Enthusiasmo

BY THE SEAT OF YOUR PANTS: Chapter ViI

A quick one-off:

This new years tree wasn't born in Red Square, but placed there by diligent hands.

The new capitalists scurry through the cold square, gifts trailing from their hands like kites on 6-inch strings. The spongey clouds of Moscow's coming night huddle around the three-story fir tree as if warmed there by its illuminated baubles of white, gold and red.

Elsewhere on the square, a destitute babushka swings grocery bags like some embittered whirling dervish of pverty. Round and round, like teh redistribution of rubles, like the self-winding clock of solopsism by which the wealthy wind up the poor. She looks as though she has entered her last years -- hard creases in her skin run like dried up rivers, forming deltas at the corners of white eyes that stare into the the sea of shoppers and the tree like a whirlpool that draws them all to the center. Spinning, spinning, bags lifting with the centrifical force; perhaps they are controlling the tide.

[a sketch of those deltas]

Like Lenin, stuck on a mosoleum to serve the Soviet cause even after the Soviet era has come and gone, the poor -- and the elderly women especially -- are still paying the price of communism.

Cobble stones laid by tsars, stamped to the streets of radish spires, reflected in the windows of museums, churches, embassies and Pierre Cardin, eventually lead to a soviet-style tenement block where a widowed grandmother raises her grand children, while her daughter sits silent in a wooden chair, monitoring a museum gallery of French impressionist art, waiting for a Chinaman or American or Australian to breathe too hard.

BY THE SEAT OF YOUR PANTS: Chapter VI

India -- and Bombay in particular -- smells like no other place I've been. The plane's doors open, you walk to the gate, and someone will invariably say, "it even smells like we're in India!" It smells, at intervals, like swamp gas, kerosene, livestock and ocaacionally incense -- all carried on thick, salty, ocean air. Haven't seen a cloud in days; just a sky that fades from blue to brown or grey, depending on the sun's angle and the smog.

Last time I was here, I felt less odd about the whole affair. Perhaps it's the fact that my accommodations and daily activities are far more excessve this time around. I am chauffered from five-star hotel to five-star hotel to the best seafood restaurant in all of Bombay to a rooftop cabana that overlooks the Arabian sea and looks as though it was pinched from a Dolce Cabana advertisement (white linens billowing inthe soft breeze, rich young Bombay socialites, the occasional model or second-rate Bollywood star, lavish lunch spreads, a crystal-clear pool scattered with rose petals, so many styles of sunglasses that the absurdity of fashion rips right through the beauty and strikes a dissonent cord) and then back to the first hotel. In the midst of it all, the sidewalks team with barefoot children, beds, homes made from pieces of garbage, goats and stray dogs sleeping in livingrooms made of dirt; walls built of nothing, so close to the roadside that the next stray motor car will likely kill a family of 10 in its sleep. At a stop signal, the windows will make music, as children or old women tap their fingers lightly on the glass -- tap-tap-thip-thip-thap-tap-thap -- the sound of poverty knocking, the pleading smile from beggar boy to rich man in passing.

It's all much the same as I wrote four years ago. The rich are rich and the poor are sleeping on eachothers feet, so no one can walk on the sidewalk at night. Bombay is a quilt, it is a hodge-podge it is a mockery of city planning, it is 19.5 million people living in a million houses, it is a city that looks as though, from start to finish, it were built of flotsam and jetsam from the ruins of a glorious Western empire that happened to wash up on the shores. It is chaotic, it is a fine mess, it is the visible festering of a thousand diseases, and it is . . . in some strange way . . . more beautiful than most any place I've ever been.

While the poverty is almost unimageinable -- the distance between the haves and have-nots so staggering -- there is a cohesive social and moral consciousness here more pervasive than anywhere I've been. I don't mean this on an economic or policy-based level (certainly, there are more progressive places in teh world), but on an inter-personal level, one just doesn't encounter random acts of violent crime.

* * *

Time to wrap-up here. I must go take partin a traditional Indian wedding dance of some nature. All us young American folk treceived an hour-long dance lesson yesterday, were fitted for custom-tailored outfits, and must now make good on the promise of loooking like idiots in front of several hundred wedding guests. What jolly fun this all shal be. I have some last reflections on Russia in my notebook upstairs, which I may transpose for you later tonight or tomorrow in the form of sketeches, one-offs and poems -- however it all comes to mind.

In the meantime, wear warm socks and enjoy the cold. It's a steady 85-degrees here, a climate in which Ferris Bueller would have dropped school conmpletely.

Ta ta!

- Z

BY THE SEAT OF YOUR PANTS: Chapter V

Have arrived back at the hostel in Moscow at long last. Olga greeted me with a Cheshire smile. I must've been quite a sight for sore eyes. I was so happy just to step back inside and know I could relax after my St. Petersburg adventures, even if just for a couple hours. I've arranged a taxi to take me to the airport in 2 hours so I can get to Bombay. Sadly, 20 hours of trains later, the adventurous portion of my micro-vacation is nearly at an end. I want it to continue a while longer, but at the same time, it feels fantastic to have had a proper shower and a proper shave and just sit back and relax. And Bombay will be luxuriant and filled with revelry, so who am I to argue?

Another from the road:

JUXTAPOSITION
My feeling is, when you're traveling alone, you walk into any room with a fellow traveler in it and you introduce yourself immediately. Works every time. You find your drinking companions, your stories from afar, your must-see sites from people who've already been trekking around awhile, and so on.

When I arrived at the hostel in St. Petersburg, it was early afternoon and most of the back packers wee already out on the town. John and I were the only ones there. We had both just arrived. I introduced myself with a handshake and inquired as to his plans. We were both headed straight for the Hermitage. I suggested we do our own things for the afternoon and then maybe we could meet for dinner and a few drinks at half seven.

Now, the danger in making plans like this with strangers is that, well, sometimes you don't really love the stranger's company. Midway through dinner, this was seeming the case with John. He was quite friendly, just boring and a bit odd. An interesting character if you're looking to make a sketch, but only interesting  as a study of how people end up this way.  We're sitting in a Georgian/Avarian restaurant in St. Petersburg. I'm eating some Caucasian delight with lamb on boiled pieces of dough, on which you place a dab of sour cream and then bathe each bite in hot beef broth. He's sitting there, on and on about his past "relationships" and "I'm 32, I'm just so OLD!" Not to mention on and on and on about the mundane, how he gets reimbursed on his expense account, how heavy his bag is, how he gets reimbursed (again). I decided the only way out of this situation was to get him drunk, so I started ordering rounds of vodka.

"I, um, I haven't gotten very drunk, like really drunk, in probably a year now.
"Well, you're getting drunk tonight!" I said, and raised my glass.
"Yeah, I guess I am. Wow, this is kind of funny. I used to do this in college. I feel so young!"
"You're thirty two years old. Y'ARE young!" And down the hatch.

Dinner was nothing shy of splendid. Borscht to beat the band, although I have been confused by the fact that every time I've ordered "cold borscht" from a menu it's arrived hot. Perhaps it's a seasonal custom not to serve cold soup in the winter months? The cold salad of ham, cow tongue and scallions was also quite fine. Cow tongue and borscht . . . now I know where my grandparents came from ;)

After dinner we hit a bar that we'd heard was the most popular in town with the college crowd. Proving that some things are unavoidable, we were treated to Slayer and Guns and Roses videos. We closed down that bar at around 2:00 and were ready for more. John was beside himself with intoxication. i was well on my way. We walked the streets of St. Petersburg for about an hour, wending our way from one canal to another, over bridges bathed lightly in lamplight that looked as though it had been painted to the Nevsky River by Renee Magritte, himself. St.Petersburg has an interesting turnover problem: most popular bars and restaurants go out of business within a year, rendering guide books obsolete. We couldn't find anything we were looking for.

Then John mentions, "Well, there's this gay bar, um . . ."
". . ." I said
". . . if you're into that sort of thing."
"Are you into that sort of thing?"
"Ummm . . . Yes? Yeah, I kind of am. Are you?"
"No," I said. "I mean I don't mind being around that sort of thing, it's just not my thing."
"Umm, okay," he said, sounding a bit apologetic and whiney, "we can do something else."
"No, if that's what you want to do then you should get to do what you came here to do."
"Yeah, but . . ."
"Make you a deal," I said. "I'll come with you to the gay bar. And then you come with me to a strip club. We'll both see how the other side lives in St. Petersburg."
"Wow! You really don't mind?"
"Not if you don't. Now let's get busy. there isn't much time to kill."

I have to say, I know this is coming from a straight guy, but John would whole-heartedly agree: gay clubs at 2:00 AM on a Wednesday night in St. Petersburg, Russia, are nothing short of lame. For the men, it was mostly wallflowers watching professional dancers and acting too shy to approach one another. The lesbians were having a little more fun, as a couple of them at least mustered the gusto to dance with each other.  I tried my best to prod John into talking with some of the men, but he just kept standing around and talking to me. I'm the kind of guy who walks up to a bar and just orders something. John has to stand around and ask the bartender 20 questions about what he should order, change his mind five times and then order something he doesn't like by accident. Then he'll spend the next 5 minutes talking to his friend -- in this case, me -- about what he should have ordered. Pushing a man of such character to approach homosexuals who speak a foreign language is no easy task. I even trie dto introduce him to one man, and he practically hid behind me, staring mostly down into his half-empty drink and talking practically into his straw. Oh well. We left in short order and I feared somewhat that we might get the piss beat out of us if anyone saw where we were coming from. Like I told John, "if anyone tries to beat us up, remember I'm still straight and you're gay." We had a laugh.

I'd like to report a more debaucherous tale from the heterosexual side of St. Petersburg, but unfortunately the strip club we stumbled upon was quite upscale, ridiculously expensive and, I can safely assure you, not worth the money. I had one dance. I would rate it as "just "okay" so far as lap dances go. Mostly, the fun to be had there was watching John's reaction to being groped by women. He was positively uncomfortable. We sat around and soaked up the scene for two drinks. He eventually just started confiding in the women that he was gay. My favorite response to this was when one of the girls responded "I'm gay too!" Another strage occurrence that I think would never happen in an American strip club was as follows: One of the girls walks up and asks me if I want a dance. I say no, I've already had my dance and I'm just here to talk to my friend now. She says that's too bad, so I ask her if she wants to do a shot with me. She says "yes, but it's my money" and buys the round. We do the shots, she gives me high five and says "good boy!" I try to pay, and the bartender confirms that the girl bought me the shots. Next time she came around she bought 'em again. We started talking -- mostly about how John and I were having a pretty funny evening, and how I was all done getting dances -- and she goes right ahead and buys me yet another. Didn't let me pay. Wouldn't even let me tip her. Guess no matter where you go, strip club or otherwise, sometimes people are just happy for the company. Amen.

Someone did offer us "Erotic massage. Anything you want. Hot girls. Annnnnnything you want" on our way home, but that's a bit more than I was looking for.

* * *

Hmmmm. Not quite the gripping anecdote i had envisioned when I set out to write it. Food just arrived and I have to leave for the airport soon, so I'm sending it sans editing, per usual. Write like you travel: by the seat of your pants.

-Z

BY THE SEAT OF YOUR PANTS: Chapter IV

Not at my most articulate, but here's today's ramble:

Well, here I am. It's my last day in St Petersburg. I was supposed to be back in Moscow already but there was a bit of a problem so I had to stay here an extra night. I will explain all of that momentarily. The fact of the matter is that staying an extra day was the best thing that could have happened to me. I met some new friends and had a blast last night. Polished off the bottle of vodka I had bought for the train. Then I spent this afternoon securing a ticket for tonight's train, walking around town a bit more and -- now this is the exciting part! -- purchasing a ticket for tonight's performance of La Boheme at the world famous Marinskiii theater. Of course, I'll be woefully under-dressed for the show since I only brought a small selection of travel clothes with me to St Petersburg. But in spite of looking a bit ragged, who could pass up the chance to see opera in one of the world's most opera-obsessed cities? Not me.

THANK GOODNESS FOR SECURITY BELTS!
I had a return ticket for an overnight train from St Petersburg to Moscow. Third class. 12:40 AM. I packed my bag, said goodbye to my new friends and left the hostel at 10:40 PM. As I stepped out the door, I decided it would be a good idea to take my train ticket out of my security belt, so I could look at it for easy reference without rummaging through all of my valuables (cash, credit cards passport etc.) in the train station. Ticket in my front pocket, I headed to the metro.

When I got to the metro station I put my token in the slot and took the long escalator ride down to the platform. The metro in St Petersburg is drab compared to the mosaics and chandeliers that adorn the stations in Moscow. Just a shell of a place with red and gray tiles, buzzing with yellow fluorescent light. It was also quieter in the metro at night than in Moscow as there were only 10 other people or so waiting for the train.

The train arrived almost immediately, and I wasn't sure at first if it was the right train so when the doors opened I hesitated a moment to look at the sign. When I finally decided to board, a man stood up from his seat and walked right into me. It was as though he had decided at the last second to get off at that stop and I was in his way. But instead of going around me he just kept pushing me back toward the door way. He tried, I believe, to push me clear out of the train. I refused to move backward and instead tried to step aside. Another man was there and blocked me from moving to the left. All of a sudden I was surrounded by four men and everyone was pushing me. They kept saying "prazholst," which more or less means 'please' in Russian, as though I was in their way. But the fact was they had me trapped. I tried to push one of them out of my way and found that two of the men were muscling me pretty hard. So I swung  my elbows at them and managed to get one of them in the chin. He didn't seem to like this very much and said some words to me that i didn't understand. Then, as the doors closed, all four of the men let me go and dashed out of the train. I sat down and felt my pockets to make sure everything was still there. Securty belt passport, wallet cell phone -- nothing seemed to be missing. Across the aisle, a few locals stared at me without much expression. I gathered myself and, a bit confused as to what had just transpired went on my way. 

Ten minutes later I was at the train station looking at the board to see what platform my train was on. I couldn't confirm my train number though, because the bastards had stolen my train ticket, probably mistaking it for cash. Fuckers. I went through my phrase book and wrote down what i could muster in Russian on a piece of scrap paper -- a note that said roughly, "One ticket please. Train. Tonight. 01:40. To Moscow. Third class." The woman at the ticket counter took the note and I told her I could only speak a little Russian. She nodded, typed some things looked at her computer screen, shook her head, "nyet nyet" and slid my piece of paper back to me. I argued and tried to explain any train would do. She waived me off and told the next person to step up. The station was cold and growing empty. Only vagrants seemed to be hanging around, so I cut my losses and headed for the metro back into the center of town. . .

WRAP UP
As usual i have much more to share, but no time to say it right now. And besides I don't expect you'll all be wanting to read War and Peace every time I send word of my travels. Right now, I'm gonna sign off. Still having a blast. Going to the opera shortly. Will write a story or two when I get to the hostel in Moscow tomorrow.

All for now,

Z

BY THE SEAT OF YOUR PANTS: Chapter III

Just arrived at the hostel in St Petersburg. Perfect location right on the main strip, one block from the Hermitage. Honestly there's more to write about than I have time for. I only have two days here in St Pete's before I head back to Moscow on tomorrow night's overnight train. Doing my best to keep vignettes coming. May have to update some of the earlier stuff when I return to Moscow or from the comparatively luxurious confines of my hotel in Bombay when I get there on Sunday.

For now, here's a picture of my hectic yesterday:

FACE TO THE GROUND

When I awoke, five girls were walking on their hands in the hallway. In the common room, two boys stretched their legs and backs while standing on their heads. Four smaller boys marched into the kitchen and poured an entire bowl of sugar into mountains on their chunks of bread. The bare teeth of schoolboys eating sugar for breakfast. I made instant coffee. The Chinese circus was in town.

Thirty members strong and ranging in age from six or seven to what must have been sixty-five the circus troupe paraded into our otherwise quiet hostel and jumbled the place about like a crowd of small monkeys who must play with everything shiney. The teenage girls played worked their fingers through the hair of the smaller children. The teenage boys slung their arms playfully around the younger children's necks or shoulders.

I got lost in my own head had entered some sort of haze in which physical balance seemed improbable. So I made my instant coffee extra-strong -- four heaping table spoons per cup -- aiming to clear my mind. I wasn't even mindful of the dosage to be honest, I merely followed the steps of putting brown powder into the glass until I remembered to add water. When the first cup was gone, the world still seemed a step removed so I had another four or five tablespoons and adjourned to teh stairwell for a cigarette. Three grey-haird and grinning chinamenjoined me as I smoked teh last of it. "Sdtradvuyt'sye," we said to one another. One of the men gestured at the morning with his palms up to the ceiling. I made what i felt to be a smilein retr\urn and gestured back at him with my coffee. We all sighed and then, as I headed back inside, I stumbled -- nearly knocked one of the men over and I spilled a spot of coffee on his shoe. My balance again.

In the livingroom matters seemed to be getting worse. Lights started to cause problems of perception. Dizziness settled in at odd interval. My heart leapt into double-time. My thoughts grew steadily more confused. Chrystalie, the Australian whose name I have certainly misspelled, said she was still sick -- nursing a sinus infection. "You too?" I asked. "I feel positively odd. My stomach is boiling. I have no sense of balance. I think maybe someone dosed my coffee. I can't think straight. At all."

I laid down for a few minutes and waited for Karen, who had promised the night before to translate for me at the train station. She was finishing up 4 months abroad and handled the language quite well. When she entered teh room I was holding my stomach and struggling to keep grains in the wood bunk bed above me from weaving their way into patterns.

Karen said it was time to go, and not being of sound judgment myself, I decided to follow her judgment instead. I leapt out of bed, and the three of us -- me, Karen and Chrystallie -- hit the wet streets. Moments later we were underground the Metro confounding me in every way. Scads of Muscovites pushing past one another checking eachother's shoulders to cross the concourses. Massive brass chandaliers hanging from mosaics in the celing. Statues of heroes. Murals all 'round. And this shaking, this rumbling, the feeling as though my stomach might explode like water in a pot that's boiled over. Down escalaters hundreds of miles long. So slanted and so off balance I couldn't tell which way was really perpendicularto the ground. Over and through under. Subway lines written in giberish. Doors opening, doors closing. Karen in the middle of it, all 4'11" of her moving slower than anyone else in town. Me trying to fllow her but always getting ahead. Then having to turn around. Speed-up, my feet can't handle the turning, the stopping, the slowing down before escalators.

Transfer at the next station. More statues. More stars. The Metro's a goddamn museum. Pushing, grappling, shoving. Up escalators twelve miles longer than the ones we had gone down. Outside again. To the train terminal where I stepped aside and Karen did the talking. I nodded, hemmed hawed handed my passport, money registration. She made the plans accrding to what she thought she remembered. "Same itinerary I described last night. I can't think right get my mind around it," I said.

Later at the hostel, my plans started to unravel before my eyes. "I can't go on to St Petersburg," I thought, "if I'm coming down with something. Best to stay here on familiar ground and ride it out." I talked to Steve and Misha and several others. Everyone agreed I'd dp best not to press it, and so I resigned myself to throwingmy tickets away, to throwing St Petersburg away. I went so far as to change my arrangements around, booking rooms at the Hostel in Moscow through until my flight out to Mumbai. Then, angry with having to stay on in Moscow, and having more or less seen there what I wanted to see in the previous couple of days, I thought about how dumb it would be to write a travel blog from my bedroom every day and passed out asleep.

I woke at 7:00 PM. My brain was working. My stomach had settled. It was so clearto me then: dumbass move drinking 8-plus tablespoons of instant coffee in one sitting. I had overdosed on caffeine. What'd I had? Eight ten cups in about five minutes? I sprung from bed, ran to the receptionist, changed all my reservations again, booked a room for the night in St Petersburg and was on. On to sushi with Chrystallie then on to the train station with Karen, who showed my then-sober self how to navigate the Metro for my return. Then onto the train that muscled its way through the drizzling night, where I would find in the morning that my fellow riders thought me Tajik or Spanish, or anything other than an American headed to a Mumbai wedding. Or at least that's what I think they thought, because I had to lookup every word I told them in my dictinary and surmise their answers from the expressions on their faces when the turned to eachother and laughed, "hahaha tourista!" Pointing a slap on my shoulder. A cup of coffee. Welcome to St Petersburg.

All for now. Running down the street to see whatever I can at the hermitage. Then headed back here at 7:00 to meet my new roommate for dinner and as much vodka as we can process with our American livers.

- Z

BY THE SEAT OF YOUR PANTS: Chapter II

I wrote a long entry last night and accidentally deleted the whole kit n caboodle just before I was about to send it. What follows is an attempt to catch you up to where I am in flash segments.

DEPARTURE

Our Boeing 767 greeted the tarmac with lethargy, remaining on the ground for some two hours after we boarded. When the engines finally got to making their noise and shaking us into the sky, several of the overhead bins fell open. As we made our ascent, my eyes were glued to a black Samsonite bag that threatened to fall. Luckily, it never came down.

* * *

AIR TIME

Rather than sleep, I studied Russian all night long. Flashcards made from notebook paper. Break for Russian cartoons and a film. Back to studying. A fruitless endeavor, words dropping into and out of my head like water through a sieve. An observation on cartoon animal food chains:

USA: mouse annoys cat, cat chases mouse, mouse hides behind dog

RUSSIA: rabbit annoys wolf, wolf chases rabbit, rabbit hides behind bear

* * *

LANDING

The plane may have been flimsy, but the pilots were nailed the landing. Never even felt the wheels touch down, a seemless transition form air to land. Several passengers applauded.

* * *

MOSCOW

Grey. Grey is the color of Moscow. Not red. Not green. Not the white of snow. Just grey. Grey like a rain that never falls. For proof of global warming, see: Moscow. 40 degrees fahrenheit. Not a lick of snow. Cars covered half in mud. The smell of gasoline and motor oil rules the air.

My driver greeted me at the airport, a lanky fellow whose head bobbled. He held the sign with my name on it upside down. Good for a laugh, he says my name, "Zack-arry Weener?"

"Da," I say.

"Ah! Shalom!" he says with a smile.

"Shalom? Sdtradsvuytye!" I replied.

And that's all we could say. He spoke only Russian and German. I speak only English and some Spanish.

A wordless drive, by buildings that look as though they were made for giants. It's not the size of the buildings so much as the scale of their features -- windows and doors all large enough for twelve-foot humans.

* * *

Ugh, saved this draft and thought I would be able to get back online to finish the meat and potatoes of it. Very hectic couple of days. Having a great time, but I am off to St Petersburg now and must run out the door. Will find an Internet cafe at some point tomorrow. For now I'm sending on these words to you. Now on to my overnight train.

More to come . . .

- Z

THE SEAT OF YOUR PANTS: Chapter I

Dearest campers,

I'll be blogging it up from the road and sky for a while. I will try my best to keep away from "dear diary" writing, and limit the entries to straight-up travel writing. I'll be posting pictures here as well if I can get hold of a digital camera in-time.

The itinerary:

December 9: Depart NYC
December 10: Arrive Moscow
December 13: Moscow to St Petersburg
December 16-17: St. Petersburg to Mumbai via Moscow
December 24-25: Bombay to NYC via Moscow

And now, without further ado . . .

CHAPTER I: Traveling by Way of Consulate

UDAIPUR, INDIA, NOVEMBER 2002, My friend Dave and I arrived at a bus stop 45 minutes ahead of our scheduled departure time. After a brief discussion with the dispatcher, we placed our bags in the bus's luggage compartment and walked 50 yards down the dusty road for some food. 30 minutes -- and two helpings of chicken tikka -- later we returned to find our bus had departed 15 minutes ahead of schedule with our bags on-board. Heads full of steam, we marched back to the dispatcher.

"Um where the hell is our bus," Dave asked.
"It left 10 minutes ago," the dispatcher replied.
"10 minutes ago?! You knew our bags were on that bus and you let it leave without us," I said.
"Well you weren't here."
"Of course we weren't! We told you we were getting food. You can't just leave early without all your passengers. How the hell are we going to get our bags," I fired.
"Ahhhhhhh," said the dispatcher with a knowing smile. "First time in India."

On this day Dave and I learned firsthand that India can be, in a word, disorganized. However, we also found it can be unusually accommodating. Moments later we were in a car with the dispatcher's brother, speeding down the road to catch our bus at the next stop. . .

Tempus fugit: NYC, December 2006.

For those without the means to travel abroad, a quick stay in Russia or India can be had right here in New York City at your friendly foreign consulate.

My first consular visit was last Thursday, at which point the Russians treated me to a flake of their life. In preparation for a tourist visa, the Rus first require that you get "visa support." The underlying concept of visa support is that they want to know foreigners aren't wandering around uninvited. To this end, they require that each tourist have an official letter of sponsorship from someone they wish to visit in Russia. What this boils down to in practice, however, is that you must pay a Russian 45 USD to send you a piece of paper with a stamp on it.

Invitation in hand, I entered the Russian consulate at 9:30 in the morning to find a tiny office with naked walls and two stiff women behind plexiglass. Here, I was informed in the fewest number of syllables possible that I could only pay with money order or certified check. Silly me, thinking I could offer them 200 USD in cash. A half hour later I returned with a money order to find there was no queue and my documents were accepted without any verbal communication. The clerk handed me a receipt, and when I asked when I could return, all she said was "it's on the receipt. Dasvidanya," and retreated from the window to do paperwork. I have a feeling there's more of this matter-of-fact interaction just around the corner. . .

My second consular visit was this morning. Ah yes, familiar India. In contrast to the Russian consulate, the Indian consulate was an idiosyncratic jumble of feigned organization -- ropes for queues no one was expected to form; strict instructions with no merit, such as a sign that stated "all windows close promptly at their posted times, no exceptions" in spite of the fact that there were no times posted anywhere; and a desk where they handed out the same numbers you find at  DMV's and deli counters, if you were vigilant enough to muscle through the crowd and climb all over the gentleman in charge of the numbers. Indians, as a general rule, know nothing of queues. The concept of waiting in an organized fashion simply evades them, and so there we were, all 200-some-odd of us huddled in a confused mosh wondering who had which number and how long we had to wait. The Indians in the crowd waited with broad smiles and chatted amongst themselves, while the uninitiated Americans groused and complained. I personally waited three hours and was told to return at 4:30. No visa support or 200-dollar money order required, I should add -- just my passport and $60 in good, old-fashioned cash.

Of course, everyone who had visited the consulate for a visa today was told to return at 4:30. So when 4:30 arrived, the crowd had grown exponentially, and of course there were no numbers for visa pickups. Just hundreds of people milling about in an amoebic mass, waiting until they magically came round to a teller's window. Once again, the Indians smiled and chatted. And once again the Americans groused and made eyes at each other as if to say "is this for real?" The Americans donned their cell phones and cursed aloud. The Indians played with their children.

At one point, the blue-eyed blonde next to me shouted into her cell phone, "this is the worst experience I've ever had. It's total chaos and I hate it. There's not even a line! How can you not have a line?!"

"Ahhhhhhh," I said with a shiteating grin, "first time India."

Luck, as seen through blinking eyes

A month ago
.
My dreams were falling
.
Like confetti
.
Like snow
.
To melt on the ground
.
Making the sidewalks black
.
Pavement shining like reflecting pools
.
That will never show the likeness of a building or a face
.
.
I used to think they were floating
.
Dreams like milkweed
.
Drifting in front of me
.
Dripping off of every limb like tinsel
.
And I pulled them from the air
.
.
But now they've changed again
.
As if in the afterglow
.
Of a camera flash
.
Nothing is the same
.
Dreams are like rain
.
Which soaks into my skin
.
And forces me to close my eyes
.
If I look too long at the sky

the nature artist

A search to find what wasn't there
Has brought the Great Atlantic Army back to you
Dressed in green and gold
Stepping in time
Clicking rubber stampede
Heel-pressed reliefs in the mud
Floating in circles on the tide
Swirling sticks as they scatter
Honey you should know
Fireflies may be gone in a second
But we'll never hold stars in our hands