Zachster

Walking around the narrow streets of San Miguel de Allende, I can’t help but question the authenticity. The cobblestone; the windowed weathered doors pimpled with iron bolts; The sweet smell of gasoline burnt by cars with low emission standards. But I pass a storefront with an array of coffins, and a small motorbike passes a bit too close, weighted down with tres chicas. I reconsider my cynicism.

Authenticity will be debated well beyond my attention span. Since Ecclesiastes proclaimed there be nothing new under the sun, we have all known to look a little deeper for the motivation (tricks) behind the original, the novel. We doubt and deconstruct, allaying our fears of the unknown, the strange. But here I am: a few thousand miles from where I was this morning. Which is more arrogant? To assume a cultural wall separating me from understanding? Or to accept the ubiquity of patronage, marketing. Has Disneyland spread so far?

Let’s back up.

Flying south, well past the US border, it dawns on me my last vacation was almost two years ago. I fear I’ve been lulled into domestic stagnation by the volatility of my life. Sure, I’ve been tossed here and there by the winds of fate and farce, but these were all escape from, not to. I changed my job, I changed my love, I changed my home. All this distraction blinded me to the fact I’ve been working, consistently, foolishly, longer without a break, than ever before. I’m not complaining. I’m justifying my hope that this time away will do me some good; clear out the cobwebs, break down some walls.

The last few weeks have been a whirlwind of the bizarre. Ever since it dawned on me I’ve been reliving a Groundhog Day the last few months, my attempts to break the cycle of repetition have been met with rebellion, rejection, and random acts of revulsion. Okay. Maybe a few revelations too. I’m glad I realized what was going .. I left, but I really hope this time away will provide more clues on how to productively distance myself from the old habits. The trials and errors of the past weeks have beat down my sense of adventure. I don’t know how much more I can take before I dive back into Pucksetawny.

So here I am. The hacienda is charming. Really. Grandma’s room (Blanco) is white-on-white everything, bedazzled with sequin within an inch of acceptability. My room, (Grenada) features vaulted brick ceilings, radiating out from a deco chandelier, casting shadow across the corners and setting a mood quite nicely. Both feature epic tubs, plastered walls, and and radiant hearths. I choose to believe the charm authentic and not carefully targeted. Call me a romantic.

After tucking her in (figuratively), I took to the streets in search of cervesas y comidas. I found the cervesas within moments, and contented myself there. I wont pretend my critique is anything more than justification for acting a wallflower. But the futbol on tv, rapid spanish, and intimate crowds did keep me in a corner. The blaring american music cast a spotlight on my fellow countrymen singing along to bands I’m ashamed to name. I had a hard time figuring who I was more embarrassed to approach: the girls singing along who I knew would understand me; or the ones dancing with rythem, who I knew would not. I took the easy way out and spoke to no one. Mostly. Okay. I talked to the americans a bit. Shut up.

Stumbling (slightly) home, the boy watching the night brings me some guacamole

and chips. He’s painfully shy and embarrassed by my broken thanks. The perro del casa keeps me company while I show my thanks to the avocado gods. She’s some kind of poodle and seems just as surprised as I am that she’s there.

I know it’s foolish to think that a week away will bring about any change in perspective. I know that such a watched pot never boils. My plan is to play hard-to-get with that kind of clarity and hope it finds me irresistible. Wish me luck.

PS. Do not comment on my spanish. I already know. Leave me alone.

You silly Londoners. You bright and risen angels. You with your converted studio space, with it’s private night club.

For years now, I’ve been perplexed with the LA hipster scene. I’m sure I’m not grasping it in all its glory. I’m talking here about those cute clubs in los feliz with the boys channeling Fidel and the girls butchering Audrey. I never understood the ideal they were attempting to attain. I never saw the brass ring they were reaching for. Until last night. I guess around these parts they’re called Notting Hillbillies? You can’t make this stuff up. Well someone can. But not me.

Really though, it was all very charming. The space was incredible and the crowd was screened. How can any club projecting Weird Science against the wall not work it’s way into my heart. And it’s true that most people confront the outlandish with acceptance. Either British girls really do find the american accent alluring, or they’re pleasantly suggestible. The drinks ran free, and when confronted with outlandish lies about my behavior claims of a laguage barrier are surprisingly effective. Remind me to show you the Universal Hand Sign for I Cannot Understand Your Accent.

So while I had a room at a five star at Paddington Junction, I spent the night on F’s sofa. ‘Spent the night’ may be an overstatement. I slept for a few hours and gave F’s cat a place to explore (my head). It was shockingly comfortable and I’m feeling nicely girded against my transatlantic flight.

So while you’re all asleep in your beds tonight, dreaming of that girl or boy, bundled up against the elements, and all life’s viciousness, know that I’ll be hurtling through the sky at 500mph, every moment moving closer to where I started from just a few days ago. I came so far and burned so much fuel, and now it’s time to let the band pull back and take me home. But perhaps a bit of that stretch will stay for a while. Perhaps I’ll come back a little more loose and a little less blind. Sleep well my continent. Tomorrow I’m all yours.

We left Delhi around 3pm yesterday. The discount airlines have sprung up recently across India. JetAir becomes JetLite. Kingfisher is still Kingfisher, but the girls aren’t as cute. Now, the six hour car ride becomes the two hour flight. The 4 hour train becomes the one our flight. The delays add up, but still keep it a bargain. This ties India together like TV does the US. Nothing is out of reach.

I’m pretty sure I saw a bollywood girl waiting across the gate. Her sparkly blue luggage tipped me off. None in my group recognized here though, so she was but a tree fallen in the woods. She did not make a sound.

We landed in Chandighar a bit late, but the team waited. It’s a cute city. Where Delhi was an endless maze of turn outs and round abouts, Chadighar is strip malls and markets. Delhi is business; Chandighar is commerce. Oh. and the hotel is fantastic. I didn’t count the showers, but I’m pretty sure my room has at least three.

And today was full. The morning was productive. We got through the agenda just after lunch, leaving us free to explore. So up into the Himalayas we went. Now highways in India are a bit different than the US. To make them highways at all, they had to widen the road to three lanes. That’s one going each direction, with a third straddling the middle: the direction changing whimsically to route around tractor or cow. But to make three lanes out of just one or two, sacrifices must be made. In many cases, on the roads of Chandighar, this comes in the form of the first few feet of many storefronts. Now left with jagged brick walls and wide open displays, these shops stand undaunted by their exposure to the elements. What in America would be a war-torn facade, in India serves as a flowing entrance to a world of low cost knickknacks and unprescribed medications.

An hour up the mountain side, we take a cable car a few hundred meters over an open ravine. The range-top resort offers local rum, and fantastic fare. The sudden storm, blanketing us in fog, left us reeling at the possibility of having been mid-cable when it hit. I’m not quite sure we would have made it. But at 6000 feet, with 4 fingers of ‘old monk’ rum, it all seemed charming. I’ve seen mountains before. I’ve been on cable cars before. I’ve watched the filth of cities been washed away by the waters of distance. Yet the mountains of India still cast a spell over the surrounding terrain for me. I am just one man.

The long, winding, and intensely chaotic road back to Chandighar was peppered with little temples and shops we finally felt loose enough at which to stop. Dioramas here take on lurid appeal, never approached in any of MY book reports. Whether it’s Kali holding a smiling, severed head, or Ganesh smoking Sherlock Holmes pipe, the gods of India know how to make a scene. That’s all I’m saying. You know who else know how to make a scense?  Monkeys. And you know where there are Monkeys? Chandighar. They walk the shoulder. They peep out from behind the guardrail. They remind us we were once like them, and soon they might be like us.

And I’m not saying I’m bringing back anything illegal into the US. But if you see me relaxed, asleep or erect, say a little prayer to the assoication of indian chemists (pharmacists) for me.

Early tomorrow I fly out for a night in London, and then it’s on to Los Angeles. My time here on the subcontinent has been special; memorable. But I miss my friends. I miss my family. I miss my country. You cannot escape your tribe. You cannot abandon your people. Your adoption of another timezone can only be temporary.

First: I like the way India smells. Is that clear? I dig it. The subtle scent of wood fire permiates Delhi. Mile upon mile of sidewalk is populated with shanty town shacks providing service of all sorts. Out front a number of them, open fire pits blaze. Water boils. Kebabs roast. Smoke billows. These are the only fires I’ve seen, yet the entire city smells blanketed. I’m pretty sure this is the cause, but the effect brings to mind burnt offerings at a temple more that burnt lamb on a stick. Maybe it’s the type of wood, or just the allure of a foreign place, but the smell wraps the scene in an exotic mystique that’s very satisfying.

Second: yesterday smelled horrible. The office went from bare floor boards and exposed beams to marble tile and custom cabinets in thirty days. That meant the paint was still fuming. To escape, we went to lunch at a fantastic hotel where they happened to be polishing everything (my fork?) with turpentine. The effect of all this on my already weakened immune system was intense. I can’t prove I got brain damange, but only because I got brain damange.

This marks the end of my smell related content.

Today was much more relaxing.  Rather than trek out to our fumy office, we moved all our meetings to the cafe at the hotel. This place is slick. It’s way colonial in a way that’s very satisfying. Yes, yes, I’m delighting in the imagery of oppresion. I’m deeply flawed. Let’s move on. Suffice to say I’m feeling very global. International business is a trip.

Now I’m going to say something about the massage I had. This may get a little heavy. It came recommended. S was sure it would be female executed. I’m not hung up on physical contact with dudes, it’s just a preference thing.

So the treatment is called Synchronized Ayurvedic. In this context, Synchronized means there are two therapists working in rhythem, and Ayurvedic apparently means it tells you beyond a doubt if you’re gay or not. These guys, let’s call them Chip and Dale, they have their act down cold. While I kept my eyes closed, (yes, out of relaxation, but also fear of indelible imagery) I can only imagine they were vaulting over the table, possibly hanging from the ceiling in their efforts to ayurvedically manipulate me. There was so much oil, and so much pressure in so many unexpected combinations… it’s all too overwhelming to capture.

Due to some recent admissions, I’d been wondering if I’d missed out on some good-natured sexual exploration in my strict hetero policies. I can now sleep easy, and hopefully dream free for a bit. I’m not saying I didn’t learn a little something about the touch of a man today (I’d like to think Chip and Dale learned a little something about themselves also), I’m just saying there are some roads you need not drive to know they’re bumpy.

Okay. If that was as uncomfortable for you to read as it was for me to live, I’ve shared my burden and eased my mind a bit.

We touched down about an hour ago. While my perceptions are blurred by a mix of jet lag, and cultural bias, Delhi appears to be everything I’d heard. It’s Sunday here, so the streets are near empty by local standards, but it was enough to give me an idea. It’s kind of like bats, acoustically navigating winding caves. Cars ranging from three wheeled contraptions (think VW-Thing), to mid-sized SUVs dance between the lanes, communicating subtleties of intent lost on me through delicate horn-honking. While the noise is incessant, it’s not in an aggressive-let-me-through kind of way. As often as not, our driver would slow to let another car swerve across our lane. The priority seemed to be maintaining the current, not getting there first.

This was a much different scene than yesterday in London’s west end. There, the streets are narrow and winding, with Renaults and Mini’s parallel parked along every inch of sidewalk. Traveling about the same distance from Heathrow took an hour when in Delhi, it took 20 minutes. J spent 12 years living in the west end and glowed with pride walking us through the pubs he’d frequent. I wish I could have let the scene wash over me unfiltered, but too many episodes of The Office and too many films like Sean of the Dead have so colored my view of the British that I couldn’t shake the feeling I was in a sit-com.

While the flight into London was nice, it didn’t prepare me for getting a surprise upgrade to first class (sorry, “Upper” Class, thanks Virgin). Aside from the usual array of travel swag, and tasty foods, the seat is a little pod that transforms into a bed. It even makes that mwam-mwam-mwam-mwam Transformer noise. No. Not really. But they do have complimentary massage. No happy ending.

So here I am in a rather westernized hotel (It’s beautiful, Hyatt. Really. You shouldn’t have). I’m dead tired, but need to stay awake for another 8 hours to get on a decent schedule. S is going to take us sight-seeing. His family runs several schools around here (among other things). I think that’s where we’re headed. I will be on the lookout for blue war gods and armed elephants.

PS. I was going to title this post, “They Should Have Sent a Poet”, but I prefer the more obscure. +10 Points for a citation. No cheating.