MY DAY

For those of you wondering what I've been up to and why I haven't posted a blog entry for almost two weeks, I will tell you. My friend Annie commented that my blog was very "thorough". Get ready for some thoroughness!

I now have nine days of teaching at Primrose School under my belt, and all together I teach about 200 different kids every week. Of those kids, four of them are named Anne, Marc, Maria, and Jennifer. The rest have names like Logapadmanabha and Charumathy. My day begins by catching the big school bus with the kids. We all crowd into the open-air bus, little kids sitting on big kids' laps, and whizz down the street with the driver on the right and a second man with his head out the window to conduct traffic on the left. His job is also to open the door and hoist little kids up the stairs. It is LOUD! This bus has quite the horn, and it must be used at all times. It is difficult to have a conversation on this bus, so I opt for staring out the window. I like watching parents race up to the bus via motorcycle so their child can jump on board. Yep, if you miss the school bus there's always a chance to catch it given the laws of Indian traffic.



This is the first year Primrose has an intercom system, and every morning they play "Mother's Music" for a few minutes while the well-trained students sit with their eyes closed and meditate. IMPRESSIVE. More on the Mother later but real quick: Basically she was this rad lady who is now a very holy spirit that watches over all of Pondicherry and makes it the special place it is. Her music is her very old voice speaking inaudible words of wisdom over new-agey harpsichord drones on a keyboard. Mother used to hold flowers and feel their energy, then she'd give each one a name. The mother said a primrose's energy was "growth". Therefore the school is named Primrose. My first period is free, which is nice, because I have time to get all my materials together for the day and sort out what I'm going to do and in what order.

So, out of my Zen meditation and into the Kindergarten chaos that is UKG! Here I sing nursery rhymes to 4-5 year-olds for forty minutes. Let me tell you, you realize how short nursery rhymes are when you have to sing them for forty minutes. I suck it up and be a good sport, because this is not something I particularly enjoy doing. But once I've jumped into the pool, it's not so bad. The school asked me to do this because they want the kids to start hearing English from a native speaker while they are just beginning to learn.... ok ok. I take batches of 10 at a time to a separate room and I pray that none of them gets injured under my supervision because some of these kids are CRAZY! They do not come when I say "Vanga! Va Va Va!" (Tamil for "Come come come!"). And they do not come when I yell, "Come come come! Sit down!" I'm at a loss. I have to periodically pry children from the window bars that they are climbing up. This week a little girl was standing on a table less than a foot off the ground, did a 180, and bounced on her head. BOUNCED. She didn't even cry, just looked a little stunned. NO MORE STANDING ON THE TABLES! Too bad they love doing this. "Jingle Bells" is by far their favorite song, it is always requested, and they shout the chorus at the top of their lungs. Christmas everyday in UKG!



Onto my English class with 4th Standard, 8-9 year-olds. This is my smallest class, a batch of only 11. The fourth standard is divided into 3 batches, and there were instructions to give me only the "Nice smart girls and the quiet shy boys", as 4th has a reputation for being a bit naughty. I love my 4th standard. They are the first class I memorized all their names (Abirami, Kadambari, Hari, Hussein, Siddarth, Shakti Ragov, Raguveer, Oviya, Mridula, Sandya, and Pooja!) They are getting very good at following the rules I laid down for them: Do not shout, "Miss miss miss!" when you raise your hand and want to say something. Do not interrupt the teacher when she is giving instructions to ask what the instructions that are coming out of her mouth are. Bring your English notebook to class, not your Tamil notebook. You do not need to ask permission to enter the class room. You do not need to stand up to read or answer a question. They think I'm an alien from outer space and they are so eager to please! We love each other.

Next, I get so sing rhymes again, this time with LKG, the 3-4 year-olds! Basically, same gig as UKG, only these kids are a little more confused. A few of them are starting to sing along to "Inkle inkle iwil saaaaah...." I requested that I needed more time to prepare for my classes, so I do this only on Mondays and Wednesdays.

I go drink some tea from a thermos while the other teachers go to the kitchen to have their "buttermilk" break. We get a tea break in the morning and afternoon for five minutes. It kind of rocks. Except, I can't get used to buttermilk-- curdy salty liquid cheese at room temperature. It's supposed to cool the body. Once it's not 100 degrees, we'll start drinking tea instead in the morning.

Lunch with Sunita in the teacher's lounge. We usually sit in exhausted, introspective silence together. Sunita is my buddy. She is also a new teacher, and teaches English to 6th thru 9th. We relate to eachother, and plan 6th's curriculum together.

After lunch, 5th standard English. This class needs the most attention, but I really love them too. I'm going to stop naming names, but there's this one boy who has the biggest loudest mouth I've ever encountered for such a little person. His voice is deep, raspy, and kind of like a trumpet. I need to reprimand this kid for constantly gabbing, but I love the sound of his voice so much I kind of like it. He is also hilarious. 5th standard loves playing hangman. All Saturday they were begging me to play it until I wrote on the board "We will play games at 1:05". No matter how many times I repeat myself, there will always be a kid who asks again. This writing on the board thing seems to clarify. I just point to the chalk on the board. No more questions asked. They were so excited about playing games that they just couldn't settle down. So at 1:03 I stopped class and made them listen to the silence. "Ah? Do you hear that sound? Listen! Shhhh!" I got them to all listen to the silence for about 50 seconds. Then I asked, "Who likes this sound?" They all raised their hands. We are starting to understand each other. Hangman commenced.

Then I have 6th standard Art! These kids are probably my favorites, mostly because I have them for two periods in a row and I get to really know them. I feel like you can learn a lot about a kid by watching them draw/create for an hour everyday and seeing what they produce. I love it. The first day I gave them the project, and for the next 45 minutes they sat in silence, totally engrossed. I just walked around watching them in awe, giving words of encouragement. We made name rangolis and oragami. They're great. Pictures of art to come.

So then I have the 6th for English and we have a lot of fun together. Their English skills are a bit more advanced, so they understand me better and we can move a little quicker allowing time for more games and stuff. I think this class will really take off as writers this year, I can see the room for growth and what I can teach them. Exciting exciting!



Tea break. Milky caffienated sugar, into my bloodstream.

Then 7th music! Also a high point of my day. This class is special because Leslie's niece was at the school two years ago and taught them how to sing in tune. Therefore, it is my job to mold them into a choir by the time the year is up. It is do-able, they can sing! I have a crush on this class. We have started with "A Tisket A Tasket", "Yellow Submarine", and "Goodmorning Starshine" from Hair. They love all of these songs, so I'm glad I know how to select appropriate music. I've been handwriting sheet music so I can play these songs in the right key on the keyboard... yeah. I showed them clips on Youtube of Ella singing "A Tisket", and they were totally enchanted, they wanted to watch it again and again. I also showed them "Yellow Submarine" and "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds," which is this gorgeous psychadellic animation from the movie that I thought they'd really dig. Unfortunatley, all the dancing women kicking up their legs (CLOTHED) were just too much for these conservative kids to handle. Oh jeez. "Haven't you watched the Olympics? Gymnastics? Dance shows on TV?" I apologized and told them I wouldn't show them something like that again. No songs with kissing or love mentioned. No dancing girls. Check.

Twice a month I teach photography and soap making (don't ask...) to the 9th standard, the "old" and "special" kids. Fourteen-year-olds! Rad. I won't go into too much detail, but yesterday I showed them a bunch of photos in the projector room taken by two of my photographer friends-- one in Brooklyn, one in Bangalore. I made them talk about the pictures, compare, contrast. They seemed quite interested, no straying attention spans. This type of art and thinking is new to them. I think they were a little confused at all the talking you could do about one photo. It's hard to tell, but I think this class will be a good one.

FINALLY, once a week I teach yoga to the 6th thru 9th standards. The kids were buzzing about it all week, asking me questions every day about yoga class. Example: "Kate Miss, we have to be sure to do this in yoga!" Then the student promptly got into lotus pose to show me nadi sodhana, alternate nasal breathing. "Marc, we will be sure to do that one, just for you." So much to smile over with these kids. In the end, yoga class came to 60 kids. While waiting for the bus and talking to a parent, my friend Dhinesh tapped me on the shoulder to inform me it was actually 61. I prepped the 6th and 7th standards by saying "Ok, when you get to yoga class I need you to sit down right away and be quiet, so you can set a good example for the older kids." This seemed to work pretty well, I was amazed. After a few minutes of settling we had an auditorium chanting, "OOOOMMMMMMMMM". Wow. They rigged a microphone for me, which was kind of bizarre to get used to as I was trying to demonstrate all these asanas while holding it. Indian kids have pretty weak arms, so they had a hard time with plank and chataranga. I egged them on by saying, "Hey come on, if I can do this with one arm, you can do this with two!" That got some of the boys going. We might just have some buff kids by the end of the year. One of my sweet sixth graders came up to me after class to say, "Kate Miss, that was really lovely." Oh my. :)



The bus ride home: Almost always there is a 4-year-old propped up next to me taking a nap, tucked under my arm (to keep him or her from flying forward as the bus lurches around). The wind dries the sweat on my face as I gaze out the window.

Yoga on the ocean and tender coconuts

I have a really nice morning routine. I roll out of bed at 6 am, put on some clothes, and jump on my bicycle to go the beach road where I have yoga class. The roads are very peaceful at this time, and you can cruise down the street enjoying the morning breeze without the blaring horns. I share the road with a lot of ox-drawn carriages, and pass sleeping rickshaw drivers. In less than 10 minutes I get to the ocean and it is swarming with people in their tennis shoes doing their morning walk and calisthenics. I love it.





The yoga class itself I find a little bizarre, but I have a feeling I will still learn something from it. More importantly, I enjoy being in a beautiful studio in front of an open window with a view of the rolling waves and fishermen out to sea. So I do these asanas, while breathing deeply and meditating in the early morning sun. I really enjoy how my teacher often reminds us to “Breathe through a smiley face”. So we are a class of all these smiling people with their eyes closed holding poses while listening to the ocean. We purify our chakras by doing all sorts of things I've never done before, including swaying back and forth like you are waltzing, jumping up with your arms and saying “huh!” multiple times, and speaking in tongues. I am an opened minded person so I go along with all of this with a smiley face. It certainly makes me feel good, and this is important. I will look into the philosophy behind all of this, and will let you know what it is all about. In the meantime, I am still looking for an Iyengar teacher in Pondy. But that does not mean I will desert my spot on the beach!

On my way home, I stop at the tender coconut guy's stand (a pile of green coconuts on the side of the road), to get some coconut water. It is really hot here and coconut water helps cool your body; it's totally natural gatorade and full of electrolytes. The coconut dealer picks me a coconut from the pile, skillfully chips off the top with his machete, and carves a little hole in the top for a straw. When you are finished slurping, you hand it back to him and he hacks it open, chipping away part of the shell so you have a spoon to scoop out the tender meat. Then you throw it in the discard pile! 10 ruppees. 20 cents. One young coconut in the states can cost you up to $3! (NYC prices.) You can only get tender coconuts before 8am. After that, the dudes wearing longis and carrying machetes disappear and you are SOL.

Indian Coffee House, Nehru Street

I wanted a masala dosa. These lentil and rice crepes filled with spicy potatos and served with coconut chutney and sambar are delicious. You can find them everywhere, but some places are better to go to than others. My colleague Vidya told me a great place to go was the Indian Coffee House on Nehru Street, "very famous", she said. I told Leslie this is where I was planning on going and she said, "Agh! That place is so old and run-down! It was there when we came in the '70's, and it was run-down even then. Why do you want to go there?" After these words, I knew this was exactly the dive where I wanted to go.

Many of these authentic Indian eating spots are sort of like canteens with bare tables and plastic chairs. There's not too much going on other than people eating food, and you know the good ones by how busy the place is. Sort of equivalent to an American Diner. Indian Coffee House was the place to be on a Sunday morning! It was hopping with people who were sipping their sweet milky coffee and eating dosa and idli.



It seemed to be the fashion to spill your coffee on your saucer and drink it from there. Most Indians drink their coffee in little metal cups which are quite hot when full of coffee. Therefore you always have a second metal cup so you can pour the coffee back and forth to cool it. This also froths it in a nice way. I was guessing that the saucer phenomenon was branching from this tradition.

So the dosa was quite yumsters, and served with TWO types of coconut chutney! I'm going back, next time I go I'll drink from my saucer.

Learning how to bicycle in Pondicherry

On my third day in Pondicherry, my principal Jareena handed me a 2003 edition of “Experience! Pondicherry,” as a welcoming gift. This was the same day that Leslie gave me the extra bicycle she had laying around, a dark green cruiser built like a tank that I became immediately attached to. I was still learning how to cross the busy streets here, which takes strategy. The best way I've come up with to describe it is this: crossing the street here is more like crossing a river with a swift current. You sort of go with the flow with all the other trucks, rickshaws, pedestrians, motorcycles, cows... and hope you come to the other side with your head still above water.

In my “Experience! Pondicherry,” guide, I was drawn first to the “Street-Smart Travel Tips”. Here is an excellent diagram on how to turn right (like turning left in the U.S.), that I thought was especially helpful. I had no idea how one was supposed to accomplish the feat of turning right. This diagram gives you a sense for the “river current” phenomenon I was trying to explain, as well as the general order to an Indian street:



So you have to get in the right lane to turn right. As my book states, “Why on earth would you be trying to turn right while staying in the left lane?”
“Experience! Pondicherry”, also has these nuggets of wisdom:

“The three basic principles:
1.Bigger rules smaller.
2.What I can't see isn't there.
3.It's my way on the highway.”

These are meant to help the newcomer understand the mentality of the other drivers on the road. Also very helpful. I am getting very good at adapting these principles as my own, which means eliminating peripheral vision and only focusing on what is in front of you. Biking in New York for years was good training.

In my experience thus far there seems to be one exception to the rule, “Bigger rules smaller.” Pondy has one famous elephant named Lakshmi. She is the official temple elephant, and for a few ruppees she will bless any passerby by raising her trunk. Lakshmi does such a good business, that she can afford three full-time workers to take care of her: feeding, bathing, painting her face, etc. One afternoon I had the pleasure of passing Lakshmi on her way back to the temple after her afternoon repose. The streets here are pretty narrow, and you really get a sense for how big an elephant is when you are squeezing by on a bicycle. Here's the impressive thing: cars and other vehicles slowly waited behind her. There were certainly trucks and buses that were bigger than Lakshmi, however, she got the priority. “Bigger rules smaller,” in Pondy unless you are Lakshmi the elephant, and then you trump all.

Car Puja

Me and the boys went to the neighborhood temple, and to our surprise a band was parading down the street heading our way. The temple on a Wednesday afternoon was a happening place-- the band procession was part of a wedding, and there was also a new car and motorcycle waiting to be blessed. Eventually the priest came out with the goods, and the family gathered around their car. The puja began. I'll try to remember all the elements of the ceremony:



In the beginning, the head member of the family and the priest decorated the hood with flower garlands. I remember the priest painting a prayer on the windshield and the hood with his finger. I remember a coconut was split by the priest pounding it on the pavement in front of the car, coconut water was spilled, and the car keys were put inside. Incense was lit. Many prayers. The final act was by far the best, and worth waiting for. To cast off the evil eye, one lime is placed in front of each wheel, wedged in the crease where the wheel meets the pavement. The head driver takes the keys from the coconut, and the family processes to the temple exit with the priest. Then, the car starts and rolls over the limes with an incredibly satisfying pop.... Better than fire works, I swear. The only things that remain are four splattered limes in the shape of a rectangle. I explained to Chetan that some members of my Catholic family spiritually protect their cars as well. It's not nearly as dramatic as the Hindu tradition, they just put stickers on the dashboard of Mary or Jesus that were blessed by the priest. Same concept.

BANGALORE! Pre-monsoons, disappearing trees, chai, and pan

Once I walked into Nimish and his mother Promila's home, I knew I was finally in India. It was the smell that hit me first. The smell of a well-kept South Indian home is a mixture of old wooden furniture, cooking oil, moth balls, and some foreign perfume or detergent that I could never place until I got a whiff of some beetle powder-- pan. Yes, I was back in India! It was fantastic to be in the hands of old friends. Being a house guest in India is a very special experience because guests are considered to be gods; I was offered the best room in the house, ate many delicious home-cooked meals, and was given abundant rest, something I greatly needed.

Bangalorians pridefully call their home, “The air conditioned city”. I was expecting May in India, even in Bangalore, to be sweltering and humid. I was prepared to be dripping all day long. Well, I spent three days in this city and I never broke a sweat. The monsoon was scheduled to hit Kerala early, and Bangalore was already getting late-afternoon pre-monsoon rains. This cooled the city off a great deal. One afternoon we were caught driving when the downpour came. It was a sight to behold! Motorcycles plowed through gushing water and were pushed sideways, people were up to their calves in murky water, and visibility was about 30 feet.

As my visit to Bangalore was coming to an end, I told Nimish and Chetan that I just wanted to walk to a coffee shop to spend the afternoon. The old, beloved coffee shop on MG Road where we used to go had been lost in the new construction jumble, and MG Road was hardly recognizable anymore with the subway being constructed and many big trees cut down. My friends were devastated by this. Nimish said, “Bangalore will be known as the city that committed suicide. Other Indian cities are already looking towards Bangalore to know what not to do.” It's unfortunate that Bangalore wasn't allowed to grow naturally; it simply exploded and things were built much too fast. Many of the gorgeous old trees that line the streets are alive and healthy, however trees are lost everyday. With the new road construction, they are cementing around the trees, leaving no water to get down to the roots. Oh Bangalore, the Garden City. Many citizens are protesting, but my friends explain that the politicians are pretty corrupt so few people are hopeful.

So, afternoon coffee. Nimish and Chetan put their heads together. Walking meant staying in Koramangla, so we headed out with a destination in mind. When we got there, I reflexively recoiled and blurted out, “Ah! The music is horrible!” We had walked into the McDonalds of coffee shops and it was like walking into a glaringly bright room after being in the dark. This place was playing loud electronic dance music and no one was there. My hosts looked disappointed-- I felt like I had insulted them. “Sorry guys, this just reminds me so much of America. I was expecting something more authentically Bangalore.” Unfortunately this was the new authentic Bangalore, and seemed like the perfect place to bring a young American. “I really liked the chai place on the street where we went yesterday....” So OK, it was time to be a real local. Chetan always knew how to sniff out the perfect chai vendor, so we went down a quiet side street to find our spot. Three happy kids sat down in front of a metal garage painted with the stripes of the Indian flag.

As we drank our chai, Chetan and I played the “What details do you see game?” This is a fun game for two filmmakers, one in their familiar surroundings, and one on a different planet. He noticed how the neighbors locked up their nice motorcycles. I noticed the old man with the new tennis shoes, how the chai place hung their “local phone” sign with a coat hanger from a nearby tree, and the demon masks strategically placed on each home.

On our way back, Chetan stopped at his favorite pan dealer. This man's shop is a tiny little closet on wheels. He sits inside smiling with white hair, dark skin, and milky cataracted eyes. His little storefront is dark mahogany and sells all sorts of tiny things-- I think cigarettes, amulets, and matches were amongst his wares, but I was too mesmerized by the making of the pan to notice. So the pan guy takes a beetle leaf, emerald and thick and shiny, and smears all sorts of things on top of it: saffron in some sort of oil, beetle seed powder, cardamom pods, seeds that made Nimish a little dizzy, some sort of flower blossoms, and little dates. He gave me a small fingerful of these dates, and as he sprinkled them in my hand I noticed how his fingers and the creases around his nails were stained deep red with pan. In my mouth the dates went without too much thought. These dates tasted like they had been soaked in menthol and perfume. I asked the guys if I was supposed to swallow them. Yes. Mmmmm, pan.




After this beautiful little thing has been made, the pan dealer swiftly shapes the leaf into a cone, then wraps it in a layer of plastic and newspaper. Usually the receiver quickly unwraps it and shoves the whole thing in their mouth. You slowly chew on all the flavors, spitting out red juice when you are finished. People are addicted to this stuff. Chetan explained to me how Indians are experts in the nuances of pan like some people are experts in wine. There is an art behind pan-- like cheese, cigars, or coffee. People get really picky about the ingredients and how they come together to make a particular taste. Connoisseurs have little silver boxes where they keep all the ingredients and throughout the day they will roll themselves their own special pan concoction suited to their tastes. Mmmm, pan. Do not be taken aback by all the red marks on the streets-- it's just spit. India reeks with the smell of this stuff, it's the smell I remember most.

Prague to Cesky Krumlov, True Story -- 5.3.09

Hlavni Nadrazi

Sometimes I go to the very last train platform to sit on the empty train
that says it's going somewhere, but it never leaves.
I go towards the back of the train, open the windows, take off my shirt,
sit down and let my back stick to old burgundy vinyll,
leaving a sweat mark shaped like a silver birch leaf.
It is quiet like a fairground on a Monday.
People have been here, made a mess, left,
it's been cleaned up and now there is nothing but cotton floating
in and out of the windows like bits of old conversation. Sometimes
the trees in the distance blend into the scenery and they are mistaken
for puffs of smoke moving away from a chugging train but then you notice their trunks
and they are standing still and then they look like lollipops,
which is such a cliché, and there are two ducks here who act like they own the place!
They keep flying in and out of the river to say hello!
It is getting cool. A man comes to bring me a blanket,
and he tucks it around my lower back, then leaves without saying a word.

Berlin -- Boxhagener Platz -- Eve of May 1st

My host extraordinaire, Dagmar, told me to meet her at Boxhagenerplatz in Friedrichshain. I knew May 1st was a big anarchistic bash with lots of parades, protests, and riots, and knew that something would be cooking in Boxhagenerplatz. However, I was not prepared for the crowds of punks, squads of police, big dogs, and riot tape that greeted me. I saw Dagmar and said, "Dagmar what is this?!" And she replied, "Dis is da most punks in da Vestern Vorld!"


Indeed it was. There was certainly something in the air, and everyone was waiting for the first stone to be thrown. Despite the fact that police searched your bags before you entered the main square, overall it was more like a big block party. There was heavy loud music, lots of beer, and people enjoying the tradition.

Nothing major happened, although it was fun to see this annual ritual, a gathering of punks and police. Dagmar predicted everyone was saving their energy for the main day tomorrow; due to the bad economy, the city was expecting some big brawls this year. I got a pretty awesome pamphlet that read, "Communism, Yes we can!" The rest was in German and gave details for the parade tomorrow. We just sort of watched the scene while drinking beer, eating falafel, and joking how I could be the first socialist yogini.