Ba le Jerusalem

First let me give you a context. When I was about ten years old I was enlisted to help two of my closest friends with filming a movie for Hebrew School. Being in Jewish Day School, I though I had excellent Hebrew, so I starred in their film they produced about Jerusalem by jumping onto the screen and reciting the three words: “Ba le Jerusalmem,” meaning “Come to Jerusalem,” except that I forgot the word for Jerusalem in Hebrew. This still makes the three of us laugh today, but come to think of it, its not that funny at all.

Regardless, I have arrived in Jerusalem and am alive and well. My six roommates and I share a really nice apartment in a quiet neighborhood called Talpiyot. We’ve got three bedrooms, an adorable little kitchen, and a huge living room. Abby and I are roommates again and sleep in tiny children’s beds we like to call our “Polly Pocket beds.”

As we’ve been working on our internship placements this past month we haven’t done much at all except get adjusted. And an adjustment it has been. I’ve had a few reverse culture shock moments that remind me I’m no longer in India:

1) Cross walks. As in, it’s not ok to cross the street whenever?

2) Trashcans. It is no longer acceptable to throw my trash directly on the street.  For something that took me so long to get used to in India, it’s a wonder I have to catch myself before littering.

3) Clean air. I never realized how much I missed it until I got it back. It is all of a sudden enjoyable to go for a run outside.

4) People with skimpy clothes. I just stare. It is shocking to see spaghetti straps or a skirt above the knees.

5) It is not necessary to argue with the cab driver to put the meter on.

6) Sidewalks. I can enjoy the beauty of walking somewhere.

7) A whole new set of oily foods to try and avoid: butter naan and samosas have been replaced by falafel and chips.

8) It is acceptable to eat with both hands. I still find myself tearing pita bread apart with my right hand only, leaving my left hand in my lap.

As for the past few weeks, we go to Ulpan (Hebrew class) three times a week, where it has become painfully apparent that I lost the majority of the Hebrew I once knew. I have been frequenting the market, or shook, where I love to buy my fresh veggies, fruits, nuts, cheese, bread, and hummus for the week. I’ve explored the local nightlife scene, and although Tel Aviv in known to be the life of the party, I’m still convinced Jeru knows what’s up. One week in there was spent at a leadership conference organized by MASA in a Jerusalem hostel. And otherwise, we’ve just trying to stay busy exploring the country. Gabe took a group of us on a tour of the old city. One day we went to the Biblelands museum (womp womp). I’ve been on an exercising kick, and am training for a 10K. And Abby and I have been busy visiting various friends and relatives. We went to Benyamina, a beautiful city close to Haifa, for a relaxing Shabbat at her friend Jen’s house, filled with eating and a walk on the beach. Last weekend we stayed at her cousin’s house in a settlement in the West Bank. The whole experience was unique. We took a bullet-proof bus in, passing rocky uninhabited hills on the way to their settlement. Another Shabbat filled with eating and sleeping, and then we hitchhiked to get back to Jerusalem. I love how saying something like “I hitchhiked in the West Bank” sounds so much more bad-ass then it actually was. We rode with a sweet older couple and everyone does it anyways to get in and out of the settlements.

This week I’m set to start my internship most likely working for an organization that provides higher education support for African refugees and asylum seekers… I will keep you posted.

One last note before I part, for those who haven’t heard, a bomb went off in Jerusalem last week. It was an abandoned bag left in a place across from the Central Bus Station, a place I’ve been to several times at this point. I was thankfully far away, at a leadership seminar with my fellows. It was a strange moment for us all. After reading the news together, my Israeli program director said something like “Welcome to Israel.”  While there hasn’t been this sort of violence in several years, it is unfortunately somewhat commonplace for Israelis. The two Israelis I was with at the time took the news very matter-of-factly, with little emotional response-- what strikes me as an adopted coping mechanism. Life continued in Jerusalem as if nothing had happened the rest of the day. There is the sense that Israeli society must be resilient and not let the attack change day-to-day life, because that is precisely what the terrorists wanted. The whole thing put things in perspective for me, making me realize how delicate the political situation is in this country.

I hate goodbyes.

Well, the title says it all. I hate goodbyes. And although I find myself writing three-weeks into my fancy new life in Jerusalem, with a whole new set of adventures ahead, I cannot help but feel nostalgic for India. So, I’m going to devote this time to say goodbye to India. More on Israel to come.

I spent my final weeks closing up things in Hyderabad and then traveling with friends in the northwestern state of Rajasthan, both of which reaffirmed and invigorated my love of the country. I think goodbyes always have a way of reminding me what I love about the person or the place, and about all of the good memories we shared together. So in an effort to say goodbye to the places that have meant so much to me, I wrote them letters:

Dear Hampi,

Thank you for awakening my thirst for travel and discovery. You will always be remembered as one of the most beautiful places I have ever been.

Your cliff-jumping-hitchhiking pal,

Rach

A memorable Hampi moment.

One of the sights on the way to Monkey Temple.

Dear Delhi,

If there were any city in India I could see myself living in, it would be you. You have so much going for you between your numerous markets, historic sights, and diverse neighborhoods. Your many parks were at once surprising and refreshing.  I hope you realize your potential. While most people might think Mumbai is where the “scene” is at, don’t worry, I believe in you.

Perhaps your future resident,

Rachel

One of the more beautiful sights I saw in Delhi at the Hauz Khas Village.

One of my favorite views of the Phar Ganj Main Bazaar.

Dear Pushkar,

Thank you for teaching me how to live life shanti-shanti, even if it was only for one week. I will never forget your bustling market or the cool nighttime motorcycle rides. Thank you for hosting me at my first Rajasthani wedding, even though that meant dancing in front of a crowd of strangers for hours. For me, you were a city of memorable rooftops—breakfast on rooftop restaurants, sleeping on a family’s roof for the night, and beautiful views of the setting sun watched from a guesthouse roof. Please don’t ever lose your charm.

With Boundless Love,

Richa

The view from a Pushkar roof.

Even the dogs are shanti.

The Rajasthani wedding-- the bride is in red in the middle.

Dear Bundi,

I will remember always your narrow alleys and your rooftop dinners. Your old havelis with crackling walls and your secret green spaces.  The late nights of whisky and dancing under the stars and then the early morning chai sipped on the porch that followed. Thank you for the lazy afternoons spent in Papu’s shop and the best samosa I have ever eaten. Thank you for the new friends and the memories we shared together. You were a city of allure for me, one with hidden adventures inside to unlock. Thank you for teaching me how to take a risk-- your home-cooked meals and unassuming beauty were worth it alone.

-A relaxed and rested Rachel

Bundi.

The narrow alleys.

New friends Papu and his wife Babi G. They hosted us every night for dinner on their rooftop home.

Dear Hyderabad,

I know I was rough on you at times about your traffic and your pollution, but you will always hold a special place in my heart. Although it may be hard to admit, I will miss your bustling streets and your littered roadways.  I will miss my daily challenges like crossing the street or fighting for a good price on a rickshaw. I will miss my walks to the Bakshi apartment, ignoring stares from men and the always-tempting street food.  I will miss shopping in the market at my vegetable man and I will miss the pharmacist who stocked up on my hair gel for me. I will miss naan, aloo gobi, malai kofta, and eating it all with my hands. I will miss the me who was all of a sudden cooking new recipes and good with directions. Most of all, I will miss the wonderful people I met within your walls and the times we spent together—a fight at Syn, Charminar at night, dinner with family, Sunday gameday, bonfires at farms, a broken table, nerf guns, skeets, bat-hunting, late night moped-rides home, Just Foods, free plates at Kibbeh, face-painting, and Moses—the memories are as vibrant and diverse as the city itself.

I wish we could have had more time together. With more time, I could have learned more about your nuances, your history, and your cultural depth-- something I still question. Though, I only wish the best for you. I hope you continue growing, and continue finding you cultural and social identity among India’s numerous cities. To my friends and coworkers who made the experience memorable, thank you. And to the city that was there when it all began, thank you.

With love always,

Rachel

Some of the people that made Hyderabad memorable: my coworkers. 

And my roommates. Plus Lakshmi, the girl the Bakshis referred to as their "servant." 

Of course there were many cities along the way that made India a truly remarkable experience for me, but these were a few of the exceptional ones.

I have always valued the importance of place and the ability it has to shape a person. A certain building or a particular city can have profound affects on a person-- make us feel happy, comforted, at home, content, at peace, spontaneous, explorative. Sometimes a place can simply draw us in.  And I think India, unexpectedly and with full-force, did just that. It drew me in with its’ colors and foods, the people, the places, and the sense of adventure it all represented. Dear India, I will miss you. Hope to be back soon.  Love, Rachel.

Taltalim

While sitting here in my Jerusalem apartment, I am going to tell you about how I learned Hebrew in India. There is an Israeli phenomenon where young people, shortly after their time in the army, leave the country for months at a time to explore and travel exotic places. Their brains are fried after years of service and they need an escape. As I learned from Nurit, my Israeli roommate, the places most commonly visited are South America and India. So many Israelis come through the small, laid-back cities of India like Pushkar and Hampi, that you can find remnants of them all over—signs and menus in Hebrew, a Chabad house, and even Hebrew speaking Indians. Because of the abundance of Israeli travelers in proportion to travelers from other countries, many Indians with poor geography think Israel is a huge place with a huge population. The locals that work in the tourist industry end up learning some of the key phrases to get the travelers to stay at their guest house or shop at their store. As I discovered in Pushkar, an Israeli hotspot in the Northwestern state of Rajasthan, they often stand on their stoops and holler “taltalim,” meaning “curls,” to the passing Israeli women who are known for their voluminous kinky hair.  While walking on these streets I often got the same cat-call, which I always greeted with a smile. Because as I have observed on the streets of Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, to be confused with a beautiful Israeli woman is a compliment in my book. 

10 Things Found in Abundance

1. Modes of transportation. The streets are cluttered with cars, busses, mopeds, motorcycles, auto rickshaws, bicycles, horse-driven carts, ox-driven carts, and even camels. I’ve seen it all, which leads me seamlessly to my next point…

2. Traffic. The traffic in Hyderabad is like nothing I have seen before. It is not your typical traffic with cars patiently sitting in line behind one another, waiting for their turn or exit. Imagine space for four lanes (except there aren’t any lanes because there are no painted lines) stuffed with six or seven cars/busses/autos. Not to mention the herds of motorcycles and mopeds snaking between them all.

A glimpse of traffic from an auto. Plus there was five on one motorcycle!

I see the roads here almost like a flowing, tumultuous river. Everyone is moving the same direction but with no real order. When entering a congested road or trying to change lanes, cars kind of have to flow into the mess as soon as they see an inch of space, hoping the person behind them stops.

Now this mixed with no cross walks, stop-lights, or general adherence to traffic rules make driving, crossing, or even walking close to the street feel risky, not to mention unpleasant. This is especially the case considering the incessant beeping that follows traffic everywhere.  I’ve learned a few key lessons about crossing: walk one lane at a time, walk confidently, and when all else fails just put your hand up to the on-coming traffic and scream.

3. Mustaches. They are a sign of masculinity and thus India’s most popular fashion trend. Thick, thin, bushy, or handle-bar style-- men of all ages sport the ‘stache. You will rarely see a Bollywoood or Tollywood star without one.

4. Colors. I never thought I was a dull dresser until I came here. All women, no matter their age or socio-economic status wear the most brilliantly colored, bright clothes. The brighter the better. When women are not wearing their saris they often wear kurtas—longer shirts with slits up the sides— with high-rise leggings and a scarf. Often times the kurtas will come with “matching” leggings or pants that are equally as bright as their tops. For example, I purchased a striking red shirt that came with orange pants and an orange scarf with red stripes. I wear my black pants and gray top to work and feel self-conscious not about showing too much skin, but about looking too drab.

5. Tiny people. Indians are small. Not just short, but petite too. So much so that everywhere I go I feel huge. This “giant-syndrome” becomes particularly obvious when in close quarters like my office elevator. It feels like I take up half of the elevator and cower over everyone. This does come in handy in certain occasions, like taking group photos. When everyone else is a head shorter than you, it makes for easy group picture posing because you don’t have to search for a spot to be seen.

Just to demonstrate "giant syndrome."

6. Men peeing on the street. The concept of public toilets hasn’t fully permeated Indian culture yet so the sight of men peeing on various walls throughout the city is a common sighting.   Women have it rough because you can’t just squat anywhere and the aforementioned lack of public toilets makes travel to unknown places a little bathroom-challenged.

7. Roaming animals on the street. While this may be a stereotypical image of an Indian road, it is absolutely true. On my street alone, I regularly see dogs, pigs, goats, cows, buffalo and chicken. Although this is not the extent of it. I have also seen camels, horses, donkeys, cats, monkeys, and onetime even an elephant (although he was accompanied by a handler). The strangest sight is to see the buffalo and cows meandering around the city, seemingly with no home. While I am still confused about this issue, I think they have places to return to every night. One of my tour guides in Delhi said that they like to stand near the street though because the passing cars help cool them off from flies.

8. Masala.  What would a blogpost be without the mention of food? It’s a mixture of hot spices abundantly found in just about everything. So much so, that when servers see a white face in a restaurant they often times assume we want food “no spicy.” Even after this firm “no spicy” warning, the food somehow always manages to clear out my sinuses, making me sniffle by the end of most meals. I determined that this is the reason Indians tend to not only wash their hands after a meal, but also rinse their faces. After all, they have runny noses.

9. Ads with white people. This may be the strangest phenomenon discovered yet, but ads all over town feature white people. The Shopper’s Stop by my house—a big, high-end department store—has a few huge advertisements hanging on the face of the building featuring little white kids wearing Western clothes. When the models aren’t white they are always very light-skinned Indians. This speaks to the stigma against dark-colored skin here—everyone wants to be lighter than they are and will wear lightening cream or bleach their skin to appear so. A darker coworker of mine, one of the most beautiful woman I have ever seen—wears a sweatshirt outside in 90 degree weather just so her skin won’t get any darker.

10. Non-verbal communication. I have learned how to have a conversation here solely through bodily gestures and grunts. A deep “ughh” sound means “yes.” A popular one is the head wobble. Moving your head from side to side, making discreet figure eight motions when someone is speaking with you means something like “I hear you,” or “Agreed,” or “You understand me?” And my personal favorite, the raised pinkie. Or, “Where is the bathroom?”

I Think I Should Have Been a Farmer

Greeting from the field. Sorry I have been a little MIA the past few weeks but I have been in and out of constant Internet access while spending some time in the more rural parts for work. My first “assignment” was to stay in Narayankhed, a small town five hours North of Hyderabad, and home to SKS’s flagship school. I was sent to spend extended time at the schools there, see how they operate, and maybe help out where I can. I stayed on the school’s campus—a couple of buildings surrounded by woods and hidden from the main road. There is the school as well as a few living quarters built years ago for SKS's first micro-finance work. While there I was reading the autobiography of SKS's executive director, Vikram Akula. At one point I was reading about the exact spot I was sitting-- a little surreal. Anyways, Narayankhed itself is a small city consisting of a few streets packed with dabas (little informal restaurants), stores, and tea stalls. The surrounding area is rural with fields of paddy and the common herd of goats, sheep, or buffalo.

Fields of paddy

All of my coworkers seemed to be so concerned that I, a single female, would be staying there alone. But secretly, I couldn’t have been more thrilled about it. I was looking forward to the quiet time, time to get out of the city, breathe, and relax. The problem about that though, is that a white person in the village doesn’t exactly go unnoticed. After an early morning and a long trip to get to the school I was tired and looking forward to reading or napping. Instead, I was immediately escorted to one of the teacher’s homes for the evening. Her house was modest but certainly not poor as she herself described it. There was a proper bedroom, an empty room used for eating (on the floor of course), a kitchen with both a traditional stove (ie fire) and modern gas stove, and a living room of sorts with a TV.  When I reached her home we were just hanging out, looking at her pictures and her marriage saris when before I knew it the entire village seemed to be in her small home. At one point I tried to count how many people were in the room just looking at me, but lost count at around 30. Since it soon became obvious that I was the entertainment for the evening, I couldn’t think of anything else to do but teach them the Hokey Pokey. And by teach them, it was more like me dancing and the neighborhood watching and laughing. While Rajeshwari, my hostess, was cooking dinner I sat with her neighbors in the front room watching TV. I had one of those “Is this real life?” moments when sitting on the cement block that acted as a bench in Rajeshwari’s living room. They turned on an English station for me, which happened to be playing the new James Bond movie. Looking to strike conversation, I looked at the woman to my left, someone’s grandmother who had more wrinkles then I’ve ever seen on a person and asked “Do you like James Bond?” As soon as the words came out I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. Did I actually just ask that to someone who doesn’t speak a word of English and has no teeth? Yes, yes I did.

Later that night we ate dinner, in which I pretty much had a religious experience with Rajeshwari’s cooking, and then went back to my room and slept like a baby. Being that I was alone and a woman, my coworkers took extra precautions to make sure I was always safe and comfortable. First off, I was either fed or offered food all the time and secondly, there were at least two men on the campus with me (staying in an adjacent building) at all times to make sure I felt safe. At one point when I had to be alone for a few minutes one evening I was made to sit inside my room with the door locked. While this whole in-the-woods-with-two-young -men thing might sound intimidating, as it turns out in India, men don’t even come near you. The guys I stayed with strictly adhered to Indian standards of etiquette between men and women. They never stood too close to me and if there was a moment when we had to be in somewhat close proximity, they were clearly visibly awkward about it.  This point was demonstrated so clearly one evening while eating dinner outside on our respective stoops. Instead of grabbing a chair to sit somewhere between the two stoops (meaning a little closer to me), Sidu and Sudaker preferred to pretty much sit on top of each other on their own stoop. This is also a commentary on the touchy-feely nature of relationships between Indian men. It is common to see men holding hands, leaning on each other, and just being physical with each other. They aren’t gay or anything like that, it is just how they express friendship and mutual adoration for one another. I am convinced though it is a result of the culture’s conservative rules about PDA with people of the opposite sex. 

Anyways, I left Narayankhed desiring only to return with more time. I want to get to know the teachers and spend time on the beautiful school campus. The mornings there were worth it alone. I sat on the stoop of my little brick building surrounded by woods, and grass, and silence. I could read and clear my head and actually breath. That is until exactly 9am when an SUV packed with school children (literally packed, there isn’t the same standard of safety here as there is back home) would come speeding in on the dirt road. 

After one night home, a group of my coworkers and I from the head office headed to Kusimanchi for a two day Teacher Training Workshop. I never thought I would be saying this about a trip that made me work on the weekend, but we had a blast. The workshop took place in a building still under construction—with no second floor and no walls—in the middle of red chili fields. It was a very Indian thing that while we were conducting a professional conference construction work went on like nothing changed, so although we had to deal with the occasional sounds of falling construction materials, the location was beautiful. My coworkers, all city-dwellers, went nuts for the scenery and needed pictures in front of the fields or next to farm materials.

The view from the training in Kusumanchi

That's me!

I'm on a boat.

After the training on the first day we took a motor-boat ride on a lake at sunset and then went out to dinner in a bustling little city, Kammam. While walking to dinner there was not one person on the street who didn’t stare at Nurit and me walk by. I think we made half of the town’s night. So much so, we were in the newspaper the next day! It always makes me feel uncomfortable, but just by the color of my skin, I am often given celebrity status. Like at the end of the training, I was bum rushed by the crowd asking for pictures and autographs. At one point, people had to form a line to take a picture with me on their camera phones and I often caught the teachers taking a picture while I wasn’t looking. 

Regardless of the stares and the mosquitoes, the squat toilets and the little lizard that ran around my room, my time in the field has been refreshing. The rural scenery is breathtaking and strangely enticing. Maybe it is just the unknown that is exciting for me, but whatever it is, maybe in my next life I'll get to be a farmer.

Signs You Work in an Indian Office

A few observations written out of love for my coworkers...


1. Hidden resources. There is a surprising lack of resources for such a large office. Just to remind you, I work in an eight story corporate office complete with elevators, security badges, and a parking garage. There are four or five people at the front gate alone who greet you as you walk in, including one guy who runs a mirror along the undercarriage of your car. There are three elevators, two restaurants, a whole floor designated as the cafeteria, and one fax machine. That’s right, one machine for 350 employees. I learned about this because a couple of weeks ago I had to send a fax. To start, I needed to print a professional letter on letterhead. I wrote the letter but am not connected to a printer, so I recruited a coworker to help me print. Then I had to find the admin.  guy to ask him to get the paper who had to ask another girl for the key to a locked cabinet. He handed me two sheets so that when the printer messed up on the first, I had one chance to get it right. Letter in hand I was told to go to the first floor to talk to the fax operator. She was out to lunch. I returned back only to learn that the fax machine had moved to level three in legal services. I had to walk through rows of unknown cubicles to find the fax machine and wait for the fax operator to return from a meeting. An entire afternoon down and my fax was sent.


2. Motorcycles. My coworkers all drive motorcycles into the office. While that might be the case if I worked at a Harley Davidson shop or something in the states, here driving motorcycles and mopeds is completely normal, even the preferred mode of transportation. When cars are expensive and roadways are so jammed pack that eight modes of transportation are squeezing into four lanes, motorcycles are simply the best option. I was so amused by one of my coworker’s cool black helmet that one day I insisted on putting it on in the middle of the office. I’m pretty sure they all thought I was a little weird after that.


3. The chaiwallah. There is a person in my office whose whole job, as far as I can tell, is to bring us chai- very milky, very sweet tea-- twice a day. Once at 11am once at 3pm, like clockwork. I feel like one of Pavlov’s dogs because everyday exactly around 11 and exactly around 3 I start to feel a little parched. I look around my desk and Ganesh, my chaiwallah, is usually standing there with a tray of little tiny cups filled with the delicious treat. In many offices when the chai comes nobody does anything but stand in groups sipping to themselves, the equivalent of gossip around the water cooler. Most recently though, tragedy struck. My office outlawed the personal delivery of mugs so that I have to leave my desk, go to the little kitchen outside, and pour my own chai. The new rule had rendered Ganesh’s job pretty much obsolete but in this service-oriented society no one seems to care. I find that in most restaurants, hotels, gas stations, salons, and stores there seem to be a whole lot of employees doing absolutely nothing at all.


4. Lateness. Not to be rude or culturally insensitive, but Indians are kind of lazy. The office opens at 9:30am every morning but people don’t usually start trickling in until around 9:45 or so. It is what they call “Indian Standard Time.” Punctuality can be so bad that the education department implemented a daily check-in for our morning and evening meetings to ensure that people actually come on time. You color green if you are on time, yellow if you have an excused absence, and red if you are late. Who new that coloring would actually hold people accountable, but it does!


5. Lunch room etiquette. I know I have spoken about this before but I feel like it deserves another mention. Lunch time is so much fun. For less than a dollar I get a huge tray of two types of rice, naan, three varieties of curry, yoghurt, and a dessert. I sit with my coworkers who sometimes buy, sometimes bring from home. They open their “tiffins” (ie lunch boxes), take out spoons, and begin scooping their food onto each other’s plates. It is a strange experience for me because obviously I would love to share my food. It feels very uncomfortable though to just take from my plate and plop onto another’s without asking them first.  A few rules I learned the hard way: 1) If you are eating food with a spoon do not use that same spoon to scoop food for another person. This should be obvious for hygienic purposes but everybody shares everything (even the same bottle of water) so I didn’t think it would be a big deal. 2) Don’t bring the same leftovers twice in a row. This isn’t a huge no-no but one of my coworkers looked horrified when I told her the coconut curry I had made was the same one I brought in the day before.  A lot of people make (or have their cooks make) a fresh curry and rice every morning for their lunches. 3) Wash your hands before and after. There is a row of about six sinks attached to the cafeteria for this purpose alone.


6. Christmas. I think one out of about 25 people in the education team at my work is Christian. Nonetheless, it was insisted we decorate the meeting room for Christmas. Being the intern, it was naturally my job. The team spotted a potted plant in the lunch room that they intended on repurposing for our Christmas tree. The admin guy ended up doing most of the work- stealing the plant, wrapping it with read and green sparkly streamers, lights, and topping it with a Santa Clause stuffed animal. He hung a star from the ceiling and scattered the floor with balloons. The “tree” was hidden in the conference room so that when everyone came in for our morning meeting it was a pleasant surprise. I couldn’t help but crack up seeing my coworkers excitement about the dinky tree and balloons, which I think they interpreted as my genuine excitement. I spent my afternoon that day building a giant snowman to accompany the tree. Perhaps that excitement was genuine…

An Ode to my Body

I’m going to take this time to give myself a pat on the back. I am constantly amazed with my body’s strength and resiliency that I think it needs some recognition. From day one, I have enjoyed all of the street foods that India has to offer. Samosas, grilled corn, and even those little delicious potato things that come in tin cups. I also adamantly support my personal philosophy that some of the best food comes from the smallest, grubbiest, little restaurants and stores. I cook my own vegetables from the local market and I never pass on local food offered to me by friends or coworkers. I’ve watched roommates make trips to the hospital, surviving on toast for days, while I order delivery from the local hole-in-the-wall. Now let me not brag, I have experienced minor “bumps in the road,” to put it lightly, but for the most part my body constantly consumes and savors these delectable treats without major problems. In fact, my roommate has dubbed me the “iron stomach.”

But as the saying goes, all giants have to fall (is that how the saying goes?).  Anyways, I knew by sheer odds that it was only a matter of time before I came down with something.  So fall, I did. Literally. To spare you all the gory details, I got sick as soon as we arrived in Jaipur. I passed out the next morning and busted my chin open on the marble floor. A visit from the doctor, three stitches, and a couple of bruises later, I’m feeling much better and left with only a little band-aid. I spent my time in Jaipur, the renowned pink city, becoming intimate with hotel room TV and if I see another commercial for Dettol, Kohler, or some watch company again, I might scream. Bummer I had to miss the sights, but at least I have a cool story to tell now, right?

I think I can forgive me body for this one hiccup considering, as previously mentioned, how much I do “challenge it.” If you haven’t gathered already by my mention of food in every blog entry, India for me has been somewhat indulgent food-wise.  I feel like I talk about food in India the way Elizabeth Gilbert talks about food in Italy in her book “Eat, Pray, Love.” It’s a fascination, close to a point of obsession. But beyond enjoying the flavors and tastes, a big part of eating for me is about appreciating the culture it comes from. Food is such a big piece of every society that to truly immerse yourself, to get the full experience, you need to eat and appreciate the food it has to offer. It’s the same reason that I chose to put my vegetarianism aside when I traveled to Kenya. I didn’t want to create another obstacle between me and anyone else, another reason to define me as different or separate.

I was disappointed the other day when while eating at a nice restaurant geared towards tourists, my family was approached by another family from the US. They seemed really excited to hear I was living in Hyderabad and asked if they could ask me one question. Of course I obliged. Of all things, they wanted to know if I could eat the street food here. That’s the one thing they wanted to know? While some of the bacteria might be different, and for some it might be wise to get your stomach adjusted before you dive in, if the people here eat it, why shouldn’t we? I find that approaching a culture with an open-minded and flexible attitude lends to interesting and fulfilling situations later, like drinking chai with local shopkeepers or eating the Indian equivalent of fast food with my coworkers. Food opens doors, it’s an automatic conversation piece, and something to do. I feel like I would be missing out on so much if I lived my life afraid of doing as the locals do. I would miss out on my neighborhood’s local culture if I didn’t have my vegetable stand guy in the market or my weekly trips to the restaurant up the block. I would miss out on lunch with the ladies from work and homemade dinners at friends’ houses. I would miss out on truly experiencing India. Now this is all to say that you don’t have to love the food, just don’t be afraid to try it.

Maybe my good health has been due to an exceptionally strong intestinal track, but I like to think that a little part of my success can be attributed to a go-with-the-flow attitude.  Whatever it may be, thank you body for (mostly) going with the flow.