The Arya Kanya Sadan

Sana, waiting for clothes to dry.

Prianka, 10, in her best clothes for Brother Day. She will see her brother for the first time in months.

Handing out chocolate on one of the volunteer's last day. 

On the balcony.

Between lessons. 

Angelie, 8, giggling at a word in English she doesn't understand. Angelie, together with her sister Rasha, also photographed, had arrived at the orphanage only a week before photo was taken. 

Conclusion

To the girls I'll never forget:

Himani-

A 12 year old girl with promise.
She escaped her strict Sikh home, where she lived with her father and sister. Not an orphan, she chose an environment where she would have a meal and bath on a regular basis.
She studies, always. Her tattered books with pages falling out are outdated, but she takes what she can get. The other girls look up to her. They ask her for advice and questions about homework. She tells the other girls to not skip their practice, prayer, obligations or chores. When I came to the orphanage, she was the first one to greet me. Not an adult in sight, she takes my hand with a broom in the other, and leads me to where I would be sleeping. She shoves the smaller girls out of the room and smiles at me. She shows me a written message on the wall from a past volunteer, it reads,

You may hate it here, but don't leave.
These girls will change your life.

Himani continues to sweep the floor and sighs, "All better."

Not to be named-
She's 20 years old- She leads me to her room and lisps, "this is my room. This is where I sleep."
She curls up on the mattress-less wooden frame and asks, "will you play with me?" I ask her what it is that she normally does. She doesn't answer and pulls out a tattered copy of Junie B. Jones. "Will you read this to me?" I begin reading but she becomes bored. She gets up and goes to the barred window. "This is all mine," she says moving towards her alter, with a picture of Shiva and a couple of beads. After, she goes to her closet and takes a key and opens up her closet and pulls out her folded clothing. "I folded this myself," she says.

After the first week, she disappeared. She had told me that her sister would be coming to pick her up, but no one at the orphanage believed her, so they never said goodbye. She had been there for years, but no one seemed to talk to her for the week that I was there. When I asked another girl about her, they flicked their hand and wrist away from their body, "oh well."

Angelie-
8 years old
She arrived one day before I got there. She wandered into my room one morning with a shy look on her face. Her hair was cut short and she owned two punjabi suits. She spoke no English, but she came right over to me and sat on my lap. I was fiddling with my camera, and she holds her hand out, asking if she can see it. My camera, an outdoor tough resistant camera, could handle abuse. I let her use it, clicking away at corners of the room and the floor. Click, Click, Click, she imitates. Her giggle, short and high pitched, followed every picture she took.

She then put down the camera on a shelf and squatted down on the floor. She stared down at the floor and fiddled with a piece of string. I asked her in broken Hindi what her name was. "Angeliieeee," she smiled.

Getting sick

I had a burger and it gave me food poisoning. Yes, the burger was only 40 rupees. Less than a dollar.

My friend looks over at me and says, “that guy is going to spit in your food.” I denied it. I didn't observe the scowl on his face, angry that I ordered the cheapest item on the menu.

The next morning I woke up with an upset stomach. I remained in fetal position for the larger portion of the day. Of course this is after I traumatized about four or five girls who were in our room looking for something of theirs. I was lying in bed, when I suddenly jumped up, ran outside and slipped in a rain puddle making me missing my target, a dirty old bucket. Everyone had followed me wondering what was going on before I had nearly missed their feet projectile vomiting onto the broken mexican tile.

Angelie and Anisha

Having witnessed me at my vilest, the girls at the orphanage were some of the most genuine, kindest girls I have ever met. While I did cause quite the scene, they were there rubbing my back, holding my hair and taking care of me. My roommate, Emma, went to the doctor with me and held my hand as I wobbled along. Himani, who is thirteen, gave me a Raki bracelet, saying that everything will be alright and that this bracelet will protect me.

We were given instructions to “be mothers”, but I truly think that they have more “mother” in each of them then I might ever have before I have children.

#

Getting a waterfall bath on a jungle hike.

Everything leading up the ugly scene on Monday was spectacular though. I was in Rishikesh, which is where the Ganges River begins, and is one of the more beautiful places I’ve ever been. The place where we were staying was gorgeous; it was right beside a hiking area and a stream. The town is littered with yoga studios, temples and pretentious backpackers who were making their way through Dharamsala, North India and parts of Nepal.

After being in Delhi and Faridibad for the majority of my time in India, where seeing white people is almost a novelty, escaping was refreshing. Many stores sold camping gear and hippie-type clothing. i.e. hobo bags and striped alpaca wool sweaters. It made me giggle, knowing that some of these places are selling the same things as the stores on Haight street in San Francisco, at a sixth of the price.

The water that ran through the top of the Ganges was clean, and parts of it even ran clear. People here seemed happier, more at peace and the dogs were slightly less emaciated. It was a small village, but it put me in a good place. It was exactly what I needed after having kids in my hair, for breakfast, lunch, snack time and dinner. 

The Indian Way

I have a certain fondness for the way things are done in India. The sway of the head that signals “okay”, or the way everything must be bargained down, or how I haven’t eaten raw food in far too long. India gives what you give in return. When I’m in a terrible mood, my surroundings are merely reciprocated and I’m given the same attitude that I give it, and I think “oh, I get it, time to change my attitude.”

Except, there is a strange omnipresent reality to Karma in this country, and there really isn’t any way to escape it. It’s only a matter of making the best of the situation. I understand that people are most happy in the places that they love, and that things more or less, go their way when they put on a happy face.

Yet in India, if you hate or dislike anything at all, the customs, the food, the way things are going for you, things will get worse, guaranteed.

It’s physically uncomfortable, it’s hot, people look at you like you’re stupid when you ask for simple things, there’s a enormous language barrier, and traffic is enough to give you a heart attack. If on top of that, you have a negative attitude and feel like spewing your awful mood like a lawn sprinkler, it will hit the fan and India will become the worst country you’ve ever stepped foot in.

I’ve been incredibly lucky that I haven’t gotten too sick. I don’t have the immune system of a bull, and I've haven't been careful and worrisome, but I have been making sure everything is sanitized and clean.

I’ve been relaxed, letting things come as they go, and absorbing anything there is to be absorbed. Some of my friends have not been so lucky, having to call in shady doctors who, for some reason, always end up giving them shots in the butt.

My friend tried to get off a bus, and it started moving before she could properly get off and now has a grotesque wound on her elbow.

My other friend has nasty rash on her leg from that scummy hotel in Jaipur, and a doctor told her she may have contracted herpes from the sheets.. on her leg. So far, I've only had a close call when I took my malaria pill on an empty stomach. Nothing too serious, just nausea.

Every day is a new lesson. It’s about adapting to the way things are. For example, there was no gas in the kitchen at the orphanage last night and this morning. How do the cooks react? They cook their food over an open fire that they built outside.

How do you react to no power for two days? Lots and lots of candles.

No water?  No problem, just use these buckets of water for backup.

I can best describe the attitude here when I was watching a seventy year old man cross a busy intersection in Old Delhi. He had no expression on his face. All he does is hold out his hand to gently ask a racing car to slow down. The car honks and eventually stops, but the man makes it across unharmed, but also unfazed.

I have never seen so many hard workers. In addition to the uncomfortable atmosphere, people will push themselves to the bone. What they do have at the orphanage is nothing fancy, but they make it work.

#

Bathing in the Ganges

I just got back from Varanasi, which is considered the holiest and the oldest city in India. It also has just about the vilest looking river I’ve seen in my entire life. Yes, the Ganges. I understand its holiness and beauty, but do people really need to shampoo their hair in it as well? It’s so strange; they’re cleaning the dirt out of their hair with dirty water. Not only do people do their laundry in this water, but they also have cremation ceremonies on the shore and send the remains out to the center of the river. In some cases, the bodies aren’t even cremated, just brought out to decompose in the city’s only water resource. Very sanitary.

Our overnight train ride to Varanasi from Delhi took fourteen hours. It was a sleeper train, and looked like it was running since the early 50’s. My bed was conveniently placed in the hallway at eye-level, where I could easily make eye contact with most of the passerby’s as I lay facing the hall.

The light switch was also on the wall next to my head and all night, those who were getting on were reaching over my head to flip the switch on or off. I didn’t get any sleep. When we arrived, the train station looked like a tornado had hit it. There were bricks and rubble laying everywhere, and people were sleeping in between a couple of the unused train tracks. We got off and a man dressed in white and a tie immediately started harassing us, “Where are you guys going?” and “I can get you to where you need to go” and “Madam Pleeeeezzzeeee.”

He is a man working for a prepaid taxi company. Why not?

Our driver was a character named Vinod. He had been a tuk-tuk driver since the age of fourteen. He had a distinguishing, deep off-colored scar above his left eyebrow. He expressively talked with one hand, while he maneuvered through the scary Varanasi streets with the other one. He asked me where I was from and I told him the US, and he asked me if I’ve ever heard of Denver, Colorado.

“I had a ticket from Delhi to Frankfort, Germany to Denver, no return ticket." He looks down at the steering wheel as I'm sitting in the passenger's seat of the white bouncy van, "but I couldn’t get my visa..."

The town is called the city of Shiva, the god of destruction. Varanasi would be the greatest city to die in, because your soul is already located in the city of Heaven. The dead are brought to the neighboring Ganges, where they are cremated.

There are women and men with shaved eyebrows and heads, meaning that they are mourning a loved one. They are not to talk to anyone outside the family for ten days, and are to pray constantly.

Older women with short haircuts and tattered white punjabi suits who had shaven their heads months before, sit on street corners, begging.

#

The Ganges.

We got to float down the Ganges in a rowboat at sunset, watching coast of Varanasi on the way. We ended up at the main Ghat, where a daily ceremony was being held. Men dressed in traditional orange attire rang bells and swung incense in circles around their bodies. People chanted and prayed and released tiny flower boats into the river. All the while, I was sitting on a small step in a corner, in awe, while a small child kept harassing me to buy an Indian knickknack. "Nahi, Nahi! “No, No!” She ended up giggling and imitated me. She looked to be about ten years old.

#

My friend has a new job.

In Varanasi, there is a monkey temple, a sanctuary for monkeys and where they are protected by the Gods.

They are also unshielded from the public, and we unshielded from them. There were hundreds of monkeys. At times, they were inches from you, nursing their baby monkeys.

One of them aggressively shook a friend’s water bottle out of her hand. He then took it, and played with the top trying to figure out how to open the bottle. He gave up and wandered away. She then opened it for him and tried to hand it back to him, and then he snatched it from her and dropped it on the ground, then drinking from it as the water spilled onto the ground.

Monkeys smell fear. I made eye contact with a particularly angry, adult male. He bared his teeth and started charging towards me. I screamed. I ran. He chased.

While I was running, I kept thinking that maybe more monkeys would catch on and that more monkeys would start chasing me. I kept running and it was still chasing me. My friends were laughing. An Indian family shouted at the monkey on my behalf and it limped off. My heart beating, they chuckled at my reaction. They asked how I liked India, and I said I love it. "Even with the monkeys," they laughed.

This man was trying to get us to come into his silk shop by claiming that Goldie Haan was a returning customer. I have proof.

Weekend Trip to Jaipur

Jaipur was beautiful, and still very, very Indian. By that I mean just as dirty, sad and impoverished as other cities, but also full of culture and color.

The shore of the Floating Palace. Lots of Garbage.

We stayed at a hotel that cost us each 12 dollars a night. It was my mistake to think that it was fine but hey, it’s all part of the Indian experience, but it was the dirtiest place I’ve ever paid to be in. There were several men hanging outside who were loitering and staring at us, this large group of white women who happened to stumble into their hotel at a very inappropriate hour. It was about 1AM before our car pulled into the dirt driveway of the hotel called "Hotel."

The building was dirty with chipping white paint, which is the way most buildings here look, but the inside was slightly nicer. When we walked inside, there was a fan and a fresh coat of fresh paint on the walls. We all checked in and walked into our room. We all selfishly chose a bed that had the least amount of stains, but still made a hotel attendant come up to change them. I suggested to my friends that a prostitute must have died at least once in each room. Not a kind suggestion.

When I walked into my room there was a man’s room door wide open while he was lying in bed watching TV, looking very casual and comfortable. We decided to lock our door and put our luggage and chairs in front of our door. Redundant since there was a lock on the outside of our door as well. At least we had the comfort that if someone decided to lock us in, we'd have our friends to let us out..

I decided to sleep in full clothing, covering as much of my body as possible. I curled up and fell asleep with one eye open, afraid that a prostitute ghost might come to life seeking vengeance.

This picture does no justice in demonstrating how dirty this room was. Me looking very frightened.

#

The next day, I hesitantly rode an elephant. A friend of mine opted to ride an elephant but couldn’t find someone to ride with her. It costs 900 rupees (which is a little less than 20 US dollars), for 1-2 people. It would cost 900 either way, so she said I might as well come along. It was a frightening experience, but it was beautiful. I sat on it high and prideful, exclaiming that I'm exploiting the elephant by making it trudge up a hill carrying giddy tourists like us. "It's cruel!" I'd say.

Fortunately, elephants only ride up the hill to Amber Fort a maximum of 5-6 times, so I embraced it..  a little. At least that's what the elephant conductors told us..

The very beautiful elephant who so kindly let me ride him.

My ultimate favorite part of Jaipur was ironically, the hectic, busy, overcrowded bazaar where I was able to hone my bargaining skills. My pride and glory was when I was able to get a 2800 rupee sari down to 200 rupees, which I didn’t even end up buying. Any person who would buy that cheap, factory made sari for that much money would have to be a little dense. I had fun with the situation, making people go lower down to my price. I started imagining myself in a megaplex-type grocery store back home, “Cornflakes? 5 dollars? I’ll give you 3, no more, no less."

Getting some henna (mendhi) done.

When we finished up our evening and headed to our scummy hotel, we took advantage of the bar entitled “Bar” attached to "Hotel." Imagine about 7-8 white women walking into a filthy, hole-in-the wall-dive, populated only with chain-smoking, old Indian men. Not only did “Bar” only have about two beer options, but one was entitled “Beer”, which I assumed was bottled right there. I opted for the Kingfisher. We proceeded to become obnoxious, loud and very, very foreign. I was alright for us since we clearly outnumbered the Indian men. We felt very secure and happy. We became our own little bubble of life, shutting out the weird looks and stares in “Bar."

Why?

I woke peacefully to the sound of our fan, gently blowing cool air in our faces. I slept well, and my face is not sticky, unlike most hours of the day. Our mornings are low key, and most of the girls are in class on the bottom floor of the three story orphanage. In the wee hours of the morning, you can hear them singing and rehearsing their ABC’s in English. They wear uniforms, and sit on the floor looking up at the teacher who gives them their daily lessons. As we walk past, they stare, wondering why on earth these white women here. I smile and wave practicing my broken Hindi.

In the afternoons, we play. What amazes me is how easily entertained the girls are. Be it coloring, rolling around in the grass, doing cartwheels, taking pictures, looking at pictures, playing snake on my cheap nokia, no matter what, they’re smiling, giggling and genuinely enjoying themselves.

In the early evenings, I help some of the girls with their English homework and teach English to girls who choose to listen. It seems that the girls are interested in me because I'm different, and that I have something unique to offer them, but it's extremely difficult to get their attention. Girls drift in and out of my room either listening, or not. There is no authority figure at this orphanage, and even though some older girls try to facilitate it through physical abuse, it simply doesn't work.

Zara, 4 years old

Every day, we run away to a small café at the market place for about half an hour. It has free wifi and air conditioning, a good enough reason to come back every day.

I walk through a park everyday to get there and today, I had an interesting encounter with someone.

In a thick Indian accent, an elderly man asks “I notice that you come through here every day. Where do you come from?”
“U.S.A.” I reply.
“And what is your purpose for being in India?” He asks.
“To volunteer at the Arya Kanya Sadan orphanage” I say.
“And what is your purpose?” He asks again. Now that was a question I could barely answer.
“Well, to help out, to get a different perspective.” I’ve never been to India before, let alone on this continent. I figured it was a good enough answer, even though I don’t think it really had too much depth. The language barrier has a lot to do with it, but it was a very vague answer and I was slightly disappointed with myself. I’d like to believe that I’m here for a greater reason than to make myself feel good about helping people less fortunate than myself.

“Thank you. That’s all”. He waves us away and nods his head. His sheer curiosity got me thinking. Why am I here? It’s hard for me to answer that question.  It sounds like a cliché when I say, “to help the children” or “to make a difference”. What difference have I made? So far, I’ve messed up about thirty names and gave an old copy I found of “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo” to a precocious fifteen year old girl suggesting it would better her English vocabulary. Not a very good idea, I realized later. I felt stupid.

Tomorrow I’m going to Jaipur, which is a few hours away from where I am in Faridibad, with a group of girls from my volunteering organization. Once again, I feel guilty because I’m excited to get away from the orphanage, but also because I’m missing about 99.9% of what India has to offer. I also feel guilty because I'll miss them a little..

Another Indian Day

At the orphanage, there are about 80-95 girls. Ten feet beyond the entrance, a sign reads “All Men Prohibited beyond This Point.” My project was switched on me last minute, and I was originally meant to be volunteering at an orphanage that has only 15 children. My guess is that this one is shorthanded, but I could be wrong. Yet, I think that this one is a bit more luxurious since it is larger. I was told that some smaller orphanages and homes have an outhouse style bathroom, and need to be flushed out with a small bucket. I can’t really speak for the cleanliness, but it really is nice to have a toilet that flushes.

Our room here is large, yet it still manages to stay hot, even at the cooler times of the day. There is a large bed and one single, all shared between three people. The mattress is a thin comforter on top of a piece of plywood. Girls constantly walk in and out in the mornings while I dress to see if anything interesting going on.

Angelie, 8 years old

The girls here call me “Sanne Didi” which means “Older Sister Sanne” in Hindi. We play for hours at the park adjacent to the orphanage. I run with them and play soccer in the humid heat. By the time playtime is over, my clothes are drenched in sweat, dirt and grime. The girls "awe" and "oo" when I play Billy Idol on my old laptop, then I let them clack away at the buttons, making me a bit nervous.

I let them paint my toe nails, which I realize is a mistake when I look down at my feet which has polish everywhere but my nails.

Prianca, 10 years old

Mealtime is an experience. At first, I felt like a barbarian or an animal, eating on the dirty floor with my plate inches away from bare feet. It's not so bad anymore. The room is falling apart, with pieces of plaster and white paint that has chipped away with time. There are small posters of Mickey Mouse and Minnie Mouse affixed beside the door leading to the hotter than hell kitchen. Girls submerge fatigued and sweaty with their hair clinging to their faces.

For Breakfast, Lunch and Dinner, small runner rugs are placed around the room and through the center. Right before they eat, they sit upon the rugs, and pray. Small voices chant echoing throughout the entire orphanage. They then eat on the ground right where they pray. Metal plates are handed out and those who are on kitchen duty come around, crouching down to serve rice, chapatti, and daal, all flavored with masala and Indian spices like turmain and cumin.

They are quick to discipline each other around here, smacking and hitting when they find it appropriate. Instead of crying and falling to the ground, they giggle and clap their hands. Then they fight back. My efforts to stop the fighting are pointless, because I know little Hindi and because they simply don’t care. I’ve realized that fighting amongst small girls at this orphanage is not seen as a terrible thing. If a girl is hit too hard, their bawls last no longer than five minutes and then they resume their playing as if nothing ever happened. If only life were that simple.

Failed jump attempt

Welcome

The heat; it’s sticky, it’s constant, it’s everywhere, always, never going away.

At night, it is humid and mosquitoes come for their daily rounds. Sweat soaks through my sleeping sheet.

Walking the old streets of Delhi, there are more beggars than I can count, more people I see sleeping on the hard, concrete ground, with no more than their hand to keep their head from bruising, and more children without shoes than I’d like to believe there are. No water. No food. Nothing. Many beggars look too weak to beg, and timidly hold out their hand, hoping for a random act of kindness.

At an overcrowded bazaar, where combinations of engine exhaust and urine odor fill our nostrils, a boy walks up to me speaking Hindi. I don’t understand him, but his intentions are obvious. His hand was held out, his eyes were rolled back behind his fluttering lids. He was dehydrated, hungry and his face was hollow. He was not sweating. His ribs showed through his dirty, oversized shirt. He had a string holding his tattered shorts up. I reach into my backpack and pull out a big, cold sweating bottle of water. He takes it and walks behind a truck, where a man is waiting, standing. He holds out his hand but does not get the coins he expects.

The boy opens the bottle and takes small sips it as he watches us, drinking, looking. A small look of relief comes across his face as he sips. His eyebrows are no longer furrowed, and his eyes continue to fixate on us as we search around for the driver who said he would meet us here. We feel displaced.

At first glance, my fellow volunteering friends and I are obviously not from here. Flies crawl on our feet, sweat drips from our faces and backs, our white skin glows pink with heat rashes, we carry packs with four bottles of lukewarm water each, maps, guides, cameras and sunscreen, maybe our passports for security of mind.  I cover my bag, knowing I probably have possessions in there that are worth more than a beggar has seen in a year. I feel guilty.

I see dogs trotting and sleeping in the streets. Their faces are friendly, yet hungry. They sniff out the trash that lies on the ground, hoping there’s food. I suddenly realize that the poorest of India, probably live just as these strays, sniffing out the people, hoping for a few rupees, to pay for a small bite to eat, a small bit of chewing tobacco or a swift sip of drinking water. Or maybe they are begging for someone else, who says they will protect them. Is it true? Will they have someplace to go?

A stray cow eats trash on the side of the road. Trash can be seen for miles.

#

I had arrived in India not knowing to expect. My heart races as we land in Delhi at 10:30PM, after more than twelve hours of traveling. I’m actually in Delhi, India. I was told I would be picked up by someone with my name on a card at arrivals. I didn’t know the address of where I would be staying and sleeping. An interesting fiasco upon passport control would ensue when I admitted I had no clue where I would be going that night. The agent looked at me, probably wondering if he'd read the news the next morning about a murdered white girl picked up from the airport by a stranger. The more I explained my situation, the more suspicious it all sounded.

Beads of sweat collect on my head, my armpits, my legs. I claim my baggage. I assured my family and friends everything would be fine. I didn’t want them to worry, even though I knew I was far more scared than I attempted to appear as. “..Call me when you arrive” they say, half-knowing I won’t and half-believing that I’ll be alright.

As planned, a man holds up a card with my name. I make eye contact and he gestures for me to come around and greet him. He hands me a letter and tells me something in Hindi. I don’t understand. I look at the letter and it’s signed by my volunteer country coordinator, saying that the driver will be taking me to a hostel and that I should make myself at home upon arrival. I smile at one of the drivers and that seems to be the extent of communication he expects. I see two other girls, also with the men. They ask me if I am also a volunteer, and I say yes. Our anxiety and nervousness vanishes.

We drive for an hour through the streets of Delhi. My heart races as I peer out the window. I see the twinkling lights of the city that I saw out of my airplane window. There are so many people. So many honking horns.  The driving conditions are.. hair-raising. I jump in my seat when I see another car inches from ours, driving faster than I do when I'm in a hurry. We arrive at 1AM. A small boy greets us and unlocks the gates and we are led to a room. He gestures for us to go inside, and then he shuts the door behind us. We look at each other. One asks, "what’s going on?”

We didn’t know where we were, we didn’t have a cinch of an idea what would happen when we would wake up. I’d be lying if I said the room was anything special, but I expected that. I’d say it’s nice, for Indian standards. I don’t mind. I remember what I’m here for, why I’m doing this. I feel okay. I put my head to the hard pillow and I fall asleep.

#

I’m privileged, I’m lucky, I’m loved. The noise of the city, Hindi lessons, the non-stop sight-seeing and the conversations I have with my new friends lessen the fear. I brought way too many things, which I’ll donate at the end of my trip to make room for Indian goodies when I return. Why would I bring thick fleece in the middle of summer?

What I love most about India, though? The kindness that is given is returned. The smiles are undeniably genuine. The people are kind. A peddler holding a small baby, despite the fact that I didn’t want to buy a beaten, old fan to keep myself cool, tells me to watch my step and to keep an eye out for pickpockets.

She smiles at me and tells me the name of her baby. I buy the fan without bargaining and she tells me she will remember my face. I’m a sucker.

#

Today, after watching an entertaining, colorful Bollywood movie about god-knows-what, we took an auto-rickshaw back to our hostel in Faridibad. I sit up in front with the driver and two other girls, with no room in the back, it being jammed pack full of other foreigners like myself. I look at the cars passing us on the right, and people look me in the eyes and smile. I wave and they smile larger and wave back. It’s almost as if they are saying “Welcome to our country.”

Sukriya

“Thank you”

Culture

India is everything that people say it is. Impoverished, hot, colorful.

From three to four helmet-less people to a scooter, to skinny cows grazing the trash and sickeningly skinny children begging for a coin or two.

Bare shoulders are stared at, food is scarce, and the luxuries we so often take for granted are absent. I.e. Towels and coffee. I've never in my life been so shocked. At the same time, ignorant.

Almost There

The air is cold and rainy, the chocolate is dark and the people friendly. Much like a second home, it's a place to recollect, relax and unravel.

There is a list of things to do, from visiting to Rijs Museam to the Anne Frank house to snapping photographs of the iconic iAmsterdam statue at the Museam Plaan and riding your bike down Vondel Park.

Yet, jet lagged, all I really feel like doing is flopping myself on the couch and flipping through foreign television programs. As a dutch semi-native, I find everything about Amsterdam incredibly comforting. In the morning, I visited my Oma and played a game or two of gin rummy, then made my way over to the Overtoom to visit my mother who is just back from Stockholm, Sweden. We drank tea, chatted and contemplated my impending journey to Delhi, India next week. My chore: to bring at least a dozen sarees home with me. Tomorrow though, my dad and I are taking the train to Berlin to go sightseeing and maybe drink one too many pints. I'd like to think of it as mental preparation. Spoiled? Most likely.

I can't help but think of my trip to India, though. I had a nightmare in which our plane had severe flight complications. I was on a bus that was supposed to take me to the airport, but it was taking a tediously long route that would cause me to miss my fight. I decided to get off and call a taxi, but I couldn't find one. Then I frantically started running towards the bus, naked, without my luggage, passport or anything for that matter.

I woke up at 4AM and stared at the ceiling until the sun came up. I'm starting to think that I'm a little nervous. What if I get mugged? What if I get kidnapped? What if I get scammed? What if I get drugged? What if I don't have enough money? What if the people I meet aren't the people I think they are? What if I get Malaria? Or Typhoid? Or Polio? What if they don't accept my visa and I can't enter the country? What if I get raped?

I'll just take everyone's advice..

"Everything will be fine. You'll have fun."