Description of a perfect week; one which isn't over yet.

I am on vacation from work but have decided not to travel as the holiday is a national one and most interesting places are over-priced, overbooked and overwhelming. Andrew decided to stick around too and together we have done fun things each day so far. On Thursday we went to the art museum to see Hokusai, to ("viking," pronounced biking, means buffet) lunch and then made a city-wide search for Budweiser, called that The Great Bud Hunt, got drunk in the park, heckled locals, then went for cheap late night ramen. On Friday we rode our bikes far along the Pacific coast, Mt. Fuji in the foreground and climbed the 1000 + stairs to an ancient seaside shrine where there is a breathtaking view of the coast line. Yesterday we chilled and kept to ourselves. I went to yoga, did a little window shopping and successfully ordered a delicious lunch alone at a sushi bar--a small feat for me! Andrew spent the day cooking up a storm in his tiny apartment kitchen. He is like a mad scientist in there, I call it his laboratory. Today we bought bento lunches from our favorite bento guy (we LOVE him, BEST laugh; yet another local old man hero) and took them to the park. I spread out a blanket half in the sun for me and half in the shade, for him. We ate yummy, cheap Japanese picnic food and as I laid out in the sun Andrew read me a Joseph Mitchell story about a bearded lady and her life as a circus side show freak. Later we read more and people watched; mostly he read and I laid in the sun with my eyes closed. As the sun began to set, we re-located to a near-by warmer spot and watched a group of about 5 nine year olds practice baseball. We did all the voices; talked about which boy was tubby, which one was all legs and which one was way into all the gear and clearly watched a lot of baseball but wasn't necessarily all that good. There was also one loner boy who just rode his bike around, in and out of the game. We laughed our asses off. I managed my first sunburn of the year. Later tonight Andrew is experimenting with mackerel ceviche and in a little bit I'll go back on the bud hunt. I have renounced Japanese beer. Over it. Tomorrow I am going to try to sell some of my belongings in the park to teens who hopefully think American stuff is cool not because I need the money but because I want to minimize my belongings.

We had heard a rumor that sometimes still, on early mornings, in certain countrysides a "tofu man" rides a little cart around selling tof (as the locals say) much as he and his ancestors have done for centuries. How would you know it's really him? we ask, hearing it as folklore and turning him mythical. Well, there is a call he makes, a whistle sort of; a sound that has remained unchanged through time and remarkably gets reported consistently no matter who we may ask. (Getting straight or consistent answers from Japanese people is something I gave up on shortly after I arrived.) The old ones told us it's a whistle of 2 notes which sounds very much like if you were to sing softly and melodically the word itself. The first note is lower and held longer: to---Fu! For personal amusement, we asked a number of students, proposing to each as if they were the first we'd ever consider turning to for such top-secret information. Each would sing the 2 little notes for us, failing to see the curiosity but happy to amuse us. The tofu man is an understated given in Japanese culture. Though now, in the relatively recent days of widespread refrigeration he has become somewhat outdated and forgotten. Sadly, the solitary tofu peddler is becoming obsolete and his sound may be becoming somewhat a thing of the past...

For months Andrew and I kinda joked about "the sound of tofu" and wondered if other foods had sounds. We tried out a few. Eventually, like all jokes, we sort of forgot about it and moved on to others.

Last month while exploring the vast and varied emporium of Japanese foodstuffs in the very early morning at Tsukiji Fish Market in Tokyo, we were stopped in our soaking wet tracks by a sound. Walking down the endless narrow isles, lost a little in our own thoughts, our bellies full of raw fish and a little down due to the relentless freezing rain, we both stopped and in an instant, looked at each other, simultaneously, "I know that sound!" And then a moment later, eyes wide, "Tofu Man!" Sure enough, we recognized, in it's authenticity, that lonely melancholy whistle we'd heard imitated so many times. There in Tsukiji we found what we weren't even sure we were looking for, the Tofu Man! And this was some gem of a Tofu Man too. Youthful and so bright, suddenly it seemed the sun was shining on us! It was like the clouds parted, this guy had the shinning, peaceful face of a slender Buddha in an all white outfit. Instantly, we gravitated to him. He was all smiles and light, contrasting more than a little with the truly blue sound of his call. He gave us delicious and fresh samples, talked a little with Andrew in Japanese as I stood by, sheer awe all over my face. Andrew, who was at the time in a hearty making-tofu-from-scratch phase tried to get some tips from the man whose family has likely been making the wonder food for ages but in true Japanese fashion the man blithely and nimbly avoiding giving him any real information; smiling and winking like Santa Claus would if you asked him how he did it. He did tell us that they used water from Shizuoka (where we live!) because it's the purest in all of Japan. The energy and beauty of this man! Had we been closer to home, undoubtedly we would have bought a healthy supply. We wanted to stick around but we really had very little to say (maybe not cool: we worship the idea of you and would you be our leader?!) and understandably the man was not as interested in us as we were him; though he was friendly and polite he soon had had other customers to attend to. Before leaving though, we noticed and bought one each of the little souvenir tofu whistles he had for sale. To---Fu!

In my neighborhood you'll find: one mom and pop sushi stand which includes a grown young man son in a crisp white apron, t-shirt and paper hat who smiles and waves shyly each time I pass. There is one antique and miniature green tea shop with sliding paper doors run by a partially senile or at least very forgetful old man who each time I stop in and re-establish myself as an American, gets out a dusty old box and proceeds to show me a collection of yellowed letters from his daughter, some kind of doctor in the US. Using his crooked old pointer, he puts particular emphasis on her Pennsylvanian address, sometimes showing me her corresponding entry in his own dusty address book. Across from Tea Man a family runs a rice shop inside what doubles as their living room. There are, of course, several small fish & produce markets each with their own cast of characters. The fish guys are haughty and intimidating and each morning I see fresh blood on the cutting board and their gnarly hooks out front. The market directly in front of my building and my main one stop shop tries to get me to buy roasted potatoes most mornings as I go to work. "Smell these things, would ya, they smell delicious!" Andrew tells me they say, in his funny old Japanese person voice. I grocery shop there every Monday afternoon and occasionally buy some of their fresh flowers as a treat to myself. Recently discovered and heralded as a long since forgotten prince, is one stoic old man who makes and sells tofu as well as seems to ooze it's powdery ingredients from every wrinkle and crevice on his body. Eyelids, ears, hair, wrinkles, wrists, fingernails; we call him The Tofu Weeper. There are several tiny bars within walking distance, more often than not run by someones grandmother in an apron and shuffling about tatami floors in slippers and asking us in Japanese "Are you sure you can eat that, because sometimes you can't eat that?" The closet and the best izakaya happens run by a tiny, smiley and thoroughly adorable young man name Yohei who serves whole grilled fish and has excellent taste in sake and music. Inside Yohei's place, which is more or less a shack dolled up with kitsch there is always a timeless-looking iron kettle boiling over an open charcoal flame. There are a few friendly regulars here and it just so happens to be frequented by one of the freshest, classiest Japanese gents I've ever met who calls himself Mark. Mark has rosy cheeks, pops his collar and appears to be some kind of local show runner/councilman. The first night we met Mark he was with his buddies, Stone Gate and Pond Digger. But those two are another story. Around these parts there is also one very mysterious looking and striking loner type who stalks the streets dressed in a tan trench with the most majestic and velvety jet black hair, the longest and most luxurious I've ever seen on a man or a woman. Andrew perfectly dubbed this person the Gender Ambiguous Mohican. GAM lives across the street from the market, keeps a beautiful garden and though we have never spoken, can be seen it seems, almost everywhere I go.

Finally, to my delight, this week a Sri Lankan carryout has opened in between Yohei's place and mine, across from Tea Man and next door to Rice Folks and while it seems curious and more than a little out of place, so must I. To me it just makes this place called Sanbancho all the more magical.

Go away from my window. Leave at your own chosen speed. I am not the one you want babe, I am not the one you need.

Your girl is restless. And yet content. And yet restless. And on and on. I make plans and abandon them and again rearrange them weekly. I keep Andrew updated on our walks home from school and bounce ideas off him in between laughs and observations on our cast of characters. "OK, new life plan" we tell each other every few days. This week he is formulating a 'Rocky montage of Japanese language learning' that involves early mornings with fish mongers and 6 lessons a week with his old lady teacher. Me: this week I'm somewhere in South America studying Spanish and taking long walks with boy-short hair wondering what ever brought me to Asia in the first place.

Like a rolling stone...

My life is in a tectonic shift. Or at least it would like to be. I admit, I could use some heat.

Living in such a vulnerable quake zone and having narrowly escaped, by one measly day trip, the biggest earthquake in my city for decades, I am constantly aware. Shizuoka is strategically positioned for a "big one" and I think on certain days, this is earthquake weather. But that's really just a line from a Lorrie Moore story. I don't have any experience with earthquake weather.

Back to my shift; or is it my shiftlessness? I realize it's an indulgence, a luxury. It's actually more like a tide that floats me where it wills. I don't even feign resistance. Take me, currents, I'm yours. I pay close attention to the moon and pray merely for benevolent winds and fruitful destinations. I also pray that the people I love have happiness and have health. I pray hard for that.

You're gonna make me wonder what I'm doing. You're gonna make me give myself a good talking to.

I dreamt recently that Bob Dylan paid me a visit because I sent him a letter asking him to. He just knocked on my kitchen door one night while I was cooking. I was so composed. Once, in waking life, an old flame who was supposed to be states away did the same thing. Such a womanly tableau. I offered Dylan a smoke and then some of the dinner I was making once it was finished. I don't smoke. He didn't want to eat but suggested we take a walk to the beach. I sensed he had something he wanted to talk about. Once there, nervous I think, I took pictures of everything but him and so, ended up feeling like I failed to capture the message he had for me. I worried; I didn't capture his image nor therefore his message. Later, alone, I saw myself in a public bathroom mirror and discovered I had magic to change my eye color at will. From blue to brown and back and forth again. I did it over and over and concluded I liked my look better with brown eyes. I was tempted to pose as a brown eyed girl but wondered reluctantly if it would be dishonest to parade about with conjured eyes.

I woke up with no photographs of Dylan and my same old blue eyes but a feeling that the message was in the magic.

What did you see my blue eyed son? And what did you see my darling young one?

The other day, just as I was thinking how I miss a little that I never randomly run into old friends or people I know here, I stepped off the train and locked eyes with a Brazilian I met late last summer. It took me a moment to register him and possibly I think him, I. We didn't speak to each other and went our separate ways, but seeing him not only reminded me of the serendipity that is everywhere in this life but also of the day I met him. 

We spent a few hours together chatting and drinking Moscow Mules in a little cabana by the beach sometime last August. The beach shanty is called The Jolly Jap and has hammocks and pillows on the floor to sit on and there are only three walls so you can watch the water. It was recommended to me by an American I met in a Mexican restaurant. I had spent the whole afternoon at the crowded beach alone--swimming, sunbathing, watching the families and also at one point, an old man skinny dip. I was sunny and salty with fresh freckles and beach hair. Neither the owner nor the Brazilian's English was great and my Japanese at that point was basically nonexistant. We tried a compromise that involved my shameful Spanish in addition to the mired Japanese and English. So that eventually there were a lot of blank spaces. But both the silence and the place was comfortable, exactly the kind of atmosphere and company you might hope to find after a lonely day at the beach. No one tried to speak when there was nothing to be said. I appreciated that. We just drank our ginger ale cocktails and turned the pages of a big photography book of world travel, each in our own  fantasy world of travel. After a while I helped the owner feed the cat named Jenny, fish flakes. She seemed far too skinny to me and I recommended he treat her to some actual fish now and again. When, for some reason after the sun had set and the moon risen the mood got incredibly melancholy, I said I had to go. It was getting late, I think this was the last day of my vacation and besides, I could see this scene getting weird, quick. I wanted to exit while the memory would maintain perfection. When I went to pay my bill the owner, who's name I wish I could remember, told me the Brazilian, who's name I don't mind not remembering, had paid it. Looking over to thank him, the Brazilian could barely return my smile, he was a little like a broken man, lost in his own darkness; deflated and used up. I could tell by now he was down and out sad. A real, legitimate kind of sad. He was looking at me, a little like I could be the young thing to save him. Sorry bud, I will never be the one but thanks for the drinks and good luck with the wife.  You should probably go home and kiss the kids. I'll bet they miss you. Before I left the owner made me accept a book on loan. It's Murakami and it wasn't until I got it home that I realized I had already read it. At any rate, I read it again. Soon, once the water is a little warmer it will be time to return to the beach at Mochimune for day long stretches. And anyway, I gotta return that book and see about Jenny the cat. 

In More Recent News

GG was the darling old man who owned the bar. He played Spanish guitar for us and wears a scarf around his neck. He blinks a lot but not when he plays. When I likened his style to Django I think I secured my spot on his good side. Why do you know these things, old folks often ask me. And I laugh a little and sigh and shake my head, I don't know, I listen...? His music was so beautiful I could have cried. Or maybe I was just in a mood to be moved. It was Harumi who first took me there, it's one of her favorite spots. A tiny little wine bar in a basement of the 'pleasure district' of Shizuoka town. Her friend and new neighbor bar tends there and I took it as a compliment that she invited me into her real world. Harumi is my boss. We have been hanging out a little more lately and sharing secrets like actual friends do. I drank good wine for the first time in a long time and it tasted so damn good. Harumi held my hand while GG played for us. It was Multipulciano. Ever since Franny told me it was her favorite, I say it's my favorite too. I don't remember the end of the night exactly. But I woke up the next morning in my bed only half undressed. I had managed to take one contact out. And then I re-read my notes from the night before. They went something like this.

Everyone has sadness you know. Why should I ever think mine is special. The man sitting next to us hadn't seen his kids in years because of divorce and drank for distraction because he said his home was too empty and lonely. Divorce is particularly tragic here, there is no such thing as shared custody--if a marriage ends one parent (and therefore an entire side of the family) forever looses all contact with the children. The bartender looked tired and it really only took me one look into her yellowed eyes to see she carried a past though with a brave smile. And so then mine seemed so much less important. My petty pain.

Hidemaro is a retired dentist in his seventies, handsome for an old guy and fun to talk to. He has traveled quite a lot and I believe as a result is not oppressively old-man-Japanese to me. Sure he can be traditional but I wouldn't say he stands on ceremony. He's a relaxed dude and a self proclaimed "Lone Wolf." There is nothing not to like about this guy. I can level with him like a friend. He is polite and distinguished but not so much that he doesn't joke with me about nights he drinks too much and ends up on the sofa and in the doghouse with his wife or, delight in telling me about the ancient nudie cave drawings he recently saw in Liberia. He told me, cracking both us up, "It's porno!" He also talks very plainly to me about his experience as a child in Japan during the American occupation. He's told me about the days when Shizuoka was under attack, being bombed by American B-52's, how he fled with his family to underground tunnels in Sumpu Park and what happened here in the days and years that followed. I can ask him anything about Japan. He has taught me about the country's history, Buddhist and Shinto rituals, food, drinks, politics; I field all questions to Maro. He likes to tell me when I manage to exhibit the tiniest bit of knowledge, "Oh, you are really Japanese!" and that, "Oh, you know everything!" He pays for private lessons so it's just us and by now we are pretty good friends. We joke and laugh a lot in class. It makes little sense that he calls me sensi.

A couple weeks ago he took me out to celebrate the new year. We've gone out a couple times before and Harumi always joins us, which I think makes everyone more comfortable plus she also helps a bunch with translation. His English is not particularly amazing, especially after we both have a few drinks; he slows while I accelerate in English. Harumi mediates. She is really a classy broad. But, in the beginning it's always just the two of us for about an hour while manager finishes up at school and I believe now after much experience that she enjoys keeping people waiting because she usually does. This time he took me to a fancy, super traditional sukiyaki place where we had our own room with tatami mats and a little table on the floor and a host of little old ladies in kimonos at our disposal. Maro sat me in the guest seat which he explained was the one where my back was against the little altar, flowers, small doll and decor. I guess it's so you look the best when people look at you; you have the best background + you can see the door. Though your personal view is the least exciting. Such things make you the most important person, in a Japanese restaurant at least.

Anyway the point of this long introduction is to tell you that once the kimono lady came in to set the sukiyaki grill in the table I was stopped by the sound. Immediately I recognized, from somewhere, the slow, quiet sound of the charcoal cracking and hissing. It took me a moment to register the memory. But then I knew it unmistakeably. It's the way ice sounds when it melts. Like the way it sounds outside your bedroom window, after great storms have past and the sun has begun to shine again. At extreme hours. Hours on either end. A sound I know well and have perceived on many still mornings or hushed late nights. A sound, it seems that only presents itself when you are alone or at least very still with someone else. It's the sound of winter but also the sound of time passing. A sound that tells you, spring will come soon now and the world around you will as promised, be re-born. Your life will be new yet again; at the very moment when you thought perhaps it might not give. Whether or not you'd like it to. It's a bitter-sweet sound and also, at that moment I thought, a very romantic one. And then it occurred to me then that perhaps I am one of those cumulative type loves. The type that grows over time to be loved and with an increasing intensity, perpetually more rewarding. One of those loves that never stops getting better if you let her. I have friends like that. And i wondered, as I cheersed my old man host with hot sake, if I have the patience to be one of those types.

Sukiyaki is eaten with raw egg.

Later at the jazz bar drinking white wine with Harumi and Maro you pinned your hair up, flipped the collar of your oxford, put a little lipstick on and crossed your legs; skirt hiked just a touch. In your element. This is why I came to Japan. This is why I go anywhere. Quiet drinks in empty jazz bars. i.e. Exchanges. None here are exactly satisfied but none are dissatisfied either. Everyone is exactly where they are meant to be.

Memphis in June was playing. Not the Nina Simone version that I adore but the Ramsey Lewis Trio one. That'll do.

I guess I've lost a little weight recently because the Japanese are enjoying telling me that, "You've become smart."

India Notes

India. Where to begin. It’s mesmerizing. A mind and body dominating place. I know I am still processing. It was enticing and seductive and at times it covered me thickly in an opiate-like haze. Numbness, pleasure and dull ache were all at times within me. At moments I purposely tried stopping time to make mental images. I wanted to be able to recall, return again and again at will. The India I saw was beautiful in so many ways yet so far from paradise. It was like no place I've ever seen or imagined. There was beauty in the beauty and beauty in the horror. There was horror in the horror too. 

In Agra waiting in line to see the Taj Mahal, the man standing behind us was burping, eating and spitting. The place was packed and he was practically on top of us. A pig man, I was thinking and chuckling a little to myself. The three in front of us were beautiful though. Charming and sweet, it looked like a young couple in love and then the tag along little sister who was really stunning. She was giving me all kinds of looks with bright, bashful and curious eyes. The Taj Mahal is certainly as dazzling and as magical as one might expect however there I found much more whimsy than anticipated. Everything made me laugh. Mostly, I was giddy. Waiting in line for over an hour on the day after Christmas, I animal watched and people watched and once we got close to the entrance there was plenty to see. People were trying to cut in line, thinking they could just slip into the front of the line unnoticed. Local guides were propositioning this to tourists, saying for a little extra cash, they could get you up front, quick. So towards the front people were trying to ditch and it was causing all kinds of mayhem. Sure it was rude and yeah we had all been waiting patiently and fairly in line but it was too much, too absurd not to make me crack up. People were turning out and I for one, thought it was wholly amusing. The way people were acting, it seemed like life or death. An angry mob with utter desperation on their faces. I thought I had seen the worst of it until it came time to actually pass through the gate. It was small and designed for one person at a time. A security guard waited across the threshold with a metal detector. The men and women had to separate to pass through the gates and so I was alone there in an absolute mob. Women and girls pushing and shoving harder and with more desperation and determination then I have ever experienced in public. Like I said, you would have thought it was a much more critical scenario, they were acting as if they were starving to death, fighting for scraps of food or pushing to be the last person on a life boat from a sinking ship. It was mad! And then that was it. Once you passed through the gate and made it past the helpless and surely useless security guard, everyone regained their composure and there was plenty of space. It killed me! In that line, separated from Nathan and being shoved and pushed and stepped on I was loosing it. I was in line to see one of the wonders of the world and it seemed like a riot might break out. I was laughing so hard and so helplessly that the way people were looking at me with pure tormented desperation and utter bewilderment in their wild eyes as to what could possibly be so funny, I only lost it more. They were looking at me like I must be the mad person. Inside and reunited with Nathan who was calmly waiting for me on the other side, people were at ease. The tourists were calm and civilized again as if none of that had actually happened. I’ll never forget it. Our guide here was cute and though mostly useless for any real information, I was fond of him and besides by that point my reverence was somewhat tarnished and I was in full goof mode. He made us take a few steps back to begin the tour. Said he could only start it from where we had been standing three steps back. By that point, I just wanted to make jokes with him and it wasn't long before he acquiesced. After he established the relationship between Nathan and I, he referred to me from there on out as the GF (girlfriend). He tried acting professional, telling us after observing Nathan with his camera that his father had in fact, been a photographer there so trust him, he knew all the best “private angles,” and trying to entice us with odd anecdotes and insider information. He showed me the “VIP” seat and explained to me what “VIP” meant. Riveting. He ushered us to all the ‘fantastic’ spots and showed us how to pose so that it looked like you were pinching the top of the monument. Mostly I just wanted to take his picture. He told me that he was 21 and said he was still a baby though he didn't look like a baby because he was fat. I told him he wasn't fat. And he wasn't. Just a little thick. He told me he was in school, I forget what for. He thanked us for being fun and then showed me, by opening his mouth wide, how his tongue was a little short and said that’s why he had a speech impediment. Truthfully, I hadn't noticed. After we paid him to leave us alone Nathan and I found a park bench and just sat, taking it all in, The Taj Mahal, that famous monument to love and all the people that had swarmed and clambered in utter frenzy to get through two tiny gates to be there, it was quite a sight. Now they were strolling about harmoniously with their families. Some in western clothes, some in traditional Indian styles, some in Easter egg colored astro-turf vests. Can you see me there as the sun is setting and the air is cooling? I am in sublime contentment. A girl watching the world, uploading her travelled eyes. Pretty soon all kinds of people started coming up to us asking to be photographed with us. They were sweet, gracious and genuine people. Some wanted their young kids to be photoed with us, some grown adults or entire families wanted to pose with us. No one really said why but we loved it and happily obliged them. One group of 20 something guys approached us, giddy and shy, asking to have their picture taken with us. They were bubbly and cute and awkward. Each one wanted his separate moment with us. They wanted to know all the usual things, our names, where we were from and our relationship to each other. Poor Nathan fought the entire trip to convince the people we met that he actually lived in India; I don't know if anyone really believed him and me, well, if Japan happened to come up, I don't even think it registered. Japan, ne? When we told those guys we were both teachers they lit up and said that’s what they were all in school studying to become! For one shot I handed one of the boys my camera to use also. When I asked if it had worked because I could tell that it hadn't at least two of them looked at me and looked at the camera, doing that weird Indian head bobble thing that looks like yes and no at the same time, acting as if it had been a successful shot. It hadn't been. The ringleader of the group called Nathan a ‘gorgeous person’ and then as they were bidding us goodbye he told us he felt, “Really, really happy. So happy in fact,”  and here he leaned into Nathan’s ear to confide in a whisper he couldn't contain, a stage whisper really that he was in, “Heaven!” They way he said ‘heaven’ was pushed and accented, a giggly bark and much louder than all the other words. Nathan startled a little as if maybe it’s volume hurt.  The kid tittered and sheepishly asked me if I had been able to hear him. I was laughing too hard I think to answer. But, yes, I definitely could. Next we met a young mother who could only speak Hindi. She wanted to us to be in a picture with her and her young daughter but not before she paused to put a suit jacket on over her sari. Where in hell did she pull out a suit jacket from? She straightened the jacket, primped her hair just so and then put her arm around me, smiled big and shared her armpit smell with me. In that order. A real professional; we were props. She was angelic though I thought, beautiful and spirited. And judging by the way she threw that blazer on, a real go getter. I could tell she wanted to talk to me. Woman to woman, culture to culture. We were both trying. I know how suffocating it can be when you want to communicate and for one reason or another, you just can’t. But you know, there is a language that eyes speak... 

On our way out of Agra that day, we mistook one of the horse drawn rick shaw drivers for the same old man who had said he’d wait for us to return hours ago. We couldn't find that man anywhere and felt bad because we had arranged to pay him upon return. I was actually surprised he agreed to that arrangement in the first place. When we asked the new guy if he was the one who was waiting for us he replied yes, of course with no hesitation. Of course he was. On the road away from Taj we were swarmed by little beggars and ambitious child merchants beseeching us to “only look” at their things. One little boy was doing his damnedest to sell Nathan a souvenir t-shirt but at a much inflated foreigner’s price. The kid’s price, I think no more than 5 US dollars, was so outrageous to Nathan (seasoned by now) that it actually managed to grab his attention. Nathan stopped short to admonish the boy for the ridiculous price, asking, “How much would you charge an Indian?” The child didn't miss a beat, stopped in his tracks and said, “Friend, Indians don’t buy my stuff.”  

In Jaipur we rode an elephant early one morning and somewhere along the line stopped saying I love you at night. Or, I guess I stopped; testing, hoping he'd say it first, which probably wasn't fair and in retrospect mostly just resulted in me hurting my own feelings. I started reading Salmon Rushdie. We stayed in a cool and haunty old hotel where it was impossible not to notice the giant disparity in the classes. Inside the hotel's regal gates there were bountiful meals served any time of day, clean sheets, green grass maintained by an automatic watering system, even a swimming pool. We were advised not to leave the confines of the hotel after dark and one night when we did anyway, it was pretty apparent, pretty fast, why. Inside the gate you could order espresso, gin tonics or check your email, anything could be made available, though laughably I remember the hot water took a while. The man at the desk said he was sending some of his boys up to take a look and while they never did show, the anticipation of such a scene was kind of amusing to me. What were they going to do and how many of them would it take? Inside the hotel, among the staff I could see evidence of generations of British occupation and felt a tiny, secret, sigh of relief for a change not to be a national of the guilty country. Though, clearly it’s not that simple, it's so much more complicated. Lorraine Hansberry echoes in my mind, “We are all guilty.” Still, it's very obvious which class I was born into. Nathan and I stayed up late, drank beers in front of a bonfire and snuck up to the roof of the hotel to smoke a joint. Up there, gazing into the night sky, I noticed kites tangled in wires everywhere above the roofs of the city. Everywhere my eyes focused, tangled kites restricted against the horizon. It's a pretty telling allegory of the country if you ask me. Later, in the courtyard, lured down by the sound of drums, we met Gypsies and watched a puppet show that was so mesmerizing and profound to me, I’m not sure I can even begin to describe it outside of fragments. It remains snapshots in my mind. Gypsy boys singing and playing drums. The youngest, maybe five, was the most talented and appropriately the least interested in performing. The child was what, in the business, is called a natural; pure, candid and completely not self conscious. He was magnetic. The ensemble totally consumed me. The chubby older boy on the drum with the angel voice seemed clued in, and the way he was looking at me I thought, he sees what I am seeing. The older father figure type, the puppeteer, wanted yen from me after he asked where I was from. He was needling me for it, saying he collects different moneys. I didn't have any on me; I wasn't carrying yen around India. He bragged to me that he has travelled all over the world and can step on planes to any country anytime. Said his passport was full of visas that allowed him travel clearance anywhere, anytime, as if that is the way visas work. We watched a show very similar to one Nathan had seen and happened to have filmed elsewhere, months earlier. He had just shown me the footage a few days prior and I thought such fortune must be rare and didn't even hope for luck to encounter the same type of performance. Turns out what we saw was a sort of regional repertory piece. A gypsy folk puppet show that culminated with a puppet named Michael Jackson dancing and taking it's own head off. I dream of making it part of my life’s work seeking this sort of performance out and documenting it, talking to the people, traveling with them. I bought a pair of matching puppets from the show runner Gypsy, paying what was apparently way too much (maybe 6 bucks?) but I was in such awe and genuinely moved by the whole scene, bargaining didn't feel good, besides he wasn't really having it. He knew he had me. I was enthralled. I’m sure it was all over my face. Yes, I am an outsider. He was doing his best to send me off with an especially big puppet saying that his father had made it and he felt it was the one for me...I would have been into it but I wanted a boy girl pair and he wanted too much for the big ones together. He offered to divorce them for me, just sell me the girl and that seemed like a terrible omen, no, no, no don't do that! I only had a certain amount of money on me anyway. I bought a smaller couple dressed in pink. Holding my money out in a final offer (look, this really is all I have on me, this is the deal) the little one ran over and snatched the cash out my hand fast like a trained pet. Certainly, they were running an organized operation. I bought the puppets with the intention of giving them to my sister's girls but I felt almost immediately like they had a really strong energy; a somewhat murky and borderline spooky energy that could be distressful if not properly challenged. I don’t think I’ll give them to my nieces after all. I’ll let Jenny filter that energy. She’s the only other (self proclaimed) Gypsy Ive ever met and her energy is an absolute wall. Plus she loves puppets, so. Later when we passed the puppeteer after our misguided and short lived night venture outside the gates, he was alone, standing straight and still like a sentinel, back up against a wall on our path. As I passed him I dropped a hundred yen coin in his palm that I had pocketed with this intention a little while earlier, back in our room. “Japanese yen friend,” I said looking straight ahead and he nodded in silence as he accepted it. 

“Next item!”

 

At the monkey temple. The ancient temple of Gallta is built into a mountain. Monkeys of several different breeds inhabit the grounds along with the usual cows, water buffaloes, goats, dogs, puppys, birds. It is a veritable petting zoo. I saw puppies chewing on shoes and fed handfuls of peanuts that we conveniently bought from a woman at the entrance to monkeys! They scooped 'em, disinterested in me, right outta my open palm with one mini little monkey hand, occasionally resting their other paw on my leg leaving muddy little finger prints on my black Levis.  The day was warm and sunny. We were finally enough out of the cities and tourists spots that beggars and merchants weren't everywhere practically tugging on our shirts to buy their souvenirs and nick knacks, giving us what my Dad would later tell me is called the ‘Presumptive Sell.’ They pitch deals to you as if you have already agreed to buy or less, even shown interest. It’s pretty funny really. At least to me it was, I guess it could get old. I told David O I think the Indians may have invented the ‘Presumptive Sell.’  Anyway there I could catch my breath. And while the place wasn't exactly clean by any means I let myself to feel like it was. I imagined it was the purest place on earth. I allowed myself to feel pure too. And so, I am. If I had been less conspicuous I would have taken off all my clothes and bathed in that filthy, foaming, holy, mountain water too, right along side the pilgrims and monkeys. At one point a few of the monkeys were cannonballing into one of the pools. Monkey Business. A middle aged Indian man with a pony tail and kind of grimy khakis and sneakers was our guide. I don't even know if this was ever discussed. These guides just sort of start following you and telling you things about the place you’re visiting working under an assumed agreement that once you've seen everything, you will pay them. Mostly I thoroughly enjoyed all of our guides, somehow, especially the ones who seemed to know nothing. I just like talking to people. There was something different about this guide. He definitely knew things. He was like someone caught between two worlds and that made him seem unique to me. He was Indian for sure but seemed like he had been exposed to western notions. He bragged to me of interviews given to Lonely Planet and various travel shows. In this way, he was different from all our prior guides. He had status. At any rate he was clearly someone the monkeys trusted. He called himself The Monkey King and he could tell the differences between all the monkeys. He knew the tribal roles and family orders of all the primates there. He seemed to be the top guy at the monkey temple and while I thought it seemed obvious that he was making the most money from tourists like us, he acted liked he cared for the others who lived and worked there too, giving each one quiet greetings as he passed, for instance the peanut sellers and the lady snake charmers, though to some it looked a little like he was giving admonishments. The same code that in some form or another, I witnessed each place we visited and while I’m quite sure I was not invited to be apart of it, I was intrigued nonetheless. It looked like he cared for the others, the ones without status and I hoped, when at the end I slipped him a little extra money that he would share it with his people. That was my intention for the tip at least. I wanted him to be their shepherd. Foolish, I'm sure but I hoped. At the top of the mountain where you reach the temple there is a holy man. I arrived behind the others because our driver had chosen then to open up to me and so I gave him my attention and we walked together alone at a thoughtful pace. It was the last day of our road trip with him and I had been waiting for some opportunity to make a connection. On the walk up, slowly and considerately as we climbed the stairs he told me about his life. He told me about his two daughters and his wife. He showed me pictures of them on his cell phone but the sun was so bright that truthfully, I couldn't really see them. But, I told him that they were beautiful and that I bet he was a good Papa and that they must miss him very much when he is away, driving people like Nathan and I around. His English was not very good but he managed to tell me the year his father died (1988) and when his education stopped (the same), when he was married (2004) and his age. He said, “My maximum age is 38.” I smiled and told him my maximum age was 28. He seemed to want to talk about education and the impression I was getting was that he wished he had had more of it. Said he had been a driver since age 18. I said I hoped his girls would have a chance for more education. We strolled together like that for a while, behind the others. Him straining to communicate and choosing his words carefully and myself straining a little to understand but enjoying the moment mostly and feeling honored that he had chosen to share with me. I would like to think that communication is a skill I have always been keen at but certainly this year teaching in Japan and living in virtual language alienation has sharpened my ability to read intentions and increased my patience there more than a little. When we got to the top of the path and to the temple, I was a little late to hear the message that the priest was giving but still in time to recive the blessing. First he tied some red string around our right wrists and then passed out some little candies that we were to eat. He started with The Monkey King who had led us to the top, then our driver, then Nathan and last me. I swear, for some reason the priest eyed me a little suspiciously and just as he was about to give me the holy little candies, he drew his hand back and with a sideways look and what seemed like a second thought asked me if I was married. When I said no, I know perceived some kind of look in his eye and a shred of hesitiation, irritation even before he begrudgingly gave me 2 small pieces of whatever it was, sweet ansie or something like it. I think he was ratioing me! I suspect I saw him give more of a handful to the others, again codes I couldn't begin to understand. Actually, I got asked that same question by almost every stranger in India. Leaving that place I was flooded with mixed emotions. I paused and recorded for myself a mental image I hope I shall forever be able to access. I concentrated hard. At the exit, as we were leaving there were school children singing, chanting somewhere in the distance and birds were flying overhead in flocks. There were cows and goats and monkeys milling around and I could hear the sound of the mountain water flowing. It was dusty and sunny. The sky was blue. I was thirsty and I was thinking of my nieces among a few others. Part of me wanted to stay there. No, no you guys go on ahead without me, I’m gonna stick around here for a while. Or better yet, vulnerably, Think maybe you would like to stay here with me? But I did leave; stoic and pensive and trailing a bit reluctantly behind my companions. And when I did, The Monkey King winked at me and said, “I will see you again. I have a feeling.” I would like to believe him. 

New Year’s Eve. Back in Delhi. Invited into the Indian home. The Indian home, sort of. Nathan’s British co-worker is dating and living with a Kashmiri guy who’s family is staying with them for the winter. She asked us over for a small party. The Muslim mother chanting, praying in the other room in hushed Arabic. The teenage sister dressed traditionally yet in shades of hot pink and with manicured nails; keeping quiet but looking very curious and, also very much like all teenage sisters everywhere. Perhaps I should have been a little uncomfortable at first, though honestly I wasn't. Here, we brought cookies! Mainly just trying to figure out where I belong in this picture. The apartment was grand with tall ceilings and marble floors and mostly empty. There was a “house boy” who didnt say much but had kind, bright eyes and quietly offered me his slippers to wear as an embarrassed refusal when I offered to help in the kitchen. He made us delicious Kashmiri chai and cooked an impressive family style meal, served on a blanket on the floor like a picnic. Some of Omar’s friends joined for dinner and they ended up making my night and setting me at ease. I love good friends; my own especially but also, I so enjoy seeing other people with theirs. They cracked me up and although there was an occasional language barrier, I got their dymanic and understood their jokes. They were easy to be around and I was grateful for that. I think they enjoyed me too. After dinner we moved into the bedroom to sit on a mattress on the floor. The six of us smoked some hash on Chole and Omar’s bed and drank beers out of our backpacks like teens. We had to pretend to hide the alcohol from Omar’s religious mom and impressionable younger sister.  Before midnight we went up to the roof to set off the small arsenal of firecrackers Nathan and Chole bought in Chandni Chowk the day before. That is where I crossed the treshold to this decade. On a rooftop in New Delhi setting off firecrackers with group of friends I’d just met and will likely never see again. Oh, and 2 very scared dogs on leashes. At tweleve Nathan kissed me, though for some reason it took me a little by surprise. Then we braced ourselves for another unimaginablely loud blast. The city was exploding in celebration around us. Down below we heard what sounded like a grand marching band parading down the street. Running down several flights of stairs to catch it we found that actually, it was only one drummer. His beat as loud and tempestuious as an etire drum corp and his gaze when our eyes met somehow even more intense. This is how so many of the people in India looked at me, as though they might just knock me over right there with their eyes. But not in any malevolent way, just in a way that tells me without a doubt, there is much power inside. I tell you, I'm strong but, my eyes don't look like that. Mine are however, strong enough to look back. There was a small crowd celebrating around the drummer. One man was dancing and when he invited me to join him, I did. Going home later that night, my ears ringing with drums and firecrackers and perhaps a little heady from all the hash and tobacco, the streets were finally quiet and still. Under a full moon, at the very beginning of a new year, I walked down a tiny street in India arm and arm with my long distance lover, fully aware by now that even despite our best intentions, he and I simply just might not work and that regrettably, my Indian love story could be approaching the credits. A group of cows meandered past us. I thought towards them and concentrated on sending them a psychic message of love, a prayer to the sacred icons, namaste I told them. As soon as I did, one mooed a little in the distance. Nathan and I shuffled home. 

Theme for this year, there is perfection in the imperfection.