Learning How to Be (Fashionable)

Remember how I told you I’d try to improve my less-than-stellar blogging habits? Well, I think in order to do so, I’m going to need to take a new approach. As it turns out, merely trying to do better just isn’t doing the trick. So, I’m going to try to do this by topic instead of time. Hopefully spouting random thoughts about random things will be a more interesting and less intimidating way for me to record some of my perceptions about some of my experiences here. And this way, you won’t have to hear about anything mundane, because let’s face it – if I start thinking things are getting mundane, I surely won’t be able to hide it in the way I record it here.

So, after that riveting introduction, let’s go.

Last I left you, I thought I was getting settled. I thought I had bought myself the beginnings of an Indian wardrobe, I thought I was having no issues with the food, and I thought I had nearly mastered crossing the street. From arguing with auto drivers, to even being able to pronounce the name of a place well enough to argue in the first place, I thought I was making great strides; and indeed, I was. But, you know those times when you’re hiking and you’re so concentrated on watching where you’re walking that you’re totally surprised and awed by the view from the height you’ve accumulated? …And then you look up and realize that you’ve barely reached base camp? I think that’s where I am now.

It’s been a few weeks, and though I haven’t actually written anything in those few weeks, I’ve done a lot of thinking about things I wanted to include in my next post. Well, in the time that it’s taken me to actually bring this all to the keyboard of a computer, I’ve already undone just about everything I was going to brag about doing. Remember all that clothing I bought? Well, despite that it was all either large or XL, I couldn’t really fit into any of it. Even the best fitting kurtas that I actually wear have me strapped down so well that I could probably jump rope without a bra. So, I went to the tailor to have the XL kurtas let out in some places, and the XXL kurtas taken in around other places,  and she just looked at me and laughed. Apparently all this effort had gone into buying the worst quality clothing I could have possibly found in the city. Even the “nice” salwar kameez fabric I had so proudly picked out was apparently expected to fall apart soon after it was made. So, I bought the beginnings of another new wardrobe after getting acquainted with all the wonderful high-scale malls that make up my neighborhood. Good thing the past few weeks have also been sale season.

The savvy shopper I am (or once thought I was), I figured out all the best department stores having all the best sales on all of the essentials. Now, that’s not to say everything actually fit me well, but I was just really proud that the tops seemed like they were shaped to fit real people. But, here in India, people care about more than just tops – my roommates here consistently encourage me to also wear bottoms when I go out in public (crazy, I know). So, reluctant as I might be, I’ve looked into this whole “pants” business everyone seems to like. The good news? Pants here are quite possibly the least flattering but most comfortable things I could cover my legs with. Not only do I own more leggings (and jeggings) than I ever owned in elementary school, but some of them are more obnoxious, bright, and/or shiny than even 5-year-old Tasha could have imagined in her wildest dreams.

To counter the super elastic leggings, we have jersey and cotton balloon pants (think Aladdin) that are probably more comfortable than any pair of pajama pants I’ve ever worn. They are though, one of the most peculiar styles I think I’ve ever tried… pretty much all of them are tied with a drawstring at the top, right above a good six inches or so of material that is basically a nice little cylinder, below which the “balloon” part is formed by pleating enough material to fit my entire torso into one pant leg. The idea, then, is that you tie it above your waist, let the cylinder part cover your stomach, and then have it balloon out right below your bum. The upside? One size fits all. None of this large/XL business to deal with. With the drawstring completely un-scrunched, these puppies three of me inside. The downside? Imagine the immense amount of scrunching to be done with such giant pants. That’s kind of an unflattering thing to put under a shirt, or kurta, or whatever, no matter how loose it is. Moreover, that seam between the cylinder part and the pleated part doesn’t always fall in the best place. The other day, I inadvertently ripped that very seam halfway through the day (and in public). I have never been so grateful for long kurtas in my life. Miraculously, I managed another 5 hours or so of meetings, work, and walking around in public without anyone noticing, despite the fact that this hole was a good three inches long.

Alright, we’ve made it to the last style of pants here. We’ve gone over the form-fitting leggings, the ballooned out Aladdin pants, and as is always the case when comparing two opposites, I’d like to conclude by a nice compromise between the two, which is probably the strangest style for me. I, with my western upbringing, am used to pants that are generally more form fitting at the top, and less so at the bottom (yes, this means that I still mostly look down on skinny jeans). The thing is, at least skinny jeans are form-fitting all the way through. Here, the compromise between super skinny and super baggy is not a little flare at the bottom (unless you’re about 13% percent of the male population here who sport intense bell-bottoms). Rather, imagine the giant top of the baggy/pleated pants, and try combining it with legging-like bottoms. Now we have tight, skinny cotton (i.e. NOT elastic/comfy/stretchy) from about your ankle to knee, where it starts to balloon out, getting bigger and bigger until you reach the top. At least if I ever need a diaper, nobody will ever know the difference. But wait, we’re not finished yet. The style is to bunch these pants around your ankles, which means that when you hold these pants up, they look like they would only fit someone 7 feet tall. See, you think I’m exaggerating, but my pants of this style come up to my neck.

…So, as you might imagine, I’m still a little perplexed by this whole “fashion” business. When I got here, I thought more glitter and shine was automatically better, and shopped accordingly only to find out that no, that’s just as unclassy as I could have suspected. It also fit me poorly and is now full of holes though, so it’s just as well. I’m certainly learning, and most of this seems to make sense to me… If I like how it looks, it’s probably fashionable enough, and if I like how it feels, it probably fits well enough. But then I’m left with these pants that go up to my neck and leave me diaper space. …Should I keep an open-mind, or follow my intuition here? Maybe I’ll just wait to see what style I rip most, and go from there.

Day 1 (Plus or minus a month)

First blog post.

For those of you who weren’t following the visa debacle, here’s a brief overview of the important bits:

I was supposed to come to India a month ago, but my visa was denied. I went to the consulate in San Francisco where I was told, in more words, to go away and not come back. I hung out in San Francisco for the month until I was allowed to re-apply, and then re-applied, got the visa, and promptly flew out two days later.

Highlights from San Francisco include martinis, making tentative plans to live in San Francisco at some point in the future, SF Pride, a crabby British lady who was also staying in the apartment where I was couchsurfing, and a vacuum cleaner that smells like parmesan cheese when you run it (this I discovered this when the lady seemed to think I was housecleaning service). Generally a successful way to spend the month (even if I wasn’t allowed into India at the time).

The flights here all went well, except for the fleece I left on one of the planes. Good thing I shouldn’t actually need it here. Somehow I managed to get a free seat next to me on two of my three flights. The man sitting next to me between Hong Kong and Chennai, though, was a little odd. He seemed like a perfectly friendly, harmless man; my intuition was that he seemed like a good person. Buena onda, if you will. Well, after a short conversation and some excellent airplane saag paneer, I decidedly started to sleep, and he decided I needed help, and gently but firmly put one of his hands over my eye mask, as if he was holding a washcloth to my forehead. Turns out it was touch therapy, and apparently he worked (or so he said). Whether or not the therapy was for him or for me, I don’t know. But, again, he didn’t seem like a creeper, and I still got to sleep, so no harm no foul. After I borrowed his pen later to fill out immigration stuffs, he had me keep it “to remember him by” and I thought to myself, “I will forever remember you as the man who touched me on the plane”. Then, as I realized how that thought sounded out loud, it simultaneously became clear to me that I had just ensured that that title would be cemented in my brain for the indefinite future. I guess I must be traveling again, no?

Before I came, everyone I talked to had prepared me for India. Not just India, but India. “Be prepared for crowds,” they had told me. Not just crowds, but a certain lack of personal space that apparently unique to these local norms. I was referred to books that described the near-apocalyptic reaction that occurs when you step off the plane in India. I was told that I should be prepared for indescribable poverty. True, I may have lived in the slum in Kenya, but this is India we’re talking about. Here there is Indian Poverty.

So, I was prepared. When I stepped off of the plane in Chennai, I expected some sort of “pow”. It didn’t come. Then again, it was also 1:30 am. Perhaps this Indian assault on your senses only occurs between certain hours of the day. Maybe it’s asleep right now, along with any sensible person on this side of the world. During my brief jaunt outside between customs and re-entering the airport, I saw a few dogs, smelled a few piles of trash, heard a few beeping horns from a nearby traffic circle. I saw plenty of color and sequins in the small crowd waiting for arriving friends and family, but nothing too overwhelming.

Considering my brief intro to India that had been Chennai in the wee hours of the morning, I imagined Hyderabad would be a mad-house by the time I arrived at 7:30 the next morning. I was wrong. In stark contrast to the smelly, dirty, unkempt Chennai airport, Hyderabad’s airport might just be nicer than DIA. I don’t know… I can get over Denver’s lack of tropical beauty, but surely we have at least one fountain to match Hyderabad, don’t we? The gorgeous airport again postponed the India that I was sure to find waiting for me just outside. On my way out, I was offered a cab, who tried to charge me three times what I was told my maximum accepted price should be (as a white foreigner, mind you). I laughed and told them what I would pay, they told me that for a small car, I could pay slightly less, I gave my response again, and they let me move on. They were perfectly content to wait for the next foreigner to pay them exorbitant prices, and let me go quite calmly, even wishing me well. Even outside, nobody tried to grab my bags from my hands, nobody pushed me around, and within two minutes I found someone willing to take me for my requested price. Had I made it to the right country? Surely the India everyone else had visited must be some other place.

As it turns out, Hyderabad’s airport is located a few kilometers outside of the city, so it took us a while to get into the thick of things. On the way to my flat, I saw a few people defecating on the side of the streets, but they did so in a subtle, appropriate (if such a thing is possible) sort of way. I saw crazy Hindu “tiny temples” as well, but the only thing that really woke me up to where I was was when my cab nearly got smushed between two giant busses. Adrenaline pumping through my veins, I thought of that bit in Star Wars where they’re in some trash chute that’s about two centimeters away from crushing them. I think they had more space than my cab did at that moment.

We arrived at my posh little (by which I mean really huge) apartment in Banjara Hills, the nicest part of the city. I share the flat with another American, Laura, and three Indian girls, Sneha, Ritika, and my roommate, Tanu. Turns out they’re all great. As in really, truly excellent. And, because I arrived after everyone else, I even got to miss out on part of the fun of all the logistical crap that goes into setting up an apartment through at least 4 different levels of authority and management. By the time I got there, I already had a bed on the way (sort of), a semi-automatic washing machine on the way, and a cupboard full of dhal, curry powder, and any sort of masala-related spice you can think of. Not bad for arrival day.  Of course, nothing actually works, everyone seems to want more money, and nothing can really get coordinated, but at least it’s all on its way to being together, in theory.

I spent a good hour and a half at a cyber café (no way in hell our internet will be working anytime in the next week, at this rate), trying to fill out a residency form (because clearly the Indian government needs me to answer all the same questions yet AGAIN and then make an appointment to give them all kinds of crazy, obscure documents that won’t seem to load on any computer), when I realized that I had left my passport at the flat. I found a phone, called home, and had a flatmate search through my things and read me all my visa information, only to finish filling out this form and find out that I had taken too long. Instead of submitting the form, it had reloaded.

My wonderful flatmates then took me to get a phone, which we finally purchased from the 14^th shop we visited. No joke. In order to get a SIM though, I need to submit another 8 obscure documents to someone, along with 4 passport photos. Good thing I had to go get more photos taken for all my other forms, anyway.

Early to bed, and awake at 5:00 a.m. for the elaborate call to prayer for Ramazan from the mosque that neighbors our building. But, no complaints; my bed was delivered safely (though they confirmed that I was supposed to have arrived a month ago – does this mean that if they knew I’d be here now, I wouldn’t have a bed for a while?), I slept through the night, and most of these strange, random hurdles seem quite do-able. This was my day.

Today was a tour with many of the other fellows, which was just about what you’d expect from a lot of foreigners all put into one place and sheparded around. Everyone seems pretty nice, worldly, smart, etc. Generally a good crowd.

I have appropriate clothes to wear, I no longer live in a backpack, and I get to spend my time in an awesome place with awesome people. I’ve decided I’m going to try to learn Hindi because I might actually be able to use it outside of Andhra Pradesh, and it seems to have a lot of words in common with Swahili. Moreover, all that practice learning to count in Farsi at the King Soopers deli counter will contribute as well! Telugu, the local language, may or may not happen, but it makes me smile every time I see it written somewhere, because it’s always so loopy and boisterous that they make me think of boba tea.

That’s enough for now, I think, but I’ll try to post again at some point in the near future. My goal is to surpass my 3-blog-posts-per-7-months record that I made in Kenya. Hopefully that actually happens this time.