Goose Rage, Hamlet, and Sanitation

Traveling is always 80 percent shit. You show up to the airport either way too early or way too late, wait in security lines where the TSA always opens up your Polaroid film, and then ferment in terminals for exhausting layovers where there’s nothing to do but watch CNN on mute while eating bad Mexican food. Your skin goes to shit and your neck hurts from trying to sleep sitting up to avoid leaning on the balding guy to your left. You get jetlagged, sleep all day and go on facebook all night. No one understands you because of your accent and all your aunt does is glare at you. You don’t know the language or how to get around or what to say to your cousin when she talks about Bollywood movies or the awkwardness of having the women of her family prep her for her wedding night.

Yeah. What do you even say in that conversation? “Yeah, I guess my friends and I are all sluts so if you ever want some pointers I could give them a call and we could all have a video chat.”

I don’t think so.

Then you have those shit Lost in Translation mornings when all you want to do is cry on the phone with your mom about what the hell you’re doing with your life and why the fuck am I in India shouldn’t I be in school studying Law or something and why hasn’t he called me I bet he’s forgotten about me and why is my aunt so mean she seriously hates me for no good reason fuck what am I doing here!!!!!!!!

And then you have lunch in the garden.

Today, during lunch, the male geese started fighting. One held another one’s neck in his beak and pushed the head underwater as the victim flapped and flapped and flapped and beat his wings as hard as he could. A steward finally had to come and save him.

So I went to the toilet museum. An amazingly flaming Indian man, completely enamored with sanitation, gave me the most wonderful tour of vehicles in which to shit from as far as 2500 BC. Ferreal. My favorite was the Victorian toilet shaped like a book with HAMLET written on the spine. I met a guy named Jake from Canada (so many Canadians!!!) and we shared the standard friendly/lonely traveler banter over sweet paneer candy and jalabis.

Somewhere between a mouthful of rosewater and honey, I found myself walking down some unpaved back alley talking about nothing with the Canadian. I could feel the dust sticking to my skin as wide Bollywood bhangra eyes caught my face and followed me as we wandered past barber shops and food stalls manned by women in saris the color of precious stones.

This, I thought, was why I came to India. Not for the garden geese or over attentive servants or five star hotel weddings. I want to see the masses of humanity piled up floor by unfinished floor of cement blocks and drying laundry. I want nooks and crannies filled with dirty kids and shrines to Shiva because being somewhere like that, smelling the hot oil and rosewater and cow shit, and being perfectly happy being perfectly lost makes you forget the other 80 percent of your miserable time.

aloha broha!