Book Report

I love books. I may, in fact, be a little obsessed with books. I own more books than I can fit on my bookshelves. My office is stacked with boxes of books. I have at least two books on my nightstand at any given time. I have racked up untold sums in library fines over my lifetime. I borrow them. I buy them at thrift stores and book sales and actual retail stores. I lose them. I get them as gifts. The last few Christmases, I have invariably received at least one bookstore gift card from my relatives (because they all know it's easier to get me a gift card than to buy me a book I don't already have).

So I figured I'd follow Melissa Reed's lead and write about the books I've read so far this year (and if you feel inclined, you can read her book reviews/commentary on her blog, Seriously Funny Business.)

Just because I'm a lifelong English major doesn't mean I'm a snob when it comes to books, though. I have a very haphazard way of choosing what to read, and I don't exclude books on the basis of supposed literary merit or lack thereof; instead, I read whatever I feel like reading. If I get twenty pages into a book and decide I don't want to read it, I don't force myself (which is how I cannot manage to get through ANY Jane Austen).

1. The Queen's Fool by Philippa Gregory

Yes, this is the same lady who wrote The Other Boleyn Girl (which I have not read, but I saw the movie--meh). When I read historical fiction, I often read Elizabethan/Tudor era stuff because it's usually pretty juicy: sex, violence, plotting, religious upheaval, and a level of what-the-fuckery because it often seems impossible that Europe was run by a bunch of idiots who believed the throne was their birthright and it was a good idea to marry their cousins and it was a woman's fault if she couldn't give birth to a son (even though genetics tells us it's the man's DNA that makes this determination). Whew.

I've found that these books either sympathize with Elizabeth/demonize Mary OR call Elizabeth a tramp/sympathize with Mary, and Gregory's book falls into the latter category. The main character, Hannah, has fled Spain with her father, a Jewish bookseller, and they've ended up in semi-hiding in London. At first I was interested, because I hadn't read anything with a Jewish perspective of this time period, but Gregory's handling of the topic is at once informative, heavy-handed, and a little lazy. While Hannah is taken into the precarious position of Fool to the Queen (hence the title), she struggles with her identity in terms of culture, religion, gender, nationality, socioeconomic status, etc. That's fine. Conflicted characters can be interesting. Except dear Hannah has the same realization over and over again, phrased almost identically each time. Just like every mention of the burning of heretics affects her in exactly the same way, with the same phrasing.

I just kept thinking "You tell me you are growing and maturing, dear protagonist, but I don't quite believe you." Not necessarily a bad read, but definitely not the best I've read in my Tudor kick.

2. I Am Mary Tudor by Hilda Lewis

Another on my Tudors kick. But this one was boring, not very well-written, and a chore to finish (actually, I'm not 100% sure I finished it--it was that bad). I tend to read books from Elizabeth's perspective, so I was eager to learn more about Mary. Since this is a first-person account, I thought it would liven up what I've read in history books, but it was just dull. I was able to sympathize more with Mary's struggles, and it was interesting to see Elizabeth flat-out demonized, but the most interesting part of this 1973 paperback was the glossy, full-color cigarette advertisement in the middle of the book.

3-6. The Twilight series by Stephanie Meyers

I will not call it a saga because the connotations of that word are too grand and noble to apply here. Seriously, a saga isn't whiny or creepy. Stuff happens in a saga. You're probably wondering why I would bother to read such dreck (and, admittedly, it wasn't my first time through the series), especially since there are literally millions of better books available. It comes down to this: I like to read, and sometimes I read books that aren't so great, knowing they aren't so great, because there's still something of value in the act of reading. It's about understanding where we are as a culture when something like this, as flawed and poorly-written and possibly harmful as it is, becomes such a phenomenon.

I'm not going to spend time ragging on the books, because countless others have been doing that for years, and in far wittier ways. Every negative thing you've ever heard about them is true, to some extent. I personally like this highly-illustrated explanation of the books, because it's so fun (and it taught me about Mormons!). But reading these books is also kind of fun--even though I sometimes wanted to stab myself from the writing, the content, the terrible ideas young girls could get about relationships, etc. Reading the Twilight series the first time actually helped me better understand the collective mindset of my freshmen students--as do the yearly Beloit college mindset lists (which simultaneously freak me out/make me feel old).


7. The Devil Wears Prada by Lauren Weisberger

I bought the German version of the book (Der Teufel Trägt Prada) at a thrift store because I someday hope to read an entire book in one of the foreign languages I have studied (and I don't count reading Shakespeare or the Canterbury Tales in the original, since both are technically still English). I thought it would be helpful to become familiar with the English version before I tried to read it in German. I know it's fluff, but there were still some good moments in there. And since I primarily read before bed, I usually can't handle anything too literary. The book is slightly better than the movie, in that the characters are more miserable. But you know I kept picturing Meryl Streep barking orders at Anne Hathaway as I read.

8. The Machineries of Joy by Ray Bradbury

Bradbury is my go-to when I can't decide what to read, and no matter how many times I have read a given story collection or novel, I'm still enchanted and surprised. He creates an atmosphere that no other writer quite accomplishes, because the stories are a strange balance of grounded familiarity and wacky, absurd, suspenseful futurism. I will always go back to Bradbury. In this collection, I love the creepiness of "The One Who Waits"; it's terrifying to read right before bed. And "A Miracle of Rare Device" made me think about the way I find things I'm not looking for, seeing things other people miss, because I live in my own little world most of the time.

9. Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister by Gregory Maguire

I first discovered Maguire by accident, picking up Wicked at a garage sale on a whim many years ago. What I like about this one is how he fills in the details of Cinderella in a way that is almost plausible. Setting it in Holland, adding the fate of painters and tulip bulb speculation to the plot, takes it just beyond the fairy tale without going too realistic. It's a quick read, which I like about his books, but that doesn't mean it's overly simple. I kept picturing Angelica Huston as Margarethe.

10. Border Songs by Jim Lynch

Honestly, I bought this at the Marion Carnegie Library book sale, partially because there's a cow on the cover. I decided to read it because part of the plot revolves around drug trafficking along the Washington/British Columbia border; we had been watching Breaking Bad and Weeds at the time, so it seemed appropriate. Although I had a hard time not picturing the author as the main character (because of the unfortunate picture of the author on the back cover), I liked the book because the protagonist is goofy and accident-prone and only accidentally good at his job as a border patrol agent. He counts birds, and some of the descriptions of the calls were inventive and hilarious. I like characters who are freakish, either physically or mentally, and this guy is both.

11. Misery Bay by Steve Hamilton

Part of my method in selecting books is wandering aimlessly through the library stacks and happening upon something I feel like reading, which is how I found Hamilton's most recent offering. I had read the other Alex McKnight novels awhile back, mostly because they are set in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. While the writing is not particularly eloquent, these books move through the plot well and have just enough gory details to make them fun crime stories. I find myself rooting for Alex McKnight because he seems like an average, middle-aged, middle-class guy from Michigan who ends up in situations he really shouldn't be in, all because he can't seem to mind his own business. He lives in a cabin in Paradise. He drives a pick-up truck. He spends a lot of time at the one bar near his house. I read this during that week of 80 degree weather, and it helped cool me down a bit.

12. Happily Ever After edited by John Klima

This was another random grab from the library shelves, and I'm so glad I found it, because it was a goldmine of rewritten fairy tales, sometimes with a modern twist. There's over 30 stories in here, which means there's a huge variety, without the commitment of an entire novel. Kelly Link's "The Faery Handbag" was wacky and fun, but just believable enough that I found myself wishing I could have met the grandmother in the story. There were several re-tellings of Snow White, Rapunzel, and Alice in Wonderland, but my favorite in the whole book was K. Tempest Bradford's "Black Feather," because it reminded me most of what I strive for in my own writing, while still relying on the methods of fairy tale (repetition, symbols, dreams). I was mesmerized by this story. I wanted to live in it. I wish I had written it.

13-15. The Hunger Games trilogy by Suzanne Collins

Everyone had been telling me to read this series, and I didn't get around to it, but since I want to see the movies I figured I should probably read the books. If I see the movie first, I can't picture the characters or the events the way I want to, and I get annoyed. So I requested them from the public library, got impatient, and borrowed the first book from Emily Finnegan so I could get going on them right away.

I love post-apocalyptic fiction/science fiction/speculative fiction, so The Hunger Games earned a place on my shelf from the beginning. While I was reading the first book, though, I found myself wanting to know more about what had caused the creation of Panem (it is explained throughout the series, but not to my satisfaction). I had to keep reminding myself that Katniss's knowledge would be limited and therefore so would mine as a reader, but I still got frustrated, because I expected more. I was easily drawn into this world, though, and I can definitely see nods to gladiatorial combat in ancient Rome and reality television (like Survivor). One of my only real complaints is that it sometimes felt like Collins was in a rush to finish, especially near the end of the third book, and the narration was as spare as possible to propel the story based on connecting the plot points. I wanted to stay in Panem longer, get to know the characters better, have more reflection from Katniss. Also, was it really necessary for her to be drugged so often? By the end of the series, it felt a bit like a cop-out.

Over and over, though, I kept thinking about how kids nowadays are probably well-equipped to identify with Katniss et al. in terms of the public persona, since teenagers now have to worry about crafting a very public image on Facebook, Twitter, YouTube, etc. The younger generation watches and is watched, and probably doesn't get the willies about the Capitol/communication/surveillance the way I did while reading. Have these kids read 1984? I also found myself wondering how kids/teens reading the series now would react to the descriptions of starvation and poverty. I thought about my students, some of whom had lived in cities all of their lives and had probably never set foot on a farm.

16. The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake by Aimee Bender

This was my most recent random library pick. I saw this book on the clearance table at Barnes and Noble a long time ago, and now I wish I had bought it, because DANG. It's about a girl who can taste feelings in whatever she eats, which sounds interesting until you see that she can't shut it off, and it makes her life unbearable. Food takes precedence over most other aspects of the main character's life, so we've got an angry, detached protagonist who has trouble relating to others but who also has insight into others through the emotions in the food they prepare or cook. Bender makes it seem possible, while still retaining an air of magical realism to the whole thing. The characters refer to it as a "special skill" rather than a super power to keep it seeming just normal enough.

I found myself very annoyed with Bender's sentence structure (so many commas! such long sentences!) until I realized that it's because I hate that about my own writing. Once I realized that, though, I cruised through it. My other moment of annoyance came near the end, because the narrator had promised us some information and failed to deliver into there were only a handful of pages left, but when I got to the end I saw why it was done that way and forgave. One of the big secrets in the book made me feel absolutely queasy; even so, I wish it had been described just a little bit more because I couldn't quite picture what the narrator saw, and I wanted to, because I wanted to believe it.

I don't know what to read next, so I'll probably read some more Bradbury until I can make another trip to the library.

The Gifts of Four Grandmothers

Tonight I found myself thinking of the grandmothers in my life. When Aaron and I met, we had three grandparents between the two of us. And now we only have one (my maternal Gramma). I've been fortunate to have four grandmothers in my life. And last night, they were all in my kitchen with me.

1

My paternal grandmother died from a brain tumor when I was two years old, so I never got to know her. Mom has always told me that I would have liked her, that we would have gotten along well, because we were so similar. My immigrant grandma was only 4'9" tall (technically, a little person) and felt more comfortable speaking Ukrainian than English. I have no memory of her, of her voice, but I am told she was sharp-tongued, sharp-witted, stubborn. I know little else but that my grandparents fled Stalin's cruelty, and brought with them the work ethic and thriftiness that seems to be every immigrant's story from that era. I have been told that when some high school kids toilet-papered the trees in her yard, my tiny grandmother went outside with paper bags and a broom to collect it (free toilet paper!). As a middle schooler, I started wearing clothing Mom hated: psychedlic florals, polyester, corduroys--but I was told my grandmother would have loved them.

2

On my Dad's side my grandmothering came from his aunt, my grandma's sister. She lived in Chicago, but we visited for holidays. She was a woman whose love was expressed in meals; when you walked in the door, you ate. While you ate, she cooked the next meal. The home video from Thanksgiving 1987 shows how seriously I took this commandment: I am eating in every scene. Stuffing my face. Unabashedly. She always told me how beautiful I was. When she passed away, I felt like I lost part of my Ukrainian self.

But last night, steaming cabbage and frying bacon, both Aunt Anna and her sister were in the kitchen with me, finally sitting down at the table while someone else's feet wore a path between stove and sink. As I separated chicken breasts from skin and bone and tendons, I hoped these tiny women were hungry.

3

My Mom's family has Gramma. Her laugh is like a clucking chicken. She wears turquoise and silver rings. And she bakes cakes. We would drive over to Gramma's house in the summer to cut from the patch of asparagus along the ditch and inevitably find a plate wrapped in waxed paper, waiting for us. Since she had to cut the rounded tops of the cakes to make them flat for frosting and stacking, she saved the tops for us. Sometimes there would be a stack of one flavor; other times, there would be layers of chocolate, vanilla, strawberry or banana, as tall as a big stack of pancakes but so much better. We ate it with our fingers, digging into someone else's wedding or graduation or baby shower cake without having to get dressed up, attend, bring gifts. We watched her pipe borders, scroll names and wishes onto the white faces of cakes, turn out frosting roses in every color onto waxed paper-covered cardboard trays.

And her whole life, this woman has used $25 hand mixers from K Mart. My own new stand mixer feels ostentatious by comparison, dwarfing my old Sunbeam retro model and taking up a good portion of counter space. But I don't think I'll ever make a basic frosting as good as Gramma's.

4

Aaron's maternal grandmother adopted me as a granddaughter early on; technically, Aaron and I probably weren't even dating when I became the third grandchild and, for years, the only girl. When I met her, she was 81 and using a cane. She still drove, but not far. I was the only one who hadn't heard all of her stories, so we would sit together at the kitchen table in Aaron's parents' house, playing dice and talking about the dresses she wore, the music she listened to, the arguments she had with her sisters. She kept her nails painted, curled her hair, wore make up and earrings and rings. She was a classy lady.

At meals, especially holidays, she was a notorious pre-meal food-snitcher. No one ever officially saw her do it, but I may have been known to push a dish into her reach. She had a way of asking for things that would have been annoying coming from anyone else: "I could really go for a cup of tea." Or, "You know what would be so good right now? Yes, that cake. Oh, are you having some?"

As she aged, her body slowed her down, caused her pain, while her mind stayed sharp. Her memory and her hearing were not affected. I wonder sometimes about the whispered things she heard from the next room but never told. I was saddened when she decided it would be best for her to stop driving. Then I watched as she switched from a cane to a walker, and then, nearest the end, a wheelchair. On our wedding day, she was in a nursing facility, so we planned the day specifically to allow enough time to make the drive there in our wedding clothes, show her the video of our seven-minute ceremony, and drive back for our reception.

She passed away almost three years ago. I inherited a green checked half apron and a red floral smock from her, both handmade. When I put the smock on to fry the bacon, I felt like I needed to also put on some eye shadow, paint my nails, maybe put on some earrings. The sound of the bacon frying wasn't enough to drown out the rumbles of thunder from a passing storm, and I thought about how terrified Grandma was of storms, how she would hate living in southern Illinois, with its constant 30% chance of rain.

I gave up on cooking. I ate a BLT. I sat in my red smock, listening to Barbara Walters talk about how someone's life was about to change with over half a billion dollars in lottery winnings, an unfathomable sum of money. And I had my four grandmothers keeping me company.

Thumbs Up for Thums Up

When I travel, I love to try local snacks and beverages, not only from my deeply-rooted love for junk food, but also because I feel like you get a good sense of a place by eating and drinking what regular people have when they're not trying to impress anyone.

My cousin's husband introduced us to kvas, an eastern European drink traditionally made from fermented rye bread. It was like a combination of beer and hard cider: a little sweet and fizzy, but with a yeasty taste. Definitely unlike anything I've ever had before, but in a good way. It's on my list of things to buy from a street vendor if I'm ever lucky enough to visit Ukraine.

Of course, I also love regional variations of store brand soft drinks in the U.S. While visiting friends in Atlanta, we made a point of visiting the local QT (QuikTrip) gas station/convenience store, which has the largest selection of fountain beverages I have ever seen. I recommend the Rooster Booster energy drink.

In Italy, it was the tiny black cans of Oran Soda from the vending machine at American University of Rome. It was a cross between regular orange soda and pulpy orange juice, made by the Campari company. On Mondays, I had six straight hours of class (Masterpieces of Italian Opera to Roman History to an accelerated Italian language course) and I usually managed to scrounge 40 Euro cents so I could slurp down a can of it, usually with a baggie of cookies or a granola bar, to get me through the rest of the day.

While in London, I marveled at the different flavors of Pringles chips at the grocery store, which included Curry and Paprika. Yorkie bars were also fun, if a bit misogynistic ("It's Not for Girls!).

Yes. Not for handbags. But delicious!

 And everywhere in Europe, I bought Kinder eggs. They're just thin hollow chocolate eggs wrapped in foil, and the chocolate isn't anything special. But inside the chocolate egg is a plastic egg holding a toy surprise--things like puzzles, character figures, or vehicles. Once, I even got a green Dumpster like the one in front of our Rome apartment, complete with moving arms controlled by a rubber band. I bought a Kinder egg nearly every time I went to the grocery store in Rome, and I still have the toys. I saw a gigantic Kinder display in the Amsterdam airport, and I promised myself I would buy a few on the way home.

India gave us a few opportunities to try local snacks, since there were street vendors and small stores everywhere, and our hotel room included a "mini bar." This meant that every night when we came back to the room, we could pop the top off a slightly chilled bottle of either Sprite or an Indian cola called Thums Up. I had seen the billboards and bus signs for Thums Up: the slogan was "Taste the Thunder!" and the ads exclusively featured men. A visit to the company website (it's a Coca-Cola product) shows that this is intentional, as the company claims "Thums Up is known for its strong, fizzy taste and its confident, mature and uniquely masculine attitude. This brand clearly seeks to separate the men from the boys."

It's burning his esophagus with its awesomeness!

I don't care that I'm not the target demographic for Thums Up. I was eager to try it. On a first sip, it tastes like a normal cola: sweet, syrupy, fizzy. It's not quite the same flavor as Coke or Pepsi, but it's close. The aftertaste is where I concede that there is definitely something masculine about Thums Up, because it tastes like chemicals. Specifically, it tastes a little like licking aluminum siding (that must be the "thunder" the ads mentioned). It made me think of the smell of ozone, and testing batteries on my tongue, things that were routinely part of my childhood because my older brother liked to take mechanical things apart and build new contraptions out of them, often harassing me along the way. Thums Up seems like the kind of thing Tim would drink. It wasn't exactly a Tesla coil in the mouth, but I can see where they were going with it.

And you know what? I grew to like it. I actually looked forward to getting back to the room at night, because the housekeeping staff would have restocked the mini bar. There's just something about cracking open a cool glass bottle of lightning-flavored soda after a long day of shooting video and taking photos.

Kitty Dentures; Or, Why My Cat Has No Teeth

 

This is Brie.

If you think she looks a little sad, you would be right. When this picture was taken, she was in so much pain that she had stopped eating. She would walk over to the food dish, sniff it a little, look around to see where I was, and meow plaintively.

We adopted Brie from the Humane Society in Mt. Pleasant in early 2007. She was nine months old and seemed afraid of everything. She also had some behavioral quirks; most notably, she didn't chew her food. When we first brought her home, we thought she swallowed her food whole because she was afraid there wouldn't be a next meal. Having a constant supply of dry food, however, didn't seem to make a difference, and for the five years we have owned her, she has never chewed her food. She also seems to lack a sense of smell. We didn't think it was that big of a deal, though, because she ate and played with our other cat as if everything was normal.

Over the past two years, however, it became clear just how problematic it is when a cat doesn't chew. She developed severe gingivitis. She stopped eating a few days before a week-long trip back to Michigan, so we took her with us for a vet appointment there. The doctor anesthetized her for an ultrasonic teeth cleaning procedure, after which he told us he had never seen a mouth that bad on a cat that young. He gave us antibiotics for her, and we went home.

But the problems became a cycle: she would feel better for awhile, and then her mouth would become red and irritated, sometimes with bleeding gums. Her breath smelled awful. She had trouble properly grooming herself. So we would return to the vet for a combination of injections: steroids and antibiotics, usually with an at-home antibiotic to be given over the following 2-4 weeks.

She hated the antibiotics. One kind was a bitter liquid we had to squirt into her mouth with a dropper. Another kind was a pill that she would inevitably spit out a few times. We became adept at forcing open her mouth, shoving the dropper or pill-popper (a cruel-looking wandlike device that shoots the pill down the cat's throat) far enough into her mouth that she couldn't dislodge it with her tongue. I have several scars on my arms and legs resulting from these treatments. Eventually, we started wrapping her in a towel before attempting to medicate her.

And then, a week and a half ago, she stopped eating again. She was clearly losing weight. She was clearly miserable. Her back teeth were blackish-gray. I took her back to the vet for the steroids and antibiotics, during which Brie screamed (!) and tried to bite the vet tech assisting the doctor. It was heartbreaking. But the doctor leveled with me: the best thing would be to remove as many teeth as was necessary to end the infections, so we wouldn't have to keep bringing Brie back and getting the injections.

We had broached the topic before, but the cost was staggering: cats have 30 teeth, and it could cost $35 per tooth, plus the fees for medications, boarding, etc. We were looking at possibly spending over $1,000 to make the cat healthy again. And I felt like a terrible, cruel, inhumane person every time I postponed the inevitable surgery, because as much she needed it, we had other expenses to consider.

This time, though, I couldn't put it off any longer. Something about the way Brie seemed to have completely given up made it impossible for me to keep her waiting. I scheduled the surgery (without consulting Aaron) and drove home, panicking a little. I knew I had made the right decision, but I didn't know where the money would come from. When I called him, he understood, reassuring me that it was okay.

In the days leading up to the surgery, I tried to be as kind as possible to Brie. The steroids and antibiotics had already taken effect, to the point where she gained nearly a pound in less than a week because she was eating so much. Two days before the surgery, I fed her chicken-flavored baby food from a spoon, and she didn't have to share with Muenster.

We dropped her off Monday afternoon for a Tuesday morning surgery. When the procedure was over, the vet called me to say Brie was awake and very "talkative." They had removed 23 teeth, and since seven had already fallen out on their own, our cat was now completely toothless. When the vet tech brought her into the room where we waited, Brie seemed a little dazed, but eager to see us.

It's sometimes hard to know if pets understand our motivations. But it seems like Brie knows that now, despite having no teeth, she is much better off.

And she will never again bite the hand that feeds her.

Production: Day 2

Our first day in Hyderabad was guaranteed to be a long one, because we had to do 95% of our remaining India preproduction by the time we went to sleep that night.

Since the Green Park is a hotel meant primarily for businessmen, a breakfast buffet was included. I know a buffet isn't the best way to taste local cuisine, but I saw it as a great compromise between blindly ordering from a menu (not knowing what to expect when the server brought the food) and chickening out with Western food. Plus, buffets allow for sampling, which greatly decreases the risk and embarrassment of Unpleasant First Bite Face (and since we were eating with Rob, I was a little more aware of this). I scooped small, neat piles of rice and vegetable dishes, like upma and bisi bele bath onto my plate, along with corn and mutton idly.

A van was sent to pick us up at the hotel and take the three of us to the Andhra Pradesh Productivity Council's Hyderabad headquarters, which also house the CMU Information Centre and some computer companies. We had to take all of our equipment with us, but by this time we were reasonably comfortable lugging everything around. Of course, as soon as we approached the van, the driver wordlessly took everything out of our hands to load it into the back. He didn't make eye contact, and didn't even look up when I thanked him. It's unnerving to be served like that, and I don't think I can fully explain how every new instance of it made me so uncomfortable.

Each time we sat down in a vehicle, we had a new experience of what it was like to get around India. The drivers that had been arranged for us seemed to fit into a hierarchy based on the level of terror induced by the ride. Our driver this morning was the same we had the previous night on the trip from the airport, so the ride was relatively smooth and stops were gentle. At the time, of course, it felt like he was weaving crazily and stopping just short of ramming us into idling cars. The traffic in Hyderabad was jam-packed, and we saw how motorcycles and scooters were preferable to larger vehicles. On some roads, they made up 2/3 of the traffic, and even when the lights were red, motorcycles jockeyed for a slightly closer position. They were like buzzing insects, constantly moving. Some intersections had traffic police stationed in kiosks to monitor violations, but we had to wonder how they would be able to catch someone in that kind of traffic (as it turns out, cameras and e-tickets). Pursuit would be nearly impossible.

Upon arriving at the APPC building, we were greeted and given bouquets of roses again. Then we were given a tour of the place, which served as our first round of location scouting so we could get all of the shots we needed (especially the India shots that were supposed to look like somewhere other than the CMUIC). The building was five or six stories tall (the top two floors were unfinished) with one or two companies on each floor. The main floor, where the APPC is located, has one large office with a few smaller offices and alcoves with desks in them for some of the staff. The rest of the employees worked at rows of desks with computers on them. We were introduced to every single person working there--about 25-30 in all.

Have you ever been introduced to thirty people, one at a time? It's an odd experience. There was little hope that we'd remember even a fraction of the names we were told, but it was helpful for them to see us so they wouldn't wonder what we were doing in their building for the rest of the week. They were gracious and welcoming, even though Aaron and I were just two white people with some camera equipment, suddenly standing in an office building in India.

Next we sat down with two of the APPC's administrators to talk about the Council's mission and goals, which was one of the most interesting conversations I've ever had because we learned so much about India in general and the state of Andhra Pradesh in particular. Much of what the APPC does is linked to economic and entrepreneurial development, but there's a huge focus on the development of human resources, especially in terms of education. Call me a nerd, but I can listen to people discuss education all day long, especially over cookies and Fanta orange.

In our discussions of Andhra Pradesh and Hyderabad, we were told that the region has excellent (and very spicy) food. We had lunch at a restaurant called Southern Spice, and the name alone had me panicking a little. Here we go, I thought. A spicy meal in India is going to make me cry, and that's going to be really embarrassing. Even though the menus are printed in English, our companions spoke English, and the waitstaff seemed to have a good command of English, ordering was tricky because most items were labeled with a name and a very simple explanation that didn't reveal much about what was actually in the food. Spice was never mentioned. Ingredients remained a mystery.

For the picky and non-adventurous, it was a gamble. Rob asked about some fish on the menu. "What's the sauce like?" he asked. "Is it spicy?"

"Not too spicy," our waiter said. Unfortunately, that was his default answer. Rob asked them to make the fish without any sauce on it. The waiter nodded.

Aaron and I were a little more conflicted in our ordering, as Aaron is both slightly picky and not-too-adventurous. He was also still quite concerned about getting sick. I had stupidly adopted a "NOTHING CAN HURT ME!" attitude, but that didn't help me understand what any of the menu items were. We asked the waiters a lot of questions. We struggled with the unclear answers. In the end, we settled on Chinese food, which seems to be quite popular in India.

When our food came, Rob let us try his fish, which was in a mildly spicy sauce. We shared our chicken, which was in a red, burn-your-lips-off spicy sauce that made Rob cry a little. I thought he must be exaggerating, but the initial bite coated my tongue in a blanket of hot. Unlike other spicy food I've suffered through, however, this wasn't about pain--it was just heat, and it faded rather quickly. In fact, the sauce would have been delicious, had it not also been chock-full of cilantro leaves. Oh, the soap-tasting humanity. I filled up on vegetarian soup and chicken fried rice instead.

The rest of the afternoon was spent at the CMUIC for preproduction. We rearranged the furniture and displayed the CMU paraphernalia Rob had brought with him, including some banners, pennants, and a new clock. A light kit had been rented for us, so we blocked out our shots and figured out how to make the best use of the room's two windows, the fluorescent fixtures and the diffused incandescents in the kit lights. Since Rob had to meet with some students regarding CMU's graduate programs, we were shuffled over to Dr. Reddi's office to finalize our shot list and make a list of the props we'd need to buy that night so we could shoot the next day.

And then Aaron had an unfortunate post-meal incident I cannot discuss. I will only say that we were prepared.

As the afternoon wore on into the evening, Rob and Vinay (the CMUIC advisor) were ready to take us shopping for props. Our task was to transform the slightly bland and mildly industrial CMUIC into a prospective student's living room, where she would discuss her education options with her parents. We had a couch, two chairs, and a glass coffee table to work with, so we set out to the mall with a list that included curtains, a rug, a vase, a lamp, and some throw pillows.

The mall was like a very large department store, spanning several floors of the building and divided into merchandise categories. We had to go through security scanners to enter the building (with, once again, a separate curtained-off area for women). In a country that constantly challenges the senses, the mall was another form of sensory overload: the displays were bright and crammed with merchandise; the music was loud, pulsating; salespeople wove their way into the crowds; and the colors were exaggeratedly bright. It was like the vision of consumerism I'd first noticed growing up in the late 1980s and early 1990s had been reanimated, but with a foreign flavor. There was so much there, screaming to be purchased, and crowds of people with that adrenaline-infused, slightly glassy stare of want glinting in their eyes.

We were here on business, though, so I couldn't let myself get distracted by every fascinating detail. I couldn't buy anything for myself (or for others--I so badly wanted to find the perfect turquoise sari for Allison Joseph). And even though we had a list, a set of directives guiding us through the towering displays and labyrinthine halls of stuff, it took us forever to find the right items. We had to try to make an office look like a home, but we also had to think about the way these props would photograph. We had to think about matching color and pattern but also textures, reflectivity, saturation, the scale of the pattern in relation to other elements. It's definitely not how we normally think about furnishings.

Somewhere between one store and the next, I had developed a strange rash on my arm. It was a little red, a little bumpy, and a little itchy--and unlike any contact dermatitis I had ever had. It was only on one arm, so I went to the restroom to wash it and (maybe) prevent it from spreading. All I needed was to wake up in the morning with my left arm red, swollen to twice its normal size, and completely unusable. We finished up at the mall and had the driver take us to a pharmacy, since I had somehow neglected to pack any kind of Benadryl in my gigantic toiletry/first-aid kit.

The pharmacy was marked with a green plus sign, like the ones I had grown accustomed to (but had never visited) in Rome. It was tiny, with most merchandise behind the counter and two pharmacy clerks there to help. I was very grateful to have Vinay with us, since the pharmacist spoke Telugu and I didn't recognize the brands on the shelves. I held up my arm to show the pharmacist, and he gave me a tube of something called Fourderm. It was a white cream and smelled vaguely medicinal (I still can't figure out what it reminds me of), but it didn't contain hydrocortisone. I paid my rupees and fervently hoped I wouldn't have a bad reaction to the cream, since my skin does not act like other people's skin. In fact, my skin sometimes decides to react to things that were once safe, like laundry detergent and certain fabrics. I can only imagine what my immune system was going through.

By this time, it had been dark for hours and I was ready to be in a quiet place, alone. But first we had to go back to the CMUIC to set up the props for the living room scene, and we managed to do that in about 20 minutes. I think we were all ready to go back to the hotel, to come up for air. None of us had even eaten dinner, because we had all been so busy working on the video project (and Rob and Vinay had meetings with students).

At least the work was getting done.

Twelve Reasons Today Was a Good Day

 For Aaron and I, it's always about the little things in life. And I'm grateful our lives are so small.


1. I had to set my alarm to make sure I was awake for the UPS man to deliver my new vacuum. I've needed a replacement for over a year, and Aaron ordered one for me.


2. I was able to go back to bed for more rest. I didn't fall back asleep, but I wasn't really awake, either.

3. I had my first milkshake today. Yes, I'm serious--I've never had a milkshake before. I thought drinking melted ice cream was nuts. It was delicious, and half-price.

4. Aaron and I spent the afternoon walking in the cypress swamp at Heron Pond. Apparently, the best way to recover from physically overdoing a work out on Sunday is more physical exertion on Monday. We took photos. We enjoyed the sunshine. We didn't answer our phones or worry about what time it was.

The entire pond was covered in small red and green plants, which made it look like the trees grew out of something pink and slightly gelatinous, since it rippled a little when the wind blew.













The mosquitoes loved him. I wore long sleeves.








5. I saw wildlife, up close and personal: Mosquitoes. Gnats. Vultures. A red-headed woodpecker.  Squirrels. A crayfish. Several turkeys, who flew across the road as our car approached.

We played with this little guy for a long time. Aaron kept worrying that he'd pinch my fingers. I told him not to be so afraid of everything, that this is what kids do all the time.






6. Aaron took me to the "redneck zoo," which means we drove around until we found a dairy farm with a fence close to the road so I could watch the cows. This is one of my most common requests when we go on drives in the country, because I love cows. I love staring into their oddly-spaced eyes, listening to them snort and chew. If they moo, all the better.

7. We went grocery shopping together. I usually go alone, so it was nice to have company. Bargain-hunting at Kroger netted us ribeye steaks on sale. We also bought a bag of charcoal, four bags of salad, and a 20 lb. bag of rice that were "Manager's Specials" (meaning: super cheap). We also managed to make a trip in and out of Aldi in about seven minutes, since it was 7:51 and the store closes at 8:00. Why does that feel like a victory? I don't know, but it does.

8. The ruby-throated hummingbird migration has brought them as far as Montgomery, Alabama so far. Though they aren't here yet, they'll be in southern Illinois in a matter of weeks. I check the map every day because I'm so excited that some tiny birds will be flitting around my backyard come April.

9. When we came home, Aaron put away of the groceries while I cooked dinner. Then he put together the new vacuum and tested it out in the living room and kitchen. I put away the dishes. With two people cleaning, it feels less like chores and more like a competition to see who can be nice longer.

10. We watched a few episodes of Mad Men on Netflix, after being too busy the past week or so to watch any together.

11. I got to open the windows today, and leave them open tonight. Even though I had to wash all of the silverware I've been leaving in the sink because I hate washing silverware, I finished it tonight because it's hard not to feel good when you're standing at the sink with a cool breeze blowing in the window, listening to the peep of a thousand frog voices and the drawn out chord of an oncoming freight train.

12. Aaron and I had a mutual day off together that we spent mostly together, rather than sequestered in our offices (with the exception of the past hour or so).

Goodbye, Mumbai; Hello, Hyderabad

Much of what we did in India consisted of sitting and waiting: in lobbies, on steps, in hotel rooms, in airports, in lines, in the backseats of vans. We became very good at it by the end of the trip.

Like this crow. We were just as good at waiting.

 Waiting for Rob to come back from Elephanta Island gave us a chance to sit in the hotel lobby and think about everything we still had to do. We wanted to figure out a way to call home using Skype, but even after paying the exorbitant rates for hotel Internet access and trying to load credits on our account, we couldn't do it. That didn't stop Aaron from messing around with the iPad, trying to get it to work. It was impossible to plan ahead for the portion of the shoot we would complete in Hyderabad during the rest of the week, since we didn't know exactly what we would be working with, but we talked about the shots we would need.

After awhile, though, we realized that it was getting very late, and there was still no sign of Rob. Having already experienced what it was like to get around Mumbai on our own, we didn't want to repeat that. But he was very late--to the point where we started to wonder if we would need to book a car and leave for the airport without him, hoping that he would make his own arrangements so we could all catch the flight together. Neither of us wanted to think of this as an option, but we also didn't want to think about what would happen if we made the flight and he didn't. Aaron's rational, logical brain kicked in, and we set a time limit: if Rob didn't make it back to the hotel by that time, we would leave a note for him at the front desk and depart without him.


I think Aaron and I managed to make each other more and more nervous as we speculated about the causes of Rob's lateness. Did he completely miss the boat? Did something terrible happen to him? Did he leave without us? It was within five minutes of our imposed deadline when Rob walked through the revolving doors into the lobby, explaining what happened in between bursts of apology. There had been a very large tour group ahead of him on the jetty to return to the mainland, and they had filled the only available boat--which meant he had to wait for another boat to come to the island.

Rob still had to finish packing his suitcases and check out, but we no longer felt panicked, really. It was like we didn't have the energy to worry. When he came back downstairs, we booked a driver through the bell desk, which was quite a bit more expensive than it would have been to take a regular taxi, but it turned out to be an excellent decision. Remember how our ride from the airport to the Taj was the most terrifying experience of our lives, during which we feared abandonment, murder, accidental death, kidnapping, and general abuse? The ride back to the airport for our domestic flight could not have been more different.

Two or three bellhops took our luggage out of a side door while another escorted us through the front doors to a waiting Toyota minivan. Our doors were opened for us. Not only was the vehicle clean, it was air conditioned and there were chilled bottles of water and mints waiting for us. Our driver spoke impeccable English and wore white gloves with his suit and hat. He explained that he had perfected his English while working for the U.S. Embassy, driving dignitaries around Mumbai.

He was, by far, the best driver we had while in India

Our driver took us along a scenic route that included Marine Drive and the Sea Link, a newly completed bypass toll bridge over Mahim Bay. I understand why our first ride was nothing like this: it was a more expensive route.

The skyline went for miles like that. As far as the eye could see, really.

Even though we saw so little of Mumbai, this ride gave us the chance to see a more developed side of the city, where people had time and money to spend on leisure. We passed beaches, cricket being played in huge stadiums, gardens, universities, lavish apartments, mosques.

After we crossed the Sea Link and the driver paid the toll, he pointed out the slums lining both sides of the highway. He told us that Slumdog Millionaire had been filmed nearby, in one of Mumbai's largest slum areas.

I couldn't get over the scale of this (and the one on the other side of the road was much, much bigger). I understood why Ganesh had wanted to show me, because it was unbelievable and devastating. It would have felt crass to get in a car for the express purpose of gawking at other people's poverty; seeing it accidentally felt surreal.

The trip to the airport took slightly less than two hours, since the traffic was heavier and it was daytime, but it had felt quick because it was so much more comfortable than our previous ride. As soon as we were out of the car, we rolled our suitcases towards the entrance and were faced with armed guards. We had to present our ticket receipts and passports just to get into the building. Rob took us over to the Air India ticket counters, where we waited in a line that didn't seem to move, like when you're at the grocery store and the person in front of you wants to use sixty coupons.

Eventually, we had our bags checked and boarding passes printed. I'm not sure if this is at all domestic airports in India (or if it is a common practice elsewhere), but we had to put ID tags on our hand baggage and had to have it stamped when we went through security. It's an interesting idea, and I suppose it's just one more way to prevent terrorism by adding another means of monitoring what enters each area of the terminal, and what gets on the plane.

This was my first real experience with gender-specific security lines, and I appreciated it because not only did I have more privacy, I also didn't get as thoroughly groped as I have by other security officers and my line was shorter than the ones Aaron and Rob went through. It made me feel more relaxed to be herded through with only women, because passengers seemed to be more patient with each other.

We had about 45 minutes before our flight left, which was just long enough for us to grab something quick to eat in the terminal. There was a small sandwich stand near our gate. Rob and Aaron panicked a little at the offerings, since the sandwiches looked dry (they were) and contained questionable ingredients. I had been smelling something delicious as soon as we turned the corner from the security checkpoint, so I followed my nose again and saw samosas. They were huge, and they gave you two for less than a dollar. I'm drooling a little just thinking about that airport terminal samosa dipped in ketchup.

As soon as we were done eating, Rob told us we should all stand in front of our gate. We looked around, a little confused, because everyone else was sitting down. There were empty seats right in front of the gate podium. "Trust me," Rob said. "You have to be more Indian here, and show less respect for the rules. Plus, this way you'll actually have a place to put your carry-ons." It turned out he was absolutely right, because within a few minutes a knot of people had formed around us, and we were closest to the front. By the time our flight was announced, there was a wall of people several deep, which prevented those who had sat down from even getting up.

Air India, it turns out, is a really nice airline. But the plane was small enough that Rob's warning about not having a place to stow our bags would have been valid had we not boarded at the beginning. Even though the flight was only just over an hour, we were fed by the most efficient crew of flight attendants I had ever seen. The meal was also one of the strangest I have ever eaten, because I don't typically consume tofu, corn, cilantro and another unidentifiable ingredient together on a sandwich, but it was strangely good, and I was so hungry that there wasn't room for complaint.

We landed in Hyderabad just as it got dark, and experienced the "everybody stand up before the plane stops moving" routine we had come to expect in India. There was some waiting. Then we entered the terminal to claim our baggage. There was some more waiting. While the domestic terminal of the Mumbai airport had reminded me of a 1980s bowling alley in ambience and decor, the Hyderabad airport looked brand-spankin'-new, all shiny and modern.

Rob assured us that we would be picked up by our contact in Hyderabad, so we didn't have to worry about booking a car. What we didn't expect was that Vinay Kumar, the academic advisor at the CMUIC, was waiting for us with bouquets of roses, an assistant, and a driver. He helped them load our huge bags into the van, and we somehow managed to cram six adults in the space for four, since Vinay had been displaced by our luggage. This was our first taste of the uncomfortably gracious and self-sacrificing hospitality we would experience our entire time in Hyderabad. I couldn't help but feel like a total jerk, because I had legroom (and I obviously don't need it).

The ride from the airport to our hotel was about 45 minutes, but it seemed longer in the dark. From what I could tell, the airport is located far enough outside the city that it is still somewhat rural. At the rate India's cities are growing, however, it probably won't be long until Hyderabad expands out that far.

Soon enough we were at our hotel, the Green Park in the Greenlands area of the city. It was at once fancy and comfortable: slightly better than the hotels Aaron and I normally stay in, but not anything like the Taj in terms of size or price, for which I was extremely grateful. It's billed as a place for business travelers, so it had conveniences without catering to luxury. Our rooms were on the second floor and had a view of the courtyard, where private events are held.

It was another situation where all I wanted to do was collapse on the bed, fully clothed, and sleep until morning, but we had things to do. Aaron was finally able to get Skype to work, since the credits had posted to our account while we were in transit between Mumbai and Hyderabad, so we called our families to let them know how things were going. It was hard to get used to the idea that it was night in Hyderabad but 7:00 in the morning back in Michigan, but it actually made calling home convenient because we were in the room at times when we knew our families would be available.

I also had to play seamstress for Aaron, since the strap on his new backpack had broken earlier in the day, while we were out shooting photos and video. I've always been completely enamored of the complimentary items in hotel rooms, and we had made sure to grab everything from our room at the Taj when we packed our suitcases--including, thankfully, the sewing kit. Even though I was voiding the warranty on the bag by repairing it myself, a bag that breaks on day two of a ten-day trip doesn't leave many options. We watched episodes of American television shows ("Big Bang Theory" was on every night) and drank cold sodas out of the free minibar. We were living like kings.