Typhoon in Taipei: August 1, 2012

I just didn't feel moved to write about all the little quirks and annoyances that sprinkle my days on this particular trip. Then this morning, awaiting the landfall of a typhoon that may significantly alter my training dates in Hsinchu, I actually noticed the framed painting hanging over my bed, and had to share. It passes all understanding. As you can see, it's a little crooked.

Ghost Notes from Shanghai

Sunday, June 24, 2012

Our flight path to Shanghai took us over Japan. As we flew over, the flight map indicated we were crossing just north of Fukushima. In that moment, the whole world felt like a village, and everything everywhere felt like a local event. No matter how often I go through this compression of time and space it still feels like the Twilight Zone: leave SFO in the late afternoon, watch a few movie reruns, eat a couple of crappy meals, awake from a vaguely uncomfortable nap, and step off the plane in China. I know people do this all the time, but it still leaves me feeling ghostly.

What a difference between China and India. They both have extremely modern airports, but in China it feels established and well used, in India it felt like it had just been unwrapped and they hadn’t installed the batteries yet. Going through customs is extremely quick and efficient, no lines, but I keeping thinking the airport smells a little like crispy noodles. Walking into the main reception area there is the usual mob of waiting people behind the metal barrier. I scan the endless signs looking for my name. Towards the end of the line I see a guy in a pink oxford shirt and designer jeans holding a placard that says, "Barry Flicker." I smile and point to myself. He smiles back and indicates where I should go to meet him on the other side of the barrier. We meet, and he says something that sounds like "bags." He takes them, indicates for me to follow, and that is the last word we exchange for the rest of the trip. We get into a brand new Audi. There is no radio, no music. That's fine, but so different from India.

Leaving the airport I see that every few feet, they have spotlights illuminating the outer walls of their elevated freeways making them look like ribbons of light floating in the evening fog.

It's a very lovely effect, and very futuristic, but it ends not far outside the airport perimeter. From that point on I could be driving into any metropolitan area back home. The freeways are wide, well lit, and very new. The cars are big, and boast the same mix as on any US interstate. But then, every once and awhile, a building comes looming out of the fog in extravagant Chinese neon, so that the freeway landscape looks like rows of typical Queens apartment blocks punctuated every once in awhile by Grumman's Chinese Theatre.

The hotel is interesting. There's a shot of the lobby below. I pulled it off the net, but the Google Menus are all in Chinese so I had to guess which one got me to the graphics. You can see that it's quite slick and very post modern, but then they have all the bell hops wearing those little round pill box hats from the 40's. It's a very funny juxtaposition. As I'm checking in I notice that the black marble wall behind the counter seems to be illuminated by beautiful little colored lights from behind, which is crazy because it's solid rock. The stone is ribboned in stripes of matte and polished bands. They have high intensity pin spots shining on the wall so that the polished bands reflect the colored light as if they were shining through the matte stripes from behind, making the rock appear translucent. It's a very pretty design effect, a beautiful attention to detail.

But then I look down at the surface supporting the computer on which the clerk is checking me in, and I see that the bamboo veneer in many places is worn through to the particleboard underneath. When she grabs one of the little cardboard folders in which to insert my electronic room key I see that they are stored in a corroded block of dirty white Styrofoam, like something you'd pick up when cleaning garbage off the beach. It made me feel like I was checking into a Hollywood set, an elaborate facade with nothing behind it. I think that’s what I mean by ghostly; I feel a little like a Hollywood set myself.

One thing that seems to be universal whether in China, India or the US is that the first electronic room key they give you rarely works. What's different is that back home you have to schlep back downstairs and correct the problem yourself. In Asia they do it for you with effusive apologies. I may be a ghost, but I will not be ignored.

Monday, June 25^th

I wake up at about 9:15am to a gray day.  Getting undressed to take a shower I notice, while hanging my robe back in the closet, that on the upper shelf, highlighted by soft bottom lighting, are two bright red plastic boxes, about the size of kid’s lunch pails, with a picture of a spaceman wearing a silver Mylar helmet against a cartoon background of the city in flames. I can’t imagine what these are doing in a business hotel, but am fascinated to see what’s inside: toys, candy? I take one down, and attempt to open it, but am stopped by a green and silver foil safety seal. Reluctant to incur some unnecessary hotel charge I inspect the box more carefully before breaking the seal. It is covered with Chinese characters. I feel like Howard Carter unsealing Tut’s tomb. 

Then, on one side of the box, I find the English instructions entitled: XHZLC40 FIRE ESCAPE MASK.

At first this seems like the hotel has made an extra special effort on behalf my safety, as I have never seen anything like this in any hotel I have ever stayed at. Then another less comforting thought occurs to me, and I quickly glance at the ceiling. Instead of going to the unnecessary expense of installing smoke detectors and automatic sprinklers they have apparently come up with this clever cost saver: Halloween masks.

I get in the shower. I pull up the single handled control and turn it all the way to the left. After several minutes getting nothing but cold water I try turning it all the way to the right: cold, cold, cold, cool, and finally warm approaching hot. Even this small success makes me happy. I take a long shower, one of my great pleasures in life, but feel mildly disappointed that the water feels like it’s being heated by candles. I push down on the handle to shut of the water, and it goes crashing to the floor. Oops, somebody forgot to tighten the setscrew. Sometimes this all feels so absurd I wonder if there are hidden cameras, and I’m going to wind up on some Chinese versions of Candid Camera.

The Dragon Inn

Wednesday: June 27, 2012

After three days of eating breakfasts and dinners at the adequate hotel restaurant I decide that tonight I will venture forth and attempt to eat some real Chinese food. It’s rained most of the day, and now the evening air is balmy and moist. Next door to my hotel there is something like a mall. The complex seems to be built around three basic businesses: banks, massage parlors, and restaurants. I stroll past the big glass windows watching the diners at their tables. I am looking for appealing dishes, and more importantly, a menu with pictures, as nothing but the restaurant names seem to come with an English translation. The Dragon Inn looks like it will do as I can see the menu comes with big color photos just like at Denny’s. Probably not a ringing endorsement for the food, but it gets me past my terror. I walk in, am escorted to a table, and am handed the picture book menu.

“Would you like something to drink?” the young waitress asks in perfect English. This looks like it will be easier than I thought.

I begin perusing the menu, and discover that it too has English subtitles, and a good thing too. I would never have guessed by just looking at the pictures what the hell I was ordering. Here’s a sample of my possible choices: Chicken Gizzards in Chili Sauce, Seasoned Fungus (thank God it’s seasoned!), Cold Lotus Roots with Vinegar & Sugar, Steamed Fish Head with Diced Hot Red Pepper, Super-fine Noodles in a Slightly Gelatinous Soup with Pork Intestines (unfortunately I don’t eat red meat,) Steamed Pork Blood in Cubes, and finally, Assorted Chicken Innards Soup. I am not making this up!

I decide to go with a plate of snow peas and mushrooms with a bowl of white rice. The food turns out to be great. The snow peas are wonderfully crisp, the mushrooms firm, and all of it delicately flavored in a very light Chinese sauce. Having ordered successfully, I now feel added pride in my deft handling of the chopsticks.

My growing confidence suffers a severe setback however when I look at the check. I have no idea what it says. I put down 100rmb assuming that it will be more than enough to cover the tab, and figure I will learn what the meal cost when she brings me my change. The waitress comes by, picks up the check and my money, smiles and disappears. She is gone for a long time. Maybe she thinks that was her tip? I’m too embarrassed to ask. Finally, I decide the hell with it, and am getting ready to leave when she returns with the change. The meal cost 22rmb. I leave her 5rmb tip. My big Shanghai night on the town has cost me about $4.50. Proud and happy I head back to the hotel. That was enough excitement for one night.

Sympathy for the Dragon

Sorry if I’m going overboard with these posts, but I’ve been here for five days now, have no one to talk to, and really nothing to do, it’s like being under house arrest, so I do this. I just keep reminding myself that it’s email, and if you’ve had more than enough you can just delete. Oh, God, please don’t delete me.

Anyway, in the shower this morning I got to thinking about last night’s menu. I felt so vulnerable and anxious about the outing that I really didn’t have much capacity for self-reflection, and when I started reading those gross food descriptions my self-protecting judgments just kicked in: “My God, I can’t believe people even eat this stuff much less put it on a restaurant menu!” But suppose instead of “Seasoned Fungus” it said: “Mushrooms in Butter” or “Truffles in a compliment of wild-crafted herbs?” Or if the “Slightly Gelatinous Soup with Pork Intestines” had been called a “lightly thickened consume’ with seasoned Italian sausage?” How lucky I would have felt to have stumbled upon such tasteful and elegant cuisine right here in Shanghai.

Judge not lest ye be judged. I’m working on it.

Chinese Bagels:  Saturday 6/30/12

Perhaps this photo will help you understand how vast the gulf is that we are trying to bridge across the cultural divide. What you are looking at is a stack of dinner rolls covered in sesame seeds. They have been shoved onto a wooden stake, which pokes a whole in their center. To the Chinese this now makes them bagels. Oy vey!

Specialness: June 19, 2012

The whole point of blogging eluded me; it even seemed a little self-indulgent, but spending weeks jet-lagged and lonely in India changed all that. Now I get it. It’s like being on a perpetual first date: it makes all my experiences seem fascinating; my observations appear witty and insightful. I am bathed in the illusion of specialness, and I like it, which can become a problem. Because that’s when you start calling too much, or find yourself acting moody and possessive, and then, finally, you get dumped like … I was by United Airlines.

For a couple of years we had something special. That was before the recession when I was doing a fair amount of business travel. For those two years I was a Premier Executive flyer. I got to sit in bulkhead or exit row seats, boarded through the red carpet line, and would get the occasional complimentary business class upgrade. All my tickets were stamped “PREMIER EXECUTIVE” in bold type. I was reluctant to throw them away.

Then the recession hit. Business slowed down, and my travel stopped. So did my Premier Executive status. For two years I was special. Then one day, through no fault of my own, I became a nobody. They say, “Better to have loved and lost, then never to have loved at all.” These people have obviously never been dumped from the Premier Executive program.  Overnight I was relegated to boarding group 7. Baggage handlers and homeless people were being called to board before me. By the time I’d get on the plane the overhead compartments would all be full, and I’d have to check my carry on. Then I would be seated so far back in the plane that they would run out of their crappy little bags of peanuts or pretzels before they got to me. It was humiliating.

But now that I commute to Asia every two or three weeks all that has changed; I’m back, Baby! With my last flight home from India I moved from Premier Silver to Premier Gold. I’m leaving for Shanghai this Saturday, and by the time I return there is a good chance I will be Platinum! And now I see that it’s less about the preferential seating or the upgrades, and more about feeling special. It’s embarrassing to admit how much I like that.

Yesterday, after I’d been home for about a week without working, I had to drive down to Santa Clara to do some training for Yahoo. That meant, once again, getting up at five in the morning, hitting the road by six, driving for an hour and half, training all day without snacks or a catered lunch (much less a butler), then driving home two hours in traffic. I’ve been doing that for twenty years without giving it a second thought. I love my work, and all that just came with the territory. But now I’ve seen a different territory, one where I’m incredibly special. Driving through San Francisco during rush hour – not so special.

In India the hotels were ten minutes from the training sites. So I could sleep until 7:30. Then I would go downstairs, and someone one would cook me a fabulous omelet to order while I feasted on home made banana bread and sipped watermelon juice. When I was done eating an attractive young woman would make sure that I had a wonderful breakfast experience. She would then walk me to the door where my chauffeured limo would drive me to work. I would then be picked up at five by someone whose joy in life seemed to be derived from making sure that I had had a very excellent day.

No wonder the 1% feels so terrified of Occupy. For the first time I can empathize with their plight. A lot of people have had it up to here with their “specialness,” and want to end it once and for all. But once you’ve developed a taste for it you’ll do almost anything to keep it going: even sitting on planes for twenty plus hours, disrobing repeatedly for pointless security lines, and schlepping endlessly through airports This Saturday I will do it all again. I can’t wait!  

Another Planet Just Around the Corner: Sunday, June 3, 2012

This afternoon (Sunday June 3) I decided to leave the hotel, and see what I could see. Like we did in Istanbul, I took in all the major sights in one long afternoon and evening. I saw the Buddha in Hussein Sagar Lake although the picture below is nothing like what I actually observed. Out in the middle of the lake all you can see from the road is a vertical stone something far out in the water, but here you can see, close up, how beautiful it really is.

Next stop, Charminar, located in the midst of the bustling, crumbling downtown of Hyderabad. As you can see, it’s very impressive, but the press of the crowds, and the relentless noise of the traffic make the experience a lot grimier and a little less monumental than the picture. 

After fighting through the traffic my driver left me on my own by the entrance gate and went off to park. There I encountered a long line of local people waiting to get in, but as I wandered around, dazed and confused, a staff person, who turned out to be a guide for hire, signaled to me to walk right on in as he cleared a passage for me through the crowd. Locals, you see, pay 10 rupees admission, but foreigners pay 100. The inflated price apparently also buys VIP treatment. For another 250 rupees (about five bucks) I hired the guide to take me on the tour. Not only was this a fast and informative way for me to take in the essence of the monument, it also provided some cheap insurance against making some huge cultural faux pas. Unfortunately I did not purchase this insurance at our next cultural stop, Chowmohalla Palace.   

I climbed the 54 steep, winding stone steps to the first set of windows. There is an extensive street bizarre just off to the right, and I made a quick and perilous search through the jewelry stalls to see if I might have some luck finding Shar a pair of earrings, but they are way too into jewels,  pearls, filagree, and heavy ornamentation for her taste. It was fun looking though. Next stop, Chowmohalla Palace. Begun in 1780 by the royal dynasty that ruled Hyderabad, it was added to continuously through the early 20th century.

One of the information plaques beneath a portrait of the 7^th Hazim explained that as his first official act, in 1911, he eliminated the death penalty. A hundred years later we still haven’t achieved that level of humanity in the US. Like Wilhelm Defoe in Missisippi Burning, I can’t help wondering, “What’s wrong with these people?” meaning us.

By five o’clock I had been schlepping, and climbing, and touring for almost two hours. The palace was closing and I was exhausted and needed to pee. I knew that I better get that squared away before I got back into the car and headed for Golkonda Fort or I’d be in trouble. Just before the exit gate I saw a hand-painted sign pointing to the building to my right announcing, “Water and Toilets.” What a stroke of luck. I headed down the covered portico and ducked into the open bathroom door to my left. Inside, I saw a little Indian boy about ten years old getting a glass of water from a faucet. Just past him there was a trough urinal. I stepped up to the urinal, and began to unzip when, out of the corner of my eye, I see this little Indian kid looking at me with a scowl that I surmised to be a mixture of disgust and disapproval. He begins shaking his head sternly. I get that I am about to pee into a sink. I now notice fixtures at chest level that I realize could also be faucets. This must be where the taller people get water. With a vigorous flurry of “Namaste’s” and a shit-eating grin I slink out the door, and manage to find the actual restroom next door. As I stand there peeing I’m imagining what this kid must be telling his father. 

Enroute to the Golkonda Fort we passed this beautiful statue of Gandhi.

I ended the day at the fort. According to the guide book, it is one of the most magnificent fortress complexes in India. It dates back to the early 13th century. A hand clap beneath the entrance dome can be heard ( because of some engineering acoustical marvel) clearly at the highest point in the fort over a kilometer away and acted as warning signal to close the gates against invaders. It was kind of like walking through the ruin of Kings Landing (the castle of plotting and intrigue in Game of Thrones) For centuries this city sparkled with the wealth of India, and was the setting of storybook passion and violence. Now it’s just an impressive pile of stone.

I got back to the hotel around eight, and went right to dinner. I'm exhausted, and am going to bed as soon as I finish this. I start training tomorrow, and before you know it I'll be on the plane home, and all this will quickly fade into memory.

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Today I completed my final training session. The Nvidia site is just a block and half from my hotel. I have taken to walking there and back, in spite of the extreme heat, because what I see on that short walk is amazing.

The Ista Hotel is elegant, with beautiful waterfalls and pools everywhere. Across the street is an impressive multi-story office building: Hitachi Consulting. Next to that stands Honeywell’s gleaming new office tower. Across the way Tata Consultancy is erecting a huge new corporate monument of its own. The block that separates Nvidia from this complex of corporate headquarters is bordered on one side by a high stonewall surrounding the hotel. On the other, in a once empty lot, an extensive slum has arisen, packed with dwellings built from a few sticks and some badly weathered metal roofing material. This is where the men and their families who work the construction crews erecting these office buildings live.

As I walk by I see kids playing ball in a narrow dirt corridor between the huts. A woman in a brown and yellow sari walks down the street with a tray balanced on her head piled high yellow plastic hard hats. The slum exudes a sour smell that I remember from hauling trash to the dump. It mingles with the inevitable stench of urine. Of course the world is like this, and yet the contradiction still feels so disturbing and insane. And I am just walking by it for the moment on my way to another planet just around the corner.

There and Back Again:  June 7,2012

In a few hours I will catch a plane to Bangalore, and begin the Marathon journey home. My passport will be checked at least two dozen times. I will stand in countless lines: waiting to check -in, going through security more times than I can stand, boarding the planes, and then going through the ritual of passing through customs. When I began these travels, the wasted time, the bureaucratic pointlessness, and the repeated invasion of my personal space triggered all kinds of afflicted emotions and judgments. Now it’s more like “eh,” it’s just the dance we’ll do so I can get home.

Because this world struck me as strange and exotic I took in details that I’m too busy to notice at home: the absence of traffic lights and how people just drive right through them when they occasionally appear, satellite dishes on hovels, and camels on causeways. Some versions of my worst fears have been realized: delivered and abandoned at the wrong hotel at one in the morning, mistaking a sink for a toilet. Before I left, imagining these crude disruptions to my safety and routine felt threatening.

When I first agreed to do these trips to satisfy the needs of my client, I took them on with dread, and a certain sense of victimization. This is crazy, asking me to fly to India to train this insane, non-stop, multi-city schedule in one week, then fly home so I could train in Santa Clara, then fly back a week later to do it all again.

“I hope they are at least flying you business class,” was a typical shocked response. Nope, not in this economy. Could I withstand this kind of punishment?

As it turns out, I can. What’s more I got to see how I had come to confuse inconvenience, even just the novel or unaccustomed, as “punishment.” I noticed, as I compared this trip to the first one, doing it all a second time reduced my stress, but also reduced the wonder.

Our energy is a precious commodity, and is always in limited supply. Surviving in a world that is largely unknown and unpredictable requires constant vigilance and learning. That takes a lot of energy, but it also makes life new and exciting. Habit and routine save energy big time, but come at a price.

So I feel great appreciation for the novelty, confusion and ignorance that woke me up, and allowed me to get reacquainted with a surprising and beautiful world. I’m very happy that I’ve learned some of the tricks and routines that will allow me to do it with less energy and more elegance in the future. And I am so ready to come home.  

Culture Gaps

Culture Gaps: May 31, 2012

Yesterday morning (Thursday, May 31 in Pune) there was almost no traffic on the road. The city was oddly quiet in the middle of morning rush hour. My driver explains that the whole city is on a general strike to protest the unbearable spike in gas prices by the government controlled oil companies. By the end of the day the government has backed down, and gas prices have been lowered. Can you imagine that happening in the US?

At lunch a sumptuous spread of Indian food is provided: very tasty, but spicier than normal US Indian fare. I notice they serve a plate of raw vegetables: sliced carrots, green beans, beets, and cucumber, obviously as a cool balance to the hot food. Along with the dhal, rice, and who knows what else I have heaped on my plate I grab several carrot sticks and beet slices. The beans look wonderful, but because there are so few I only take two.  Sitting down to eat, I take several bites of the spicy delicacies, and then balance them with a few carrots. Ihen chomp down one of the beans. Surprise! It’s a chili pepper.

This morning, when I enter the training room at the hotel I see that one of the white boards containing the written work from yesterday has been replaced on its easel upside down. There is a brief flash of judgment, “For heaven sake, can’t they red?” Of course, I immediately realize the answer must be no. The young maintenance staff at the hotel can probably make no more sense of English than I can of Sanskrit.  On the other hand they probably know the difference between a green bean and a chili pepper.

Napa Valley in Bangalore: June 2, 2012

It’s Saturday morning June 2^nd. This is what I encounter on the way to the airport:

We come to the famous traffic light (the only one I’ve seen in Pune or Bangalore). This time it’s daylight, and I can see at the bend in the road, huddled behind the concrete safety wall, half a dozen little huts made out of corrugated metal sheets. When I say little I’m guessing they’re each about 6x10. That’s the space we have in our walk-in closets, but the corrugated metal sheets look brand new and shine mirror bright. More surprising still – each hut has its own Dish Network satellite receiver.

I remember being stunned by this same phenomenon several years ago in Mexico. We were driving down a dusty, dirt road in the middle of nowhere on our way to Tulum.  Eventually a collection of dwellings appear. They were mostly made out of cardboard. It looked like a village of refrigerator boxes, but right in the middle perched a huge satellite dish.  TV seems almost as coveted as food and water. I guess we need the stories.

After passing a few cows I see a beautiful tile mosaic adorning a towering stucco wall. It depicts a tank coming directly towards us with its cannon leveled. To the left is an imposing arched entryway announcing the Bombay Sappers. Inside the compound I see a battalion of men in crisp olive uniforms wearing dark blue turbans. I flash on Gunga Din or Charge of the Light Brigade.  A bit further down the road I see their barracks. They are long buildings, built by hand of round gray stones, a long time ago. It seems like a military envisioned by Masterpiece Theatre.

Then as we turn down the road that leads to the airport I see a billboard.

In front of a golden sunset sits an imposing jet fighter. In front of the plane is a phalanx of five smirking young men in flight suits and shades. They are marching towards us with the swagger of Tom Cruise in Top Gun.  “Join the Air Force.” This time it’s the military seen through the eyes of Bollywood. We start our wars imagining we’re in” Top Gun” and end them discovering we’re in “Born on the Fourth of July.”

I'm in the business of trying to help people change counter-productive behavior. Things like this remind me how unlikely an endeavor it really it is, but as long as they keep paying me, I'll keep doing it.

Okay, the plane is about to take off. So I’ll be signing off now. To the stars and beyond!

P.S.

As the plane was taking off I shut down my laptop, and took out their JetWings magazine to pass the time. I open the cover, and on the very first page I see pictures of elegant Mediterranean-style villas and town houses. The headline reads: "Nitesh Estates – expect more." The ad says, "Nitesh Napa Valley is where a resort experience becomes your life. California Villas – Now in Bangalore." I guess all these guys went to school at Stanford and Berkeley, and then went on to work in Silicon Valley. They came home and are recreating their vision of the high end, California life-style right here in India. It's a surprising world.

Hyderabad: June 2, 2012

I just got into Hyderabad. It's hot and dry, about 95 degrees, a lot like New Mexico. The driver tells me it’s the beginning of summer, and that in two weeks the monsoons will begin. How much longer will the weather be that predictable?

Everything here is new or still being built. The airport very modern, and the new US style freeways run uninterrupted from the airport to the Ista hotel. They have all been built in the last three years. Scrub desert stretches into the distance on both sides of the road occasionally interrupted by expanses of rock in shades of russet, grey, gold and white.  Now and then there are patches of habitation, modest but far removed from the third world poverty in Bangalore and Pune. Palm trees appear along with the people reminding me of the Big Island. Then the little concrete houses and palm trees disappear, and the southwest feeling returns.

But this is not the US, and one of the ways I am reminded of this most consistently is the care and concern for my wellbeing that people extend to me everywhere I go. Can you imagine a hotel in the US having a full-time employee stationed at the airport twenty-four hours a day to greet you when you arrive (even at one in the morning) and see to your every need? Back home, if the hotel is located more than ten minutes from the airport it’s unlikely they will even have a shuttle service. We’re rich and we have a reliable infrastructure so why should they go to that expense?  Even at our better hotels, where service is an important part of their business model, it tends to feel “professional” and a bit antiseptic.

Now remember the first time you came home after leaving for college: how happy your folks were to see you, to hear about your every experience, and make sure   your favorite foods were waiting for you. That’s what it feels like every place I’ve stayed in India. They make you feel like you’re coming home. True, like your mom, they can go too far at times.

At breakfast In Pune three different service people asked me if I would like tea or coffee because my cup was empty (I am not drinking caffeine). The third young woman who came by was so determined to be of service that when I told her I did not want any tea or coffee she asked if she could pour my little decanter of watermelon juice into a glass for me. I told her that wasn’t necessary. She smiled and proceeded to do so.

At the Taj in Bangalore, I was so tired from jetlag and a full day of training that I fell asleep fully dressed at eight o’clock.  A short time later I was awakened by a knock on the door. A young man wanted to check on the tea and coffee supply in the room. I told him I was fine, thanked him, sent him away, got undressed and ready for bed, turned off the lights, and turned in for the night. Fifteen minutes later, another knock on the door. I figured if I didn’t answer he would go away, but moments later he knocks again. I call out something like, “Not now” or “I’m fine,” at which point he rings the doorbell. I stumble out of bed, find a robe, and answer the door. He asks if I would like my bed turned down. I tell him “no,” and can see that he is deeply disappointed. I go back to bed. Ten minutes later the phone rings. Should they send someone over to turn down my bed? I fall back asleep. A little later, through the haze of a now forgotten dream, there is a knock on the door. I just remind myself how much these people want to make certain that I am happy and taken care of, and that feeling is worth every bit of the occasional over reach.

I live in a country where the audience, at a Republican presidential debate, wildly applauded the idea that someone without health insurance should just go ahead and die. Here, complete strangers, care whether my watermelon juice is poured or I am being sufficiently cared for. As they charge full speed ahead to replicate the wonders of the west over here, I sure hope they don’t go too far.

Back to India One Week Later

Bangalore Castle: May 28, 2012

Determined to stay awake until this evening, and make the most of my one free day in Bangalore I had a driver take me in search of earrings for Shar. In route I went to see Bangalore Palace. Built 150 years ago by a Sultan that was reinserted on his throne by the British, it is an amazing embodiment of art, wealth and architecture reflecting the taste and values of collaborators with the British Raj. This castle was built at a cost of one million rupees to look like Windsor castle. The interior captures Victorian and Tudor tastes filtered through Indian sensibilities.

Less Worry, Less Wonder: May 30, 2012

It's 11:45 pm and I just arrived at the Marriott in Pune after an hour flight from Bangalore. On the drive from the airport to the hotel I saw my first traffic light anywhere in India. We came to a red light at a major intersection. As soon as there was a break in the on coming traffic all of the stopped cars just proceeded ahead through the intersection at full speed. Like median dividers and other traffic control devices the light was apparently understood to be ornamentation. Actually it seemed like a pretty reasonable thing to do, like turning right on red. Two weeks ago, when I was here, I'd think, "Can you believe this shit?”  Now it's more like, "Hey, not a bad idea."

I always thought of Beginner’s Mind as a state of effortless wonder; a baby lying wide eyed on the bed drinking in the dazzling newness of it all. But a baby doesn’t have to catch a plane or find a business park in the middle of nowhere. It turns out that Beginner’s Mind consumes a lot more energy if you are trying to get things done.

When I was in India two weeks ago it was my Beginner’s Mind trip. Everything was new, unknown, and unpredictable: do I have all the documents in order, will I be able to withstand the jet lag and brutal schedule, will all the little things that we take a for granted – electricity, receptacles that accept the plugs to my equipment, common language, addresses that can be easily found, and so forth – will they all come together so that I can do my work? This created a state of both anxiety and wonder.

The wonder was Beginner’s Mind. It was astonishing and endlessly fascinating to see the contrast between worlds and realities. I could see myself and the givens of our culture with new eyes and deeper understanding. But the anxiety and effort to navigate even the smallest details with full attention and effort rather than knowing that they would take care of themselves took a lot of energy.

This trip the equation has flipped. I now know the ropes. Certain things that I was worried about on the first trip I now know to be non-issues. Others I have taken the necessary steps to avoid. The connections are more solid, the destinations known, the entire enterprise more stable and predictable. On the upside this means less stress and energy; on the downside much of the wonder is gone. Not completely, but the contrast with the last trip is noticeable. It almost seems like the equation is: Less worry, Less wonder.

Traveling in this space between worlds, random observational snip-its like this pop up all the time, flutter around, and then disappear. I think it’s just the by-product of coming unglued.

Coming Unglued

Coming “unglued” generally means going crazy or losing it, but in the best tradition of R.D. Lang, it also seems to describe getting unstuck from a familiar, fixed reality or state of mind. Routines and predictability provide the glue that keeps our realities stuck together in one piece.  They sustain the illusion of permanence. At home, time and body rhythms fit together smoothly – up by 7:30, dinner at six. I generally know what day it is, and certain days correspond with certain activities: working Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday, playing music on Fridays, or watching favorite TV shows at night. It’s all so normal, so familiar; it seems real. Scramble days and time by traveling halfway around the world (every other week,) and it becomes stunningly clear it’s not.

Stripping away the props of identity: home, friends, and family, familiar foods, destinations, and schedules, creates a very floaty feeling. Who am I without these immediate reference points?  I have very little future orientation. I am living very here and now. There’s a-matter-of-factness to everything, which on the one hand feels very grounded, very basic, but on the other feels a little bland. That’s a weird way to describe being in India, I know. But it’s just another odd contradiction in a world bursting with them. Are our lives at home so much more coherent, or just more familiar? Questions like these keep surfacing – they come and go. Arriving at answers does not seem to be the point. Apparently it’s just what my mind does as it comes unglued.

The Butler Did It

In any training room in corporate America there will be three or four waist-high (pardon the pun) garbage cans at the back of the room and by the end of the day all of them will be overflowing with trash. When I scanned the back of the training room in India for the garbage pails I couldn’t find them. Explanation: they were too small to see. They have two petite little garbage pails about the size you might have in your bathroom, and at the end of the day they are still not full. In their washrooms the paper towel dispenser provides you with paper sheets that are the size of two squares of toilet paper. I am guessing from these anecdotes that they are much more frugal with their resources.

On the other hand the company training room comes with a butler. Throughout the day a young man in a white shirt, black vest, black bowtie, and, get this, white gloves enters the training room and places little plates of cookies, bowls of sweets, and china plates with grilled sandwiches on each table. The elegance of this practice is somewhat undercut by the intermittent power interruptions that occur throughout the day. I am told that is caused by some load balancing inefficiency of their power company. It’s no big deal. Two or three times a day the power goes out, we keep working in the semi-dark, and then it kicks back on. I guess normal is whatever you’re used to, and it seems that we can quickly get used to just about anything – even the butler.

On to Pune! May 15, 2012

Tuesday, May 15^th, at the end of training (which went great) I got a very nasty sore throat. Fortunately I had my Halls lozenges with me. Today it went into my nose and head. Damn I got a cold. The usual drill: nose running like a leaky faucet, clearing my throat every five minutes. The guy who has put the program together here locally found me a couple of cold pills. I took one. Helped a little, but not much. Got through the day, and an entire box of tissues. Folks were very happy, and I think they learned some useful stuff. My wonderful driver from the Taj was waiting for me in the black Beemer at 5:30 when I finished to take me to the airport. En route he kindly stopped at an Indian drug store so I could grab some real cold meds. It was a tiny shop on a bustling little shopping street amidst the usual chaos defined by functional infrastructure slowly being devoured by crumbling roads and buildings. 

Inside the shop I attempt to tell them through broad and unattractive sign language that I need something for a cold and runny nose. A young guy who speaks some English (but not much) brings over a silver foil card with 24 bubble wrapped tablets. He cuts off twelve of them with a scissor, and tells me to take one every twelve hours. He charges me 26 rupees, which I think is about twelve cents. Who knows what the hell it is, but it seems to work although it made me a little drowsy.

Catch my plane. Get a bulkhead seat. Doze for most of the trip. Pune airport is much more like the scene we expect landing in a third world country, including armed military everywhere. Before leaving the airport I go over to a sign reading "prepaid taxi." I show these guys, who speak minimal English, a slip of paper with the address of the Marriott. They ask me an incomprehensible question, which turns out to be "Do you want air-conditioning or no air-conditioning?"  Happy to enjoy the natural warm air, I save myself 100 rupees by going for no air conditioning. That costs 250r, which should be about five bucks.

I walk out of the airport into throngs of people behind a gated barrier holding out signs, calling to people; it's like the evacuation of Saigon. I make my way through the press of people to a bustling little taxi dispatch area, show my receipt to the head guy, and he calls over to one of his cabbies. This kid tells me to wait amongst a cluster of very small blue, parked cabs because he's got to go and get his car, which is somewhere else. I have a vague anxiety that I will never see him again.

I stand there waiting, exhausted a bit drowsy from the meds. Twice I almost get into the wrong car. Finally the kid shows up. I get in the back, and once again we're off for Mr. Toads wild ride. The driving is such a trip. Lanes are impressionistic or non- existent. The road is really just an area for cars, motorbikes, jitneys, trucks, and buses to drive as fast as they can into any open space that presents itself.  Vehicles move in and out of random packs, tailgating non-stop while honking horns every few minutes, and yet, so far I haven't seen a single accident. 

Notice the trucks comfortably straddling the centerline. They are not not passing anyone; they're just driving.
 We get to the Marriott, and are stopped by two uniformed guys who check the trunk, lift the hood, and open the back door to inspect the inside. This is standard procedure over here. They then slide back the heavy wooden gate and we drive to the front of the hotel. I get out, the very kind staff takes my bags and sends them through a scanner, I am asked to empty my pockets, and walk through a metal detector, also standard procedure.

I am then escorted to the front desk. I am sleep walking through all this. The young guy behind the desk looks at my credit card, checks his computer, looks puzzled, and asks me if I have my conformation number because he can't find my reservation. I pull out my cell phone, and bring up the info, but alas no number just the hotel address and phone number. I show him what I've got. Problem solved! I'm at the wrong Marriot.

They have one of their drivers take me to the correct hotel for another 900 rupees.  Safe at last, in the luxury to which I am accustomed. I am just moving from one destination to another, thankful to get there, happy that somehow everything works, understanding very little, touched by how kind everyone is, amidst this strange collage of strung together moments over which I have minimal control, marginal understanding, and great faith and appreciation for how the mystery ferries me through life with enormous gentleness and good humor.


Landing in Bangalore: May 14, 2012

Landing in Bangalore May 14, 2012

Unlike the bus station airport of several years ago, the new Bangalore airport is state of the art and could be located anywhere in the world, but then as I came through customs I noticed that in the vestibule exits there was some sort of fascinating light show dancing like mirror ball flashes behind each set of sliding doors. These turned out to be millions of moths. Step out side and the air is full of them, like enormous snowflakes fluttering in the breeze. I am told by the guy escorting me to my cab that it is the beginning of the monsoon season and these moths signal its coming.

My cab driver is listening to Bollywood pop tunes on the radio so I have an appropriately exotic sound track for this 40-minute trip to the hotel. Leaving the airport we're on a modern, well-lit four-lane highway. But for the soundtrack we could be in California - except for the air. It is moist and balmy, and at 1 AM there is the perfect cool breeze. The driver has a little garland of flowers on his dashboard that smells like plumeria. The air, the flowers and the silhouette of palm trees are definitely sending vacation-in-Hawaii vibes.

Then, without warning, a large black and yellow arrowed diversion sign looms directly in front of us, and sends us veering off the highway onto a side road.  The road is patched and lanes are merely suggested. We pass crumbling cement hovels typical of so many third world countries, which stand next to a gleaming Toyota dealership which is not far from an ornate Indian temple centuries old. Then a wall of corrugated metal appears, but this stuff is mirror-bright and stretches for some time. The new luxury apartment towers appear next, then empty lots, which soon give way to another cluster of makeshift houses while to our right is the freeway under construction, dark and ghostly, like the old, unfinished Embarcadero.

We swerve again, and are back on brightly lit freeway zipping through the 21st century, but look left and there are unpaved side streets lined with homes and shops typical of any barrio. The cab ride was like sitting in a time machine flowing through a patchwork quilt of randomly scattered space/time events. Finally, at 1:50 in the morning, two days, by the calendar, after I left California, I end up here at the Taj West End; five star luxury nestled in this tapestry of endless contradictions.