People

In a terrible act of disrespect, I have yet to describe my new primi. They, as a general rule, are amazing and great and fun and nice and smart...but there are some that stick out more than others.
First: my roome. I'm now in a small all-girls residence called scholtz, rooming with a second year (Corina from Greece) and two first years, Ximena from Uruguay and Lamira from Western Sahara.
It's strange, because I seem to be repeating the room I had last year with completely different people: my new roommates correspond exactly to my old ones. Lamira = Nevin, she's Muslim, so she wears a scarf and prays (I was so sad to be leaving that with Nevin, I missed it so much over the summer, and now I have it again!) and she seems shy and quiet at first, but that's only because her English isn't too good. Actually, she's talkative and sing-ative and funny and energetic (exactly like Nevin, but I don't think she's quite as crazy. Or at least I hope not :$ ). We've been known to walk up the street at midnight singing My Heart Will Go On at the top of our lungs and waltzing, and this is just within the first month, I have a premonition it will only get stranger.
(This is me and my roomine -the new one (Lamira) on the left and the old one (Nevin) on the right)
Ximena = Marta. Firstly, they have the same birthday (in a week, I need to plan something!) and they also do random creative things, like decorating paper and drawing and stuff when they should probably be doing homework. :) Ximena also really likes videography (though I don't think Marta does), she made a video of her and all her friends before she left, and she showed it to me and Lamira and her latina friends. She hangs out a lot with the Latinos, and so my Spanish seems to be getting better just because of hearing it so often in my room.
And Corina = Giulia, the seconda who's never in the room, but when she is, is really nice. Like Giulia, she spends all her time in Trieste, and like Giulia, we wake up in the morning to find that she never did come home - her bed's still untouched. But she's so much fun to talk to, Corina and Ximena and Sylvia (our neighbor from Italy) and Boriana (also neighbor, Bulgaria) and I have stayed up till 2 am countless times talking about life, the universe, and everything, and it's great fun.
Next, my Primi:
I've already mentioned Gavino, my primo. He's crazy and cool, but I haven't spent as much time with him as with my Prime.
Prime: Sarah, from Virginia and Lucy, from Colorado. The three of us and Keleigh from Canada and Julie from the UK get along really well together, more than I've been able to connect with other native speakers in the past. Sarah and Keleigh are huge Gilmore Girls fans, so I've seen a couple episodes with them - they're not that bad... and it's fun to talk to them about American issues as Americans.
I'm sorry I don't have any pictures of them yet, I'll add them later.

Choir

(our two choir directors, Vanessa and Katy, after their first performance)

Although it isn't my official aesthetic activity, choir has been an important part of my life here, and I have a feeling it will become more important as the year progresses. So far we've been overloaded with concerts, which is good - they're really fun and we get good food and have a great time, but it's hard to perform after only having rehearsed 3 or 4 times, especially for the first years.
Choir this year is so much better than last year - already I feel like we're better quality and have better songs, even though we've only added 2 or 3 to our repertoire so far. Vanessa is going a great job as choir director, I'm so proud of her...
Last weekend we had three concerts, and all of them were great, especially the one on Saturday. It was a gathering of train workers from Slovenia and Italy and we sang for them all the songs we knew. It was crazy - the first years learned half the songs on the way there in the van, and I was the only soprano who actually knew what she was doing, yet it sounded great. And afterwards they gave us really yummy finger-food (the best part of choir). My favorite part, though, was the people who came on after us, a small band that played dance music (waltzes and stuff). We were so happy and proud of ourselves that we all got up and danced, and Honza (the Czech primo) grabbed me and started teaching me cha-cha and blues and polka. It was SO MUCH FUN! Jumping and spinning around the room, and everyone else dancing too (but not like us, haha :) )...and Honza's now starting ballroom dance classes for which I'm incredibly excited. He's already taught us a couple steps in dance activity and I think it's going to be great, he's a wonderful teacher, making it fun and funny and easy.
Singing and dancing, could life get any better?

International Show

Ok, this is out of order - technically the International Show was on Saturday and the first day of school was Monday, but whatever.
Every year the second years introduce UWC to the first years through an event called the International Show where the first years have to dress up (this year it was a beach party, last year it was 80s style) and the second years put on a show for them.
Throughout the first 2 weeks we second years practiced our acts and got ready for the show, while also showing our primi around and re-bonding with our friends.
I was in three acts, the "Wake Up sketch," a rhythmic cup sketch, and a Angel vs. Devil/ Violin vs. Electric Guitar duet.
The Wake Up sketch was funny - we documented the progression of wake up routines, from the first day (wake up at 6:30 To shower, put on makeup, eat a nice, hearty breakfast, then saunter off to school)to the last day, when the alarm rings at 7, 7:30, 7:45, 8:00 (when classes start) but at 9:00 we're still sleeping.

Then I did a cup sketch...you know the cup game, the one where you move the cups from person to person in a circle doing a rhythmic pattern of clapping and hitting the cup on the table/your hand/etc. It was great fun, and we didn't really mess up too much, which was amazing. The premise was: a row of girls and 2 guys on the end of the table acting bored, then Renato (as "cool guy") comes in and starts doing a pattern with his hands and we're all impressed so we copy him, one after another. Finally it's the (now jealous) guys' at the end of the table turn and they do it really fast and we all turn our attention to them.

Renato gets mad and picks up a cup to do the cup pattern and regain our favor (of course) and we all end together happily.

Then the one I really worked on: the Angel/Devil sketch. It went like this:

I come onstage in an angel costume with my violin, and start playing Meditation from Thais - slow, romantic, beautiful violin music - when, halfway through my first phrase, I'm interrupted by a loud chord from an electric guitar: Renato, dressed as a hard-rock devil, comes onstage and starts showing off on his guitar.

Thus ensues a competition of us each trying to outdo each other with faster and harder and more impressive songs.

Then, in classic UWC style, we ended together, playing a Paganini caprice in harmony.
We had so much fun planning and playing the songs, and everyone loved it ... great success all around.

The costumes of the primi were great...especially my primo. Gavin (or Gavino as he likes to be called) dressed up as a lifeguard, sort of. He was wearing a speedo and a lifeguard t-shirt: Wow.

There were a lot of other acts as well, like Marco's and Margherita's dances, they did ballet and hip-hop "duets."
It's amazing how they can move their bodies so smoothly and gracefully ... I wish I could do that...

There was a rendition of "Cell Block Tango" from Chicago, that was great, really funny and musically well-done.
And Dominika and Ana Maria did an amazing fire dance, spinning balls of fire on chains around and around in complex patterns, it looked so cool!
There was also the traditional Israeli dance, that's performed at every show. It's a series of movements repeated, and each one has a special meaning - very powerful and beautiful to watch.

And the Christian fellowship did a dance that was really cute, all of them singing, "Testify! Testify! I will testify to love!"

All in all, it was an absolute success, I loved it. More on the actual people soooooon. I promise.

Second First Day of School

Well, that was an auspicious start to the year. Out of five classes today I was late for four of them and missed the fifth completely. Granted, the skipped class wasn’t my fault, but still … let’s start at the beginning.
Just like we predicted, my two first year roome, Ximena and Larima, woke up at 6:00 am and 6:30 am respectively. I, being the experienced second year that I am, waited until 7:30 to rise from my blue cloud of slumber. I had plenty of time, but I decided that I should start the year out well and eat breakfast: a mistake. (actually, it was a case of deja-vu, I recall making the exact same mistake last year with exactly the same result) The logical consequence of eating breakfast (an error I won’t repeat in the future) was scarfing down a bowl of cereal and running to World Cultures class and arriving there just barely on time … but the door was closed! (door closed means I’m late = bad) Apparently Henry’s clock was 5 minutes fast, and though I informed him of the fact, it didn’t reduce the embarrassment.
Great class though, a discussion of the different meanings of the word “Classic” applying to everything from Greek civilization to “Gone with the Wind”. And next I had a free block. I spent it in the normal free block routine: do various nothings until you realize it’s 10:00 and you have to run to your next class, wondering where your hour went, because you certainly didn’t use it!
Theory of Knowledge, my next class, moved buildings without prior notice, and the sign on the door directed me to the building I had just come from – ahrg. I arrived at class out of breath and had to sit right at the front of the class in the last available chair. My placement was perfect for becoming Official Scribe for the class, an idea our ToK teacher has decided on – write down everything said so we can remember it later – and so I was stuck typing frantically as everyone else had a lively discussion on the nature of history and memory and the effect that writing things down and taking photos has on them.
Yay: break! So I went back to Schultz, my residence, and had a second breakfast, because the last one didn’t cut it. Once again, I mismanaged time (perhaps it’s the relaxing effect of yogurt…), but still got to the room on time – only to find no one there. My English class had been moved as well. Again I run to the other building (in the opposite direction again), and just as I enter the door I see my teacher coming, so I scuttle into class so as to appear un- late ( maybe the red cheeks and panting gave me away though).
Wow. English class was heaven. After a year of Beth (our last teacher who left) we had all trained ourselves to automatically switch our brains off as we enter the classroom, and this class was a frantic fumble to find the switch back on. We read – and I mean really read – The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufok, and discussed modernism in Britain and America and its effects and influences in 20th century culture. I haven’t thought so much in English class since the end of AP English in high school (discounting the math homework I used to do there last year).
Determined to get to Music on time, I was waylaid by my Italian teacher: “I missed you in class today, where were you?” What? I had been devastated that my favorite Italian teacher had been switched to C block while I remained in B block with another teacher…or at least that’s what the list said, and I hadn’t gotten a new schedule to say anything different. But apparently I was switched along with my teacher (yay!!) and missed my first class (oops.)
So, I was late to Music as well, but that didn’t really matter because Stefano doesn’t really care anyway, and we talked about orchestration in the Romantic period and the differences between Brahms’ and Bruchner’s early symphonies.
I was early for lunch though, and had a wonderful time with the other native English speakers excitedly lauding our new teacher and laughing at my blunders. It’s been a great day though, because even though I was late, the classes were all really fun, and I’m so happy to back.

Taj Mahal (ok, a little late)

I'm home now, which explains the lack of blogging - it's completely slipped my mind for the past 2 weeks, what with all the people and things to see and do around here.
But there are still a story or two left from India, so I will dutifully recount them:
I sadly left all my new friends in Solan on the 24th of July, especially Nidhi's family. I already miss her brother and sister - so cute and so funny when they argued - and her mother and grandmother, with whom I could never quite communicate because of the language barrier but still managed to bond through smiles and gestures. And of course Nidhi's father, who took us on all our travels and made my trip so special.
We went to Delhi again, but this time it was monsoon season and only 90 degrees - yay! Cool weather! - we took the train this time, the rickety old public transport train to Chundigar and then a superfast air conditioned train from their to Delhi. Both of them had their merits: on the train to Chundigar we shared the compartment with a group of boyscouts on their way to Delhi, and we shared cultures all the way down the mountains, i.e. sang songs together. I would sing a song in English and then they would respond with a Hindi or Punjabi song that they all shouted out (because none of them could sing). We had a great time, and every time we came to a tunnel we all screamed our heads off, according to tradition.
The train from Chundigar to Delhi was really cool - first class type treatment in a normal compartment, with lots of food and nice seats and stuff.
We spent the night in Delhi and then went to Agra to see...the Taj Mahal!
It was hot and the train there was uncomfortable, and when we got there at around 10 AM we hadn't eaten breakfast yet, so we walked around outside to try and find something to eat...and failed. There was NOWHERE to eat, and soon we had a line of mini-taxis following us asking if we wanted a ride. Nidhi's dad kept saying, "no, no, no! We don't need you!" and they kept pestering us anyway. So he finally went to the head office, and complained to the taxiboss about the annoying cabbies...and then ended up taking one of them to McDonalds after all. Nidhi and her father ate hamburgers while I watched and enjoyed the AC, and then we went sightseeing.
First we went to the Agra Fort, a massive Moghul palace of Redstone, and wandered in and out and around all these amazing rooms for the kings and queens and royalty of ancient India. It was cool to think of the idea that people actually lived there, in that manner, hundreds of years ago.



Then, on to the Taj Mahal in a horse-drawn buggy.
It was beautiful, just as spectacular as you expect it to be, especially as you see it first through a red stone and mosaic-ed arch that frames it beautifully, then walk up to in along an avenue of trees and fountains.
You take your shoes of when you go in, out of respect, and walk barefooted on the soft white marble in the hot sun around the perfectly symmetrical building. Inside it's dark and crowded with tourists, so it's not as nice as outside, but it's still interesting to see the grave of the woman who inspired this work of art. (did you know that after the architect finished the design, the king cut his hands off so there could never be anything as beautiful in the world again? Wow. That's royal.)

Nihdi and I took a nap on the Taj, it was warm and comfortable and nice...

I was dressed in a Salvaar Chemise, and everyone around us kept asking eachother (and me sometimes) whether I was Indian or not. I love how despite my blond hair and blue eyes I looked Indian enough to be mistaken. (victory!).

Back to Delhi, and then the plane in the morning.
It was so sad to leave India... I must come back sometime, something about this country touches your heart like nothing else. The cows in the streets, piles of dung covered in hay (strangely beautiful), the rivers, the mountains, the language, the people, hospitable and talkative and nice and always bragging about their country...I couldn't leave it forever.
But I could leave it for a while, if leaving it meant going home. And go home I did.

Tour of Himachal

My last full week in India, I spent with Nidhi’s entire family (mother, father, sister, brother, and grandmother) getting to know their state inside and out. We hired a driver to take us to all the major destinations in Himachal, and spent one night in each. It was a great trip, with spectacular views and amazing culture.
The first day we drove to Kullu Manali, apparently the place to go for tourists, though we didn’t see what it had that Solan didn’t (Home is always best, isn’t it?). We drove all day, and it was hell. The roads were so small and twisted, and the driver took the turns so fast (so we’d get there before dark) that everyone in the car was sick. Guddu, Nidhi’s brother, spent the whole drive throwing up out the window, which meant that I couldn’t open my window for fear of getting splattered. The rest of us huddled down in silent misery, hoping it would pass. After lunch though, it was better. We’d gotten used to the roads (all except Guddu) and felt well enough to enjoy the beautiful vistas of mountains and rivers and more mountains.

Kullu Manali is just another Hill Station (their term for a town in the mountains) except that everyone goes there, so it’s very touristy. I was counting westerners here, but in Manali I stopped at around 250 because there were so many. I felt weird, being one of many westerners; I think I like it better when I’m the only one – I feel more individual, rather than part of a (not very respected) group.
The next morning we went up to Roatang Pass, on the way to Kashmir. We didn’t go to Kashmir – too dangerous – but the pass was gorgeous. Truly Himalayan as I’d imagined it, with high, craggy, snowcapped peaks in the distance and lower but still snowy mountains where we were. We drove and drove up the mountains on tiny bumpy dirt roads (and I swear that car had no shock absorbers whatsoever) and watched as the clouds grew lower and lower. It felt like we were driving to heaven (“take a good look,” we told each other, “you’ll never get there after you die.”) with the beautiful mountains and the round wispy clouds below us.

We spent about an hour up there, and then drove downdowndown back to Manali and then on to our next destination.

This was a town deep in the mountains accessible only by narrow dirt roads, which is home to hot springs and temples and is a pilgrimage spot for both Seiks and Hindus, Seiks for the beautiful silver Gurudwara and Hindus for the many temples dedicated to Shiva and his wife, Parvati. The water is so hot there that the Gurudwara boils its rice in the pools, and when you walk barefoot into the temples, you have to walk on wooden planks because the stone floor is so hot.

The next day we went to Daramshala, the home of His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama in exile from Tibet. Unfortunately he wasn’t there when we were there, but we walked around the monastery and watched the monks singing and playing their horns and flutes in devotion. It was a wonderful place, very peaceful and spiritual, and I was sorry to get back in the car and drive away.

Drive, drive, drive, drive. That was most of the tour, actually, we spent all day in the car and only got to out destination in the evening. But it was nice, and when I wasn’t sleeping or getting bored with nothing to do (you can’t really read when you’re bouncing around all the time) I enjoyed it almost as much as the places we were going. I loved passing by the tiny villages and watching the glimpses of people’s lives, the women carrying water in big brass pots on their shoulders, the two children, maybe five and seven years old, pushing with all their might on the pump handle to fill a plastic jug, the girl lazily switching the backs of cows as she led them down the mountain to graze, the two walking trees – wait, no, they’re people, with huge piles of grass strapped to their backs so that you can’t even see them, just a pair of legs under a bundle of grass for the cows…it was so simple and peaceful, it once again made me wonder why we bother with all the stuff we have in America when we could live perfectly happily like this.

We next went to Dalhousie, another Hill Station, and officially Nidhi’s father’s favorite Hill Station in the country. It’s very peaceful and quite there, I found myself slowing down and speaking less because of the aura of the place. It was covered in clouds so close I kept reaching out to touch them, and green trees overhung all the quiet little roads and added to the sense of peace.
The next morning we went to “India’s Switzerland” which was a nice place, though it didn’t actually look very much like Switzerland. There was a pond and a big open field where everyone was strolling around and relaxing. We got cotton candy and rode horses around the perimeter (because I said I’d ridden before my guide let me gallop, which was exhilarating, but I was sorry for him running beside me to keep up with the horse) and then started our journey back to Solan.
The last night we spent in a town known for its temple, where they worship, not idols as usual, but blue flames that come out of bare rock. It was an interesting sight to see, but the temple felt all wrong. It was very dirty and the people seemed somehow insincere. Nobody liked it, and we got out as soon as we’d paid our respects to all the little shrines. It was also surrounded by people trying to make money off of piety – shops and shops selling devotional music and offerings and pictures of the gods, which seemed to sap the holiness out of the temple itself.

And then back to Solan. The last day I got sick – a stomach ache – and I couldn’t eat at all, it was made worse by the curvy roads we were driving on. It was something that everyone except Nidhi’s father got, and I actually got off lightly compared to Nidhi’s grandmother and brother. I still feel sort of dizzy, but thankfully my stomach doesn’t hurt as much and I can eat a little bit.

Punjab

Nidhi, her father and I (the traveling trio) went to Punjab on the 12th and 13th and had a great time. Punjab is a state adjacent to Himachal Pradesh (our state) with a very distinct culture – great music, wild dancing, and funny guys in turbans. Most people in Punjab are Seiks, or Sardars, as they’re usually called, and they are the brunt of all jokes in India (Q: where do you find the most Sardars outside of Punjab? A: in jokes!). They’re known for having a great sense of humor and a hot temper, probably because the turbans they wear are really hot and make them disagreeable (Saying: Sardars go crazy around noon because the sun is right above their turbaned heads and it fries their brains). I also found them to be incredibly kind and hospitable, more than anyone else (which is saying something in this country of hospitality).
Seikism is a very interesting religion, it’s monotheistic and they follow 12 Gurus, or prophets, and worship (literally) their holy book which is comprised of poetry and sayings that the Gurus collected, and which lays down the code they are to abide by. And a funny code that is, they have to have five things with them at all times: A small knife, the book, an uncut beard, and uncut hair covered in a turban. They aren’t allowed to cut a hair on their heads, so most Sardars have really, really long hair, though you never see it because it’s always covered. Every male Sardar has the last name Singh so it’s really hard to tell them apart – they all look the same, with a turban and a beard, and they all have the same last name.
Ok, anyway, our trip.
We first visited Nidhi’s father’s old professor in Ludhiana and his two sons who were home for summer vacation from high school in California. It was weird to hear the American accent coming so perfectly from two Indians, but they were very nice, and we had a great time at their house, with their father and grandfather telling us about Seikism and its history.
Then we drove on to Amritser, the holiest city of the Seiks and one of the holiest cities in India because of the famous Golden Temple, and past it, to the border with Pakistan. That was an interesting spectacle: Wagha Border is the only peaceful border area between India and Pakistan, and they make the most of it with a parade every evening on both sides. There are huge stands on either side of the border and they’re packed with people shouting slogans and patriotic sayings, competing with each other to see who can be the loudest in support of their country. Each army sends five soldiers to the border where they salute and then (with great ceremony) lower the flags. Their manner of saluting and marching is hilarious, they don’t just stomp, they literally lift their foot to their nose before bringing it down with a crash three times and they walk with exaggerated heal-toe movements. Both sides were like that, and it was strange to watch them do something so funny so seriously.
Of course I also felt privileged to be at the border, and since Nidhi’s dad had some contacts we were allowed to go straight up to the fence. There were some other Americans on the other side and we shook hands over the border (an American in India and an American in Pakistan shaking hands. Cool!) which was great, until the guard said it was illegal and would we please stop Now.
Back to Amritser where we spent the night, and then in the morning we went to the Golden Temple. Wow, what a place. It truly felt holy, unlike most of the other places that merely looked holy. People from all over the world come there, cover their heads, take off their shoes and bathe their feet before walking slowly around the square lake of holy water, looking at the sparkling gilded temple in the center. As in all Gurudwaras, everyone first eats a communal meal, kings and beggars, Brahmins and Untouchables, all sitting side by side on the floor eating the (quite good) food that’s prepared by dozens of volunteers. And they’re so nice about it, you really feel welcomed to eat there. I think all religious institutions should follow their welcoming example.
The temple was beautiful, covered in gold and crystal and mirrors and flowers and filled with people singing devotional songs and paying their respects to the elaborately decorated book in the center. It was beautiful and awe-inspiring. And just as we left the rain came pounding down, the first of the monsoons, and turned Amritser into Venice, with canals instead of streets. (Literally, there was at least a foot or two of water in most of the roads.) But we managed to get out and come back to Solan (nine hours later) safe and sound.

Delhi (well, sort of) Day 3

We left Delhi early in the morning (7:00) and drove out into the countryside to visit friends and family in the planes villages. The first village we went to was that of Nidhi’s aunt. After passing through the impossibly narrow roads of the tiny village to get to her house, she invited us in, but only Nidhi and me. In these villages, the women cover their faces with the transparent cloth of their saree, or the scarf of their suit-salvaar in the presence of the male elders of their in-laws, and since Nidhi’s father belonged to that category, it would have been awkward having a conversation with someone with a cloth over their face. So he waited out in one room while Nidhi and I went into the courtyard of their house.
All houses have these courtyards or flat roofs where most of daily life happens, because electricity is almost nonexistent. Sometimes they have it, sometimes they don’t and it’s fairly random and never announced. In this village, they said they had electricity until the 28th of June, but they haven’t had it since. So they boiled milk over slow-burning cow dung and we all fanned each other with square, woven fans. It seemed like they could have lived 100 years ago, that nothing had changed since then, except an occasional plastic lawn chair or the sound of a motorcycle outside.
The next village we went to was Nidhi’s native village – where all her dad’s ancestors had lived. It was a lot bigger than the first one, almost not a village anymore, but it still had the narrow stone streets and closely built houses, because everyone in the village was like one large and slightly spread-out family. We were invited into three or four houses, and Nidhi talked (and I listened uncomprehending) with the women on the roof/second storey of the houses, while her father talked to the men of the house on the first storey, with the buffalo. The women were really nice, including me in the conversation through Nidhi’s translation, and smiling at my attempts at Hindi.
When we finally escaped the numerous invitations for juice and tea and milk and any other drink possible, we went to Nidhi’s mother’s village, and spent the night there. That was really nice. I lay on a woven bed with a battery-powered fan next to me and read until the sun set, while Nidhi and her father talked to their relatives they hadn’t seen in years.
That night we slept outside under mosquito nets (that did a fine job of keeping one mosquito inside, which bothered me all night.) and in the morning we woke up early and rode on a bullock-cart to the mango orchards, where we ate mangos and climbed trees and splashed water at each other from the well and generally had a great time. Then we skipped back, got our stuff together, and took three long, hot, uncomfortable busses back to Solan.
What joy, to be back in the mountains! It’s so cool and rainy and cool and not hot…aaahhh.

Delhi Day 2

This day was the low point of the trip, I think. I spent most of the time unconscious or uncomfortable or (mostly) both. We were going to take a tour bus to see the sights of Delhi, but the costs of admission to the monuments are exponentially higher for foreigners than for Indians (i.e. 20 rupees for them and 250 for us) so we decided it would be more cost effective to hire a driver to take us to the places ourselves and then if we wanted to go in we could, or we could just look at it. It sounded like a good decision, but an entire day spent in a hot un-AC-ed car is absolutely no fun. Half the things we only saw through the window or over trees: “Oh, look, that’s the biggest mosque in India! Look, there, can you see it? That’s the Red Fort, a great example of Mogul architecture…too bad we won’t go in.”
The morning we spent looking for Hindi books for Nidhi’s IB, and I truly don’t remember much, I was asleep most of the time. This never used to happen, but I seem to have serious problems staying awake in any kind of moving vehicle for more than half an hour here. It’s useful, actually, it makes the time pass a lot faster, and you don’t notice how hot and sweaty you are when you’re asleep. Plus the snatches of dreams are entertaining.
In the afternoon we went around to various monuments and things to see, and when we were out of the car it was better, because there was a slight breeze and I could stretch my legs and appreciate the things we were looking at.
We went to two temples, one Hindu temple which was huge and amazing and full of fantastic pictures of gods and their deeds. I’m getting better at the temple ritual now: ring the bell when you enter, bow, receive the blessing (in the form of a red dot or sweets or both) then walk around the temple contemplating religious-ish things, then ring the bell when you leave, and touch the steps and touch your forehead.
The other temple was the Lotus Temple, which isn’t actually a temple; it’s a place of religious worship for all and every faith. From the outside it looks like a lotus flower just blooming (hence the name) and from the inside it’s a beautiful wide, sunlit room with marble benches facing a podium that could support preachers from any faith. You’re not allowed to speak in there, so the room is filled with the sound of the shuffle of bare feet and the slight jingle of anklets. It’s a wonderful place, and so peaceful.
We also went to Gandhi’s grave, which is surrounded by wide expanses of grass (which you can’t walk on) and flowers on an artificial hill which drops off to a stone courtyard with Gandhi’s moral remains in the center in a large black marble box with flowers all over it and the words “He Ram” (Oh God – his last words) set into the front. It, too, is a very peaceful and powerful place, thinking of the man who did so much for this country and the world.
In the evening we went to visit a succession of Nidhi’s relatives and her father’s friends, and drank so much tea and juice and water I felt like I was going to burst. We changed clothes at her cousin’s house to go to the wedding (that started at 9-9:30) but we were late, so we didn’t get there until 10:00. We went through the brightly colored archway hung with flowers and sparkly cloth and downstairs where the wedding hadn’t started yet – they were waiting for the groom to arrive with his huge parade of dancers and merry-makers – and were just about to settle in when Nidhi’s father came back to us saying, “oops, wrong wedding. Ours is upstairs.” Unfortunately in our wedding we had missed the parade – the couple had already exchanged wreathes of flowers and were posing for photos. So we ate and then sat there, wondering if anything was going to happen until 11:30 at which time Nidhi and her dad said, “the next ceremony won’t start until 1 or 2 am, so we may as well go.” What a let down, I was so excited to see an Indian wedding, and all it entailed was eating and looking at two people dressed up getting pictures taken.
We went to the India Gate afterwards, a huge gate (very like the Arc of Triumph in Paris) in the middle of a wide plaza that commemorates all the soldiers who died in the World Wars. It was nice, and interesting to see it in the dark when the crowds had mostly gone away.
End Day 2

Delhi Day 1

Our trip to Delhi was vastly superior to our trip to Solan on the first day – this time we got to take that coach bus we’d missed earlier, and what a difference it made! Air Conditioning and comfortable (blue) seats and movies all the way through the 9 hour trip to Delhi. Actually, I’m glad I didn’t take it the first day, it wouldn’t have been as much of an adventure, and I would have gotten the wrong impression of the country, and felt guilty for being treated in a way so obviously different from the common Indian. As it was, I truly felt like I was in India, and by the time I took the coach bus I could genuinely appreciate it because I knew the alternative.
It’s amazing, the contrast between the hills and the plains. You can tell immediately that one is more prosperous and less populated than the other, and it’s a shock to see the poverty I had expected before I came, but had almost forgotten about in Solan The poverty in the plains is made worse by the heat – well over 100 every day, even though the monsoons were supposed to come and cool things off – it must have been hell for the people carrying bricks and digging up the roads. I have never seen so many people sleeping in the streets before, day and night. People on the dividers between the two lanes of the road, on the sidewalks, on exposed pipes, at train and bus stations...
I don’t know how they manage to sleep with all the noise – cars and trucks blow their horns like maniacs or aspiring members of a marching band at all hours of the day and night, whether or not there’s any reason to announce their presence to the world.
We stayed with Nidhi’s Uncle – the one who picked us up the first day – in their little flat with three rooms and a kitchen.
Nidhi and I have to do research for our Extended Essays – 4,000 word essay for the IB that we have to do over the summer – hers is on the reasons for the accession of Kashmir to India, and mine is on Philip Pullman’s treatment of religion in His Dark Materials. So we went to find books on our respective subjects. The first library was useless to both of us, though a nice escape from the heat, so we left it feeling a little down-hearted.
Then Nidhi’s father asked whether we wanted to go to the Parliamentary Library. “Isn’t that restricted?” Nidhi asked, but apparently her dad knows someone in the security from his days as a government worker, and so we went to try. A few conversations and several cups of tea later we were in the beautiful new library of the Indian Parliament. Both of us were more successful there, so we made a trip to the photocopier and then had lunch (south Indian food). Then the security man took us on a tour of the Parliament itself, which was super-cool.
When we left, we went to Gandhi Smriti (an organization to promote Gandhi’s ideals) and had a meeting with the editors of Yamuna, a children’s newspaper for which Nidhi is the “foreign correspondent” (I’ve contributed an article as well). Then the organizer introduced us to a 13-year-old boy that the organization had just adopted. He came from a small village and is a math genius – we watched as he did the times tables of 200,554 as easily as you or I would do the times tables of 6 or 7. So they’re sending him to a prestigious school in Delhi to give him a good education and a future for his intelligence. Wow.
Then we went to the place where Gandhi was assassinated on his way to the Morning Prayer and the multimedia museum on his life – one of the most amazing museums I’ve ever seen. They had staff for each room of the museum to tell you about the exhibit and background information about Gandhi, and the exhibits themselves were so cool – you sing into a straw basket and a speaker nearby plays Gandhi’s favorite song, or you blow into a bowl filled with water and steam and it shows one of Gandhi’s messages as light on the steam, or you spin Gandhi’s spinning wheel and it plays a movie about his life. Such organization!
That night we went to Connaught Place (the main market of Delhi) and shopped. I was overwhelmed at first by the colors and sparkles of countless stalls – where should I start? Each person had a stall about 4ft wide and maybe 10 feet deep, and it was like walking into a tunnel of colors (if you were in a clothing stall) or glitter (if you were in a jewelry stall). But by the end I was having fun bargaining with the shopkeepers – bringing things down to half their original price with the help of Nidhi to translate the more complicated parts. It’s a good thing she was there, because apparently the shopkeepers hike up the price exponentially for foreigners, but because Nidhi was with me they treated me like a native. So we came back laden with bags and Nidhi’s uncle congratulated us on getting good prices for everything.
Yay!

Cultural Tangents (read this one second)

(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.

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.

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 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.

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 29^th, 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 8^th, 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.

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 End of the Year

I'm truly sorry it's been so long since my last post. There hasn't been that much happening, except for the slow march of the year towards the finish line. And here we are at the last days and I can't believe it. All our amazing second years are leaving us and we're taking charge, hearing from our primi (I have a prima named Lucy from Colorado who's in Thailand right now on an exchange trip - wow! and a primo from Virginia and another prima from Oregon). All the girls are complaining that there are no guys coming (which is sadly true - the vast majority of primi are girls. *sniff*) and all the guys are, obviously, extatic.
Hmm, what else has been happening?
I went for a hike in the Alps with a group of first years, we're going to have a hiking club next year.

And we had a concert for the music activity, I played rock music with the latinos - Renato, Rene, Alvaro and (not latina) Anja, which was super fun and everyone loved it. And then I played a Mozart sonata with Alvaro which we played pretty well, but it got boring for the audience because we didn't think and took all the (many) repeats. Oh well, we had fun, and people said they liked it.

And a lot of packing/studying for exams, but I won't talk about that. Ick.

Theater Week

Last week was Theater Week, and Oh So fun. Every day there was something theaterish going on, at break, in Mensa at dinner time, at College Assembly...wow.
On Monday in Assembly, Cosy (Swaziland) made an announcement that went, "I'll keep this short. I just wanted to say: NAAAA-siguetenya..." and burst into Circle of Life. We all got up from the sidelines and started singing backup(inganama-inganamababa) to a spectacular performance of African singing (Cosy and Ayanda, from South Africa). Wow, but those southern Africans can belt it out!
And that night some students got up on the table and sang/acted Summer Lovin' from Greece (unfortunately no pictures, it was awesome...) "tell me more, tell me more..."
Tuesday evening we got Jesus Christ Superstar performed for our dinner, and I did bring my camera that time.
And then Wednesday Haley (Canada) and my second year, Terence did (I don't actually know the title. hmm) the song that goes "Anything you can do, I can do better. I can do anything better than you."

And Thursday break was Terence and Ayanda doing the "Who's on First" skit, which was hilarious.
Wednesday and Thursday nights the Drama group performed Blood Wedding at a theater in Monfalcone (I helped with costumes). It was amazing. It was so powerful to watch them get so completely into their characters - before the last scene all the actors were literally crying backstage because of the events in the play. Wow.


And the grand finale was the Theater Week Show, which was great fun. Alvaro (Spain) and I sang Last Night of the World from Miss Saigon:

Eduardo's friends all laughed when Alvaro and I were performing ("you should have seen his face!" they said afterwards...) because (it being Theater Week and all) we acted and danced the whole song.

I was in Vanessa's national costume, which people said I looked good in (though it doesn't look like that in the picture, does it? sigh.) and it was Blue!! (yay).
Anyway, that was Theater Week, and it was loads of fun. I can't wait for next year.

And last night something amazing happened - it was raining/sunning all day, and in the evening we got some sort of triple rainbow - one that repeated twice and then another, fainter one above it. The first one was a complete half circle that ended right in Trieste. And if you looked past the castle there was a gorgeous sunset out over the Adriatic... sigh.

And so Eduardo and Marta and I ran down to the sea and took pictures...

yes, it's corny, but hey - he's Latino. ;)