There is one day in the year when Ottawa becomes ultra cool, and hip enough to warrant a visit. Having been confined to studying in Ottawa for 3 odd years, it is a city-town I would NEVER settle down in. Don't get me wrong. It's a great city to raise kids and do wholesome things but I am all about vice and decadence, so a small government town mostly bores me to death. However, Ottawa isn't small and boring as much it is wholly pleasing to the eye and senses.
Come July 1, Parliament Hill turns into a big party zone and tourists south of the border line up, outside various museums that display anything from war memorabilia to boring coins. Toursists from within the country tan their backs the entire day and reserving spots while waiting for their favourite Canadian band, Great Big Sea.
Kids run around with Canadian flags painted on, strapped on, hatted, booted or occasionally the maple leaf is replaced with the cannabis and the flag becomes a cape and declaration of one's smoking choices. Then there are the frat beer-guzzling boys with blonde girlfriends running up and down Wellington street, looking for lost friends.
Whatever you fancy, Canada Day in Ottawa offers you a choice.
Such is the spirit of Canada Day that I caught parents who thought their child's poo was so cute that they made him rest over his dirty diaper, stuck a Canadian flag in and took a photo.
Amen!
Tuesday, July 06, 2004
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
Calcutta's Tap Water
Calcutta's tap water: that which tourists to India take precaution against by at least 5 shots and whose symptoms an entire pack of extra strength Imodium, combined with Pepto Bismol, cannot solve. Calcutta's tap water has a life of its own.
------------------------------------------------**
Born in the ghetto fabulous city of Calcutta, one of my earliest memories as a child was breaking my rib cage on a school bus in Kindergarten. But, by then life was beginning in a different city. Yet I remember this particular summer in Calcutta, because it was so hot, I drank water from the shit mug.
In India, there are unwritten rules about how you use your hands. And they definitely extend to whatever you do behind closed doors(there are no specifications for when a man's hand is his best friend). The right hand is reserved for all things good and pure, and your left hand,'bad' things.. You can shake someone's right hand with yours, you can accept flowers and mithai at the temple with your right hand and you can certainly bring it forward to accept your husband's hand in marriage under the aegis of the wise.
The shit mug in its benign way represents the old class struggle. Washroom cleaning was below the dignity of the upper classes and relegated to the 'untouchables,' or the lowest rung of the caste system. To this day, it is a rare Indian household who clean their own toilets.
But the left hand is your very own janitor. You use your left hand to wash your ass after you've been in the can. Toilet paper (tp) is still relatively unknown in most parts of the country, and even the most cosmopolitan Indian will fight tp with a mug full of water. Water is cleaner and guaranteed to leave your nether regions flushed and clean; rather than taking folded, scratchy paper to wipe off what necessarily should be washed off. Washing is more hygienic too.
For the sole purpose of behind-washing, every household relegates a separate mug in the washroom that must be used for this, and this purpose only. It comes in a larger size than most regular mugs, which you may use for watering plants or measuring flour. In fact, the shit mug’s size is as large as a mug can get without turning into a bucket. The idea behind full capacity being, you can wash off what you have to, without having to go back to the tap with shit on your hands, literally. It is considered unclean to engage the shit mug in any other household activity but the latrines. I have an aunt, who will bathe and pray if she touches the shit mug by mistake.
My mother is a busy lady. She saves lives everyday and since people don't stop falling sick after 5 p.m. when everybody is unchained from their desks and directed home; my mother pretty much works all the time. She is a doctor and that’s was how it was explained to me. I had a nanny I think, but she spent most of her time on the job, secretly snogging with her boyfriend till someone found out and fired her. In the interim, the someone who had fired the nanny also directed my father into baby-sitting me. This man and I hardly spent much time together. He was a busy man with his ways. But he fed me the chocolate equivalent of 4 boxes of smarties for breakfast whenever I asked him. Which wasn't as often as I liked till he started watching over me on a more regular basis. He also thought it would be funny to watch him break glass or get high off diesel fumes from his bike but I digress.
A summer in Calcutta arrives early and stays late. Before the rest of India has had time to recover from an especially cold winter and before launching into a rather rigorous summer, Calcutta is already oppressed by the humidity and stagnant white heat that makes doing anything, day or night, a feat onto itself.
I would stand with my back to an open window waiting my turn by the fan. Calcutta’s heat is in a way a reflection of its people. Where unions can shut down at the drop of a fly, summer brings with its heat, raging tempers and many dropped flies in the form of union strikes. These in turn, affect the power grid and what may be a catastrophic ‘blackout’ in North America, is merely ‘load shedding’ in this red, but hardly-Marxist capital. Which is how I got stuck between a gaggle of adults who took turns cooling their backs by a flippant fan or smoking cigarettes by the window, hoping to catch the last breath of cool air blowing in from the stagnant river Hoogly.
The British, back in the day, used to escape to the cool confines of Darjeeling, but most of Calcutta cannot afford it, and so we collectively swelter for a few months with no respite in sight.
It was one such afternoon. My aunt who bathes and prays at the touch of a shit mug was due for a visit. These were exciting times for me but my father did not share the enthusiasm of having his sister-in-law come poking around his fatherly duties, so he decided to take a nap. But I was a hot and thirsty, nagging child who had yet to grasp the authoratarian ‘because I said so…’. Somewhere between his snores, I managed to dribble the last of my drinking water on his nose and watched it slowly trickle into the back of his nostrils before he woke up to a coughing fit. Desperation for sleep on a hot afternoon struck a raw, rather sweaty, nerve somewhere which led him to fill up our household shit mug with Calcutta's tap water and figured it would take me a while to go through this load.
The rest is in slow motion.
I am running towards my aunt who is screaming. In turn, I am screaming with excitement as I run faster. My cousin accompanying my aunt has sensed disaster, and hurls himself away from the exploding shit-tainted water about to hit him with alarming speed. My aunt's linear-toned, nasal screaming reaches a new high but fails to wake up the snoring man, who had he been awake, would’ve averted disaster. I embrace her with Calcutta's tap water in a shit mug and myself in one giant show of emotion.
There was talk of de-worming medication from the last of what I remember. This was traumatic enough to lay buried for the past 20 years till I contemplated feeding my roommate’s dog ice cubes on a humid, Toronto afternoon. As I crouched in the heat of the patio beside his limp body, I wondered what could be a weirder thing to do on a hot summer's day than coaxing and feeding, triple filtered, hand crushed, delicately flavoured dog-food ice cubes to a black, standard poodle named Paris Bueller Commune.
------------------------------------------------**
Born in the ghetto fabulous city of Calcutta, one of my earliest memories as a child was breaking my rib cage on a school bus in Kindergarten. But, by then life was beginning in a different city. Yet I remember this particular summer in Calcutta, because it was so hot, I drank water from the shit mug.
In India, there are unwritten rules about how you use your hands. And they definitely extend to whatever you do behind closed doors(there are no specifications for when a man's hand is his best friend). The right hand is reserved for all things good and pure, and your left hand,'bad' things.. You can shake someone's right hand with yours, you can accept flowers and mithai at the temple with your right hand and you can certainly bring it forward to accept your husband's hand in marriage under the aegis of the wise.
The shit mug in its benign way represents the old class struggle. Washroom cleaning was below the dignity of the upper classes and relegated to the 'untouchables,' or the lowest rung of the caste system. To this day, it is a rare Indian household who clean their own toilets.
But the left hand is your very own janitor. You use your left hand to wash your ass after you've been in the can. Toilet paper (tp) is still relatively unknown in most parts of the country, and even the most cosmopolitan Indian will fight tp with a mug full of water. Water is cleaner and guaranteed to leave your nether regions flushed and clean; rather than taking folded, scratchy paper to wipe off what necessarily should be washed off. Washing is more hygienic too.
For the sole purpose of behind-washing, every household relegates a separate mug in the washroom that must be used for this, and this purpose only. It comes in a larger size than most regular mugs, which you may use for watering plants or measuring flour. In fact, the shit mug’s size is as large as a mug can get without turning into a bucket. The idea behind full capacity being, you can wash off what you have to, without having to go back to the tap with shit on your hands, literally. It is considered unclean to engage the shit mug in any other household activity but the latrines. I have an aunt, who will bathe and pray if she touches the shit mug by mistake.
My mother is a busy lady. She saves lives everyday and since people don't stop falling sick after 5 p.m. when everybody is unchained from their desks and directed home; my mother pretty much works all the time. She is a doctor and that’s was how it was explained to me. I had a nanny I think, but she spent most of her time on the job, secretly snogging with her boyfriend till someone found out and fired her. In the interim, the someone who had fired the nanny also directed my father into baby-sitting me. This man and I hardly spent much time together. He was a busy man with his ways. But he fed me the chocolate equivalent of 4 boxes of smarties for breakfast whenever I asked him. Which wasn't as often as I liked till he started watching over me on a more regular basis. He also thought it would be funny to watch him break glass or get high off diesel fumes from his bike but I digress.
A summer in Calcutta arrives early and stays late. Before the rest of India has had time to recover from an especially cold winter and before launching into a rather rigorous summer, Calcutta is already oppressed by the humidity and stagnant white heat that makes doing anything, day or night, a feat onto itself.
I would stand with my back to an open window waiting my turn by the fan. Calcutta’s heat is in a way a reflection of its people. Where unions can shut down at the drop of a fly, summer brings with its heat, raging tempers and many dropped flies in the form of union strikes. These in turn, affect the power grid and what may be a catastrophic ‘blackout’ in North America, is merely ‘load shedding’ in this red, but hardly-Marxist capital. Which is how I got stuck between a gaggle of adults who took turns cooling their backs by a flippant fan or smoking cigarettes by the window, hoping to catch the last breath of cool air blowing in from the stagnant river Hoogly.
The British, back in the day, used to escape to the cool confines of Darjeeling, but most of Calcutta cannot afford it, and so we collectively swelter for a few months with no respite in sight.
It was one such afternoon. My aunt who bathes and prays at the touch of a shit mug was due for a visit. These were exciting times for me but my father did not share the enthusiasm of having his sister-in-law come poking around his fatherly duties, so he decided to take a nap. But I was a hot and thirsty, nagging child who had yet to grasp the authoratarian ‘because I said so…’. Somewhere between his snores, I managed to dribble the last of my drinking water on his nose and watched it slowly trickle into the back of his nostrils before he woke up to a coughing fit. Desperation for sleep on a hot afternoon struck a raw, rather sweaty, nerve somewhere which led him to fill up our household shit mug with Calcutta's tap water and figured it would take me a while to go through this load.
The rest is in slow motion.
I am running towards my aunt who is screaming. In turn, I am screaming with excitement as I run faster. My cousin accompanying my aunt has sensed disaster, and hurls himself away from the exploding shit-tainted water about to hit him with alarming speed. My aunt's linear-toned, nasal screaming reaches a new high but fails to wake up the snoring man, who had he been awake, would’ve averted disaster. I embrace her with Calcutta's tap water in a shit mug and myself in one giant show of emotion.
There was talk of de-worming medication from the last of what I remember. This was traumatic enough to lay buried for the past 20 years till I contemplated feeding my roommate’s dog ice cubes on a humid, Toronto afternoon. As I crouched in the heat of the patio beside his limp body, I wondered what could be a weirder thing to do on a hot summer's day than coaxing and feeding, triple filtered, hand crushed, delicately flavoured dog-food ice cubes to a black, standard poodle named Paris Bueller Commune.
Thursday, May 13, 2004
Summer tales from Ontario
Gut feeling for summer:
Growing up, I was an avid member of the talking club. Most schools shove an entire breed of future self-doubters into their debate clubs, where one is extensively taught to explore one's guts' feelings:
And so my gabber self learnt to debate, recite, and stay in touch with any feelings that may cause an emergency verbal or other diarrhoea on stage. We were encouraged to develop a thinking strategy to work against panic attacks, like that split-second sinking feeling just before the results are announced. I am convinced now that we were being taught to cope with life ahead when our voices, once so gregarious, would be lost in a crowd forever.
And more than anything else, we were taught to avoid small talk. Clean, precise, concise copy with bombastic words. "Don't ho-hum around the point when you are on stage," my debate teacher curtly told us. "It's like making small talk about the weather, why waste precious talking time stating the obvious?" Clearly, he wasn't going to live in another country like me, continents away, where people are definitely obsessed about the weather.
While testing my gut for "feelings" I stumbled upon my very own way of coping with an imaginary world outside of these demanding overlapping high school society circles. It was making a wish list. Soon point format on a sticky note was expressing every ray of emotion and nothing like an impending debate to spiral it all out. While dedicating extra hours in the dungeons of recitation, I often found myself making that one last wish list NOT for Christmas. I would scrawl lists for my birthday, for the day after if I survived a tough competition but failed to win even the bronze, and a wish list for summer. Some cosmic poetic justice led the way to a yet unseen future where this wish list would revert itself. Back then, I planned all year long to spend my summers doing NOTHING. Being the only child has its perks - you don't get dragged out to do things, so you don't get into trouble much, so you don't blame the cat, and so your parents don't yell at you because you have done NOTHING at all.
Summer was an escape from ambition or lack thereof, and an escape from parental expectation - lack thereof was never a choice. Anyway, parental angst aside, the concept of a summer full of nothing now fills me with dread because last week, I flushed out almost 2 cartons of "summer notes" from my room. Spring cleaning in its purest form, and an ode to listless winter, I suppose.
Winter in Canada leaves me immobile. I don't skate very well and have never learnt to ski or snowboard or do much outdoorsy stuff except maybe make snow angels [but you've got to worry about that too if you leave pristine Ottawa to live in dog-peed snow in Toronto]. Between the tears mingling with snot on a treacherously icy day, I still haven't mastered the art of arctic living. Summer is where it's at! This is when my adventures in transit take place. This is when people come alive and remove their parka hoods to cess each other out. This is when you will see me narrate many a passages about travel, whether it’s on the local subway or squealing as the cold water tingle my nipples on a bold skinny dipping expedition in the dead of night. This is when the world moves, and this is when I stop sighing and wishing.
Wish list for summer:
Growing up, I was an avid member of the talking club. Most schools shove an entire breed of future self-doubters into their debate clubs, where one is extensively taught to explore one's guts' feelings:
Stage fear versus menstrual cramps
Hot or cold flashes versus humidity-induced sweaty armpits
Stammering versus choking et al
And so my gabber self learnt to debate, recite, and stay in touch with any feelings that may cause an emergency verbal or other diarrhoea on stage. We were encouraged to develop a thinking strategy to work against panic attacks, like that split-second sinking feeling just before the results are announced. I am convinced now that we were being taught to cope with life ahead when our voices, once so gregarious, would be lost in a crowd forever.
And more than anything else, we were taught to avoid small talk. Clean, precise, concise copy with bombastic words. "Don't ho-hum around the point when you are on stage," my debate teacher curtly told us. "It's like making small talk about the weather, why waste precious talking time stating the obvious?" Clearly, he wasn't going to live in another country like me, continents away, where people are definitely obsessed about the weather.
While testing my gut for "feelings" I stumbled upon my very own way of coping with an imaginary world outside of these demanding overlapping high school society circles. It was making a wish list. Soon point format on a sticky note was expressing every ray of emotion and nothing like an impending debate to spiral it all out. While dedicating extra hours in the dungeons of recitation, I often found myself making that one last wish list NOT for Christmas. I would scrawl lists for my birthday, for the day after if I survived a tough competition but failed to win even the bronze, and a wish list for summer. Some cosmic poetic justice led the way to a yet unseen future where this wish list would revert itself. Back then, I planned all year long to spend my summers doing NOTHING. Being the only child has its perks - you don't get dragged out to do things, so you don't get into trouble much, so you don't blame the cat, and so your parents don't yell at you because you have done NOTHING at all.
Summer was an escape from ambition or lack thereof, and an escape from parental expectation - lack thereof was never a choice. Anyway, parental angst aside, the concept of a summer full of nothing now fills me with dread because last week, I flushed out almost 2 cartons of "summer notes" from my room. Spring cleaning in its purest form, and an ode to listless winter, I suppose.
Winter in Canada leaves me immobile. I don't skate very well and have never learnt to ski or snowboard or do much outdoorsy stuff except maybe make snow angels [but you've got to worry about that too if you leave pristine Ottawa to live in dog-peed snow in Toronto]. Between the tears mingling with snot on a treacherously icy day, I still haven't mastered the art of arctic living. Summer is where it's at! This is when my adventures in transit take place. This is when people come alive and remove their parka hoods to cess each other out. This is when you will see me narrate many a passages about travel, whether it’s on the local subway or squealing as the cold water tingle my nipples on a bold skinny dipping expedition in the dead of night. This is when the world moves, and this is when I stop sighing and wishing.
Wish list for summer:
Weddings: Gay, pink, straight, blue
A-l-g-o-n-q-u-i-n Park
That humble abode in London, not England
Blackouts
Long weekends in the City
Long weekends outside the City
Quick getaways to the nearest watering hole: The travelling slosh-head
Listless without lip-gloss: How the budgeted stylish travel
Couch chronicles: Visiting summer couch crashers
Etc.
Tuesday, May 11, 2004
Monday, May 10, 2004
Easy in, Hard out - A local's cautionary tale
Abhimanyu, son of Arjuna, in the Indian epic tale, Mahabharata, dies trying to get out of the Chakravyuh. He is able to infiltrate the circle of battle strategy but cannot get out. Eerie resemblance of his cautionary tale to my travels on my way out of India, where the wheel of my chariot seemed mired in leaking hydraulic fluid.
...so there i was at the calcutta airport, 13 feb [a friday] almost teary eyed and weary from all the food and travel and fun in india, hugs and good byes', when security informed me check-in, even for international flights dont start an hour early in cal...why? oh union people dont come to work so early. tears wiped, mosquito bites, and fresh tea later, i bid adieu again.
smooth sailing to dhaka.
then chaos, as some form of karmic revenge descends on me [for having
scoffed such an important day] as my poor ears ring in hearts and flowers on other phone's ringtones and tv channels at the airport. the flight is delayed by 4 hours, technical problems. if i see one more dancing, swinging girl on tv accepting roses, i will kill myself, but not yet.
4 hours and counting, still no sight of a plane. there is one, but it looks rather old and frumpy, surely they must be joking.
they were.
emergency landing in jeddah, saudi arabia, after 6 and a half hours in the air - for fuelling and checking of parts[wheels, leaking hydraulic fluid] causes much chaos in-flight. kids puking, mom's yelling after kids who arent puking but are running around, spitting. ashthmatic patients losing lungs [literally] and all this in 55 degrees of heat, at one of the world's most beautiful airports --looks like bedoin tents. but it's restricted country, so we are stuck on the runaway and they wont let us off for 2 hours.
by now, sincerely, one of the more calmer people on board, i have placed wet wipes in every exposed body part, including the soles of my feet, and between my fingers. i used up 2 - 30 packs, and am listening to MOBY, before switching to DEEP FOREST.
cannot bring myself to listen to RADIOHEAD [i would've killed myself, what's the point of living if you dying anyway?]. then i chat up the air personnel who have been sent for inspection and cleaning. as usual, total chaos and the captain warns me, if i de-plane, i might as well have run away and joined a harem. so i stand at the edge of the stairs of the plane amidst garbage bags and walkie-talkies, with more wet wipes on my head and survey the arid vastness.
it's still valentines day in this restricted country where a girls ankles cannot be seen in public. cellphones with GSMs ring in tunes, as if prepped on a double doze of prozac, 'happy valentines day'. i have since popped all of the local valiums i might've been carrying.
6 and a half hours to london. this time, we are flying low. iraq, istanbul, swiss alps, madrid, i see it all. its very beautiful and all but the entire plane smells of piss and puke and we are being served breakfast amidst this garden of smells.
sweet irony, oh scottie, beam me up -- as i arrive at heathrow, from my window, i wave tatah to my air canada, taking off. 1235 london time. i was supposed to have been here almost 6 hours ago.
it's valentines at heathrow. hearts every bloody where. ugh. and love, sweet love.
but air canada wont let me on the next plane. they have received no such confirmation of a missed connection. i lose my shit finally. i threaten, i bargain and i pull the 'it doesnt matter if i take the next boat out to toronto, but once i get there, this is getting written about'. immediately, there is a food voucher and a confirmed boarding pass, as opposed to 2 stand bys. my luggage on the right plane but i have to wait in london for another 6 hours.
amongst more heart filled fanfare. this day will never end. oh, did i mention, i spat in all said countries on said day. nothing like a good spit to show your disgust for all things red and heart-like.
am finally on an overbooked air canada at midnight, with a bunch of kids on a ski trip. arriving in toronto, it's 10 minutes away from the end of the bleedin' day. i love the stale salmon in unidentified white sauce and the overcooked spinach.
since
i am back, safe, well, full of food, underpaid, overworked and tipsy on good wine.
...so there i was at the calcutta airport, 13 feb [a friday] almost teary eyed and weary from all the food and travel and fun in india, hugs and good byes', when security informed me check-in, even for international flights dont start an hour early in cal...why? oh union people dont come to work so early. tears wiped, mosquito bites, and fresh tea later, i bid adieu again.
smooth sailing to dhaka.
then chaos, as some form of karmic revenge descends on me [for having
scoffed such an important day] as my poor ears ring in hearts and flowers on other phone's ringtones and tv channels at the airport. the flight is delayed by 4 hours, technical problems. if i see one more dancing, swinging girl on tv accepting roses, i will kill myself, but not yet.
4 hours and counting, still no sight of a plane. there is one, but it looks rather old and frumpy, surely they must be joking.
they were.
emergency landing in jeddah, saudi arabia, after 6 and a half hours in the air - for fuelling and checking of parts[wheels, leaking hydraulic fluid] causes much chaos in-flight. kids puking, mom's yelling after kids who arent puking but are running around, spitting. ashthmatic patients losing lungs [literally] and all this in 55 degrees of heat, at one of the world's most beautiful airports --looks like bedoin tents. but it's restricted country, so we are stuck on the runaway and they wont let us off for 2 hours.
by now, sincerely, one of the more calmer people on board, i have placed wet wipes in every exposed body part, including the soles of my feet, and between my fingers. i used up 2 - 30 packs, and am listening to MOBY, before switching to DEEP FOREST.
cannot bring myself to listen to RADIOHEAD [i would've killed myself, what's the point of living if you dying anyway?]. then i chat up the air personnel who have been sent for inspection and cleaning. as usual, total chaos and the captain warns me, if i de-plane, i might as well have run away and joined a harem. so i stand at the edge of the stairs of the plane amidst garbage bags and walkie-talkies, with more wet wipes on my head and survey the arid vastness.
it's still valentines day in this restricted country where a girls ankles cannot be seen in public. cellphones with GSMs ring in tunes, as if prepped on a double doze of prozac, 'happy valentines day'. i have since popped all of the local valiums i might've been carrying.
6 and a half hours to london. this time, we are flying low. iraq, istanbul, swiss alps, madrid, i see it all. its very beautiful and all but the entire plane smells of piss and puke and we are being served breakfast amidst this garden of smells.
sweet irony, oh scottie, beam me up -- as i arrive at heathrow, from my window, i wave tatah to my air canada, taking off. 1235 london time. i was supposed to have been here almost 6 hours ago.
it's valentines at heathrow. hearts every bloody where. ugh. and love, sweet love.
but air canada wont let me on the next plane. they have received no such confirmation of a missed connection. i lose my shit finally. i threaten, i bargain and i pull the 'it doesnt matter if i take the next boat out to toronto, but once i get there, this is getting written about'. immediately, there is a food voucher and a confirmed boarding pass, as opposed to 2 stand bys. my luggage on the right plane but i have to wait in london for another 6 hours.
amongst more heart filled fanfare. this day will never end. oh, did i mention, i spat in all said countries on said day. nothing like a good spit to show your disgust for all things red and heart-like.
am finally on an overbooked air canada at midnight, with a bunch of kids on a ski trip. arriving in toronto, it's 10 minutes away from the end of the bleedin' day. i love the stale salmon in unidentified white sauce and the overcooked spinach.
since
i am back, safe, well, full of food, underpaid, overworked and tipsy on good wine.
A local girl's guide to select cities in India
Top 10 observations in transit
[Toronto-London-Dhaka-Calcutta-Darjeeling]
[Air Canada-Biman Bangladesh Airlines-Biman-Indian Airlines]
10. The cockpits of Biman Bangladesh Airlines do not have re-inforced doors or armed marshals. Instead, if you ask nicely enough, they’ll let you watch the entire Himalayan range [incl. Mount Everest] pass you by at daybreak, from the cockpit, while they navigate emergency landings, after every nautical mile.
9. The English lads at Heathrow are cute and chatty, yet have no reason to be but they’ll chat you up regardless. Digressing here, I was broke, after I exchanged American $$ for Pounds. Highway robbery, and the dude at 10 Downing is cranking up the evil laughter watching poor North American passengers in transit pay up to US $20 for a defrosted panini.
8. Average number of family members traveling from London to Dhaka to celebrate Eid [2 Feb]: 9 -- 1 man, the 2 wives in burkha and hijab, and 4-6 kids per head. Sometimes, kids are supplemented by ageing parents.
7. At Heathrow, always watch the arrivals board for flights from Milan, Paris and other such destinations if you want to seriously spot beautiful people in white leather in transit after Labor day, which displays no crumple lines if you’re fashionably European.
6. When they say Dhaka’s international airport has international style washrooms, it means carry toilet paper. If all else fails, pay the cleaner to stand outside the door to scream at men who blindly walk into the women’s loo to take a leak and worse, never mind. Also, their doors dont have locks.
5. Calcutta’s customs’ officials are the most corrupt bunch in the world. You must grease a palm to get a camera through. However, if you are ‘press’, they freeze and let you go, not before all 60 kgs. of your luggage have been dumped out of your baggage and on the floor.
4. To make a connecting flight from Dhaka to Calcutta, all you need to do is throw your ticket at a man behind a counter, above the heads of all other people who don’t believe in queues and voila! A boarding pass, along with ticket is thrown back at you.
3. Cute but stupid boys will always seek you out, including members of the Indian Cricket team [they are like basketball players there…superbly hot to the general public], but watch when they ask you, your idea of ‘love’. And they are co-incidentally plentiful on flights from Calcutta-Darjeeling.
2. Always put cotton in your ears for flights from Calcutta-Darjeeling. Between the constant bumps due to air pressure, which makes you want to whip out your cell phone and say your final goodbyes and drastic atmospheric pressure change, thanks to the proximity of the Himalayas, your ears will bleed. Or atleast one will.
1. Risk dehydration for dirty loos at all airports, airplanes and other such transit facilities. Be drunk on cheap booze and be sleepy but try and avoid missing flights, especially anything that arrives and departs on time [which again, is a rarity once you leave London].
[Toronto-London-Dhaka-Calcutta-Darjeeling]
[Air Canada-Biman Bangladesh Airlines-Biman-Indian Airlines]
10. The cockpits of Biman Bangladesh Airlines do not have re-inforced doors or armed marshals. Instead, if you ask nicely enough, they’ll let you watch the entire Himalayan range [incl. Mount Everest] pass you by at daybreak, from the cockpit, while they navigate emergency landings, after every nautical mile.
9. The English lads at Heathrow are cute and chatty, yet have no reason to be but they’ll chat you up regardless. Digressing here, I was broke, after I exchanged American $$ for Pounds. Highway robbery, and the dude at 10 Downing is cranking up the evil laughter watching poor North American passengers in transit pay up to US $20 for a defrosted panini.
8. Average number of family members traveling from London to Dhaka to celebrate Eid [2 Feb]: 9 -- 1 man, the 2 wives in burkha and hijab, and 4-6 kids per head. Sometimes, kids are supplemented by ageing parents.
7. At Heathrow, always watch the arrivals board for flights from Milan, Paris and other such destinations if you want to seriously spot beautiful people in white leather in transit after Labor day, which displays no crumple lines if you’re fashionably European.
6. When they say Dhaka’s international airport has international style washrooms, it means carry toilet paper. If all else fails, pay the cleaner to stand outside the door to scream at men who blindly walk into the women’s loo to take a leak and worse, never mind. Also, their doors dont have locks.
5. Calcutta’s customs’ officials are the most corrupt bunch in the world. You must grease a palm to get a camera through. However, if you are ‘press’, they freeze and let you go, not before all 60 kgs. of your luggage have been dumped out of your baggage and on the floor.
4. To make a connecting flight from Dhaka to Calcutta, all you need to do is throw your ticket at a man behind a counter, above the heads of all other people who don’t believe in queues and voila! A boarding pass, along with ticket is thrown back at you.
3. Cute but stupid boys will always seek you out, including members of the Indian Cricket team [they are like basketball players there…superbly hot to the general public], but watch when they ask you, your idea of ‘love’. And they are co-incidentally plentiful on flights from Calcutta-Darjeeling.
2. Always put cotton in your ears for flights from Calcutta-Darjeeling. Between the constant bumps due to air pressure, which makes you want to whip out your cell phone and say your final goodbyes and drastic atmospheric pressure change, thanks to the proximity of the Himalayas, your ears will bleed. Or atleast one will.
1. Risk dehydration for dirty loos at all airports, airplanes and other such transit facilities. Be drunk on cheap booze and be sleepy but try and avoid missing flights, especially anything that arrives and departs on time [which again, is a rarity once you leave London].
New York - II
NEW YORK – PART DEUX.
Marc Jacobs and I:
There is a certain bond a girl must develop in the big city that borders on fantasy. It's called designer loyalty. Doesn't matter if you fancy yourself the upcoming muse to a collection, or name of a perfume, but you must swear by a designer [not brand] before you find employment, housing, a man or quel horror, even a proper date. With this piece of wisdom tucked behind my ears [spritzed of course] and slinging from my right shoulder [I have had a broken left clavicle, which forces me to have a good side, the right] I stepped on to a Soho pavement, more precisely, the pavement with an awning, which simply said in all lowercase, 'sixty'. In New York, as with all important cities in the world, you simply number a hot establishment as names are for plebeians. It goes well with the Robert Jr.'s and Walter III's who briefly take up residence in these hallowed halls of fame. But this journey, as easy I make it to be, has been a difficult learning experience in style [and poise might I add].
Back to Basics:
Seated in a limo again, pick up from the airport, I glanced at the skyline. The last time I was here, I told one of the editors, I left the city in tears. Now I had all their attention. "Oh no, what happened?" "Did you get mugged?" "Something in Central Park?"
"No, no" I assured them. "Nothing like that, I came to work for the UN and in their basement at 1st and 46th, trying to formulate the declaration of the rights of the child—I lost all hope"
"Oh" they almost said in disappointment-tinged unison, looking for something more sensational, but still interested.
"I broke down when, not being able to present my paper properly, I cornered the ruckus causing bunch who stood in front of a non-smoking sign and smoked away."
"What were they opposing?" one of the editors asked.
"Nothing really, they just wanted me to hurry up so they could smoke."
Stuck in traffic in the Lincoln tunnel, here I was, on a skincare junket. Totally different approach this time, I thought, and realized I had no clue about protocol or worse, what was expected of an editor, moi - to talk and discuss - with other editors, especially the American garden variety.
I dived right in. "So I was wondering, if one of you could tell me, like, where to go, and what to look at."
"What do you want to do?"
Damn. I should've slept on that one. Oh wait, there was a horny cat and production deadlines, never mind. "I am not sure, maybe a gallery or two"
"No shopping?"
"I've heard of Canal Street." Stunned silence.
"Don't go there, you could get mugged, not really mugged but your wallet could get picked."
"Oh, don't worry about me. I recently survived the alleys of Delhi and Calcutta, in style might I add, with not a scratch or stare" I added proudly. They were not impressed.
"We just don't shop there, that's all. Try Motts or Wooster."
"What are they?"
"Streets in Soho."
"Oh."
"Try Anthropologie," one of them offered kindly, "you'll really like it." That's the only store name I would've recognized given two very stylish friends had spoken of it before [co-incidentally for both of whom, I picked up a cute travel toothbrush and French milled soap respectively].
"Anyone for galleries?" I asked one last time.
They, in their infinite wisdom as fashion/beauty/senior editors advised, "Just try shopping this time, leave culture for next time around".
"But I am not much of a shopper," I added.[ My mother is a doctor, she’s never had time to bargain or go on extensive 'mother-daughter shopping expeditions'. That, and she lives continents away, all of which have stunted my shopping gene.]
"By the end of this trip, you will be."
I know
that
he knows
that
I know:
Concurring thought every hour, on the hour: "Oh My God, This is All So Glamorous"
Even though the stilettos were killing me and the rest of the NY crowd were in Puma sneakers, I needed elevation to strut, and having learnt to precariously balance on smoky dance floors in heels, I figured if anything, this would keep my poise going. It was before my stilettos met the street grates -- a death wish if your heels get caught in one, but luckily for me, I came away mostly unscathed thanks to being on the right glam-o-rama train. Instead I ran into Sex and the City's Samantha-Kim Catrall. "Cute tee [I know that he...know]," she said, as I was entering the store she was exiting "Thanks, I said," soon after losing all poise. "Oh My God, This is All So Glamorous, you must be Kim Catrall" I exclaimed obviously, to her very blonde self. She smiled at my glam-struck nerdiness. "Um, thanks, you are not from New York, are you?"
Damn, and to think I might've been strutting right.
"No...well..."
"Oh, don't worry about it. People just don't stop to talk, that's all"
Me, me- talking to a Sexy and City star, a show I incorporated into as many university papers as I could possibly cough up. Advertising and Sex and the City; Modern Emancipation or Old Stereotypes: Female representation in TV sitcoms; Syndications and HBO-you get the point. Academic pursuit guaranteed I never miss an episode. And here I was, unleashing drool over a character in a show onto a real person.
Time for some serious damage control. I adopted every thing Marc Jacobs before...
-dinner at Pastis in the Meat Packing District, brunch at Soho's Jerry's, drinks and something with rabbit meat overtly flavoured with olives at Gramercy's Tavern near Gramercy Park.
-a stroll in Union Square with a delicious friend's friend of the male persuasion.
- a trip to Canal Street and bonding with a Bengali man who ran a store, literally adopted me as a cousin, and gave me huge discounts on whatever knock offs I wanted [including, ahem, a Marc Jacobs purse] while steering me clear of the knock off of the knock offs.
-OK Harris Gallery on W Broadway for contemporary art [Re: check out Daniel Lee's work on 108 windows of the soul: shudder] and the Animazing Gallery on Broome for a retrospective on Dr. Seuss.
-Anthropologie, the post office and Kate's Papiere [for all of you who've received amply cool postcards].
-a peek into Zac Posen's collection as I buzzed myself into the wrong floor for a press meet.
-visit to an after hours-after hours place in lower east side, simply labelled '62' [cardinal rule for all things cool] where the Rastaman ushering me in said, 'Dey don make dem like dis in New York no more'. Damnit, why can't I just get it right for once, even though it was a compliment of sorts.
That night, as I danced away, I stopped trying to get it right and the next morning, stared unabashedly at the skyline.
On my flight back, a stewardess ushering me raised her pencilled eyebrows and said I looked familiar. I replied, "Well, I am from Toronto, perhaps we met at Karen's?"
Marc Jacobs and I:
There is a certain bond a girl must develop in the big city that borders on fantasy. It's called designer loyalty. Doesn't matter if you fancy yourself the upcoming muse to a collection, or name of a perfume, but you must swear by a designer [not brand] before you find employment, housing, a man or quel horror, even a proper date. With this piece of wisdom tucked behind my ears [spritzed of course] and slinging from my right shoulder [I have had a broken left clavicle, which forces me to have a good side, the right] I stepped on to a Soho pavement, more precisely, the pavement with an awning, which simply said in all lowercase, 'sixty'. In New York, as with all important cities in the world, you simply number a hot establishment as names are for plebeians. It goes well with the Robert Jr.'s and Walter III's who briefly take up residence in these hallowed halls of fame. But this journey, as easy I make it to be, has been a difficult learning experience in style [and poise might I add].
Back to Basics:
Seated in a limo again, pick up from the airport, I glanced at the skyline. The last time I was here, I told one of the editors, I left the city in tears. Now I had all their attention. "Oh no, what happened?" "Did you get mugged?" "Something in Central Park?"
"No, no" I assured them. "Nothing like that, I came to work for the UN and in their basement at 1st and 46th, trying to formulate the declaration of the rights of the child—I lost all hope"
"Oh" they almost said in disappointment-tinged unison, looking for something more sensational, but still interested.
"I broke down when, not being able to present my paper properly, I cornered the ruckus causing bunch who stood in front of a non-smoking sign and smoked away."
"What were they opposing?" one of the editors asked.
"Nothing really, they just wanted me to hurry up so they could smoke."
Stuck in traffic in the Lincoln tunnel, here I was, on a skincare junket. Totally different approach this time, I thought, and realized I had no clue about protocol or worse, what was expected of an editor, moi - to talk and discuss - with other editors, especially the American garden variety.
I dived right in. "So I was wondering, if one of you could tell me, like, where to go, and what to look at."
"What do you want to do?"
Damn. I should've slept on that one. Oh wait, there was a horny cat and production deadlines, never mind. "I am not sure, maybe a gallery or two"
"No shopping?"
"I've heard of Canal Street." Stunned silence.
"Don't go there, you could get mugged, not really mugged but your wallet could get picked."
"Oh, don't worry about me. I recently survived the alleys of Delhi and Calcutta, in style might I add, with not a scratch or stare" I added proudly. They were not impressed.
"We just don't shop there, that's all. Try Motts or Wooster."
"What are they?"
"Streets in Soho."
"Oh."
"Try Anthropologie," one of them offered kindly, "you'll really like it." That's the only store name I would've recognized given two very stylish friends had spoken of it before [co-incidentally for both of whom, I picked up a cute travel toothbrush and French milled soap respectively].
"Anyone for galleries?" I asked one last time.
They, in their infinite wisdom as fashion/beauty/senior editors advised, "Just try shopping this time, leave culture for next time around".
"But I am not much of a shopper," I added.[ My mother is a doctor, she’s never had time to bargain or go on extensive 'mother-daughter shopping expeditions'. That, and she lives continents away, all of which have stunted my shopping gene.]
"By the end of this trip, you will be."
I know
that
he knows
that
I know:
Concurring thought every hour, on the hour: "Oh My God, This is All So Glamorous"
Even though the stilettos were killing me and the rest of the NY crowd were in Puma sneakers, I needed elevation to strut, and having learnt to precariously balance on smoky dance floors in heels, I figured if anything, this would keep my poise going. It was before my stilettos met the street grates -- a death wish if your heels get caught in one, but luckily for me, I came away mostly unscathed thanks to being on the right glam-o-rama train. Instead I ran into Sex and the City's Samantha-Kim Catrall. "Cute tee [I know that he...know]," she said, as I was entering the store she was exiting "Thanks, I said," soon after losing all poise. "Oh My God, This is All So Glamorous, you must be Kim Catrall" I exclaimed obviously, to her very blonde self. She smiled at my glam-struck nerdiness. "Um, thanks, you are not from New York, are you?"
Damn, and to think I might've been strutting right.
"No...well..."
"Oh, don't worry about it. People just don't stop to talk, that's all"
Me, me- talking to a Sexy and City star, a show I incorporated into as many university papers as I could possibly cough up. Advertising and Sex and the City; Modern Emancipation or Old Stereotypes: Female representation in TV sitcoms; Syndications and HBO-you get the point. Academic pursuit guaranteed I never miss an episode. And here I was, unleashing drool over a character in a show onto a real person.
Time for some serious damage control. I adopted every thing Marc Jacobs before...
-dinner at Pastis in the Meat Packing District, brunch at Soho's Jerry's, drinks and something with rabbit meat overtly flavoured with olives at Gramercy's Tavern near Gramercy Park.
-a stroll in Union Square with a delicious friend's friend of the male persuasion.
- a trip to Canal Street and bonding with a Bengali man who ran a store, literally adopted me as a cousin, and gave me huge discounts on whatever knock offs I wanted [including, ahem, a Marc Jacobs purse] while steering me clear of the knock off of the knock offs.
-OK Harris Gallery on W Broadway for contemporary art [Re: check out Daniel Lee's work on 108 windows of the soul: shudder] and the Animazing Gallery on Broome for a retrospective on Dr. Seuss.
-Anthropologie, the post office and Kate's Papiere [for all of you who've received amply cool postcards].
-a peek into Zac Posen's collection as I buzzed myself into the wrong floor for a press meet.
-visit to an after hours-after hours place in lower east side, simply labelled '62' [cardinal rule for all things cool] where the Rastaman ushering me in said, 'Dey don make dem like dis in New York no more'. Damnit, why can't I just get it right for once, even though it was a compliment of sorts.
That night, as I danced away, I stopped trying to get it right and the next morning, stared unabashedly at the skyline.
On my flight back, a stewardess ushering me raised her pencilled eyebrows and said I looked familiar. I replied, "Well, I am from Toronto, perhaps we met at Karen's?"
New York - I
NEW YORK - PART UN.
Mr. BB:
Let's start at the very beginning. Before an ungodly 5:15 am pick up ride to the airport, I was off to a bad start. Sleep had eluded me because my landlord's cat [no longer a kitten] decided this was the night of a marathon hump-a-thon. Baptized Petruccio by his Italian family [my landlord], he has since been re-christened Mr. Bulgy Balls, by yours truly for obvious reasons. Before we indulge in this sordid tale, I wasn't able to shut him out, for I could not win over his tactics - crying and scratching the door and our internet and phone cables-both of which are more essential than my own arteries.
I managed to make it home that night, around midnight [it was work-related, with little or no booze involved, so this is not a figment of my imagination], which left me with 5 hours to pack, proof read pages for production, shower, and maybe get some sleep. Ok, strike sleep off agenda. There he was, Mr. BB - curled up sweetly on my bed, a happy yawn or two as I furtively worked away, proofing and what not. After a shower and some Visine for the eyes and still afraid to disturb him, I set to spread all NY essentials on the bed. I woke him. He humped my passport. I kicked him out. He cried and scratched, I let him in, scratched his ears till he fell asleep again [on my bed] and tiptoed around my own fucking room like I was breaking curfew, reviewing notes/questions and packing. He woke up, horny as shit and decided the North West corner of my blanket was worthy of a little lovin'. I was in no mood for laundry so the same kicking-out routine followed till he angrily and aggressively attacked my now packed bags. I did not want to travel to NY accompanied by cat semen so I locked myself and my bags out of my room and took refuge on the couch for about 15 minutes till the car came.
Sex, eyes and rides:
Finally, a human being to interact with - the limo driver. "You Indian?" he asked. Relived of horny cat company, I said brightly [and honestly] " A 100%". "So which part of India you come from?" Before I could reply, he spoke for me, "Bengal?"
"Yes," I said simply and curiously added, " How did you know?"
"Your eyes. If you don't mind me saying, Bengali women have sex eyes".
Oh shit, so much for relief from horny company.
"You mean sexy" I said, hoping that's what he meant.
"No, no, sex eyes" he insisted. "When a Bengali woman open her eyes to see you, it is sex. When she close, no sex. "
"Oh"
"I have Bengali professor in college. All students, we come to class everyday because we all crazy of her. Her eyes, her talk. Bengali women also open-minded."
Open-minded, sex: So New York, and I weren’t even in the vicinity of said city yet. Change of topic, NOW.
"Ya, well, I don't know about that. I am a tomboy and so I really don't think it applies to me. Besides, this is the first time I've ever heard this about Bengali women"
"You see 70s Indian movies?" he asks.
Aha! Change of topic.
"Yes, yes." I say [again brightly and honestly...lack of sleep already showing]
"You know all sexy heroines in that day, all Bengali"
FUCK.
"I guess so. Umm, ya"
"If you don't mind me saying, I see you at door and I cannot believe my eyes. 36 years gone by for me to see beautiful Bengali woman again. Your eyes and smile, total Bengali"
[FYI: Bengali women are known for a good rack and booty. Both of which I do not measure up to-my relatives have been quite explicit about pointing that out, all the time]
Grappling,, I use my standard "when complimented, embarrassed" answer.
"Well, I have a small face, so my eyes just look big. Otherwise, out of context they are pretty ordinary"
If this didn't work, I had my other standard response ready: Radio please.
"You go NY on Biore thing, yes?"
Relieved but cautious [and fighting sleep deprivation already] "Yes"
"NY so lucky to have you"
"Thanks"
"You go with other editors I pick up?"
"Yup"
"You lucky you come from open-minded good family. Good for getting good job. Punjabi women pretty but not social, they talk only to each other, not men. They no progress"
"Thanks"
"You have white boyfriend"
"What???" [I did not see that one coming]
Shocked and still honest, "I don't have a boyfriend" [god damn, wrong answer]
"But you date white boys?"
"Umm, could you please turn on the radio?"
"Sure, no miss, don't get wrong impression. I only say because I see white boys go crazy for brown girls. Indian boys no like dark girls but white boys love, especially if you look with those eyes"
"Ha, ha...ha, ha" [nervous laughter followed by my emergency 'shut the trap' standard fare]
"Ya well, I wouldn't know. I like girls. Could you please tune the radio to 91.1 please"
...This is member supported Jazz fm in Toronto, Coming up...on this late hour...
Setting off alarm bells:
This tale is no longer sordid, just embarrassing. Walking through security, I went off. Completely, entirely and it seemed everyone stopped to hold their breath to spot the next terrorist. In full public view, my shoes came off [ did you know stilettos are held together with a pin at the bottom? Neither did I till I saw an X-ray of my own shoe]. My soles were tickled to detect whatever it is that they look for, and then my belt came off. They requested me to unzip and unbutton my jeans [ still in full public view] and requested I put my hands behind my head.
6 am in the morning and my hip hugger jeans have slid below all dangerous thong levels, revealing to delighted viewers [voyeurs?], vital stats of the unmentionables. I am bare feet and cannot pull up my jeans, what with hands clutching my hair and not my pants. Then my chest goes off. No really, I was wearing a locket but it fell in behind the tee-shirt. I didn't take my shirt off but had to wait 5 minutes while the lady put on her special gloves and in full public view, again, stuck it down my non-existent cleavage to pull out the chain and locket. I was only kidding when I said I liked girls.
Coming soon: New York - Part deux.
Mr. BB:
Let's start at the very beginning. Before an ungodly 5:15 am pick up ride to the airport, I was off to a bad start. Sleep had eluded me because my landlord's cat [no longer a kitten] decided this was the night of a marathon hump-a-thon. Baptized Petruccio by his Italian family [my landlord], he has since been re-christened Mr. Bulgy Balls, by yours truly for obvious reasons. Before we indulge in this sordid tale, I wasn't able to shut him out, for I could not win over his tactics - crying and scratching the door and our internet and phone cables-both of which are more essential than my own arteries.
I managed to make it home that night, around midnight [it was work-related, with little or no booze involved, so this is not a figment of my imagination], which left me with 5 hours to pack, proof read pages for production, shower, and maybe get some sleep. Ok, strike sleep off agenda. There he was, Mr. BB - curled up sweetly on my bed, a happy yawn or two as I furtively worked away, proofing and what not. After a shower and some Visine for the eyes and still afraid to disturb him, I set to spread all NY essentials on the bed. I woke him. He humped my passport. I kicked him out. He cried and scratched, I let him in, scratched his ears till he fell asleep again [on my bed] and tiptoed around my own fucking room like I was breaking curfew, reviewing notes/questions and packing. He woke up, horny as shit and decided the North West corner of my blanket was worthy of a little lovin'. I was in no mood for laundry so the same kicking-out routine followed till he angrily and aggressively attacked my now packed bags. I did not want to travel to NY accompanied by cat semen so I locked myself and my bags out of my room and took refuge on the couch for about 15 minutes till the car came.
Sex, eyes and rides:
Finally, a human being to interact with - the limo driver. "You Indian?" he asked. Relived of horny cat company, I said brightly [and honestly] " A 100%". "So which part of India you come from?" Before I could reply, he spoke for me, "Bengal?"
"Yes," I said simply and curiously added, " How did you know?"
"Your eyes. If you don't mind me saying, Bengali women have sex eyes".
Oh shit, so much for relief from horny company.
"You mean sexy" I said, hoping that's what he meant.
"No, no, sex eyes" he insisted. "When a Bengali woman open her eyes to see you, it is sex. When she close, no sex. "
"Oh"
"I have Bengali professor in college. All students, we come to class everyday because we all crazy of her. Her eyes, her talk. Bengali women also open-minded."
Open-minded, sex: So New York, and I weren’t even in the vicinity of said city yet. Change of topic, NOW.
"Ya, well, I don't know about that. I am a tomboy and so I really don't think it applies to me. Besides, this is the first time I've ever heard this about Bengali women"
"You see 70s Indian movies?" he asks.
Aha! Change of topic.
"Yes, yes." I say [again brightly and honestly...lack of sleep already showing]
"You know all sexy heroines in that day, all Bengali"
FUCK.
"I guess so. Umm, ya"
"If you don't mind me saying, I see you at door and I cannot believe my eyes. 36 years gone by for me to see beautiful Bengali woman again. Your eyes and smile, total Bengali"
[FYI: Bengali women are known for a good rack and booty. Both of which I do not measure up to-my relatives have been quite explicit about pointing that out, all the time]
Grappling,, I use my standard "when complimented, embarrassed" answer.
"Well, I have a small face, so my eyes just look big. Otherwise, out of context they are pretty ordinary"
If this didn't work, I had my other standard response ready: Radio please.
"You go NY on Biore thing, yes?"
Relieved but cautious [and fighting sleep deprivation already] "Yes"
"NY so lucky to have you"
"Thanks"
"You go with other editors I pick up?"
"Yup"
"You lucky you come from open-minded good family. Good for getting good job. Punjabi women pretty but not social, they talk only to each other, not men. They no progress"
"Thanks"
"You have white boyfriend"
"What???" [I did not see that one coming]
Shocked and still honest, "I don't have a boyfriend" [god damn, wrong answer]
"But you date white boys?"
"Umm, could you please turn on the radio?"
"Sure, no miss, don't get wrong impression. I only say because I see white boys go crazy for brown girls. Indian boys no like dark girls but white boys love, especially if you look with those eyes"
"Ha, ha...ha, ha" [nervous laughter followed by my emergency 'shut the trap' standard fare]
"Ya well, I wouldn't know. I like girls. Could you please tune the radio to 91.1 please"
...This is member supported Jazz fm in Toronto, Coming up...on this late hour...
Setting off alarm bells:
This tale is no longer sordid, just embarrassing. Walking through security, I went off. Completely, entirely and it seemed everyone stopped to hold their breath to spot the next terrorist. In full public view, my shoes came off [ did you know stilettos are held together with a pin at the bottom? Neither did I till I saw an X-ray of my own shoe]. My soles were tickled to detect whatever it is that they look for, and then my belt came off. They requested me to unzip and unbutton my jeans [ still in full public view] and requested I put my hands behind my head.
6 am in the morning and my hip hugger jeans have slid below all dangerous thong levels, revealing to delighted viewers [voyeurs?], vital stats of the unmentionables. I am bare feet and cannot pull up my jeans, what with hands clutching my hair and not my pants. Then my chest goes off. No really, I was wearing a locket but it fell in behind the tee-shirt. I didn't take my shirt off but had to wait 5 minutes while the lady put on her special gloves and in full public view, again, stuck it down my non-existent cleavage to pull out the chain and locket. I was only kidding when I said I liked girls.
Coming soon: New York - Part deux.
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