In which I am sick

Spent the entire day being sick sick sick. I woke up in the middle of the night desperately thirsty which was difficult to remedy since I hadn’t turned my heater on, so it was *cold* in my cottage. I was moving a little slow in the morning, and I didn’t think too much of it. Then I noticed that I was working *really* slowly. Also that I was freezing cold to the point where I could not stop shaking.

I took some vitamins and curled up for a catnap on top of my sewing which resulted in getting stabbed in the boob by a pin.

I ate the bare minimum at meals, sat in the sun for a while, and curled up under a blanket with a cat and a movie. Fell asleep. Woke up, now sweating. Woke up because the blasted children from the Diksha class were knocking on my door wanting to know the cast for the new play I adapted last week. I didn’t know who was playing what, but I refrained myself from giving them the knowledge that I *do* have, which is that most of the girls crowded around my door aren’t in the new play. I vaguely told them the characters, but not the plot, which seemed to be enough for them.

More movies, more napping. Woke up freezing again. More tea. More attempts to eat. My head is still very fuzzy, so I don’t know how I’m going to feel tomorrow.

I either have the flu or malaria. Here’s hoping it’s the flu, although I’m probably the most likely candidate for malaria to ever enter India.

In which there is Christmas

Christmas. Oh Christmas. In India.

I always feel funny around Christmas. I won’t elaborate too much on that point. If you’re really curious, just read any of Greg’s holiday notes. Festive.

I’ll just talk about what happened.

Even though it was Sunday, Christmas Eve was a work day, since there was some shooting that needed to be finished that hadn’t gotten done the day before. So, the first half of that day was spent sitting in the theatre (trying not to freeze) and taking the continuity notes.

After tea, I spent the rest of my evening doodling gift tags and wrapping the gifts for people I don’t know that Nisa and I had bought last week. (Have you ever tried buying gifts for about 30 people you don’t know? Yikes.) There was a bit of a break to watch the television premiere of Dehra Kids (which involves pretty much everyone here), which was fun even if they aired the wrong episode. It was in Hindi, so I couldn’t follow the dialogue, but the story was the same as that old chestnut about the girl who has magic ballet slippers that make her dance better only to find out that it wasn’t the shoes, but self-confidence making her dance better. The difference was that it was a boy and a magic cricket bat. The magic bat had a dragon on it, which is pretty magical. I’ve decided I need a cricket bat. It would be a humourous Sex Pistols reference if I end up tour managing.

After a much later dinner than usual, I set up my heavy metal sewing machine to quickly whip up some bedding for this doll bed that Yashna was getting the next day. I measured and cut a bunch of stripes to make the quilt more interesting and...... I couldn’t get the damn machine to work. The bits that are supposed to move the fabric along as you sew weren’t high enough. (Later, I found out that there’s a knob you can turn to fix that. Jeh.) Instead of trying to fix the machine, I decided to stay up even later, pop a movie in, and hand stitch a couple pillows and a sheet with lovely contrasting thread. All while dealing with my cat’s determination to eat either the thread or the needles.

Sleep had never been so welcome.

At some ungodly hour in the morning, my phone started ringing. I stumbled out to answer it, and it was dad, wishing me a Merry Christmas. I told him to call back. He did in an hour, when I was just as unwilling to wake up, but figured I needed to since my breakfast had appeared in that time. So I woke myself up while talking to my family about the same old things. I was barely awake, but I could see the logic, this being my first Christmas away from home (an event which I’ve always been curious to experience). Also, my brother moved to Montreal last week which is interesting, albiet confusing. After, I showed Jalabala the doll linens, vaguely mentioning the machine problem. While (finally) eating breakfast, I watched the Slings & Arrows episode that’s kind of Christmas-y. Well, there’s that whole tree-trimming sequence of scenes that are just lovely. Oh, and I also discovered that Boards of Canada did a kick-ass remix of Beck’s Broken Drum.

Bathed, then adorned myself in non-Christmas colours in order to wear a cotton dress I picked up a couple weeks ago. It was the first time I tried it on, and I was surprised to find it fit perfectly. Maybe I did get a little fat this year. Meh. It was for a play. I fussed around for the rest of the morning trying to make calls to Japan and California with absolutely no luck. I did have a lovely Christmas e-mail waiting for me from Toronto which was a bit of help.

The main event of the day was the big Christmas lunch. I was having one of those days where I simply couldn’t socialize, so I sat in the sun on the periphery of the festivities and worked on some knitting in between eating delicious food and delicious desserts. I made polite conversation with people who talked to me, high school students for the most part who assumed I was around their age (I’m guessing because of the clothes) until they heard my accent. Heh. *My* accent. Anyways, as is always my position here, I was either quite a bit older or quite a bit younger than everyone.

It was interesting to see these people who I had helped pick out gifts for (and then carefully labeled and wrapped). There was one guy who looked like a cross between Colme Feore and Ben Kingsley (which equals awesome) who had been described to me (while gift shopping) as a guy who writes poetry.

Oh, there was a tree. A little, three foot, non coniferous potted tree covered in enough tinsel to create a Charlie Brown effect. You can’t really have gifts without a tree to put them under I guess. There was no singing of carols though, for which I am grateful.

Quiet afternoon, as is my preference. I finished sending out Christmas e-cards to people back home. If you didn’t get one it’s because I lost interest in the task almost as soon as I started it.

In the evening, the Shetty’s invited me out for late dinner with them so I added myself into the already overfull car. On the drive there, I saw a camel. Just walking down the street by himself. That would be the moment that made my day.

Dinner was at a restaurant in Habitat House (possibly Habitat Place?) called Delhi ‘O’ Delhi. The building was designed by an architect that I’ve heard of, but I’ve forgotten the name already. Nice lines at any rate. Dinner was a buffet deal which meant I made a meal out of delicious Indian appetizers. I like meals consisting of appetizers. There was also delicious Kingfisher (also an airline) beer. I felt a little awkward drinking considering that four out of the six people I was with were under sixteen, but then I drank enough for it not to bother me. Always a good role model, I am. Then, I saw a sign mentioning something about it being illegal to serve alcohol to persons under twenty-five. If that applies to the entire country, I am going to be pissed (but not literally).

On the very late and very long drive home I discovered that homes (possibly apartments, but probably houses) have no yards at all, but have beautiful, wonderful, lovely architectural features on their doors, window, and balconies to make up for it. Which led me to think about Dave’s and my outrageous plan to devastate the world. I’ve said too much already.

It was so late when I finally got home, and I was so tired that I just crashed into bed only to be kept awake for another hour by my cat absolutely wailing because she’s in heat and didn’t get to snuggle with me at all in the evening like we usually do (and are doing right now).

So that was my India Christmas. Woot.

PS. Please make the following change: Caramel custard is the NEW most delicious thing ever.

In which I hate children but love care packages

I got my first care package today! From one of my All-time Favourite Roommates (quite possibly the one that tops that list), Deb! A lovely large Canada Post envelope arrived during lunch, and I did the polite thing of waiting until afterwards to open it. Holding it in my lap, I was fairly certain of the contents. My guess what confirmed when I opened it and found a Christmas card (of the humourous variety, of course), and a happy, yellow folder jam-packed with drama activities for kids! Best Care Package Ever. Well, considering present circumstances with my luck teaching these kids.

I might as well take this opportunity to tell you about these kids. Every Friday and Saturday, from 4-7pm, there is a kids program (maybe eighteen in total?) where they study dance, yoga, drama, music, and put on performances for parents every now and again. My arrival with most of a drama degree means that I teach the drama section.

Here’s the main problem: the age range of the kids in the class is four to fourteen!!! A system which I’m hoping to see rectified. Anything easy enough for the young ones to grasp is boring for the older kids. Anything that would be good to teach the older kids, the younger ones can’t grasp. The younger ones have a very basic grasp on English and I speak about four non-relevant words of Hindi. Every Single Child (except for maybe five of them) are Absolute Holy Terrors. I get them right after they’ve had their break, so they’re all geared up from running around outside. They’re more concerned with coming up with smart remarks (or in the boys’ case, hitting each other) than coming up with even the simplest ideas. As simple as naming animals. Seriously. And, of course, once you turn nine, you’re too cool for school.

I’m supposed to be teaching them to be funny as a result of me mentioning (*one* time) that I’d studied clown and then not having a chance to elaborate that it had only been for a couple weeks. Instead, I’m attempting to get them to tap into their imaginations (which is harder than it should be considering they’re KIDS) and create skits out of their available brain resources. I’m also trying to teach the older kids how to encourage the younger kids and help them fit into the activities. Haha. Hahaha. Fuck.

If you knew me back in my days of teaching at day camps (Deb *lived* with me for *both* of those summers), you know that I don’t particularly enjoy teaching children. I just don’t think I’m that good at it. I have an endless resource of patience (surprisingly), which is useful. And I’m pretty and wear cool earrings, which kids always like. But these are awful, loud, disobedient children. Constantly. Every other week, someone gets slightly injured (no blood, just some tears) because they do something unbelievably stupid. No matter what teacher they have (unless it’s Jalabala; she can make them somewhat behave). I think I’m too gentle and friendly. People say ‘kids will be kids’. I say ‘fuck that’. I was well behaved with my teachers as a child. My brother was. My best friend was. I’m sure many of my other friends were (although some of them probably ate dirt or paper). The only thing that’s better over here (versus teaching in Canada) is that, if a child persists in being naughty, I *can* punish him. Nothing extreme (clearly). But I can make them sit out for the rest of my class or stand in the corner. I’m scheming an appropriate punishment for the kids that won’t shut the damn up. And yes, like the WRCM days, I do play favourites a bit.

This is why I tend to stay in on Saturday nights and Sundays. I’m *that* tired afterwards. As the weeks have gone by, I’ve noticed that my time with these kids keeps getting longer. What started off as a half-hour class is now often closer to an hour. Plus I now have to stick around for their rehearsals, since I’m (conveniently) doing their stage management, set design, prop wrangling, lighting design (and operation), music orchestration, occasional choreography, musician training, and sound design (and operation). Each week, something new is added to the list.

Then again, having to build a movable steam engine (big enough to fit about 10 kids) out of cardboard and rolling carts will keep me occupied during the rest of my work week. Jeh.

All of this is why I’m SO Eternally Grateful for Deb’s wonderful Christmas present. I just hope to GOD that these games will work. In the next five months, I should be able to teach them *something* right? RIGHT???

My Christmas is now that much merrier. Woot!

PS. If you said you were planning on sending me drama activities, please continue to do so. Over the years, I *keep* ending up with these kinds of teaching positions, so I might as well continue to build up a resource base. The universe continues to try to convince me to teach, but refuses to give me any talent for it.

In which there is music

Tonight was Gilad Cohen (or you can substitute the name of any other Jews I know) tribute night. The Israeli embassy was hosting a classical concert featuring their own musicians. The highlight was the fact that this Israli virtuoso was combining his piano skills with a tablas player. Which is a fantastic idea in theory (reminding me of several years ago when DJ’s realized that spinning with a live drummer rules), but needed a little more rehearsal time.

The Rachmaninov pieces were too short. I like Rachmaninov. The Debussy was impossibly French (in a good way). The Brahms had the addition of a string quartet and was a significantly longer piece. More people to look at, more technique to enjoy. Brahms did a very nice thing when writing this one. He gave each member of the ensemble a chance to carry the lead at certain points. This is rare for the viola, which I have always felt is an underappreciated instrument. It helps that the viola player was cute.

I hadn’t been to a classical concert in...... over a year, but I think less than two. Attending them makes me sad, chiefly because I chose to quit my own performing years ago which is a decision I question often (there was nothing I enjoyed more in high school). There is a whole language of emotions that a musician will communicate to their audience, made all the stronger if the performers are fully committed to their performance. (I know this sounds like acting, but it’s *not* the same thing at all.) All of the performers tonight were fully engaged with each other, and they were *enjoying* themselves. You would see them smile, savour the notes they were playing, and appreciate the notes others were playing. Music *must* be a team effort, or it will sound terrible. (These guys sounded quite good).

The addition of an intermission (and a bar) would have been greatly appreciated by myself and probably other members of the audience. Still, the audience disruption was minimal, albiet more entertaining than usual. Only three cell phones went off, but there was a old man sitting in the front row who was constantly hoarking up what must have been *massive* amounts of phlegm. I just figured that maybe he had stomach cancer or some equally unpleasant old-man illness that required him to constantly spit. Noisily. Oh, there was a guy who entered the auditorium, crossed the front of the audience with great purpose, and then started speaking to someone at a volume slightly above normal. He was *actually* trying to talk *over* the music. The audience made quick work of him. The musicians seemed amused, although I’m sure there was part of them that dislikes people like that. Who wouldn’t?

Addendum: Those of you that know Gilad are probably wondering how the hell a classical concert can be aligned with the Family of Pain (tm). It wasn’t really. There was no rye. I just saw Israel and thought (fondly) of Gilad. The only moments of tonight that could be associated with the House of Pain would be the fact that I set off a metal detector (as I *always* do) on the way in, and the pianist would occasionally punctuate the end of his playing with duel “Immediately” hands.

In which there are (finally) monkeys

I *finally* saw a monkey. Several monkeys actually. Roaming the streets and climbing gates like small, hairy hoodlums.

Miranda House musings

Today I went to a lifetime achievement award event at Miranda House College. Jalabala was getting an award, and invited me along for what I'm assuming is a fairly obvious reason. (The NAME!!!) There were many references made to The Tempest. Clearly. It's a rather nice college. It reminds me a little bit of SJU. Except all women. It also has a larger campus with cooler buildings. All of the speakers were women who rebelled against convention, were (coincidentally) interested in drama at some point in their lives (if not the entire time), and had led rich and full lives. Someday, maybe it will be me. Probably.

There was also delicious lunch afterwards. Mmm. I never know what I'm eating, but it's all vegetarian and delicious. I plan to get very fat.

I kind of miss snow, but I don't miss being cold.

A family friend was supposed to visit me this weekend and show me around Delhi a bit. Then she came down with Bell's Palsy (Holy shit!)/ So, I'm not getting that much needed help finding my way around, which means I *really* need to figure out this mess of a city on my own.

I *could* look into an offer I got earlier this week about making plans for the weekend, but after teaching, I'm just tired. I really REALLY hate teaching these kids. They're insane. Dinner, movie, and knitting for me tonight.

In which she makes the journey to India (and talks in the third person, just because)

(She writes in the third person here because she is always very distant from herself when travelling.)

Someone (probably Brendan) told her that when Greg was flying to Germany, he got to the point where he wished the plane would crash just so the flight would be *over*.

This is what she thought about while packing (the night before of course) for a trip that was more than twice as long.

There were issues checking in at the airport due to overweight bags and only being about 80% organized. Flying out of Montreal in the dark and the rain, which was absolutely heartbreaking. On that flight she was able to sleep most of the way, waking up for food and part of X3.

There was a layover in Amsterdam between flights, which was longer than expected. The airport there is unnecessarily awesome. She spent most of that time wandering around, checking out the art gallery (only the Dutch would put a gallery in their airport), and stopping for a snack (figuring this was her last chance to eat brie).

The second flight was longer and contained more people. Almost as if to make up for the length of the flight, the staff continuously fed the passengers and offered that neat little luxury of personal video players. Too well rested from her first flight, she spent the time writing and constantly watching movies that she hadn’t seen yet (A Prairie Home Companion, the second Pirates of the Carribean, and most of Nacho Libre). Despite the cinematic action, she couldn’t help watching the landscape rush by underneath her, wondering what country or body of water she was over. When the light pollution became dense again, she knew she was about to land in India, later than she was supposed to.

After waiting in the longest line ever (and spying on middle-aged Europeans) to get though customs and claim her luggage, she walked out after midnight and found someone waiting for her with a sign. The journey to the car was filled with beggars, stray dogs, and really cute black taxi cabs.

The drive to her new home was an adventure in itself. Drivers in India are a whole new level of crazy. No signaling, driving between lanes, and constantly having to avoid pedestrians and stray dogs (on the highway). Still, they made it to the theatre safe and she was deposited in her cottage.

Once there. She made tea, unpacked until four in the morning, and fell into bed, just happy to have a bed to sleep in and to be on solid ground once more.