(CT#1)
It's funny how important walking down the Mall to look for guys is to everyone here. Maybe because real relationships are so constricted (the normal reason for two teens to break up is "her parents found out, now her brother's probably going to come and try to beat me up," as Rahul Nidhi's friend put it, and the idea of a girl calling a boy or vice versa is almost unheard of) so things that to me seem fit for middle school - crushes, friends-as-messengers, code words ("one-four-three" means "I love you", for example), etc - are common among 17-18-year-olds here. And relationships that actually do occur are far more low-key than at home - many people won't even kiss before marriage, and the farthest you'll go is maybe seeing a movie together and (*scandalous!*) holding hands. So girls will walk slowly up and down the Mall for hours waiting for their secret -or not-so-secret - crush to pass by and then when he does, not say anything except maybe "Hi". It all seems very juvenile to one who comes from a culture of 14-year-old mothers and abstinence being prudish, but I guess it makes sense here.
(CT#2)
At Nidhi's friend's house, we watched an amazing movie called (translation) "Color Me in Saffron" (Saffron is the color of sacrifice in India) about a British woman who goes to India to film a documentary about the freedom fighters of the revolution. In the process of filming, the actors (a bunch of carefree and careless college students) begin to understand the passion of the revolutionaries they're acting, and then when one of their friends is killed in a government oversight they follow their characters footsteps to fulfill the words of one of them: "Our country isn't perfect, no country is. We have to work to make it perfect." It's the most Hollywood-ish Bollywood movie I've ever seen, and it was really powerful.
But I'm enjoying Bollywood more and more here, it's truly a completely different genre than Hollywood and can't be judged by the same standards, because the mentality of the people is different. While with Hollywood we want something that will remind us of our own lives, the Indians crave an ideal world where the only troubles are who's marrying whom and when they'll realize that they're in love. (Ok, that's an oversimplification, but in general, the world of Bollywood is more idealized than that of Hollywood) Almost exclusively the movies end happily with a marriage or two, even if the movie isn't supposed to be about love, so the term "Hollywood ending" seems pointless - it should be Bollywood Ending, because Hollywood doesn't end like that nearly as often. And since every movie is peppered with songs and dances, it's more important for an actor to be a good dancer than a good actor, and (for guys at least, sigh) looks come third on the list. There are maybe seven actors of each gender that do basically all the movies, so you see the same combination of actors many times playing different characters. Many of the stories are universal, cheesy romantic comedies in Bollywood are basically cheesy romantic comedies in Hollywood - except they're probably about 5 x up on the cheese factor - but the story's the same. I love Bollywood style though, and I'm going to miss it when I get back to a Hollywood-dominated culture.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Festivals (read this one first)
In the past 2 weeks there have been two super-cool festivals in Solan. The first was a dance/theater festival with participants from all over the country showing their traditional dances and competing with one-act plays. There were performances in the evenings for a week and on the last day all the groups paraded down the Mall of Solan. The Mall is the name of the main street, every town/village/city has one (at least in the hills, I'm not sure about the bigger cities in the planes) where most of the shops/street stalls are and where the old people goes for their evening walk and where the youth (male and female) go to scope out the opposite sex. (Cultural Tangent #1)
Anyway, the parade was very cool, as each group passed by Nidhi explained to me where they were from and some specifics about their dance. I think my favorites were the Punjabis, with their brightly colored, starched turbans and distinctive rhythm.
I also loved the Hijiras, cross-dressers: two men dressed in pink and red saris laughing and dancing seductively down the street. They were incredibly ugly, but I guess that was the point. And of course there were the Himachal dancers (from this area). Their traditional dance is very simple, basically swinging your hips and turning your hands in the air, but it takes a lot of skill and balance, because the cool thing about the dance is that you do it with stuff balanced on your head √ a tall stack of rings for the women and a candelabrum of sorts for the men. And then you have to pick up a handkerchief off the floor with your teeth while staying balanced. It's really interesting to watch and I'd like to try it sometime.
Then there was the annual Shulini fair, celebrating the time that Solan's patron goddess, Shulini, went to visit her sister. I don't know why that was so important, or what she did with her sister for those three days, but hey, it's cool anyway. It began with a parade - no, it began a couple days before, when the city began showing lights and tinsel everywhere, and people set up tiny stalls selling everything from plastic dolls to wooden flutes to peacock fans and the city got really crowded. But the festival itself began with a parade, bringing the statue of Shulini down from the temple to the center of the city. First came all the other gods, represented by people dressed up and posing (sometimes uncomfortably) on floats and giving out blessings in the form of bindis and handfuls of sweets. We had a great view from the cloth shop of Nidhi's friend's uncle, and we watched and laughed as the huge devils (Bread and Puppet style) danced and spun drunkenly down the street. Finally the little statue came in a covered litter and people surged forward to make offerings and touch the holy object. It was covered in flowers and people were throwing more (marigolds, the most common flower for blessings) from balconies.
Then that evening was the opening performance at the fairground. We had VIP seats - front and center - because Nidhi's best friend's father is the District Public Relations Officer, so it was a great view, but a little loud. It started out with traditional music and dances and then came to the main performance (at around10:00 PM) - a Bollywood playback singer who alternated with a little-known singer whom we actually liked more because he sang better songs. The playback singer had crazy outfits, things you could only get away with on stage (but would be normal in the states) and all sparkly and glittery. She was backed up by five dancers doing funny only-in-Bollywood dance moves - they're too corny to be done anywhere else.
We got back at around 1:30 AM and didn't go the next day because we spent the day/night at Nidhi's friend's house. (Cultural Tangent #2)
On the last day of the Shulini fair two of Nidhi's guy friends took me to the fair (because Nidhi was sick) which was really fun, because most of her friends are girls and it was refreshing to have male company again. It was funny, they walked on either side of me, like bodyguards, and glared at any guy who looked at me too long (which were quite a few, because I'm the only foreign girl for miles and miles, so everyone's looking at me around here). They guided me through the insanely crowded, mud-filled fairgrounds and then one of them got his friend, who worked one of the rides, to give us free tickets and so I got to go on a smaller, faster-spinning version of a Ferris wheel and had a great time. They were really nice and great to talk to, and I hope to see them again, though the gender barrier could pose some problems in that regard - how do we plan a meeting if it's socially unacceptable to call? Sigh...
And that night we went to the performance again, it was a Punjabi singer this time, and I've now decided that I like Punjabi music the best - it's so much fun, and such a beat to dance to. I've vowed to get some and bring it for the aerobics class at UWC - what a change that will be from the ever-repeated 80s rock we're always jumping to!
And next week we're going to Delhi and we're going to a wedding! I'm so excited, I've heard/seen so much about weddings, and I want to see how real ones compare to the Bollywood type. And lots of sight-seeing of course, so next time I get online, I'll have lots to write.
Anyway, the parade was very cool, as each group passed by Nidhi explained to me where they were from and some specifics about their dance. I think my favorites were the Punjabis, with their brightly colored, starched turbans and distinctive rhythm.
I also loved the Hijiras, cross-dressers: two men dressed in pink and red saris laughing and dancing seductively down the street. They were incredibly ugly, but I guess that was the point. And of course there were the Himachal dancers (from this area). Their traditional dance is very simple, basically swinging your hips and turning your hands in the air, but it takes a lot of skill and balance, because the cool thing about the dance is that you do it with stuff balanced on your head √ a tall stack of rings for the women and a candelabrum of sorts for the men. And then you have to pick up a handkerchief off the floor with your teeth while staying balanced. It's really interesting to watch and I'd like to try it sometime.
Then there was the annual Shulini fair, celebrating the time that Solan's patron goddess, Shulini, went to visit her sister. I don't know why that was so important, or what she did with her sister for those three days, but hey, it's cool anyway. It began with a parade - no, it began a couple days before, when the city began showing lights and tinsel everywhere, and people set up tiny stalls selling everything from plastic dolls to wooden flutes to peacock fans and the city got really crowded. But the festival itself began with a parade, bringing the statue of Shulini down from the temple to the center of the city. First came all the other gods, represented by people dressed up and posing (sometimes uncomfortably) on floats and giving out blessings in the form of bindis and handfuls of sweets. We had a great view from the cloth shop of Nidhi's friend's uncle, and we watched and laughed as the huge devils (Bread and Puppet style) danced and spun drunkenly down the street. Finally the little statue came in a covered litter and people surged forward to make offerings and touch the holy object. It was covered in flowers and people were throwing more (marigolds, the most common flower for blessings) from balconies.
Then that evening was the opening performance at the fairground. We had VIP seats - front and center - because Nidhi's best friend's father is the District Public Relations Officer, so it was a great view, but a little loud. It started out with traditional music and dances and then came to the main performance (at around10:00 PM) - a Bollywood playback singer who alternated with a little-known singer whom we actually liked more because he sang better songs. The playback singer had crazy outfits, things you could only get away with on stage (but would be normal in the states) and all sparkly and glittery. She was backed up by five dancers doing funny only-in-Bollywood dance moves - they're too corny to be done anywhere else.
We got back at around 1:30 AM and didn't go the next day because we spent the day/night at Nidhi's friend's house. (Cultural Tangent #2)
On the last day of the Shulini fair two of Nidhi's guy friends took me to the fair (because Nidhi was sick) which was really fun, because most of her friends are girls and it was refreshing to have male company again. It was funny, they walked on either side of me, like bodyguards, and glared at any guy who looked at me too long (which were quite a few, because I'm the only foreign girl for miles and miles, so everyone's looking at me around here). They guided me through the insanely crowded, mud-filled fairgrounds and then one of them got his friend, who worked one of the rides, to give us free tickets and so I got to go on a smaller, faster-spinning version of a Ferris wheel and had a great time. They were really nice and great to talk to, and I hope to see them again, though the gender barrier could pose some problems in that regard - how do we plan a meeting if it's socially unacceptable to call? Sigh...
And that night we went to the performance again, it was a Punjabi singer this time, and I've now decided that I like Punjabi music the best - it's so much fun, and such a beat to dance to. I've vowed to get some and bring it for the aerobics class at UWC - what a change that will be from the ever-repeated 80s rock we're always jumping to!
And next week we're going to Delhi and we're going to a wedding! I'm so excited, I've heard/seen so much about weddings, and I want to see how real ones compare to the Bollywood type. And lots of sight-seeing of course, so next time I get online, I'll have lots to write.
Journalism Workshop
Nidhi and I spent the past week with a group from an organization in Delhi that serves underprivileged girls who were here for a workshop on journalism that Nidhi's father had organized. There were about 40 of them, and they were all around 16. They were really nice, but unfortunately couldn't really speak English, so I wasn't able to communicate with them. The workshop was held at a private school up in the mountains, about 10 km from Solan called KTS (they said it stood for "Know Thy Self", interesting name...) and the 30 some-odd students there also participated. Nidhi and I went there every day and listened to the presentations (or fell asleep, in my case, I couldn't understand them, and so it was sort of boring) in the morning, and then in the afternoons we led Creative Writing sessions. We all waked out into the woods and sat down to write stories and poems and relieve the tedium of old people talking about their jobs. Nidhi and I split the group into two groups, those that could speak a little English (about 7 of them) and those that couldn't (the other 30ish).
My group was fun, I explained in English and then one of the teachers translated for them just to make sure it made sense. Then they translated their stories/poems for me and read them in Hindi for each other. Some of the stories were really nice, and I could tell that the poems were too, but those were harder to judge because so much of poetry is in the language, which I couldn't understand.
And afterwards we would play games, they taught me Cricket (everyone's obsession) which I've decided is the lazy man's baseball - you only have to run between two posts instead of all the way around the bases, and if you hit the ball far enough (the equivalent of a home run) they just assume that you would have run back and forth six times so you don't even have to move at all. But maybe all the sitting around and not moving was because half the time the kids couldn't hit the ball (not like I was much better. Whatever).
We also played Anthakshi which is a fun game in which one team sings a song and then the other team has to sing a song that begins with whatever letter the first song ended in. Of course I couldn't participate, but it was fun to watch.
The girls were really nice, even though I couldn't really communicate. They were all about our age, 16-17, but they looked so much younger. Maybe it's because Nidhi and I feel/look more mature after UWC (I have noticed that, even with other people. I think UWC does something to us, more than other places) but it did seem strange. There was one girl who looked especially young - she said she was 16 but I would have sworn that she was half that.
Sadly, they left a few days ago, and they were all tearful to go, but we promised to visit them in Delhi, so we'll get to see them again in July. Yay!
My group was fun, I explained in English and then one of the teachers translated for them just to make sure it made sense. Then they translated their stories/poems for me and read them in Hindi for each other. Some of the stories were really nice, and I could tell that the poems were too, but those were harder to judge because so much of poetry is in the language, which I couldn't understand.
And afterwards we would play games, they taught me Cricket (everyone's obsession) which I've decided is the lazy man's baseball - you only have to run between two posts instead of all the way around the bases, and if you hit the ball far enough (the equivalent of a home run) they just assume that you would have run back and forth six times so you don't even have to move at all. But maybe all the sitting around and not moving was because half the time the kids couldn't hit the ball (not like I was much better. Whatever).
We also played Anthakshi which is a fun game in which one team sings a song and then the other team has to sing a song that begins with whatever letter the first song ended in. Of course I couldn't participate, but it was fun to watch.
The girls were really nice, even though I couldn't really communicate. They were all about our age, 16-17, but they looked so much younger. Maybe it's because Nidhi and I feel/look more mature after UWC (I have noticed that, even with other people. I think UWC does something to us, more than other places) but it did seem strange. There was one girl who looked especially young - she said she was 16 but I would have sworn that she was half that.
Sadly, they left a few days ago, and they were all tearful to go, but we promised to visit them in Delhi, so we'll get to see them again in July. Yay!
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
My 18th Birthday in the Himalayas
On Monday the 12th, we went to Nidhi’s grandmother’s village with Nidhi, her father, her cousin, and of course, her grandmother. The bus ride there was agonizing –hot and incredibly crowded. People were sitting on the engine, standing in the aisles, and even sitting on the roof! (I actually envied them – at least they got the breeze to cool them off) We were stuck together, hot and sweaty (in my case – I never thought I sweated that much, but apparently compared to Indians I do. It’s annoying.) I was sitting down, thank god, but my leg was pressed against the engine, which was scalding. Near the end of the 3 hour ride the man next to me got off, so I was able to sit comfortably next to the window and enjoy the view. And what a view it was!
Mountains and mountains, getting bigger and bigger as we drove on, so that I felt oxygen deprived just by looking at the distance to the valley. It was beautiful, but it would have been more so if the mountains hadn’t been so covered in clouds/haze, I felt like I was missing something.
We got to the village, a small little collection of houses in the middle of the mountains, and met Nidhi’s great-aunts and –uncles and cousins and many other friends and relations. It was so sweet – everyone knew everyone because the village was so small and the houses were so close together, you were never quite sure when you left one family’s quarters and entered another’s, and it didn’t really matter anyway, because people visited so often. Every single family had a little garden where they grew potatoes and garlic and other roots, and a couple cows that lived in a mini-barn below the house. The houses were so cozy, with low slate roofs and wooden interiors, and floorboards that creaked comfortingly, as they do in really old, loved and lived in homes. I can’t describe the warmth that radiated from that house and the people in it, laughing and talking all the time (even though I didn’t understand more than the basic words I’ve learned: so, and, very, ok, good, etc. and those don’t help much in comprehension). Nidhi’s great-grandfather looks so much like my grandfather (except with darker skin) it was scary, every time I saw him I almost cried; I hadn’t realized I missed them so much. And I wanted to talk to him, because I could tell that he had many stories to tell, but I couldn’t. I’ve never hated the language barrier so much.
We slept there, and the next morning (the day before my birthday) we got up dark and early (4:00 am) to hike to a temple on the top of a 12,000 ft. peak. It was around 25 km round trip, but wonderful. We kept passing cowherds with 6-7 cows ambling in front of them, walking along the narrow paths up and down the mountain. I never knew cows could be so agile as to get up those steep rocky paths, but maybe these are special mountain cows and I’m used to spoiled, sedentary Vermont cows. I couldn’t believe that people still lived like this, spending all day on the mountain, following the small herd of cows and then coming home to a tiny house at least a 15-30 minute walk from the nearest road, let alone civilization.
Because we were in the mountains it was cool all day, and the hiking was fairly easy, though long. What I’ll remember most about it is, not the views (though those were amazing) but the encounters we had with the nomads. If I thought cowherd/farmers were behind the times, these people were stone-age – they follow the seasons and spend about 3 months in each camp that consists of a grassy area for the cows to graze and a few crude stone houses with tin roofs for them to live in. It was a surprise to come out of the dark forest to a grassy field, like we’d stepped into a completely different world, one that hadn’t changed for hundreds of years – except for the radio we could hear from one of the houses playing Punjabi pop songs.
The faces of those people! I know now why the National Geographic portrait books always show faces of rural India and Tibet. It’s not just that we Westerners want to see something foreign and exotic, it’s that they have so much character. If I live to be 100 I’ll never be able to fill my face with such down-to-earth reality that these people have. Maybe there’s something about the soft American lifestyle that makes our lives and faces so bland, but if I had a choice between studying the face of a random American and a random Indian nomad, I’d choose the nomad immediately, there’s so much depth there…There was a little girl there with a look in her wide eyes that I can’t describe – one of wonder and understanding and an endurance I can’t believe. Unfortunately my camera chose that moment to die and not accept the kindly offered replacement batteries, so I was left photoless. I’m sorry.
Finally, after a very long journey, we reached the temple at the top of the mountain. We all took off our shoes, washed our feet, and entered the tiny wooden building that had stood there for hundreds of years, on a spot to which people had climbed for millennia. It is believed that it was Lord Shiva’s home at one time, and that a priest once went there thousands of years ago, and went into such a deep state of meditation that his bodily functions slowed to a minimum and he lived for a thousand years, until he finally attained nirvana, and the people built a shrine in his honor.
We rang the four bells at the doorway and stooped to enter the dark room. A priest sat there, and when we had knelt, prayed, and made an offering to the god, he blessed us and painted a bindi on each of our foreheads and then gave us a handful of rice as a symbol of his blessings. Then we went down to a smoky room where they served us rice and watery curry (which we ate with our hands – ick!) and then we headed back.
We timed it perfectly – we arrived at the village right as it got dark, and went to a different house (Nidhi’s grandmother’s other brother’s) to spend the night. When they heard that it was my birthday the next day they insisted that I celebrate it with them, but we said we had to get back – we had plans. So we made a compromise: We stayed the morning with them, and then went back for the evening. So I woke up to a spectacular view of the Himalayas on my 18th birthday, had a kind of porridge for breakfast that was delicious, and then relaxed for a few hours, gazing at the mountains and enjoying the sun. Then they took us to another temple nearby that had been built 700 years ago with a tree next to it that had been planted the same time. It was huge; the trunk had split into 3 parts and was so wide the five of us probably couldn’t have reached around it. And it towered over the tiny temple where we went to pay our respects.
The bus ride back was much better, fewer people, and we got good seats all the way. Nidhi and I talked and sang and looked out the window, and it was great fun the whole way. When we got back Nidhi and her mom took me out to buy a suit salvar – the traditional dress that everyone here wears. We bought the fabric in a shop with rows and rows of brightly colored cloths, and a salesman who would take out a bolt of fabric and sweep it out onto the cushioned floor to display its full pattern. So many fabrics! Each one hid the ones before it, so I had a hard time remembering what I liked. But I finally chose one, and we brought it to a tailor who delivered it 3 days later, so now I have an Indian dress!
We were going to get my hand henna-ed, but it was raining (it was auspicious, they insisted, and I liked it) so we went to the mehendi man the next day, and now my right hand is covered in beautiful brown curls and it smells fabulous.
We came back home to a small cake waiting for me (not particularly tasty, but hey, it’s the gesture, really.) and, according to tradition, I fed the first piece to everyone –Nidhi’s family and her neighbors – myself. Then we had celebration puri – like chapattis but smaller and puffed up and really, really good. And we watched Bollywood TV (amazingly entertaining, actually) and went to bed. And so now I’m 18, legally an adult, and ready for all sorts of new adventures.
I have pictures that I wanted to add here, but the connection is too slow. I'm really sorry. I'll add them later if I get the chance.
Mountains and mountains, getting bigger and bigger as we drove on, so that I felt oxygen deprived just by looking at the distance to the valley. It was beautiful, but it would have been more so if the mountains hadn’t been so covered in clouds/haze, I felt like I was missing something.
We got to the village, a small little collection of houses in the middle of the mountains, and met Nidhi’s great-aunts and –uncles and cousins and many other friends and relations. It was so sweet – everyone knew everyone because the village was so small and the houses were so close together, you were never quite sure when you left one family’s quarters and entered another’s, and it didn’t really matter anyway, because people visited so often. Every single family had a little garden where they grew potatoes and garlic and other roots, and a couple cows that lived in a mini-barn below the house. The houses were so cozy, with low slate roofs and wooden interiors, and floorboards that creaked comfortingly, as they do in really old, loved and lived in homes. I can’t describe the warmth that radiated from that house and the people in it, laughing and talking all the time (even though I didn’t understand more than the basic words I’ve learned: so, and, very, ok, good, etc. and those don’t help much in comprehension). Nidhi’s great-grandfather looks so much like my grandfather (except with darker skin) it was scary, every time I saw him I almost cried; I hadn’t realized I missed them so much. And I wanted to talk to him, because I could tell that he had many stories to tell, but I couldn’t. I’ve never hated the language barrier so much.
We slept there, and the next morning (the day before my birthday) we got up dark and early (4:00 am) to hike to a temple on the top of a 12,000 ft. peak. It was around 25 km round trip, but wonderful. We kept passing cowherds with 6-7 cows ambling in front of them, walking along the narrow paths up and down the mountain. I never knew cows could be so agile as to get up those steep rocky paths, but maybe these are special mountain cows and I’m used to spoiled, sedentary Vermont cows. I couldn’t believe that people still lived like this, spending all day on the mountain, following the small herd of cows and then coming home to a tiny house at least a 15-30 minute walk from the nearest road, let alone civilization.
Because we were in the mountains it was cool all day, and the hiking was fairly easy, though long. What I’ll remember most about it is, not the views (though those were amazing) but the encounters we had with the nomads. If I thought cowherd/farmers were behind the times, these people were stone-age – they follow the seasons and spend about 3 months in each camp that consists of a grassy area for the cows to graze and a few crude stone houses with tin roofs for them to live in. It was a surprise to come out of the dark forest to a grassy field, like we’d stepped into a completely different world, one that hadn’t changed for hundreds of years – except for the radio we could hear from one of the houses playing Punjabi pop songs.
The faces of those people! I know now why the National Geographic portrait books always show faces of rural India and Tibet. It’s not just that we Westerners want to see something foreign and exotic, it’s that they have so much character. If I live to be 100 I’ll never be able to fill my face with such down-to-earth reality that these people have. Maybe there’s something about the soft American lifestyle that makes our lives and faces so bland, but if I had a choice between studying the face of a random American and a random Indian nomad, I’d choose the nomad immediately, there’s so much depth there…There was a little girl there with a look in her wide eyes that I can’t describe – one of wonder and understanding and an endurance I can’t believe. Unfortunately my camera chose that moment to die and not accept the kindly offered replacement batteries, so I was left photoless. I’m sorry.
Finally, after a very long journey, we reached the temple at the top of the mountain. We all took off our shoes, washed our feet, and entered the tiny wooden building that had stood there for hundreds of years, on a spot to which people had climbed for millennia. It is believed that it was Lord Shiva’s home at one time, and that a priest once went there thousands of years ago, and went into such a deep state of meditation that his bodily functions slowed to a minimum and he lived for a thousand years, until he finally attained nirvana, and the people built a shrine in his honor.
We rang the four bells at the doorway and stooped to enter the dark room. A priest sat there, and when we had knelt, prayed, and made an offering to the god, he blessed us and painted a bindi on each of our foreheads and then gave us a handful of rice as a symbol of his blessings. Then we went down to a smoky room where they served us rice and watery curry (which we ate with our hands – ick!) and then we headed back.
We timed it perfectly – we arrived at the village right as it got dark, and went to a different house (Nidhi’s grandmother’s other brother’s) to spend the night. When they heard that it was my birthday the next day they insisted that I celebrate it with them, but we said we had to get back – we had plans. So we made a compromise: We stayed the morning with them, and then went back for the evening. So I woke up to a spectacular view of the Himalayas on my 18th birthday, had a kind of porridge for breakfast that was delicious, and then relaxed for a few hours, gazing at the mountains and enjoying the sun. Then they took us to another temple nearby that had been built 700 years ago with a tree next to it that had been planted the same time. It was huge; the trunk had split into 3 parts and was so wide the five of us probably couldn’t have reached around it. And it towered over the tiny temple where we went to pay our respects.
The bus ride back was much better, fewer people, and we got good seats all the way. Nidhi and I talked and sang and looked out the window, and it was great fun the whole way. When we got back Nidhi and her mom took me out to buy a suit salvar – the traditional dress that everyone here wears. We bought the fabric in a shop with rows and rows of brightly colored cloths, and a salesman who would take out a bolt of fabric and sweep it out onto the cushioned floor to display its full pattern. So many fabrics! Each one hid the ones before it, so I had a hard time remembering what I liked. But I finally chose one, and we brought it to a tailor who delivered it 3 days later, so now I have an Indian dress!
We were going to get my hand henna-ed, but it was raining (it was auspicious, they insisted, and I liked it) so we went to the mehendi man the next day, and now my right hand is covered in beautiful brown curls and it smells fabulous.
We came back home to a small cake waiting for me (not particularly tasty, but hey, it’s the gesture, really.) and, according to tradition, I fed the first piece to everyone –Nidhi’s family and her neighbors – myself. Then we had celebration puri – like chapattis but smaller and puffed up and really, really good. And we watched Bollywood TV (amazingly entertaining, actually) and went to bed. And so now I’m 18, legally an adult, and ready for all sorts of new adventures.
I have pictures that I wanted to add here, but the connection is too slow. I'm really sorry. I'll add them later if I get the chance.
Friday, June 16, 2006
India: First Impressions
Before I describe this indescribable country, I’d like to note that Virgin Atlantic has the best safety manuals ever. And I know, because I’ve read and assessed every single manual from every single plane I’ve been on, and this on outshines them all. It’s accompanied by a safety video and they both are animated wonderfully, with specific characters – the smoker dude, with a goatee who gets caught trying to smoke in the bathroom, the teenage punk who has to take off his high healed boots to slide down the ramp (the businesswoman and the fashion model are fine with flat shoes), the black Southern Baptist preacher, complete with gold earring, cross necklace and shades, who tries to steal the manual by hiding it in his jacket, etc. – it’s so funny.
Anyway. On to India. My first impression was brown: through the airplane window all I could see of Delhi was a disorganized patchwork of brown dusty buildings as far as the eye could see. As we came off the plane, we passed a “welcome torch” – an ornate golden pillar carrying a candle with the elephant god blessing it – the first taste of a culture vastly different from my own. We were met by Nidhi’s father and uncle, who’d brought me flowers (that didn’t survive the trip, sigh) and they took us to the bus station. Crowded, hot, and loud is my summary of that place. We stood in line for the air conditioned coach bus that would take us the 6 hours to Chandigar where we would change busses and take another to Solan, Nidhi’s city. But the bus was full, so we had to take the budget bus, you know, the one that’s falling apart with dirty, rattley windows and seats that have seen better days, maybe those of Queen Victoria. But it was fun, it was an adventure, and I entertained myself by trying to read the Hindi signs (Nidhi had taught me the alphabet in Duino), until I got tired and fell asleep.
When I wasn’t sleeping, I was staring out the window, both to find easy Hindi words to read, and to take in the astonishing surroundings. I think I can describe my impressions with colors: the women all wore such bright dresses, seeing a group of them was like walking into one of those Hippy Flower Power pictures – orange and lime green and blue and pink and teal and magenta, all dyed as bright as the could come – even the men were colorful, because all the Seik men wore brightly colored turbines, I never thought I’d see a guy in a pink turbine, but there he was on the bus, perfectly respectable, with a grey beard and a knowing eye and … a pink turbine. And the busses and trucks were all brightly painted with designs and messages “Blow Horn!” “Use Dipper At Night!” “India is Great!” and stuff like that. And flowers and pictures of gods everywhere…
The other color, or rather absence of it, was the grey/brown of the buildings. I’ve never seen a city in such disrepair. I thought that the few people living with their kitchens open to the streets in Vietnam were terribly poor, but that was the general standard of living in Delhi, that or one room brick house/apartments that were obviously falling apart. And these were the middle class, as Nidhi said. What were the lower class living like? Of course I saw that too, people cooking chapattis (the Indian staple food, like a tortilla but smaller and thicker, they have it breakfast, lunch and dinner) on open fires in the streets and then retiring to corners to sleep, people digging through the endless piles of trash to find recyclables with flies buzzing around their heads, people burning cow dung for fuel because fossil fuels are too expensive.
The thing is, though they were all obviously very poor, they seemed perfectly happy. It’s one of the things I’ve discovered, both by experience and because everyone says it: Indians have very little, but are some of the happiest people on the planet. They are content with what they have, and have such a strong community (especially in the villages) and are so generous that they don’t need anything more. It makes me wonder why we westerners have such trouble with depression and materialism. I mean, sure, I like my laptop – without it you wouldn’t be reading this – but do I really need it, or anything else I have? How essential is running water? Everyone here bathes with buckets and cups, and it seems unnecessary now to have a full-blown shower, and such a waste of water.
After about 4 hours though, our bus died. So we all clambered out and waited on the side of the road for another bus, which came after not too long, and we clambered on (a lot more crowded now) and went another 2 hours and then that bus broke down too, so we all got off again. Nidhi was so embarrassed (“this never happens. Really!”) but I was having fun – an adventure on my first day! Nidhi’s dad went and found a car and so we were driven the rest of the way in a tiny car that took hairpin turns at breakneck speed while passing huge trucks. Way fun.
Solan, Nidhi’s city, is in the middle range of the Himalayas, so not too high, not too low. Lots of mountains everywhere and misty clouds and tiny bumpy roads. I’ll post pictures when I can. Her family is wonderful. Her mother and grandmother cook fabulously (spicy Indian food eaten with your hands – I’m actually getting quite good at it, you use your chapatti as a spoon and dig in, it’s still strange though, to have no forks…)And her little brother and sister are really cute (but a little shy with their English, hopefully they’ll get over it. And in the meantime, I’m working on my Hindi.)
These are just my first impressions. More to come in the ensuing weeks, I’ll tell everything, but maybe a bit later than it should be, internet is not as accessible as it was at home…
The Visa Ordeal
If ever any of you decide to go to India (or anywhere else, for that matter) be sure to follow their advice on the website and go to get the visa months in advance. I learned this the hard way, and you can rest assured that I will never make that mistake again. Ok, so I had a fairly valid excuse – the Indian Consulate in Milan (where I had to go) was only open Monday to Friday from 9 – 12 am and I happened to be in school at those times and it would have been hard to make the 5 hour journey during one of my free blocks. And they said it should take 2 days, so I wasn’t that worried: I went a week and a half early and figured it’d be a done deal long before I flew. To use the cliché, “How very wrong I was.”
I went to Milan on the evening of Monday the 29th, stayed the night, and went to the consulate in the morning. I got to Milan in a thunderstorm, rain pounding the streets and lightning cracking the sky every other second. I made my way to the hostel without too much hassle and thankfully they let me stay there, though technically I wasn’t allowed to since I wasn’t 18 yet. And I woke up bright and early to wander my way to the consulate. The Indian Consulate in Milan is a small, crowded room on the fifth floor of a tiny building off a back alley, but I didn’t have to wait too long in line before I was up against the sweaty glass and pushing my papers through.
But no. For them to process my visa I had to be a resident in Italy for 2 years and my Permesso was only valid for a year and 10 months. So they would have to send my application to New York, who would reply in around a week. Then I should come back and they would have it ready for me in 2 days. Oookay, that’s cutting it a bit close now. I asked if there was any way they could do it faster – I had to leave in a week and a half – couldn’t they make an exception and do the visa themselves? No. Ok, could they ask New York to be extra quick about replying? Sure, we’ll tell them, (but they didn’t do anything) call this number in 3-4 business days to see if it’s in.
I left feeling sort of worried and disappointed, but I figured, it could still work out if I was lucky – 3-4 days left me with getting it on Friday or Monday at the latest, and then I could go back and still have it with time to spare before I flew on Thursday – so I went and watched Ice Age 2 in Italian and relaxed until my train back to Duino left. I was not lucky. Neither that day nor later.
My train back was late by 20 minutes, which was ok – I had about that much time to catch the connecting train in Venice, if I ran, I’d be fine. But when I got to Venice, the other train was about to leave, so I jumped on without having time to validate my ticket. Big mistake. When the conductor came along and I showed him my printout from the Internet, he said, “You can’t use this. You need a real ticket. Pay 25 euros, plus the original ticket price again.”
“But I didn’t have time to validate the ticket, and I don’t have any money (not technically true, but hey…), please, isn’t there anything you can do?”
“Ok. Get off at the next stop, validate the ticket, and get on the next train. I won’t fine you this time.”
Yay! So I spent half an hour in a tiny Italian town, and got on the next train to Udine. It was a nice ride, but a little long. I kept looking at the stations, waiting for Monfalcone, but it never came. And then, as I was getting annoyed and tired and ready to be home, came the sign: Udine. Udine? I’m not supposed to be there!!! Apparently I’d either gotten on the wrong train or missed the stop early on. So I got off, bought a ticket back to Trieste, and for an hour, wandered Udine. Nice city by the way, some really pretty buildings, only marred by the fact that they weren’t the Duino Castle or the Al Castel café where I should have been.
The train finally came and I got off at Monfalcone without any problem, and ran down to the bus stop in case it came soon. Umm… no. The bus didn’t come for another hour, so I decided I’d rather walk the 10ish kilometers back than wait at the bus stop with nothing to do. That was scary. It was midnight and there weren’t streetlights, though there were lots of crazy Italian drivers speeding by. I spent my time saying prayers in Italian: “Per favore machine, lasciami vivere. Per favore, dio, non voglio morire. Il visto non e tanto importante, solo voglio vivere…” (please cars, let me live. Please god, I don’t want to die. The visa isn’t that important. I just want to live…)
I finally got back, and had to climb the wall to get into Beth’s (my English teacher) house at somewhere around 12:30. I fell into bed thinking, “phew. The ordeal’s over. Next time will be much easier.” Once again: How very wrong I was.
I called on Monday but they never answered all day. So I decided to go anyway and hope they had it. While I was using the secretary’s phone, though, I found out that Lorenzo, a Milanese boy I’d met during the Italian first year selections had been accepted, so I emailed him saying, “Congratulations! By the way, I’m coming to Milan tomorrow, want to meet somewhere to talk about the college?”
Another train to Milan. Another wait at the consulate. And another dismissal. Apparently New York hadn’t responded and I was to come back in 2 days. “But I’m leaving in 2 days! I can’t do that. Isn’t there anything you can do?”
“If you’re leaving, we can give you the visa the same day, if you show us the ticket. But only then.”
“My flight to London leaves from Venice at 10:30 in the morning, can’t you give it to me tomorrow?”
“No. Only on the day of the flight to India.”
So I left feeling angry/sad/worried/stupid/hated by fate. What was I going to do? Go back to Duino? I couldn’t no train would take me back in time. I had to find a hotel or something here. But I had no money. Help! My prayers were answered by Lorenzo, who came to meet me where we’d arranged. I think that was the only truly good thing that happened in this entire story, but it was so good, it made up for at least 2/3s of the bad things: he said, “Where are you staying? Because my mother said that you could stay with us if you wanted.” Grazie a Dio! So I spent the afternoon with Lorenzo, sightseeing and telling him about the college. Then I went home with him and met his wonderful family who fed me dinner, gave me a bed, let me use the internet, and helped me decide what to do. We’d try the consulate again in the morning in case New York had replied, and if they had, all was well. If they hadn’t, I’d change my flight to leave from Milan instead of Venice (it was more expensive, but there was nothing we could do.) and go back to Duino to get my luggage, then come back that night, stay with them again, and hopefully get the visa in the morning and leave in the afternoon from Milan to London.
The next morning Lorenzo’s mom took me to the consulate early to ask again, but the answer was no. Again. So we went to the station and I bought a ticket to Duino and back again, and said thank you, see you tonight.
The train ride was uneventful, except for the deep feeling of despair and angst – everything was going wrong! – but I managed to sleep through most of it. I got to Duino and found Beth, so though the computer room was closed, she opened it for me and I was able to get online to change to airplane tickets. But the price had doubled since the morning, and suddenly I wasn’t sure it would be best to change the tickets – maybe it would be cheaper to just by another ticket? But Beth had to go and so I didn’t have time to check or change the ticket. I did have time, though, to read an urgent email from Jesus, my Secondo, saying he’d be in Milan that evening, could we meet? Oh, cruel fate! Why did he have to come at exactly the time that I wasn’t in Milan? But there was nothing I could do. I went to Beth’s house, hurriedly packed all my stuff, said goodbye and thank you to Beth and ran back to the bus stop to get on the train again. (Ugg. I’m so sick of trains…)
This train was more fun though, I met an Iranian family and spent the hours entertaining their 5/6 year old daughter as the parents slept, drawing, watching a movie on my laptop, playing cards, making faces, etc. and got into Milan at 11:00 pm. There was Jesus, waiting for me, the poor guy. We had all of five minutes together while we walked to where Lorenzo and his mother were waiting to take me home. Then we said goodbye again and I went back with Lorenzo. It was so sad to see him and then leave him again so soon…
By the time we got back it was too late to change the tickets, so we had to wait until the morning. So the next morning (this is Thursday, the 8th, by the way, the day I leave) I went with Lorenzo’s mother to her office at 7:30 to check tickets (all of them insanely expensive because it was the same day) I ended up buying the same tickets I was going to in the first place, but it was too late to change tickets, so I ended up paying about 200 euros extra. Damn. (another lesson: get tickets when you can – don’t wait.)
Then at 9 I went to the consulate again. They told me to wait because the person who was supposed to handle my visa wasn’t there then. So I waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, after an hour and a half, I asked, “excuse me, but exactly how long am I supposed to wait?”
“oh, another half an hour, maybe.” (Thanks a lot. You could have told me that before! Oy.) So I went outside and wandered around Milan again, looking at the churches and University buildings and not thinking about the future. I returned to the consulate right before it closed, and made my way slowly to the window. And, miracle of miracles, they took my passport and money and said they would do the visa! I don’t think I’ve ever been as happy to hand over 75 euros in my life. “Come back at 4 to get it,” they said. Ahrg, another problem. My flight left at 4:50, I had to be at the airport at 4. This wouldn’t work. I asked if they could do it earlier and they said, no, come back at 4. I was about to leave in dejection and hope that I would be able to make the flight, but then I turned around again, I wouldn’t take defeat that easily. “You said you could make an exception if it was really necessary, and this is very important. Could you please do the visa earlier than 4? I absolutely have to be gone by 4.” And the blessed words, “Alright. I’ll do the visa now, come back at 2 to pick it up.” I nearly skipped out the room and did a little happy dance in the elevator. I met Lorenzo and we had lunch together before I went to get the visa. I was so happy and carefree then, it was wonderful. I went in at 2 and – joy and rapture – they produced my passport with a page full of a sparkly purple visa. So we went back to his house and I packed and said goodbye and thank you for saving my life and stuff, and then I went to the airport. Funny, how once I was in the airport I felt safe and at home: I know how to do airports. My visa was done and I was on my way.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Finito
It's been a week since school's ended, but I couldn't stand the thought of writing about it until now. I think I'm ok now. Maybe.
The second years are gone!!!! :'-(
The year ended with a bang - the first years put on our last show for our secondi, which was great, the usual material: funny (battle of the bands: The Spice Girls vs The Backstreet Boys) and beautiful (Marco and Margerita did a ballet dance that was gorgeous. Wow.) and sweet (Alvaro, Vanessa and I sang a medley of songs (with changed lyrics) commemorating our second years' leaving, ending with Friends Will Be Friends, by Queen) and sad: our last song was Aloha Oe:
"Aloha Oe, Aloha Oe
The wind will carry back my sad refrain
One fond embrace
Before goodbye
Until we meet again"
Then the second years all came up on stage and we hugged and cried and cried and hugged...
That night (Tuesday the 23, for reference) there was a huge party in Mickey's (the bar) with everyone dancing one last time. The first half of the dancing was Latin - Tango and Salsa and Samba etc. and the latinos took the floor and danced (showing some of the rest of us how to do it), with spins and twirls and fancy footwork. Then the music changed to normal pop music, and everyone got up and danced, it was soo hot and crowded... but a good way to not think about the next day.
The next day was Closing Ceremony, which was nothing particularly special, a lot of Italian politicians talking about our importance to the community (blah), the choir sang, Vanessa did a speech on behalf of all the first years saying Thank You to our secondi, some music scholars played, and all throughout the ceremony we signed yearbooks. Then we had the best mensa food we've ever had - buffet style nice red rice and vegetables and pasta... and really good dessert, too.
Then it began. The first people left right after closing ceremony and then it was a constant stream for the next 2 days. Every half hour someone was at the bus stop, crying and blindly hugging anyone and everyone who came near to say goodbye. One by one my Secondi ( and the ones that meant the most to me and became my "adopted Secondi") left - Deanna (my real Seconda, who's going to Middlebury, so I'll see her soon) and Isaac (from Spain, a wonderful dancer and singer and such a kind-hearted person) left the first day without me being able to say goodbye, Yusaku (I'll always remember how he dressed up as me for the Nordic show - he did it so perfectly! And his cooking...ahh) and Doba (the computer geek, my Secondo-in-law - he was going out with my co-year, Leah) and Diego (who taught us the "beaver cheer", I can't relate it here, ask me to perform it when I get home, it's so funny...)
The weather was strange that day, it reflected our feelings exactly. All morning it was raining and very windy - sometimes we couldn't even hear the speeches because the tent was flapping so hard - but the grey clouds were the perfect backdrop to our sadness. Then the rain stopped and, just at sunset, a beautiful double rainbow appeared. The image of people saying their last goodbyes under that arch of color was so powerful - sad and beautiful at the same time.
The next day was the worst. My 2 first year roome left early in the morning (5 am for Nevin, and 8:30 for Marta) Then Jesus...Lisette and I went with him to Sistiana for one last coffee before he left and we promised that Lisette and I would return next year to remember him. We talked and laughed and bullshitted (he won the yearbook award for best bullshitter, and he was so proud...) and then he had to go.
Let's skip that part of the story, ok? He's the one I/'ll miss most, his bullshitting, his philosophy (talking about the merits/theory of anarchism, the US's involvement in Latin America, God, etc) his jokes, his absolutely horrid conduct with girls (I think "player" is the correct term - he would go through his picture album and say, "I got with her, her, her, her, not her - sigh - she was too far away but I wanted to, her, her...") which, though it sounds bad, is actually probably quite a good thing - it's one of the only things that kept me from wanting to fight my Seconda for him ;) (he was my Secondo-in-law too) the other thing was my Seconda herself and his devotion to her, - apparently, once he found the right girl he'd stick to her like glue - and how incredibly sweet they were together. And, of course, I'll remember his egocentric (sometimes faked, sometimes real, I don't know) how he loved being vain and singing, "I Feel Pretty" and taking pictures of himself...
Next most missed person is probably Cosy, though she left on Saturday and so I had time to talk to her before she left. Her laugh, her way of telling stories so that even if it's the most mundane occurrence - making omelets for example - it's hilariously funny, her voice - wow! sometimes I wish I were African too... - and all our inside jokes from Project Week. I think that week was one of the best in the year, and much of it was because of her. Memories of singing "Under the Sea" in Italian, of walking up the hill to our host family's house and talking about UWC/the world, of teasing Alvaro about his accent (whenever he asked for the ramp for Dana's wheelchair he'd roll the R and we'd all laugh - "la rrrrrampa!") of getting lost, and she was always there, smiling...
Thursday afternoon 2 more of my secondi left, Terence (the real Secondo) and Leon (the first adopted Secondo) I'll miss Leon's ever ready advice and listening ear, the conversations we had at the beginning of the year when we literally recounted our entire life stories to each other over cornflakes, how he was always available for a hug when I was feeling down...
Friday was a bit better. Lelde (our choir director) left in the morning, but after that everyone stayed, so we just lounged. All my latinos stayed (except Jesus) and the Russians, and we had a great time going through the clothes that people left behind and dressing up.
And that night we sang and played Latin songs together for the last time... and watched a movie and talked.
Slowly they all trickled away, and as my last Secondo left (Rene, on Monday), a crowd of Italians came for the first year selections, so I went smoothly into being a Seconda myself, showing them around Duino and telling them about the college.
And so here I am, a quasi-Seconda, lying in the sun and looking forward to going to India in a week!!!!!
The second years are gone!!!! :'-(
The year ended with a bang - the first years put on our last show for our secondi, which was great, the usual material: funny (battle of the bands: The Spice Girls vs The Backstreet Boys) and beautiful (Marco and Margerita did a ballet dance that was gorgeous. Wow.) and sweet (Alvaro, Vanessa and I sang a medley of songs (with changed lyrics) commemorating our second years' leaving, ending with Friends Will Be Friends, by Queen) and sad: our last song was Aloha Oe:
"Aloha Oe, Aloha Oe
The wind will carry back my sad refrain
One fond embrace
Before goodbye
Until we meet again"
Then the second years all came up on stage and we hugged and cried and cried and hugged...
That night (Tuesday the 23, for reference) there was a huge party in Mickey's (the bar) with everyone dancing one last time. The first half of the dancing was Latin - Tango and Salsa and Samba etc. and the latinos took the floor and danced (showing some of the rest of us how to do it), with spins and twirls and fancy footwork. Then the music changed to normal pop music, and everyone got up and danced, it was soo hot and crowded... but a good way to not think about the next day.
The next day was Closing Ceremony, which was nothing particularly special, a lot of Italian politicians talking about our importance to the community (blah), the choir sang, Vanessa did a speech on behalf of all the first years saying Thank You to our secondi, some music scholars played, and all throughout the ceremony we signed yearbooks. Then we had the best mensa food we've ever had - buffet style nice red rice and vegetables and pasta... and really good dessert, too.
Then it began. The first people left right after closing ceremony and then it was a constant stream for the next 2 days. Every half hour someone was at the bus stop, crying and blindly hugging anyone and everyone who came near to say goodbye. One by one my Secondi ( and the ones that meant the most to me and became my "adopted Secondi") left - Deanna (my real Seconda, who's going to Middlebury, so I'll see her soon) and Isaac (from Spain, a wonderful dancer and singer and such a kind-hearted person) left the first day without me being able to say goodbye, Yusaku (I'll always remember how he dressed up as me for the Nordic show - he did it so perfectly! And his cooking...ahh) and Doba (the computer geek, my Secondo-in-law - he was going out with my co-year, Leah) and Diego (who taught us the "beaver cheer", I can't relate it here, ask me to perform it when I get home, it's so funny...)
The weather was strange that day, it reflected our feelings exactly. All morning it was raining and very windy - sometimes we couldn't even hear the speeches because the tent was flapping so hard - but the grey clouds were the perfect backdrop to our sadness. Then the rain stopped and, just at sunset, a beautiful double rainbow appeared. The image of people saying their last goodbyes under that arch of color was so powerful - sad and beautiful at the same time.
The next day was the worst. My 2 first year roome left early in the morning (5 am for Nevin, and 8:30 for Marta) Then Jesus...Lisette and I went with him to Sistiana for one last coffee before he left and we promised that Lisette and I would return next year to remember him. We talked and laughed and bullshitted (he won the yearbook award for best bullshitter, and he was so proud...) and then he had to go.
Let's skip that part of the story, ok? He's the one I/'ll miss most, his bullshitting, his philosophy (talking about the merits/theory of anarchism, the US's involvement in Latin America, God, etc) his jokes, his absolutely horrid conduct with girls (I think "player" is the correct term - he would go through his picture album and say, "I got with her, her, her, her, not her - sigh - she was too far away but I wanted to, her, her...") which, though it sounds bad, is actually probably quite a good thing - it's one of the only things that kept me from wanting to fight my Seconda for him ;) (he was my Secondo-in-law too) the other thing was my Seconda herself and his devotion to her, - apparently, once he found the right girl he'd stick to her like glue - and how incredibly sweet they were together. And, of course, I'll remember his egocentric (sometimes faked, sometimes real, I don't know) how he loved being vain and singing, "I Feel Pretty" and taking pictures of himself...
Next most missed person is probably Cosy, though she left on Saturday and so I had time to talk to her before she left. Her laugh, her way of telling stories so that even if it's the most mundane occurrence - making omelets for example - it's hilariously funny, her voice - wow! sometimes I wish I were African too... - and all our inside jokes from Project Week. I think that week was one of the best in the year, and much of it was because of her. Memories of singing "Under the Sea" in Italian, of walking up the hill to our host family's house and talking about UWC/the world, of teasing Alvaro about his accent (whenever he asked for the ramp for Dana's wheelchair he'd roll the R and we'd all laugh - "la rrrrrampa!") of getting lost, and she was always there, smiling...
Thursday afternoon 2 more of my secondi left, Terence (the real Secondo) and Leon (the first adopted Secondo) I'll miss Leon's ever ready advice and listening ear, the conversations we had at the beginning of the year when we literally recounted our entire life stories to each other over cornflakes, how he was always available for a hug when I was feeling down...
Friday was a bit better. Lelde (our choir director) left in the morning, but after that everyone stayed, so we just lounged. All my latinos stayed (except Jesus) and the Russians, and we had a great time going through the clothes that people left behind and dressing up.
And that night we sang and played Latin songs together for the last time... and watched a movie and talked.
Slowly they all trickled away, and as my last Secondo left (Rene, on Monday), a crowd of Italians came for the first year selections, so I went smoothly into being a Seconda myself, showing them around Duino and telling them about the college.
And so here I am, a quasi-Seconda, lying in the sun and looking forward to going to India in a week!!!!!