"ucha? ducha? Manu! Welcome to Mexico." (Part 1)

There are several types of vacation. There's spring break, which equally exhausts as it relaxes, as bebidas (sounds classier in Spanish) and boys (or girls, depending upon your perspective) seem finite, available only to those in the most dire of situations (enter, Fordham College at Lincoln Center); there's the family vacation, which comforts and stabilizes (Monopoly is more centering than yogilates), as everyone remembers how much they love the idea of a traveling family band (before coming home and conveniently forgetting these aspirations); and then, there's the sisters vacation, which is a delicate and comfortable balance of both.

My sister and I are still quite brown (we have suffered a caste downgrade) from a recent four day trip to Tulum, Mexico. The entire month of July seemed to have passed by without pause; between 12-hour work days and failed attempts to give up coffee, the heart of summer seemed to have slipped from my fingers. And so, to celebrate my sister's academic success and the end of one significant stage in her childhood, and, on the flipside, to mourn a senescence increasingly consuming me, we took off, conveniently ignoring raging pieces in the Times about drug wars and gang violence.

Day 1/2 (Tuesday): I had slept very little on Tuesday night, the night before our departure. I came home from work very late, started packing, stopped packing to peruse Facebook, started packing, stopped packing again to Skype with a friend (who I see frequently; the necessity of a 1 AM video chat 8 hours before my flight is questionable). I then spent about an hour transferring the contents of our sunblock into an empty 3-oz lotion bottle in order to avoid checking in bags.

1:27 AM
Last minute projects tend to fare well

Day 1 (Wednesday): By the time my sister and I started posting on each other's walls from inside our adjacent bedrooms, we decided it was time to give up packing and go to bed. Around 6 the next morning, we threw everything, including the new bottle of sunblock, into an already overstretched suitcase, prayed that it would not burst, and reassured our father that we slept about 8 or 9 hours and were 100% prepared for our Mexican adventure. I made some corny joke about warlords and my mother almost had a coronary, but while she was swooning, we slipped out and were happily en route to Newark Airport.




the new face of Jihad

 

It was the one morning that Route 17 had no traffic, so we reached the airport in less time than it took to eat the omelets our mother had made (for good luck). There was no line at security, and the only usual delay we experienced was Manu's getting stopped and checked in a separate, roped off section of the airport. We had each gone through the full body scan, but the officers must have seen something other than gum wrappers and pen caps in my sister's pockets. Convinced that she was in cahoots with Osama bin Laden et al, the guards enforced special protocol to ensure my sister was not a danger. She was just short of being interrogated. My cackling on the side was of little assurance, and while I was allowed to pass by, Manu had to wait for several minutes. Once the TSA confirmed my sister's connection to Al Qaeda as nonexistent (well, almost), she was allowed to join me in our two hour wait at the gate, sitting among all the other ever so prepared early birds. My sister complained about being violated as I listened to "Somebody to Love" on repeat.



The flight was relatively harmless. I was initially stressed about my drink choice, as flying is the only time I allow myself to go "buck wild" and have soda or canned juice. I finally settled on apple juice, but then also finished my sister's Ginger Ale (the grass is always greener).

We stopped over in Charlotte, NC. I paid no heed to my sister's words of caution and turned on my Blackberry, and immediately saw a flurry of emails from work, the very emails that had driven the decision to emigrate (albeit temporarily). I continued to make phone calls until I was forced to turn off my phone, after which I was able to cherish an untapped, unique disconnection from the world.

After what seemed an eternity, a labyrinth of terrorist accusations, Bieber fever, and Mott's canned juice, we finally reached Mexico. The air in the airport was hot and heavy, and there was an odd smell of steel. Just as I felt in the Dominican Republic, I felt as if I were in India. Conflicting emotions of estrangement and home strangled our sensibilities, and we had to convince ourselves we had not just booked an all-inclusive resort in our grandmother's home.



  

We turned a corner to find a 10 foot bodacious model bearing Coronas on a poster welcoming us to the country. My sister turned to me. "Bienvenidos." I smiled. We were here. Our vacation had begun. In a few minutes, I would be sunbathing on the beach, falling asleep to the sound of the waves and the potency of the mojitos.



immigration reform, please, so I can get to the beach ASAP



My sister poked me. "Is that line for us?"

There were about 1000 people in front of us. The sound of the waves seemed to have been nothing but earwax rubbing against the cilia in my ears. We were on line at immigration for over an hour, behind a couple in their 50s who seemed to be on their honeymoon (seriously, PDA is so last season), and in front of a 5 year old Chinese boy who kept ramming his suitcase into my ankles.



before MargaritaVille

By the time we finally stepped on Mexican soil (concrete), it was almost 5. We had been awake and anxious for more than 12 hours, running on 4-hour sleep and my mother's delicious omelets. We found the driver of our shuttle, and after he carried on a conversation with my sister in Spanish, during which he frequently referred to me as the 14-year old, he finally divulged the estimated time to our hotel--one hour. Without a word, I turned around and walked back to MargaritaVille, the bar immediately outside the airport doors, and bought a small, overpriced margarita. "Don't judge me," I told my sister. "Sometimes, you just need it."

I slept soundly on the way to our hotel.

after MargaritaVille

the invention of shoes (a mother desai fairytale)

Once upon a time, in a distant land enveloped in glistening waters teeming with schools of bright yellow and purple fish, there lived a King who loved his feet. He washed his feet everyday in rose water, scrubbing them with pumice stones, and oiling them with almond oil. In this distant land, with shimmering blue rivers and rainbows streaking the evening skies and mango trees peppering the fields of Love and Hope, there was one slight problem--dirt roads. Whenever the King wanted to visit the fish or nap under the shade of a mango tree or skip stones in the river, his feet would get dirty.

One day, after the King got dirt in his recently oiled right big toe, he decided to take action. He called upon his wisest and oldest advisors to formulate recommendations for this issue. "No one shall sleep until all of my people can walk the land without getting dirt on their feet."

After one sunrise and one sunset, the committee came up with a solution. They washed the roads with water from the streams. Hundreds of workers filled buckets of water, some of them with frightened fish, and threw them on the ground. The King looked out his window and was pleased. "I will now walk to my favorite mango tree for a nap." The King stepped outside, and his feet suck into three inches of mud. The water had mixed with the dirt, and the damage was worse than that of the dry soil on his feet. The King roared. "No one shall sleep until all of my people can walk the land without getting dirt on their feet."

After two sunrises and two sunsets, the committee came up with a solution. They covered the roads with Persian rugs. They spent 4% of the King's treasury on importing textiles from the Middle East and the Orient. By lunch time, the entire land was covered in plush violet, red, and cornflower blue rugs. The King looked out of his window and was pleased. "I will now feed my dear fishes." The King stepped outside, and once again his feet sunk into the rugs, which had mixed poorly with the viscous mud, and did not provide any protection. The King bellowed. "No one shall sleep until all of my people can walk the land without getting dirt on their feet."

One young man, who was born in the village, had left to explore the world after his hands and feet stopped growing. He travelled to the deepest cavities of the Earth, where he could feel the heat reverberating through his bones; he voyaged to the highest points on the Earth, where he could feel the stars grazing his head. He came back home to find his sleep deprived family and friends and goats trudging through muddy rugs.

He studied the committee's vain efforts and offered his assistance, his knowledge of the policies of other lands. The King's wisest and oldest advisors laughed and waved him away, and refocused attention on their new idea to sweep up the roads with a broom made of unicorn hair. The young man threw a stone at the King's window. The King looked out and was not pleased. "I will walk out and punish the fool who dares disturb my peace."

The young man was patiently waiting at the castle gates. The King's face looked like a large radish or a ripe tomato or a juicy pomegranate. "Who dares to disrespect the King?" The King shouted, even though the young man was two inches away from his face.

The young man smiled. "I have a solution to your problem." The King's face softened, and his face creased with confusion and anticipation. "Who are you? What do you know?"

The young man pointed to his feet. The King followed his finger to see two strange contraptions covering the young man's feet. They were brown, covered in mud, with traces of purple Persian feathers stuck to the bottom. "Try them," the young man urged, as he took them off, and placed them near the King's feet. The King's curiosity had completely taken over his initial shock, and he delicately, nervously placed his beautiful, smooth feet into the containers. "Walk," the young man instructed. The King walked to the stream and watched his fishes play hide and seek; he then walked to his favorite mango tree and picked three of the ripest and largest fruits, the ones that exploded in juice upon touch. The King strolled back to the young man. He took the items off his feet, which immediately emitted a fragrance of rose and almonds. They were smooth, white, and shimmering in the sun, just as they were before his walk.

Tears streamed down the King's face, into his long white beard, and he put his hand on the young man's shoulder. "Thank you, my friend. You have freed us all from the binds of dirt, from the oppression of uncleanliness. Everyone in the land will be given this protective equipment. I appoint you as my most trusted advisor." The young man bowed his head, and graciously accepted. That night, the kingdom slept, everyone wearing protective gear on their oiled feet.

From that day forward, the young man and the King traversed the kingdom together, and everyday visited the fields of Love and Hope, or the rivers reflecting the rainbows in the skies, or the mountains from where they could see all the mango trees on the land.

And they kept their feet clean.

carpe diem for only 48 hours

So, apparently I'm one of those people who lives for the weekends. Or, I'm bipolar. I had been in a rotten mood for the past 96 hours, exhausted to the point of tears (and doubly upset that the fatigue was taking a toll on my skin), but I woke up Friday and was exuberant. My mom was not sure how to greet me this morning since I had been a cranky brat (why will no one take my purple pony request seriously?) the last week, but I giggled as I brushed my teeth, skipped rope down the stairs, pranced into the kitchen, and started making inappropriate jokes in my characteristically (genetically) audible voice, shattering the tranquility of 6:30 in the morning. I had two pieces of toast instead of one, and even had milk. I read the news on the bus. I had a free latte from Oren's. There was no line at Port Authority on the way home. Life suddenly worked itself out.

My mother always says it's a matter of perception. She tells me I have a choice of being either one of two men: one is overwhelmed by a promotion, a new baby in the house, and a sailboat, for the upkeep of all of these aspects of his life exhaust him; the other is excited by a lay off, a broken leg, and a flat tire, for the prospect of new discoveries and adventures, even if only to the emergency room or to the gas station, excite him.

She always tells me to be the second man.

Given that I'm a woman, it's inherently impossible (well, I'll say difficult; never say never) for me to be that second man. Aside from that minor setback, I would say I have complied to that rule pretty well. Sometimes, I'm a little sleepy (to the point of tears), and I'm a little frustrated and confused (to the point of clenched fists), and I'm a little short on time (to the point of shopping online while I pee), but I think I generally stay positive about the way my life is going, because just like the second man, I'm excited about the possibility of meeting someone new or doing something new every day.

Well, on Friday, Saturdays, and Sundays. Positivity is a 72 hour stint. Perspective is even shorter. I'll be the second man when I'm rested. It's true that it's my choice to be happy or not, but I choose the two days and one evening when I can walk around barefoot, eating prunes and writing nonsensical epiphanies into this blog. The rest of the week is for existential melt downs.

That second man clearly has issues.

swingers for breakfast

This morning, before my mother and I had each adapted to the harsh conditions of the pre-6:30 wakeful state, she embarked on a seemingly profound topic of conversation. "Ruch, it seems so easy to find a saathi [partner], so why not just find one and move in together?" I blanched, which in and of itself is difficult given my darker hue. Unphased, she continued. "And then you can split the rent. If you decide to leave the city, he can find another partner."

While my mother is a raging liberal, I was still shocked by her suggestion. Find a boy, move in with him for frugality, leave him when you see fit.


"Mumma, you want me to get married? Really? It's 6:42 on a Thursday morning. Can't we talk about this in the evening, or on Saturday, or in four years?"


My mother threw up her hands in exasperation. "Who said anything about marriage?! I'm too tired for this nonsense."


Apparently, life partner also means roommate.

GMAT (or LSAT, BBAT, WTF, QFTYTF, etc...)

The future is overrated.

[insert obligatory saccharine Oprah-ism]

That said, as much as my present is working out pretty well, I'm pressured to constantly think of the future. Marriage. Graduate school. Osteoperosis. While much of the obligation comes from extended family and family friends (it's as if my third cousin's neighbor's fiancé stays awake all night because I don't yet own a suburu and live in Hunkydory, Long Island), much of the pressure is derived from an ingrained sense of survival. It's cultural, perhaps even genetic; a unique fearful mindset passed down from generation to generation.

I'm still unsure as to what I want to do with the rest of my life (apparently the aforementioned third cousin's neighbor's fiancé has a general timeline and itemization of practical and attainable goals). I've started perusing different graduate opportunities, skimming exam books and informational leaflets to ascertain even a perfunctory understanding of my future.

I was once holding this GMAT book on the subway, en route to work. I was trudging through the harried and fatigued crowd converging on the E train platform, when someone tapped me on the shoulder. With great difficulty, I turned to find an Indian man sweating profusely in a tan suit, and staring directly at the book in my hands. "GMAT, eh?" I responded with a blank stare. It was about 8 in the morning, I was wearing my knee brace and sneakers, and my purse was damp from my leaking lentils. He endeavored once more. "Business?"

My parents raised me to be polite, especially to unsuspecting Indian men on public transportation. "Yes," I replied, with a desperate nod towards the escalator. Already agitated commuters threw their hands up in despair as they stumbled upon two Indian roadblocks discussing advanced education.

He continued. "Good. GMAT is very good." I smiled and attempted to merge back into the herd, but he stopped me. "So, what are you thinking? What do you want to do?"

For a several seconds, I thought I was obligated to relay the deluge of fears and anxieties and hopes and dreams and pain hidden in the recesses of my heart. Some older balding man holding the New Yorker bumped into me, and I was immediately cognizant of my reality: a strange Indian man was interrogating me about my life choices. I blinked. "No clue," I said, as I turned and walked right into a woman in stilettos who almost fell into the tracks.

I told my mother the story when I came home. I expected her to understand my exasperation, or at least lecture me about talking to strangers, but instead, her face contorted with emotion. "Aww, beta, people care about you so much."

I've now resorted to flipping coins to determine my next step.

My name is Rucha Desai, and I'm addicted to [insert unhealthily healthy fixation]

I hate addictions. It's not so much the object of fixation that perturbs me. To each his own, I've always believed, and so if you snort cocaine or send women lewd pictures of yourself or drink too much soda, I may hesitate to let my kids stay alone with you, but I would not ever pretend to understand you. (Well, drinking soda, along with microwaving food in plastic containers, is considered a sin in my family. But, still, I won't judge.)

Rather, I take issue to the act of addiction. Addicts lose their sense of independence, the one virtue I place above all the rest (I know it's not really exalted by the Pope, but seriously, prudence is a bit overrated. We can give that one the boot.)

And so, with this in mind, I decided to give up coffee. Since I started working, my love and intrigue of the coffee bean (I want to try coffee from every single country) grew steadily into an expensive and unhealthy dependency. I've always had white teeth and clear skin, even when I was a miserably awkward teenager, but over the last year, I could feel my teeth yellow and my skin curdle, like milk does in our broken refrigerator. I couldn't stop shaking and I couldn't sleep (I tend to fidget and am a light sleeper, but everything just seems magnified when you're hooked).

I decided I would reverse the effects. I came to work an hour early and researched foods that were good for skin--the wrinkle fighters, the blemish blasters, the glow enhancers--and wrote down easy recipies that included all of these foods. I baked a skin bread (whole grain bread with flaxseed, sunflower seeds, onions, spinach), roasted tomatoes and zucchini, and drank flasks of carrot juice, interspersed with bottles of water and cups of green tea. I would not touch my long term abusive boyfriend (whom I will call Joe for the sake of corny puns).

I did put my face in coffee ice cream once, but that was a low point.

The more I read about the effects of Vitamin E and Selenium and Beta-Carotene for your skin, the more I realized I may have a new problem.

Selenium Toxicity--my hair would soon fall out, I would have joint pain, fatigue, and nerve damage, and my skin would blister. And Carotenodermia--my skin would turn orange.

I started drinking coffee again last week. If I were to be a blistering oompa-loompa, I might as well enjoy some Joe.

Plus, coffee is linked to a decreased likelihood of Alzheimer's. I drank three cups yesterday--for my brain, of course.

my mother's first American date

My mother crashed my date two weeks ago. [take a moment to let that sink in.] It had been a beautiful night. The June heat was tempered by soft zephyrs, and New York was in a good, celebratory mood. I watched the confluence of naked cowboys and tourists with fanny packs and locals with furrowed brows, as I sat at the Rockefeller fountain eating a Magnolia cupcake--with my friend to my left and my mother to my right.

There was much logistical deliberation that day. I was to get dinner with an old friend (who shall remain anonymous for the sake of his reputation and sanity) and my mother was going to visit her sister in the city. My aunt and uncle had come for a physician's conference, and had an event at 6. My mother said she would meet me after work so we could ride the bus home together. I told her I could meet up with her after having dinner with my friend, and my aunt suggested my mother stay in the hotel room for a couple of hours to relax, nap, watch TV, until I was ready. It seemed like a solid plan.

My cousin and his girlfriend came up to the city. My mother felt out of place, and wanted to give them some privacy. She does not like to impose on young people, has always believed in the "live and let live" mantra--which is why she left my cousin and his girlfriend to hang out with my friend and me.

I had barely dug into my smorgasbord of spinach, sriracha, and tofu before I got my mother's first text. She must have initially thought she would feign composure, and asked me, "Ruch, what's going on?" I didn't respond right away, and within twelve seconds I got four consecutive messages from her, each exponentially more desperate than the next. The truth finally came out. She said she wouldn't even mind walking to where I was, so I wouldn't have to take the trouble to get her.

For my mother, anything. It's never trouble. And this case was no different. I was surged with a sense of familial protection, and explained the situation to my friend. I assumed he'd be disappointed, or would want to part ways after dinner, but instead he shrugged and smiled. "I love Mrs. Desai. She's a great woman. I'd love to see her."

And that's when the sense of duty to my mother turned into gastro-intenstinal discomfort. I clearly envisioned the way the next hour would come to pass. I texted my mother, informing her that my friend wanted to come say, "hi." She ignored my information, and continued to pursue my whereabouts. I would provide her with my ETA, and reiterated that I was with my friend but she seemed unabashed. She then called me, telling me she didn't have her reading glasses on and it was easier for her to call me rather than text.

In fairness to my mother, she was in a tough, awkward position. She was trying to give my cousin and his girlfriend time to themselves, trying to give the next generation the opportunity to come into its own, and unintentionally gave me a coronary whilst destroying any perception of cool anyone had of me. The night hadn't turned out the way she had planned, and she felt perpetually uncomfortable and out of place.

Poor thing.

In all fairness to me, my mother should wear her reading glasses.

After we got cupcakes, we met my mother across the street. Her face noticeably changed as her eyes darted from me to my friend. Her face flushed. My friend and my mother exchanged the usual niceties, hugged, she noticed his change in height and he noticed her change in weight, and then everyone sat down by the fountain. I assumed my mother was hungry so I gave her half of my cupcake. I wasn't sure why they were both willingly present. My mother seemed frozen to her concrete seat, clicking away at her blackberry, finally comprehending the messages I sent her. My friend was a good sport, and engaged my mother in discussions on our high school friends, his new job, New York City life. I stuffed my face with cupcake, so I could be relieved of the obligation to speak.

I still felt bad at how terribly the night had turned out for my mother, as I was still too numb from shock to realize how horrifying the night had turned out for me, and for my friend nonetheless. So, as we were walking to Port Authority, I constantly reached back, trying to grab my mother's hand to give her solace. She wanted to give me privacy, and so would not meet my hand, prompting me to reach back even further. My friend was walking slightly ahead of me, and so I was looking ahead, trying to match his enthusiasm as I internally combusted. I was therefore walking sideways, with my chest facing the street. I walked like that for three avenues.

We took the bus back to Ridgewood. Together. Before we got on the bus, my mother had begged me, in Gujarati, to sit with my friend, and apologized profusely for ruining my night, and his, especially. I told her not to worry; I had of course planned on sitting with him, and she had ruined my entire life, not just my night. She then slept soundly in the front, as we chatted in the back.


My mother's first date was almost twenty five years ago, when she got ice cream with my father. Soon after, they got engaged; and the history of my existence thus ensued. The comfort and stability of marriage gradually settled in, and the thrill of adventure and ice cream parlors subsided. About 21 years into the relationship, my parents decided to spice things up. They bought Optimum for our home, so they could see a free movie every Tuesday night. It's usually the 7:00 show, but it hasn't always been a successful endeavor. Sometimes, my father comes home from work too late and collapses on the couch--shoes, shirt, half-eaten bowl of lentils and all. Other times, my mother falls asleep in the movie theater. It's free, so she never feels like she wasted money.


I guess my mother had just needed a change.


As I was getting off the bus, I apologized again for the way the night turned out, and my friend reassured me, "Don't worry about it, Rucha; next time, I'll bring my mother."