One of the things I like to have the students do is look up images of words they will hear in the movie. We are watching Jacob the Liar, which is set in a WW2 Polish ghetto. They looked up images of concentration camps, ghettos, star of David, swastika, tanks, Hitler etc. I have them email me the images so I can put them together for review.

Here’s one of the images of Hitler:

"Hello Hitler" to be precise. HA!

I am working in a program called "Focal Skills." They (they who made up the program probably) say that students learn up to 35% faster in this type of program than in the more popular types of programs such as Intigrated Skills or some such.

So I've spent the last month working in the beginning level of the Focal Skills program, Listening. How do you teach someone to listen? You may be asking. Well, you're asking, I'm asking- it's a darn good question. The main method is to give the students what is affectionately known in the TESOL community as i+1 communication.

It goes like this. I pop in a movie. We watch a few seconds of the movie. I hit pause. I ask a bunch of yes/no or short answer questions. Things that are pretty obvious. “Does the boy have a flashlight?” Well, it’s obvious to you and me, but if you don’t know what a flashlight is, it is certainly less obvious. They say yes or no, or they look at me blankly. I point to the screen, “Flashlight.” I pretend there is one in my hand, I look for something in the pretend dark. I write flashlight on the board. I summarize the scene we just watched. “The boy is looking for something. It’s dark. There’s a storm outside. There’s no electricity.” I point, I act, I make sound effects. Big fun. I turn the movie back on and go through the whole thing again after about a minute.

That is i+1. “i" is what the student can understand already. They know “dark” and they know “storm.” I give them +1 “flashlight” and “electricity.” I give it to them so it’s not so hard to be discouraging, but not too easy to be boring (I hope.) I help them understand the dialogue in the movie by making it simpler and pointing specific things out.

I’ve done three movies this month. 1. Groundhog Day- that was my “this is how you do it” one. I got help from another teacher. 2. National Treasure- that was my practice one and 3. Jacob the Liar- that is my second practice one. I will continue to have practice ones until I decide to do one for a second time.

Students: they do say some pretty funny things.

The other day in class:
Me: Does anyone know what “disgusting” means?
Student1: I know, it is a small dog, long.
Me: Ummm – (what the . . . ) No.
Student2: No, she is thinking dachshund. Disgusting is . . .

Me: She just called my dog disgusting! humpt!

Louie goes for the ears

Louie and Buzz

Louie goes for the camera

Louie the Yorkie

Buzz and his LOVER

I was going to Wal-Mart Tuesday. I needed a new skillet. I thought about asking to take my friend’s car, but then I thought, “Why would I? My car is fine.” I took my car. It’s funny how each little decision can change your personal history.

I went to Wal-Mart. When I got inside, I realized that the lotion that I bought a few days before, which I wanted to return, was still in my car. I thought about going back out to get it before I started shopping. I decided it was too hot to go back outside. I thought “I’ll bring it in when I take this stuff out.”

I bought the things I needed, and looked around at things I didn’t need. A trip to Wal-Mart is hardly ever just in and out. When I went back to the car I put my new purchases in the back. I saw the lotion I wanted to return there, and some bags that I wanted to recycle. I thought about taking them in, but I decided that I would certainly be back to Wal-Mart soon. I’d do it later.

I wonder if I had taken my friend’s car if things would have been somehow different.
If I had taken the lotion in and returned it, and recycled those bags, would those few minutes have changed what happened on the way home?

Maybe not.

On the way home I was driving down Abram Road. My light was green. I saw a car coming toward the intersection. It looked like it wasn’t going to stop. Too late I realized it was in fact not going to stop. I slammed on my breaks. She saw me. She swerved.

Accidents happen in slow motion.

My front passenger side hit her front driver side. The speed limit is 35. It wasn’t a hard impact.
In both cars the majority of the damage was that the fenders were bent down and rubbing the wheels.

She was a young woman. “It’s not my car! It’s not my car! I don’t know what to do!”

I tend to be very calm in these situations. Some people think it’s because I’m in shock. I think it is just how God programmed me. Some people react calmly to minor emergency. Some people react calmly to bigger crises.

My dorm room flooded once in college. I freaked out for about five minutes. Then I realized I could shut off the water myself. Three inches of water on the floor later, crisis averted.

When something life threatening happens around me, I understand the seriousness of it, but the fact that I have avoided the danger makes me immediately happy. I want to laugh. “I made it!” “Thank you Jesus!” Sometimes I do laugh. This makes people think that I must be in shock. I may be, but I don’t think so. Usually after something very serious happens I like to play a game of chance. Just to see if I’m still lucky after the event; the lottery- or some such game. I never win, but I’m not sad. At least I’m alive to play.

She didn’t know what to do. I said, “We should move the cars out of the intersection and exchange insurance information.”
She said, “I don’t know what to do, it’s not my car.”
I said, “Do you want to call the police?”
She said, “It’s not my car!”
I said, “Go ahead and call them if you think that’s best.”
She called them. They told her to move her car out of the intersection.
I moved mine too.
They came, bent our fenders away from the wheels. They made sure we exchanged information, asked us if we were alright.
They didn’t ask what happened- they didn’t care. No questions, no reports.

She says her light was green. Well, of course- it wasn’t her car.

Now my car has this scrunched up expression.
It has this sheepish half smile.

D says it looks like it has some sort of palsy.
My car is handicapped.

We are waiting to hear back what the insurance companies decide. I don’t have comprehensive, so I’ll probably end up paying for mine.

I’ve already starting obsessing about a Z just like mine on E-bay. The bidding started at $500. It doesn’t run- but I just need it’s parts. I hope nobody bids on it! It should be mine!

I went to a ballet a few weeks ago. I intended to write about it directly afterwards, but well, I’m a slacker.

The Metropolitan Classical Ballet (of Arlington) presented two world premieres for the season finale. “Jeux” and “Joaquin Murieta.” “Jeux” or “Games” en francais was what I expected from the ballet- slightly abstract, interpretive and let’s face it- a pointless story.

“Jeux” from what I understand: There was a blonde tennis player flitting around on her toes hitting imaginary balls when a man in tiny white shorts came out to “play” with her. They ran around for a while, he chased her. Of course he caught her because he had the unfair advantage of actually using his whole foot while she had to tip-toe away.

Once he caught her, a brunette tennis player came out. He was distracted. She ran around looking cute on her toes. He chased her. She tip-toed away. Then he chased the blonde- she let him catch her- the brunette looked jealous- the blonde looked as smug as one can look while standing on her tippy-toes. The brunette enticed him with her obscenely long legs. He dropped the blonde and ran for the brunette . . . it went on like this for a while. In the end- I’m not sure what happened. I think I blocked it out.

If I had written it, however, the women would have both picked up their tennis rackets and beaten him severely with them and then tip-toed off stage prettily leaving him and his balls to play games by themselves.

“Joaquin Murieta,” on the other hand, what like no ballet I have ever imagined. It was one of the most bizzar spectacles I’ve ever paid to see.

The story was easy enough to follow. There was a young man (Joaquin) who lived in Chili. He wanted to make some money (to get married, or to provide for his new wife? I’m not sure, but it surely was something about the woman.) So when he heard about the California gold rush, he went for it. When he got there, things went oh-so-wrong. The California cowboys didn’t like how successful Joaquin was, so they took his lady and gang-banged her. She couldn’t stand the idea that there was a rape baby inside her, so she killed herself.

Joaquin, of course had to confront the evil cowboys. Let me point out at this time that the cowboys where in full dress, hats, jeans, flannel, vests, chaps etc. Joaquin, however was wearing a flouncy shirt and tights. It’s dang hard to look tough in a flouncy shirt and tights, especially when your enemies are wearing jeans and flannel.

In the end Joaquin dies. Quite dramatically- death comes and seduces him in a totally creepy and disturbing way. That is by far NOT the most disturbing thing about this ballet. Here are some other disturbing details, and a short description of quite possibly the MOST disturbing scene in ballet history.

1. As I said, it was a ballet, but for some reason the music was all 70s Rock Opera style. I kept expecting the “Jesus Christ Superstar” disciples to pirouette on stage snapping their fingers and singing “What’s the buzz, tell me what’s happenin’? What’s the buzz, tell me what’s happenin’?” and “When do we ride into Jerusalem? When do we ride into Jerusalem?”

2. The ballet was set in Chili and moves to California. I would have made sense to me if it had been in Spanish- cause it was set in Chili- or English cause it was also set in California (besides the fact it was world premiering in Texas.) But instead, as it would make sense to ballet fans (perhaps) it as all in Russian. It wasn’t just that the words were Russian, but the Chilean folk dances looked strangely Russian to me . . . and the music . . . like a Russian disco- or so I would imagine a Russian disco. I understood what was being said because there were “superscripts” above the stage. But I get the feeling all the superscripts were translated and typed up by a Russian- one who couldn’t spell in English.

3. There was one entire scene about a shooting star. She had an iridescent-glow-in-the-dark costume. It would have been okay if she had danced as he shooting star, but instead she was carried around by a troupe of male dancers (what do you call a male ballet dancer? a ballet-er?) all dressed in black, even over their faces so that they would blend into the back drop. It was all fine except for their very white hands showing up so cleverly under the black light. The hands were distracting me and the hand offs where much more awkward than it would have been if they had just let her dance for herself.

4. Finally, the gang banging scene- voted by me MOST disturbing of all things ballet. I knew it was coming when those bad cowboys busted in on her. It could have easily been implied and not dramatized at all- but they went ahead with it instead. There were five cowboys. They chased her, and caught her, because once again, they could run on their feet, while she had to escape on her toes. The picked her up, one on each arm and leg, one cowboy laid down and the other four thrust her up and down on him like she was no more than a bed sheet. She was just flying around like she didn’t have any bones at all. One would finish and take the other one’s place at the arm or leg so the next cowboy could get his turn underneath. It was not nice. In this case ballet is not always pretty.

Afterward we went to talk to one of the dancers. She did not hide her opinion that the owners of the company had chosen the worst ballet they could find to end the season hoping that the turn out would be so bad that the investors would get their money back. She didn’t care, she had found a new job with a different company.

I was just reading in Psalms.

Here are some things I noticed and liked-
Sometimes reading in Psalms can be a downer- all that bashing babies heads against rocks and woe-is-me the enemy is crushing me and why aren’t you helping out Oh God?! Then the very next chapter is “Praise God! He’s great! He’s done some really great stuff! He’s always there for me! Yeah!”

I suppose sometimes I forget that Psalms was written by lots of people for lots of reasons and unfortunately I am currently too lazy to go and try to figure out what was going on when each one was written. I get the sneaking suspicion that they are not in any kind of chronological order- I don’t know what kind of order they’re in, but I like them.

It’s not hard to figure out why Psalms and Proverbs are often included in New Testaments. There is really a Psalm and a Proverb for every mood and occasion.

In Psalm 90 the author is all – “God you’re really great- you know everything. You know we humans are nothing, just grass, just a sigh and you know our secrets and our sins- “Your anger is a burden each day we live . . .” Then verse 12 “Teach us to use wisely all the time we have.” Let us celebrate what we do have- and what I really liked about it: “Make us happy for as long as you caused us trouble and sorrow. Do wonderful things for us.”

That’s pretty bold- You caused a lot of trouble for me- so now please make me happy and do something great!

What causes God to give us sorrow? Trying to get us to know who he is.
What causes God to give us joy? Letting us Know him when we seek.

“Our Lord and our God,
treat us with kindness
and let all go well for us.
Please let all go well.”
CEV

In Bangalore, I missed the monsoon.

It rained once or twice, it drizzled and sprinkled and spat, but it was never what I considered a monsoon- not even a light monsoon which was the actual promise. When I got back to TX I got my rain. The “Summer Storms” are all over the news. This is the TX monsoon- it comes once every two or three or five years. I don’t find it unpleasant at all- I would give 75% of the time I’ve been back to rainy days. Rain- dark clouds threatening skies, ominous thunder and lightening across the sky- 25% bright sunny hot, shiny summer days.

Everything is green and lush, and all the rivers and streams are high- too high in fact. The news weather report has started including “saturation levels.” They let us know how much it was rained, how much more it will rain, and how much longer we have before the ground is so saturated with rain that flash floods will come and sweep us away. Lawns have turned into swamps, people have been evacuated from their homes; cars have floated away in rivers that used to be city streets. People have been rescued and people have drowned.

The signs on the highway have changed their blinking messages from “Click it or ticket,” to “Turn around, don’t drown.”

I’m not tired of the rain. I like the rain, the cool of the evenings, the smell of the wet soil. I like the sound of the water rolling off the roof and splat-tat-tattering down to the driveway. I like the bubbles that form on the surface of the puddles when the fat drops hit. I like the concentric rings that bounce off on another when the bubbles pop. I like the sunshine that breaks through between storms.

This is a good monsoon.

I’ve been looking for a job in the DFW area- so far no luck. This is the problem of being an ESL teacher- nobody knows how many students will come, how many visas will be granted, what will happen between now and August in the international political scene that will change everything- will they freely grant all the visa requests? Will they say half of the students who have been accepted are national security risks? Who knows?

Everyone I’ve talked to are either filled up or can’t tell what they might need until August. The problem, of course, being that I’d greatly like to have a freaking job by that time.

I’m mostly ruled out international jobs on account of I hated the last one. Poor reasoning perhaps, but I found one on the beach in Mexico and well- Mexico isn’t THAT foreign is it? AND it is ON THE BEACH. Is it a nice beach? This shall have to be ascertained before I even consider taking the job.

This would not be the job that helps me pay off my student loans as I was hoping to get at this point. This would be the job on the beach which has completely different benefits.

Benefits:
It’s on the beach
I could possibly learn Spanish, which would defiantly be useful
The pay isn’t great, but most likely enough to keep up with my student loans
It’s on the beach
Did I say it’s on the beach?
There is also a Walmart (!!) How bad could it possibly be if there's a Walmart?
Tacos will be cheap

I have not been very agressive in the job hunt- sigh- why can't I just get the first job I apply for?

I did apply for a pretty nice sounding job at DBU- they haven't gotten back to me.

Heck!

The many moods of Buzz:

"NO! I don't want to have my picture taken! Leave me alone! And I hate this shirt! I look fat in orange!"

"Oh fine! Go ahead and take it then, but I hate you for it."

"Hate, hate, hate . . . stupid orange shirt . . . "

"Ok, take the picture quick, I'm not going to look this cute all day!"

"Still hate you."

For those who have asked, everything’s fine.
For those who haven’t asked, everything’s fine.

Buzz and I have been enjoying the easy life of mooching off of people who actually have jobs. It works like this, if you let me come stay with you I’ll do house chores and make cookies for you . . . I’m thinking rice crispy treats and laundry . . . maybe chocolate chip cookies and vacuuming . . . Buzz will try not to pee on your stuff and will sit around looking cute. He will also bark at anyone who dares come to your door (including you) and will look longingly at your food while you eat it.

I bought a car- so far so good, but I’ve only used one take of gas. It’s a 1986 Nissan ZX300. What does that mean to me? It means it’s a hatch back and I like hatchbacks.

It’s a sports car that was on the road before I hit puberty. It does not have a back seat. It’s not supposed to. It’s a silver-ish sort of color.

It’s a manual. That particular feature mocks and taunts me, but slowly I am taming the beast.

It talks to me. It tells me things that I should already know- but have somehow forgotten. That would be a very useful feature if it told me all the things I needed to know but had somehow forgotten. But so far it’s only told me “Headlights are on.” and “Emergency break is on.”

It has T-tops, which sound cool, but in reality they only let the summer sun shine brightly down on my head and make me wish I had a hat on and squint my eyes. Squinting causes wrinkles. This car may make me wrinkly.

It has a cd changer, but I have no idea how to use it. It has a satellite radio port and antenna, but no satellite radio.

It was once owned by a man who made a living dressed as a clown who represents a major fast-food restaurant chain.

No- that’s not true.

I'm still having problems uploading my pictures- maybe some problem with yahoo at the moment-

I think I may have started a small riot on the way to work today.

I had a bag full of candy, pens and paper which I took to the squatter kids.

I walk by them everyday- usually theres tons of kids just hanging out playing in the dirt.

Today there was only one little girl and a baby. I walked up to her and gave her some candy- immediatly there were 20 kids yelling for more candy.

I gave them each two pieces of candy- taking care to open some for the babies so they could pop in their mouths- those older kids were vultures for candy- I was afraid the babies wouldn't get anything.

Then I gave them pens and pencils- they loved the pens and pencils, but were stragely not interested in the paper. I was thinking they go together but what do I know?

By the time I was down to just paper and candy I gave up trying to be fair. I threw the candy up in the air - handed the bag of paper to and older kid and walked away.

Two of the older boys who were there were not squatters, but just wanted some free stuff (and got some) decided to be my new best friends and walked me all the way to work- then I told them the guards wouldn't let them any further they turned around and went home.

Time for the lice shampoo now.

Anwar- my auto driver/tour guide took me all around Udaipur- palaces, gardens, monuments- blah-blah. But before all that there was Laxmi. The streets of Udaipur, like the streets of so many old cities are narrow and dangerous. Especially dangerous if there is an uncooperative Elephant blocking the way. Anwar turned to me and said, “That’s Laxmi” like Laxmi was an old friend.

I looked around Anwar’s head out the front window of the auto rickshaw and saw Laxmi- Laxmi it seemed wanted to go up the hill- Laxmi’s rider wanted him to go down- it was a battle of the wills. Apparently Elephants- or maybe just Laxmi don’t/didn’t have much of a will; and after a short discussion involving a stick with a hook on it- down the hill they went.

An angry elephant is not what you want 20 feet in front on you when your in no more than an over grown tricycle. I was glad Laxmi was kinda laid back that day.

After Laxmi my next animal kingdom encounter was even smaller, fuzzier and scarier. Anwar took me to this place where the Maharajas went to be buried. There were more than 200 enormous markers- and by marker I mean 2 to 3 story marble, dome topped gazebo looking things. Each Maharaja had his own and size had to do with importance and wealth- a few were massive- bigger than some houses others were more gazebo size.

As I was walking around I felt all alone in the world- obviously not a popular tourist destination- you aren’t really allowed to take pictures there- but for a mere 20 rupees the guard can be convinced. I was walking around taking pictures when I saw white people.

We chatted a bit and they pointed out the oldest and biggest dome- they said, “There’s a monkey in there- but he’s a black faced one so don’t worry.”
I said, “Oh he won’t bother me?”
They said, “No- the black faced monkeys are pretty tame- but the red faced ones are fascists.”
I said, “Oh- well over to the monkey I go then.”
I walked over toward the monkey/dome and the monkey poked his head around a column and looked at me.
Maybe I looked at him too long- but I wanted to be sure he wasn’t going to do anything crazy. I climbed the stairs slowly- the monkey kept his eye on me. I kept my eye on the monkey.

Once I got to the top he decided he didn’t like me and he bared his teeth and made a frightening monkey noise. I thought that was pretty fascist even if he was a black faced monkey.

I started backing up- then realized just in time that I was about 10 feet above the marble base of the structure and if I took one more step back I was sure to break my melon- then the monkey would probably eat my brain before Anwar got around to looking for me.

I took one more look at the fascist monkey and as calmly as I could walked down the stairs and away from the structure. I looked back once and the monkey was following me!

I started walking faster anywhere but where I was seemed good to me- unfortunately I was walking in the wrong direction. When I dared look back after a minute or so I realized the monkey wasn’t tailing me any more; but after wandering the entire parameter of the burial ground I realized I had to go back past the monkey spot.

Needless to say that was a quick exit- but no monkey sighting on the way out.

I told Anwar to take me back to the hotel and my new friend the bathtub.

I had seen enough of Udaipur.

Udaipur- the city of . . . why did I go to Udaipur again?

Udaipur the city of lakes and . . . elephants.

I wanted to go to Udaipur because I had seen these amazing- beautiful pictures of the Lake Palace. It is- as it sounds a palace built in the middle of a lake. It takes up the entire island, so it looks like a palace just floating on the water. It’s a nice effect- when there’s not a drought- which of course there was when I was there so it was more like the foundation of a palace floating in the lake- it was still really nice- no really it was nice.

But the elephants make a more interesting story. I had a cab from the train station to the hotel. It was my first overnight train experience and although it was better than I thought it might be- I still hadn’t slept much. I was all blurry eyed and dazzled by the heat.

We came to the foot of a hill where we ran into what seemed to be a mob/traffic jam. There was a big temple, a big elephant, a lot of white people and a classic car. It’s always some kind of weird holiday or festival in India so I asked if it was a celebration.
My driver said no, they were filming for Bollywood. Awesome- I got out my camera.

As we inched closer to the center of the scene the white people started dispersing and the classic car drove away- the elephant stood and waited. I looked at the elephant- he was close enough for me to reach out the window of the tiny car I was sitting in and touch him. I decided against it- but I could have. The elephant looked at me. They have surprisingly small eyes for such large animals.
I looked at him.
He looked at me.
I took his picture.
He stuck the end of his trunk in my window.
I squealed.
The remaining white people looked at me and giggled.
The elephant giggled.
I giggled.
The driver shook his head and put it in first.

At the hotel I had a short love affair with the bathtub.

In the afternoon I went out sightseeing- “There’s the lake- there’s the palace in the lake.”
I was quite possibly the worst tourist ever- the guide was so disappointed with me.
He said, “Oh- you’ll want to walk through the spice market.”
I said, “No- I don’t want to- I’ve seen a spice market before.”
He said, “Do you want to go to the City Palace (different from the Lake Palace) and see the museum?”
I said, “No- I’ve seen palaces and museums before.”

He was a good guide he told me all about the intrigue regarding the rulers the Hindus against the Muslims- Sons against fathers- it was all over my head. Maharaja blah-blah-blah- Mogul Shah-blah-blah-blah 300 years old blah-blah-blah- who can keep up?

Next time- on the monkey who chased me through the ginormous graveyard- and mention of Laxmi the friendly neighborhood elephant.

Come back tomorrow for inserted pictures in this and following stories- I haven't quite got them uploaded yet-

In Bangalore I can insist that the auto rickshaw driver uses his meter. If the first one won’t do it- I know the next one or the next one or the next-next one- someone eventually will turn on the meter. And even if he doesn’t I know approximately how much it cost to go to the places I frequent here in town so I can get a good enough deal.

In Delhi I had a basic idea- so when I was trying to leave Varanasi and the charges for getting to the airport were running anywhere from 800 rupees to 120 rupees- I knew which end was closer to reality.

I decided not to pay more than 300- I ended up paying 350 plus some imaginary parking charge which I should have told the guy to shove up his hole, but I didn’t. I got the oldest, slowest, ricketiest auto rickshaw in India to take me 25 kilometers to the airport. That’s a little more than 15 miles- it took an hour and a half to transverse.

It’s a good think I left the hotel way early-I was so ready to leave Varanasi I didn’t even care that I would have been sitting in the airport for three hours. Of course that was cut down to an hour and a half on account of the snail like pace of my auto.

At the airport the plane was late departing- but they told me when I got to Delhi (my layover) I would need to identify my luggage before they put it on the next flight. I asked what the process was and he said they would tell me in Delhi like it was some national secret. Since we left late, we got to Delhi late and I asked five people about identifying my luggage for fear that it would be left behind.

They all directed me to one man who indicated that it hadn’t been unloaded from the last (late) flight yet and that he would “Yes-yes I’ve got it I’ll take care of it no problem.”
Of course I did not believe him, but I was ushered to my next flight anyway.

In Bangalore I stood in front of the luggage belt alternating between deciding what kind of scathing remarks I was going to make when I talked to whoever was in charge and trying to be positive and assume they really did take care of it.

Eventually an airline employee came to ask if I was waiting for my luggage . . . why yes that was my general stance here in front of the luggage conveyer belt. He dashed off to get a cart for me- before I could tell him 1. I didn’t think it was really coming and 2. if it did come it was only two small bags so I didn’t need a cart.

In time the airline guy also realized my luggage wasn’t coming. As I had expected my luggage didn’t make it on the plane with me. To my surprise Kingfisher had already placed it on the next flight to Bangalore and it was due to show up in an hour. They were even going to deliver it to my door- except my phone was dead and they wouldn’t be able to call me to get directions and I left my house key in my luggage so I couldn’t get in anyway- well I could have but it seemed easier to just wait at the airport.

When my luggage finally did come- Kingfisher drove me home.

Those Kingfishers are good birds after all.

One day in Varanasi-

I tried to make it more like a half day, but Kingfisher was not cooperating. I will, however, be flying out tomorrow afternoon- two days earlier than previously planned. (YEAH!)

I was way pissed last night when I got here. First of all, my train was four hours late getting into the city. “What can we do this is Indian Rail?” was all my cabin mates had to say. I had some pent up fury which got released upon the front desk man here at hotel Sai Shiva or wherever the heck I am.

I tried to call the hotel I had booked when I got into the city, no answer on the phone. I got an auto and attempted to follow the instructions on how to find the hotel from the website. The auto driver was not cooperating. He took me not where I wanted to go, but where he wanted me to go and the problem was that it was dark, I was in a strange (stranger even than I thought at the time) city and both he and the guide book recommended against walking alone at night.

We ended up here and I was mad. Not because here is any worse than where I wanted to go, but because I just knew the driver was getting some kind of commission for bringing me here. I tried to call another, different hotel, the phone lines weren’t working, there had been some kind of storm earlier that knocked all the lines out.

I asked to see the room here. It was ok. I asked how much it was. The price was ok. The desk man asked how many nights I was staying I said, “one.”
He said, “you have to pay for two.”
I said, “Why would I pay for two if I’m only staying for one?”
He said, “It’s the rule.”
I said, “That’s a stupid rule, why do you have it?”
He said, “I don’t want you to stay only one night here and other nights in other hotels.”
I said, “But what if I won’t want to stay in other hotels? What if I want to leave Varanasi tomorrow?”
He said, “Then you can stay one night.”
I paid for one night.

At that point- well, to be honest at every point along the way leading up to that point I had already convinced myself that if at all possible, one night in Varanasi was more than enough.

I got up at 5:15 this morning to take a dawn boat ride on the Ganges. It wasn’t as awful as I imagined it. It’s much wider than I thought, and there wasn’t a smell at all. Nothing- that’s weird. It didn’t smell like sewage or death- it didn’t smell like fish- it didn’t have a smell. We rowed past all the ghats. It was early so it wasn’t so busy- the “Burning ghats” were just getting swept clean of yesterday’s ashes- the people on the bathing ghats were still sudsy and the songs were just getting started on the temple ghat.

I half heartedly took a bunch of pictures and set a banana leave bowl full of rose petals out into the water for a “blessing.” I may have negated the blessing by not including the candle . . . but I decided to keep it because it was kind of cute.

After the river trip I came back to the hotel for breakfast and to talk to Kingfisher about changing my flight. Then I was taken on a tour of temples in the area. I went to the monkey temple- where you cannot take pictures because once Pakistan bombed it. 17 people and uncounted monkeys died in that attack- and they don’t want it to happen again.

One thing about Hinduism is that the temples are always lively. From dawn to late at night the temples are going. There are people playing instruments and chanting- others are praying, meditating, reading scriptures- walking around fending off hungry monkeys, giving offerings- giving themselves the marks of the pious- All the daily activity of the temples make American Christianity and Christian churches look pale.

We accumulate so much stuff for our buildings, we have to lock them up so nobody takes the stuff- but nobody can come in for prayer, meditation, worship, reading, praise or fellowship. In that way the temples have us beat.

I also saw the “temple you should go to if you are in love” and the “temple that is too holy that no not-Hindus people can go there.” I saw the former from the outside only, on account of my non-holiness.

The driver commented that I wasn’t excited about it all. Little did he know how not excited I was by it all.

Then I went to see how silk was weaved, by hand- now that is crazy intensive work. Weaving a carpet- ok but weaving a silk sari? By hand?! I’ve heard of it, but I guess I always thought they were kidding. They weren’t. I walked through a house- the first room had a man feeding his goats in it. The second room had silk looms. And I have pictures of a guy throwing a shuttle of thread back and forth through the silk cross threads. It was pretty amazing.

So I bought a few pieces of silk just to show I appreciated seeing how it was done.

I was done by 10AM so I took a shower and laid around naked in my room in which the electricity had gone out. It was stifling hot. By noon I couldn’t take it any more so I went out into the city- I found an Israeli restaurant and had some falafel. I found a café/bakery called “Bread of Life” some kind of missionary thing- I noticed they were serving “chilli con carne (veg).” I don’t know what that could possibly mean. I hung out as long as I could before I just had to come back to the hotel.

Here I am- counting the hours until I leave “vacation” and the days until I leave India.

I made it to Varanasi- the train was four hours late. Varanasi is the last stop on my "vacation." I'm supposed to be here for 3 days. I think I'll try to change my flight to leave out tomorrow afternoon. If at all possible I will be doing nothing in Bangalore for two days instead of doing nothing in Varanasi for two days.

I have a dawn excursion planned for the morning- I'm feeling pretty confident I can see all I need to see of Hinduism's holiest city in a span of 6 hours.

Kingfisher Airlines, don't let me down!