you have it. Strange. I bet I could have acclimated to sleeping on a bed of cockroaches if I’d really wanted. Maybe next I will choose to get used to… being unemployed and living with my mother until someone invites me on another 9-month holiday.

  • What’s the matter with you people? Why aren’t you staring at me?

    I feel misplaced and awkward sitting here sipping a perfectly frothed café con leche, wearing a pair of jeans, and watching passersby loaded with Coach bags and packages from glittery department stores. It feels like just yesterday I was peeing into a hole, caught in a monsoon with my backpack on, and bribing rickshaw drivers to take me to the airport while trucks splashed me with mud and mean Hindi expressions. Oh, wait… that was yesterday.

    Just a few stamps in my passport and divided trays of food and here I am in clean, expensive Madrid where nobody sleeps on the train station floor and showing shoulders isn’t considered sin. It’s like I’ve traveled through space; how can such different worlds exist on one planet? How do so many people from either world not know what it’s like to be in the other? How long will it take before sitting here sipping a coffee amidst shoppers and sangria feels normal? Do I even want it to feel normal?

    A bus stop in India where I jumped out, peed in a hole and bought a pair of samosas.

    A metro stop in Madrid. What is this place? Where’s the garbage? And the goats?