Ms. Poshlust Is Okay

Hello Everyone,

This is Brad (Mr. Almost Poshlust) here. I just wanted to post a quick little blog to let everyone know that our favourite little Blogger is doing just fine. The earthquake off Indonesia has not troubled the family trip in any way.

I must admit, I was worried. I received word from the tour guide himself that all was A.O.K. so we can all rest easy and await more amazing blogs from the talented Ms. Poshlust.

Merry Christmas,

Brad

But this time, I'm not being deported.

Hello Everyone! Just a short little reminder - Poshlust Inc. will be silent from this evening (the 23rd of March) until about April 5th. I'm taking my first family vacation, to Bangkok and Burma. We'll be diving off the coast of Burma for about 7 days I believe, the rest is time spent in Bangkok. I'll be keeping a journal on the boat, which I'll then put on here.. so stay tuned. I'll miss you all, please take care of each other. Love Always!

Scrambled Eggs

My family never ceases to amaze me. I mean that in the broadest sense of the word. I suppose they always make me laugh.. But sometimes it's one of those "oh my lord" laughs. Which is why, I guess, I love them so damn much.

We're going to be in Burma for Easter, so my mother decided that last Sunday would be our easter dinner. She cooked a big ham and scalloped potatoes and all that jazz, it was excellent. We invited Bryan over (Roselyn the cook thinks he eats so much because he's lonely. Hmm. *laugh*) to help with the ham eating, and sat down to dinner around 6:30.

Anybody who's ever eaten a meal with my family knows what a hoot it can be. I am the lucky recipient of one of the kindest, funniest families on earth - and there is nothing quite like watching my brother and my dad laugh silently at the table. There being 3 young people at the table, the talk turned to JackAss, and the explanation of said show to my parents. I thought I was going to die. It was so funny. Bryan was in pain he was laughing so hard, my father was crying, and my brother looked like he was repetatively making the sign of the cross, although I think he was just trying to breath. We must have laughed for a good half an hour, everytime we'd manage to stop somebody would slip back into giggles and we'd be off again.

Now, my lovely mother has had a little bit of trouble letting tradition slip away. Although our home no longer holds three children (we're 20, 18, and 14) she insisted (not that we tried very hard to disuade her) that we have an Easter Egg hunt after dinner, post dishes. But, seeing as how we were older, we would have to do it in the dark with flashlights.

Lucky for me, I've got Mr. Mountaineering-river fjording-lizard eating-special forces on my side (and we all know they have the best bad ass gear) so I got to use what looked suspiciously like and OBGYN headset with a big light on the front. My brother and sister had to use regular old un-special flashlights. Well - maybe not true.

This wouldn't be a true McQuade celebration if somebody didn't hurt themselves. My mother has a special sneak attack flashlight, that's actually a stun gun. You just connect the handle at a certain spot, turn it on, and voila, your own special Indian Cooker. She had just been to old Delhi that afternoon, wherein she keeps it connectd (though turned off) in her purse in case of emergency.

She forgot.

Our home has this eerie ability to fall silent whenever anyone is about to do something embarrasing, perhaps to maximize either the embarrassment or the humour, I'm not sure which. But the house was silent when my mother turned on her flashlight and a sound akin to a large bug-zapper preceded the screaming akin to a banshee. She was fine, a little numb, a little angry, but cogniscient enough to swear Bryan to complete secrecy. And so, the hunt began.

We're a fairly communist family at heart. There are a couple rules to our egg hunt - Eggs are hid in 3's, and you can only take one. (Apparently, when there are 4, you can only take 1 as well.. which I found out the hard way after Bryan tattled on me and I had to face the Bunny Tribunal.) After a certain point (decided by the egg hiders) you can go back and pick up everything than anyone else hasn't found. Basically futile, because when the hunt is over, we sit down and divide all the eggs into respective colour groups, then evenly divide them among the kids. It's been this way since I can remember there being more than one kid in our house.

So, we hunted, we gathered, we divided. It was wonderful. My mother has come up with yet another excellent way to extend tradition in our family. I can only hope that when I have kids I can do the same.. or at least make them laugh when I cause myself bodily harm. The things you learn from your Mom. So Happy Easter in advance everyone, enjoy the egg hunts. Or heck, just watch Jackass and stick a fork in a socket. You can feel just like you were at my house!

Once upon a time in India.

Once upon a time, there lived a Princess. This Princess lived in a beautiful apartment castle with two faithful lions and a man with cameras for eyes. She was very happy there. Until, the King and Queen moved far across the beautiful, and sometimes smelly, ocean, to live in far off India. Eventually, the Princess decided to trade her life of arts and culture for one of farts and vultures; packed a suitcase full of couture and made a 2 day long dash around the world.

The Princess was very happy there. It was very warm, which suited her, and she could almost forget about the smell of urine if she tried hard enough. When she squinted her eyes and plugged her nose, she knew that she really did love her new kingdom. Even if it didn't love her so much, or just wanted her to shop at the jezebel emporiums.

But all was not to stay so tranquil. Her magic passport, which had until this time held her safe and strong, with a magic Visa inside.. Began to tire, and she realised it would expire on the 16th of March! The Princess was very dissapointed, as she did not want to return to her old kingdom, and did not want to be put into a barred tower where hair growth only promoted lice, not rescuing by handsome princes.

The Princess fled to the King and Queen, afraid and upset. The King declared he would do everything in his power to keep her safe, and the Queen, with her sometimes psychic powers, already knew that it would be alright.

The King tried his hardest, enlisting the help of two Visa Sirens, Meena and Priya, to send word out over all of the government castles that they needed to extend his daughters Visa, and keep her safe here. Meena and Priya worked all day and all night, searching for somebody to help.

Soon a magic scroll arrived and the Princess drew hope - India did not mind if she stayed, she must only go to "The Ministry of Foreign Affairs" to seek Mr. Lal's approval. This, unfortunately, was a task that she must complete herself, although they allowed the Queen to come for moral support.

So, at noon on the designated day, the Princess rode confidently out on a white steed with her mother in tow. (Actually an old white volvo. Steed it is.) They raced to the office, the Princess soon discouraged by the double talk and empty promises sprouted by the ominous Mr. Lal and his Reception gaurd. So, the Princess and Queen decided to go shoe shopping and eat mango ice cream to relieve their copious anxiety. They returned refreshed and newly shod to the ministry, and were directed to Reception.

A dark, dank little whole filled with greying souls and empty eyes that didn't care anymore.. Reception was lorded over by a large man with three telephones. Striding up to him, confident in her looks if not her brain, the Princess asked where she might find Mr. Lal. "Mr. Lal only sees people between 9 and noon!" the Receptionist bellowed. "Yes," stammered the Princess, "But we have an appointment at 2!". "I did not know of this, you must come back in the proper hours. Goodbye!".

The princess whipped out her trusty cell phone and called the number she had for Mr. Lal. No, he was on lunch, yes, he would be back in half an hour. The Princess worked on a hunch. "Is this Mr. Lal?" she asked. "Yes. Now I will see you in half an hour at F7" The Princess marched out to the gaurd and demanded to know where F7 was, so that she might wait for Mr. Lal. The guard, using the oldest trick in her kingdom, claimed not to speak english. Luckily, the Princess was not only beautiful, but learned and cunning, and could understand what he was saying in Hindi, which basically amounted to a lot of horse shit.

Out of nowhere, a handsome, blond Polishman whispered "I'll show you the way to Mr. Lal's! Follow me!!" The Princess and Queen took after the Polishman. The wound their way through the government office, going through back offices where still more people lounged, looking for hearts, brains, courage and passports. Sometimes they thought they would be sucked into the plush chairs and would have to wait for eternity under the dusty electric fans. But they pushed on, following the blonde man in front of them until he whispered, "We're here! There he is!".

The Princess and Queen stepped tentatively into a room, dusty and grey as a jail cell, but far worse. Stacked shoulder high were millenia worth of Visa requests, hopes and dreams turned into tea tables and foot rests. The Princess could barely look, could barely walk in. THere were no computers, no fans, just 8 men at desks arguing over carbon paper and doomed to push files from one side of the desk to the other forever.

At the back of the room in front of a curtain (that we did not look behind) sat a man, startling in his resemblance to the Karate Kids grandfather (but Indian), yelling into his phone. He was yelling at his pet Receptionist that he was supposed to let us in. The Princess defiantly pulled out her security badge and marched up to the desk. "Mr. Lal, " she almost shouted, "I need your help."

"Yes," snivelled Mr. Lal, "You do. But first Princess, you must promise me three things. One - that you will tell your Visa office that we accomadate Canadians by taking them in late, they should accomodate us. Two - My one daughter lives in Canada, my other daughter wants to visit her, you must get her a Visa. And three, and this will be the hardest. You must wait here in this dusty room, and laugh at my awful jokes, and not succumb to dispair when I say I'm leaving for 15 minutes and do not return for an hour."

The Princess drew strength from deep down, and simply nodded her head. She laughed at his jokes, she filled out all his ridiculous forms and sat, stone faced, while he left them to calcify in the dirty horrible room. At long last, Mr. Lal returned, surprised to find them there, more so to find frozen smiles still on their faces. "These Canadians," he thought, "They are far too nice." Finally defeated, he granted her another 3 months in India, and told her to proceed to the FFRO office to get the Visa.

The Princess glanced at the clock. 3:15. The office was closed! Mr. Lal, impressed and moved by her looks if not her brain, felt some part of his heart melting, and called the office to ask them to remain open for them! The Princess and Queen raced out of the awful office, unable to spot the beautiful Polishman, into the open air and back onto their noble steed.

They raced across the city, dodging cows and beggars and potholes, to arrive breathless at the FFRO office. They ran in, to find a small little man singing instructions. "We are closed. Closed at 3. Come back tomorrow if you want to see." " We are here for inspector Bishct!" yelled the Princess, emboldened by her previous success. The little man pointed to a desk, who spoke amazing words. "Give them the forms."

The Princess filled out the forms with much aplomb, and was directed to line 5. There were babies screaming and people blank with waiting for eons. It was all she could do to sit and laugh with the Queen at the man who appeared to be sleep working at the head of line 5. Finally, he called her up and handed her a completed visa. The Princess was so excited, they paid and left immediately, returning home triumphant and relaxed.

From this point, the Princess knew that she could do anything. She had been to the very heart of Indian government, and survived. She had stood up to bad jokes and interminable waits, crying babies and lewd stares. She had even found time to shoe shop and eat Mango Zap ice cream in between!

And she knew, deep down, that she would always have a very soft spot for Polish people. That night, she said a little prayer for her Polish saviour, hoping that he too would someday get what he was looking for from Mr. Lal.

And with that.. She fell asleep.

Barely Legal

So as of midnight tonight, my visa expires. We're in a mad scramble to get it renewed today. I've just gotten a letter from the Ministry of External Affairs stating that they don't have a problem with me renewing my visa from within the country, and now my mum and I have to go down to the Indian Visa office and beg them to do in a few hours what usually takes a couple days. Good GOD. I'm not entirely sure how I get myself into these troubles, but I must have been pretty nasty to some previous boyfriend to have this kind of karma. So rest assured all you slighted men - you've had your revenge.

The stress has been causing a plethora of strange dreams - be it building a homeless shelter with my friend Matt and the rapper Jay-Z (who proceded to fall in love with me.. of course... Damn you Beyonce.. he doesn't want that much junk in the trunk..), or running an Amazing Race with Bryan, wherein we were the two most cut throat competitors in history. I vaguely remember stealing a Vietnamese long boat. I'm not sure what it all means, other than I should probably stop eating chocolate before I go to bed, and stop brushing my teeth with local water.

Before I forget to mention, SEA, thank you for your wonderful offer. There is nothing that I miss or need too terribly, just that you offered was enough. Know also that if you want anything from here (and that goes for anyone) that it's so easy for me to send it to you. So please, don't hesitate to ask.

Alright lovelies, I'm going to get my mother and head to the visa office. (For some reason, in my mind, it really does deserve capitals.. Visa Office. It's some strange, forboding place that seems to loom so large.. Knowing India, it probably doesn't loom at all. ;-) Wish me luck!

How come PETA hasn't heard about this..

And how can I tell them? This is friggin' hilarious, and made my entire week. www.savetoby.com

Hey Baby.. Ever kiss an illegal alien??

Ok - so due to some totally unforseeable (yet at the same time preventable - I'm told) events, I might have to leave the country tomorrow until I can get my visa renewed. It was one of those "Hey, you have a funny passport photo. And hey - your visa expires soon" kinda events. (Does that fly with anyone? It was a little more complex than that.. but above situation could have totally happened.) So, as a result, I might get to go see Sri Lanka for a bit. (Hmm.. it kinda sounds like I'm being shuttled out to have a baby somewhere else.. but it really is a visa problem!!) I'm trying to refrain from having phrases like "flee the country" "deported in the middle of the night" and "inevitably fell into the sex trade" run through my mind - but it's way cooler if I get to tell that story. (Maybe minus the "sex trade" part.) Rather than "to avoid being killed by the avalanche of paper and twisting her poor fathers back doing diplomatic backflips for his daughter". Cause really.. haven't you always wanted to flee the country? At least I get to do it with an iPod and a big purse.. grabbing only what you can carry is so passe. Talk to you soon - hopefully! Love you all, will try keep you updated.

PS - No really, how do these things HAPPEN to me?

Tender Disclaimer

It appears that I was a little harsh on the two puppies, as Bryan pointed out with a hurt look this evening. They are smelly, and nothing takes away the fact that they're ghetto Delhi dogs - BUT... They are really friendly, have sweet little personalities (Tess crawls around like a snake all the time and Jack seems to have a built in spring) and are super affectionate. Sure, I'm one undergarmet short because of them, but would I trade that for finding said undergarmet over Jack's head like an eyepatch? Not anytime soon. *smile* And you know, since I stepped in all that pee, my feet are feeling softer...and my legs are a little more defined after chasing them all over the house. So really - even Delhi dogs have a silver lining. Even if it's just that they taste good on the barbeque..

Out Damn Spot! Shoo!

Like all good stories, this one starts with a mildly irrational phobia. I get really scared living totally alone for the first little while, and turn into one of those OCD people who check on the locks 3 times a night. Never mind the fact that I had a gaurd, a big front gate, and two dogs to protect me. That's where the irrational part comes in.

Lucky for my sanity, this usually goes away after a few days. But what definately helped, was the fact that my bedroom door at Bryan's has like, 10 locks on it. So I felt even better locking me, my cell phone, two dogs and my honour in at night. Until about the third day, when I realised on the outside of the door, stuck so pertly into the locks - were the keys. Instead of dwelling on my own stupidity, I simply took the keys out and placed them so neatly onto the bedside table.

Thursday afternoon, after returning from a day out, I hung my shopping bag on the bedroom door, and let the puppies loose. Seizing the chance to wreak more havoc in my life, they ran straight for the shopping bag, and slammed the bedroom door while tugging on it. Locking all my clothes (save the ones I had just put into the washing machine, after having changed into pj's) my books, the shower, the painkillers.. into the bedroom. It was like slow motion - running towards the dogs, yelling at them, them pulling even harder on the door, it clicking shut.. Damn.

So this is like, 6 o'clock. The gaurd doesn't get there until 8:30. So I have to wait, and try all the spare keys I can find out in the open in this door. This, of course, leaving ample time for me to worry. So I decide to venture outside, seeing if maybe I can open one of the windows in the bedroom. At which the dogs think I'm a much maligned intruder, and have me dancing all over the backyard trying to avoid stepping in dog crap.

The gaurd finally gets there, and I have to find something to wear. I substitute a bathing suit for bra and underwear, and it's a good thing too. Because the only pants I had were the wet ones I had to pull out of the washing machine. Luckily I had a somewhat normal shirt in my purse. So it basically looked like I had just waded across a river to get there when I asked the gaurd for his help.

So he started calling superiors, who called the embassy, who told me they would send somebody to pick the lock. Ten minutes later, a Sikh midget and two Indian giants arrive. No word of a bloody lie, they look like they are straight from the Bollywood version of The Wizard of Oz. It didn't help that the midget was wearing an enormous bright yellow turban. It was completely surreal. They take one look at the lock, and begin to hammer at it with what looks like a rubber mallet and a railway tie spike, until the lock pops out the other side, leaving a neat little hole. And the door completely sheared off on the inside. To which they smile, and turn to leave. So I, in hysterics, ask when exactly this will be fixed. And they say tomorrow. Which could me next year.

Amazingly, the carpenter does arrive the next day. At 7 in the morning, when I'm still trying to decide if the previous evening was a dream. It wasn't, because this toothless old man takes one look at the door, another at me (still in my bathing suit, and now with a nasty case of bed head) and leaves to call his supervisor. Who informs me that I'll need a new door.

By this point, I've given up hope on pretending this didn't happen. Especially when there are pieces of door everywhere and the maid hasn't shown up. And won't show up again. So, instead, I get to revel in choosing a new bedroom door and imagining various vicious things to do to the puppies. None of which come to fruition, because as soon as Bryan walks in the door the next morning - the puppies act as though they could never even have had the notion to be bad.

So it's done. My week of dog sitting, living alone, pretending to be responsible, my phobia of intruders. The door will be replaced "next week", and the regular maid came back this morning, and has no doubt already had a heart attack looking at the shape of her poor house.

And I just found out that in Nagaland, they eat dogs. Particularily tender little puppies. Anybody want to take a trip?

Recipes Welcome

Immediately after I had posted my homage to Bryan's puppies - I walked into the livingroom to find why they had grown suddenly quiet. They have torn in half my favorite pair of underwear, and eaten a summer dress that I've had since I was in grade 9; that's made it across the ocean 3 times now, weathered countless summers, dates, spilt ice cream, climbed trees, rollerbladed.. And now has only one cap sleeve and a gigantic whole in the butt. Spaghetti sauce it is.

Here Puppy..

These puppies are driving me mental. Honestly, at some point this week, I began to sympathise with the people who ate dog, and wonder what it might taste like in a spaghetti sauce.

A little background on these mongrel barbarians. Bryan, looking for a dog to replace his inimitable Ace, stumbled (god knows how) across Jeevashram, a little pound outside of Delhi that houses just about everything. Hairless rabbits, blind donkeys, you name it, they've got it. In spades. Including dogs. So, being the righteous and upstanding citizen that he is, Bryan chose to take not one, but two, of the little Orphan Annies. Well, actually, a little orphan Tess and a little orphan Jack if you want to get into specifics.

Said dogs can only be described as.. "Delhi Dogs". Dubious origins (bastards no doubt), of mixed breed (there's probably like, 1/1000 french poodle in there) and certainly not of genteel nor subdued manner. In fact, Jack has adopted an adorable trait wherein when you tell him to sit, he leaps straight into the air. Oh! And Tess has her own trick too! When you yell at her, she flops over onto her back, and pees straight into the air, soaking herself and usually you in the process. The rub lies in the fact that the madder you get, the more she pees. Then you have to act like a regular Escariot and charm her with soothing tones out the door, until you give her a final what-for in the behind.

The gardener, bless his heart, almost weeps everytime he comes here to find his marigolds ripped quite heartily out of their pots and deposited neatly on the welcome mat. Or all of the dirt out of the planters, as Jack and Tess can't decide whether they buried something in there in another life; or if dirt just tastes good. It must, because they are constantly eating all of the potting soil out of the houseplants. The gardener is lucky there ARE any pots left, as I've noticed when they tire of fighting over who is going to bring me the masticated marigolds, they roll the pots around until they smash.

And they smell. God bless their little hearts, but they are just hummy. You can't wash the smell of Delhi dog off of them! My own little dogs sniffs me with some disdain when I come home now, and gives me a look equivalent to "You've been slumming it again haven't you?". I thought about giving them a bath, but honestly could only think of putting them in a garbage bag and filling it with water and let nature take it's course. It would drown the fleas too you know. Or maybe just tossing them in the washing machine. Best I can figure, I'm just going to wait until a warm day and take my revenge (for me and the gardener) with a hose full of cold water. Teach those little bastards to wake me up to pee at seven am! Like you can't hold it.

Because they do! They do hold it! They are Delhi Dogs.. they don't know anything else but to pee where they live! They go to Doggie Play Day on Sunday, and don't pee for hours, they have to do it at home! In the living room! Because god knows, that finely groomed American Embassy grass just isn't good enough - it has to be a nice beige burber, or how about some cherry hardwood? Much better.

I've got two more days to go here. Not that I'm not thouroughly enjoying the peace and quiet in the evening, or sleeping in such a big bed, or having the television all to myself.. (which, as I get older, is more important to be able to control to turn it off, not on.) There are just two snouts, eight legs, four ears adding up to two incredible pissing machines that I could do without. Until the power goes out. Then.. maybe it's not so bad. All I have to do is tell Jack to sit and yell at Tess, and we've got a full on eight legged assault. ;-) Have so much more to tell about my day, but must get to bed. The puppies will be up early, ergo so will I. Ah. Bliss.

Mornings Away From Home

I love Delhi in the morning. I'm currently looking after Bryan's dogs in another part of town.. and enjoying myself thouroughly. It's a little farther away from all the hustle and bustle of the main roads, and as a result is exceedingly quiet.

It seems like at the begining of the day.. Delhi just isn't as dirty. All the dew and the rain of the previous evening washes away any dirt that isn't seriously ingrained; and believe it or not, it smells fresh and clean. The air is a little clearer, the breakfast fires have gone out and won't be relit until dinner, the cars haven't started for rush hour. Even the noise is less. You'd think you were anywhere else.. except that the birds that wake me up in the morning are these huge green parrots. Then I smile, and know that I'm truly not in Kansas.

It's always a little strange, your first night in a new house. Everyone's house sounds different at night - so it was strange falling asleep last night to so little noise. (Except for this perfectly tell-tale heart alarm clock that no matter where I put it.. I can hear..) I was a little nervous being alone in such a big house.. I'm not sure how good the dogs would be in protecting me. They just roll over and pee when they're frightened.. So unless I have an intruder made of sugar, they really wouldn't be much help. Luckily, I've got a guard outside, and a fort of a house with ten locks on every door. So not even my overactive imagination could find a scenario wherein I was in trouble. The fact that I can lock myself into the bedroom helps too. *laugh* The maid was a little surprised when she arrived this morning, unable to get in due to the chain across the front door. Luckily the dogs alerted me to her presence by raising one ear, turning around, and promptly falling back asleep. Cerberus they are not.

I'm home for the afternoon, then back to the peacefulness of Bryan's. If it wasn't for those damn yowly dogs.. *laugh* Ahem. Just joking. I'm having a fine time - hope everyone is well. Sarah - Happy Birthday.. What is it, 25 years old now? You don't look a day over. Take care, miss you all.

Q. What's Black and White and Red all over?

A. - The keynote speaker at last nights Black and White ball, celebrating black history month, after making mention of the (and I quote) "Black marks on our history in terms of race relations". I guess he didn't practice in front of his wife. Or maybe she was laughing too hard at so blatant a pun that she couldn't tell him.

It was a lovely night. The tent was beautiful, the speakers wonderful, and the food palatable, which is a compliment unto itself. With things like ham hocks and 'grilled river fish' (I did not hazard which river.) and ' melt in your mouth sweet potatoes' it was certainly a fried green tomatos kinda dinner.

Everyone looked really lovely, my outfit came together nicely, and Bryan looked very sauve in his tux. Everyone pretty much adhered to the sensical "black and white" dress code, of course saving the Indian guests; who sported everything from red to aqua sequins. Ah, and our dear German DJ who wore khakis and looked like a little aryan soldier - solidified by the fact he kept asking us to take a "journey through black music" with him. I have to say, though I attempted to act as though this was a very plebian affair - I did have a very lovely time, dancing and drinking and smoking cigars in a huge white tent. It was so colloquial, so lux and vice to be on a baseball field-cum-ballroom-cum-time machine, listening to Dinah Washington and bemoaning the need for Joan Rivers to teach a few people about fashion. (ie - a bustle is not appropriate if you can already hide a family of 5 behind you.)

So today was primarily spent recouperating, cat napping, reading. My mother and sister returned rejuevenated from London, happy to be home, unsure if they were happy to be home in India. Took our dog, the neighbours jack terrier (we're dog sitting) and Bryan's dogs to the "doggie play day" at the American Embassy. As usual, the Canadian dogs spent time either completely oblivious, or trying to look a lot bigger than they were. All the half lame American dogs had Napolean complexes, and let me to believe wholeheartedly in pet psychology - and poison darts. My embarassing beagle spent the majority of time with her nose to the ground following everyone by scent instead of looking up and finding them that way - needless to say, between the dogs being concerned over her considerable girth, and the fact that she just liked to sniff butts - She was about as well recieved as a leper. That's my doggie.

Not too much on the go this week. Bryan is away at some "Jungle Warfare" thing - seriously. They've eaten snakes and pigeons and stuff. So I won't have any friends here this week. (That's right, you haven't miscounted. One friend, minus one friend... leaves me with no friends. ) I'm going to try and attend a lot of the galleries I've been putting off, and maybe stay at Bryan's while he's gone to look after the puppies. Hope everyone is starting their week with a bang, I miss you all. Will try to post a little more..and a little less erratically. Talk to you soon. Love always!!

I'll have the McTikki Aloo, hold the curry sauce.

It's a universal truth. Wherever you go in the world, McDonalds fries taste exactly the same. Whether they serve them with beer (Germany) or wine (France) - They taste like home, wherever that may be for you. Interestingly enough - the menu, is not. In a Hindu country like India, the sign saying "Absolutely no beef products used in this restaurant" pretty much sets the tone. We replace the Big Mac with the Maharaja Mac, Cheeseburgers with McTikki Aloos (potato burgers) and Fresh Salads with Brocoli and Cheese Curry Pans. It's an adventure everyday here. Thank Ronald MacDonald that they still have Coke. Because then I'd be really out of my element.

Explanations Welcome.

I wish I understood this country a little more. It seems like the more I read, the more I think I understand... the more I know that I really don't get it at all. I find that everyday, I have to just put it aside in order to avoid requiring a paradigm shift in thought just to buy vegetables.

In my world, perhaps a very western one, veracity and charachter and honesty are all very important things, things that make up who I am, and what I expect the people around me to be. Here.. that really isn't the case. I'm not sure if it's the result of the abject poverty, the "Get mine any way I can to survive" type attitude, or what... But it's everywhere. Is it vestigal? Is it a charachter trait of the country? Becuase it's still prevelant in the upper classes, who certainly aren't wondering about their next meal. If you swindle me, or steal from me, or lie to me, and I fall for it, it's my fault. And you should bear no reprecussion if I catch you, other than to laugh with me over my own stupidity. Everyone is very quick to forgive here, the swindling and stealing and cheating go nearly unmarked.

Is it a result of the religion here? The fact that, once explain to me by a friend, a bad life here is only like a bad day in our lives - you get another one to try again. With the belief in reincarnation and 2nd, 3rd, 19th chances - does it really matter what kind of shitty house you live in now? Mayhap you'll just get a better one in the next life. You can't take it with you, and you really can't change anything that's preordained and has a set plan.. so why try? I have a feeling communism would work here. We want better for our children, we want them to have more- schooling, a house. It doesn't appear that anyone wants to move out of their station here. Or perhaps, their idea of more, is just smaller and less noticeable than ours - bigger meals instead of bigger houses?

I'm confused. I wish I understood more, I wish I could have somebody give me straight answers; instead of those tainted with patriotism, shame or misunderstanding. I want to be able to wrap my head around this country that I'm living in.. and somehow.. I'm pretty sure I need an exponentially bigger head.

Lost in Translation

I went to the Italian Cultural Centre (right across the street!) yesterday, for lunch with my friend Bryan. The chef there has trained overseas in Italian cooking, so everything is pretty good. However, we found the small touch that reassures us that we aren't anywhere else but in India. The cheese cake had mozzarella in it.