The Accidental Francophile

The Accidental Occupier

A few weeks ago I dropped in to an Occupy Town Square event at West Park Presbyterian Church on my way to visit a friend in Manhattan, having no idea what I was about to get myself into.

I was curious about the Occupy movement, having watched it from afar and tried my best to seem knowledgeable about it every time I, the token American at ICR, was asked to explain it. Truth be told, I didn’t know much about it. I’d followed the media coverage, searched around the occupywallstreet.org website, and asked a few of my friends in the US what they thought, but I knew very little about the nuts and bolts of the movement. To answer people’s questions about Occupy, I usually resorted to a long-winded rant about how American politics are totally corrupted by big business and how exciting it was that so many Americans were taking to the streets to do something about it. My impassioned ranting was usually enough to distract from my ignorance, and it always got a nod of approval from Indian activists who have long been waiting for US citizens to stand up against our government’s unfair economic practices. Still, I looked forward to getting a more intimate view of it as soon as I returned to the States.

Fast forward to two weeks ago. I walked into the church on a blistery February day and immediately met Amy, a warm, enthusiastic organizer who was so excited for me to get involved that I began to wonder if I’d given her a false impression of my talent. She invited me to an Occupy Town Square (OTS) planning meeting a few days later and I quickly agreed to come.

Since then, hardly a day has passed that I have not been involved in some Occupy-related activity. From going to meetings, to working on a beautiful Wall Street Bull puppet, to making banners and flags, to painting a cut-out of the Lady Liberty holding a protest sign (only a photo will be able to explain), to working on publicity for the Feb. 26^th OTS event which was a great success… it has been a full and fulfilling few weeks. Who knew it could be this easy to find community in as frantic and fast-moving a place as New York City?

Yesterday’s OTS event at Tompkins Square Park was amazing. After having watched the event be pieced together in its planning stages, it was exhilarating to watch it take on a life of its own as tables were set up, people wandered in and conversations began. The drummers drummed, the puppets danced, the people talked and laughed and shouted their messages into the human microphone of the crowd. After being abroad for so long and feeling the lack of a close community, it felt wonderfully energizing to be surrounded by so many people who were eager to share their ideas, frustrations and hopes for the future, and to listen to mine. (I admit I was also energized by the myriad cups of coffee that I slugged down to keep warm during the day, but the people were definitely a big energizing factor.)

The good news is that I’m starting more comfortable and grounded here in the States, where I feel I have the right and responsibility to criticize the inhumanity of my own country’s economic/political system. After months of wondering if I did the wrong thing in leaving France, I finally feel sure that I’m in the right place. Yes, sometimes I get nostalgic for picniques on the Rhone, used book markets full of Flaubert and Baudelaire and the leisure of knowing that my only responsibility is making sure my students don’t say “shit” instead of “sheet,” but for the most part I feel happy to be home and happy to have joined a group of people who are changing that home for the better. Now all I need is a source of $$ and my happiness will be complete!

Lety’s Bakery

I’m sitting in a neighborhood bakery whose counters overflow with cookies, cheesecakes, pies, cakes and something that smells so cinnamon-y and delicious I’m contemplating having pastries for lunch. A chatty older woman with shoulder-length grey hair, an oversized knit hat and a thick New York accent is sitting in the window, greeting everyone over 60 who walks in the door. She seems to know all the regulars and I can tell that this is a morning ritual for her. In her warbling voice that reminds me a bit of cookie monster if he was from Queens, she’s told each person about the grilled cheese sandwich she had at Dunkin Donut’s this morning. Apparently it was on a croissant and it seems to have made quite an impression on her.

At another table two distinguished looking men wearing black Yankees baseball caps converse in Spanish. I’d like to imagine they’re talking about their love for their wives, but they’re more likely discussing sports or whatever other uninteresting things men talk to each other about. At the next table, two pillow-y faced ladies who look like they might have met in knitting club talk about shopping over coffee.

No one in the shop is younger than 60 and I wonder if this is because those who are retired (or unemployed) are the only ones who have the time to sit down and enjoy their coffee and pastries. Or perhaps I’ve just stumbled into the retirees hub of Queens.

This bakery is only a five minute walk from my new apartment where I’ll be living with Margaret, one of my best friends from college and two other lovely people who I am quite looking forward to getting to know. The task of starting a new career/life here in the city is overwhelming, but the sun streaming in the windows seems to think otherwise and it is beginning to outweigh my negativity.  The warm walnut-y pastry that has seduced itself onto my plate (walnuts are brain food, right?) is beckoning, and as it is my reward for finishing my first cover letter, I’d better sign off for now. I’ll get back to you when a job is in sight.

Maine sweet home

I have landed up in Maine. And it feels good. I’m not sure if hovering over the woodstove to keep warm, baking cookies, drinking dandelion wine and doing little other than chatting with my mom should feel this good. But it does.

The pace of life here is soft and indulgent and the job search that waits for me in the new year seems very far away from sleepy Waldo, Maine. If unemployment is hanging over my head, its hanging high enough to allow easy distraction. The woods, the lake, my mom’s stories, movie nights, peanut butter cookies… everything seems worthy of my time and taste buds.

The story of yesterday is probably the best way I can describe to you how life has been this week. I woke up on the pillowy and much too small couch at Hungry Heron Farm at 7am to the sound of my mom worrying over the phone about the condition of the roads. I pretended to sleep for about an hour longer before rolling over and asking her about it. As it turns out, rain was freezing on the roads and my dad had seen four accidents on his way to work that morning. I was supposed to visit my grandmother that afternoon and decided after 3 hours of breakfasting that it was time to get on the road.

My windshield was covered with thick, spiky ice and I was sure my fingers would freeze to the wheel before the car got heated up, but am happy to report that they got off with nothing more serious than cracked skin. I nearly lost control of the car going down the driveway but was ok once I got on the road, up until I got to the willywhacks of Union, ME. The roads had been left un-sanded and as I tried to mount a steep hill my wheels lost traction and I almost slid off into a ditch at the daredevil speed of 10 MPH.

Luckily I made it up the hill but once on the other side I saw a line of 12 cars parked along the road and a pack of Maine men standin’ ‘round talkin’, their cracked red hands dug low in the pockets of their jeans. I pulled over to find out what was going on and after eying me suspiciously for a minute the most talkative one responded that they were waiting for the sand truck because a car had gone off the road and nobody dared to ride that sheet of ice right off the road. He assured me that the sand truck would arrive soon. I stood outside for a few minutes in hopes of making conversation, but none of these true Mainers clad in flannel shirts, baseball caps and work boots seemed interested in talking to the girl shivering in her knee-length parka. She must be from away.

So I got back in my car to read for a while. After the first 30 minutes I got out to ask if we were sure the truck was coming. Someone grumbled about our hard-earned tax dollars, but no one seemed too concerned about standing around in the cold for nearly an hour waiting for a sand truck that couldn’t be coming from more than 5 minutes away. I got back in the car and waited some more. I called my grandma and stepdad and told them to eat lunch without me, who knew how long I could be stuck here, only a few miles away the diner where they were having lunch. I continued to read. Then finally, a full hour after I’d stopped, the sand truck came barreling through, spewing sand onto the icy road and the men’s gathering broke up (regretfully it seemed to me), got into their pick-up trucks or beater cars and crawled off down the road.

I made it to lunch with my grandma and as I drove away from the diner to head down to southern Maine, the sun had already begun sliding down they icy sky. In less than an hour, I was driving in darkness and by the time I arrived at my Aunt Nancy’s house, there was nothing to do but make dinner and plunk down in front of the fire for the last few hours of the day before heading off to bed.

Nothing says Thanksgiving like Sri Lankan Samosas in Thailand

This may be the first time anyone has told you this. It’s pretty shocking, so you might want to sit down before you read the next line. Ok, are you sitting down? Holding onto the armrests? Alright, here’s what I have to say: Thailand is AWESOME. Aren’t you glad that I’m here to share such little known wisdom with you all?

Ok, so perhaps someone has already enlightened you with this knowledge. You probably already know that pad thai is DE-licious and thai iced tea is heavenly and Buddhist temples are really cool. But I guess what I want to tell you all is that everything you’ve been told is true. Thailand really is a beautiful, sunny, laid-back, friendly, delicious, energetic place and one week is not nearly enough time to spend there.

I went to meet up with Matt, a friend I’ve had since I was about as tall as my knee cap is now, who is teaching English in a little village in the north of Thailand.  The excuse for my visit was to spend Thanksgiving with a friend who is practically family, all the while getting to experience Nong Bua Deng, Chiang Mai and Bangkok (as well as the LONG-ass bus rides that connect them). Unfortunately, my camera died the night before I was about to leave, so I didn’t get a chance to take any pictures, but let me tell you, it was beautiful.

My trip began in Nong Bua Deng after an overnight flight to Bangkok and 8-hour bus ride to the tiny village where Matt works. I got off the bus and spent a good half hour engaged in a game of charades with the locals trying to explain that I was in search of a pay phone, change to use that pay phone, and then directions to another one when I found out it didn’t work. I spent the next two days in this little town in which Matt is the local celebrity. My short cameo seemed to be appreciated as people kept asking Matt what this new “Farang” was doing in town and shouting “beautiful” at me as I passed. Matt gets the same treatment, as I witnessed when I sat in on his class and watched all the teenage girls gather in the front of the class and giggle uncontrollably every time he asked them a question.

Next I was off to Chiang Mai for a few days, a small, relaxed city in the North where I spent my days getting massages, eating thai curry and drinking fresh fruit smoothies. The city is also loaded with beautifully ornate Buddhist temples called “Wats” which shelter golden statues of the Buddha and provide a tranquil space for monks, devotees and tourists alike to meditate, pray or find peace of mind.

I then made my way to Bangkok where I met up again with Matt and a group of his English teacher friends for Thanksgiving festivities. Dinner was a potluck and truth be told, it was a far cry from traditional thanksgiving fare, but we were all full of the thanksgiving spirit none the less and had a great night dancing around, playing games and giving speeches on all we were thankful for.

And that brings me to the end of my much-too-short visit to Thailand. I didn’t get enough time to see the gorgeous beaches in the south, and not nearly enough time to satiate my hunger for thai curry, pad thai, vegetable stir-fries, bubble tea, thai iced tea, freshly fried donuts… not to mention 2-hour massages for 10$!

So, have I convinced you all yet? When’s our next trip to Thailand? 

The backpack-less backpacker

I am happy to report that I have successfully reached this comfy chair in the Manchanda home, where I sit writing to you after an incredible vacation in Nepal. The wealth of stories that I have to share is a bit overwhelming at the moment, and they will undoubtedly bubble up all over the place in my conversations with you all when I get home (December 8^th I arrive in NYC!!). But I will try not to go too overboard with the stories right now. I’ll just stick to one.

The story begins with me rushing frantically back and forth from trekking company to trekking company, trying to find the best deal for a 2-day trek through the mountains near Pokhara, Nepal. (Keep in mind that I have skipped 2 days spent in Varanasi, a wonderful reunion with 2 of my best friends from college in Kathmandu, and all of the buses and trains I took in between, each a full story in its own right) I was supposed to meet up with a fun group of French Canadians that I’d met at the Pokhara Peace Pagoda that afternoon, so I needed to get my trekking plans all set out in the next 15 minutes. After shopping and bargaining all over the place for a reasonably priced guide, I finally found an agency that would take me up to Dhampus, a lovely mountain-top village in plain view of the white-peaked Annapurnas.

The next morning at 8 AM, I arrived at the agency to meet Santosh, my 40-something-ish guide who was quick to smile and started teasing me right off the bat about my choice of trekking gear. I admit that I was a far cry from most of the North Face ad-worthy trekkers I’d seen wandering around Pokhara in their name brand hats, windbreakers, boots, socks, backpacks, water bottles… I showed up in baggy pants and sneakers with a longchamps bag over my shoulder and a coffee cup in hand. Santosh said I looked more like I was going shopping than ready to head off on a trek. I can only imagine how much he must have been dreading the next 2 days at that point, but he agreed to take me on and we hopped on a bus to reach the starting point of our trek.

The first day we walked 6 hours, the second day only 3, but the path was well-blazed and the incline quite gradual. Unfortunately the whole first day was hazy and so I couldn’t see the Annapurna Mountains, but even the near-sighted views were gorgeous. October and November is the most temperate season in Nepal and so we were surrounded with lush greenery and neatly-planted terrace agriculture that looked like grassy stair steps leading down the mountain. After 4 months in Delhi’s dust and pollution and a week in Kathmandu (even worse) taking in the mountain air felt incredible, like cool, clean water after months of nothing but warm coke.

We walked through lots of little villages and children seemed to appear from everywhere asking for sweets and practicing a few English phrases (i.e. “hello” and “do you have sweets?”). Since I had nothing to offer, they demanded pictures instead, and so I happily obliged. In one village we walked by a large group of old men playing cards in the grass with a breathtaking view over the valley. I watched them as they laughed and talked and ignored me completely and was struck by the great plurality of the human experience. Here they were hanging out playing cards, the same sort of thing I hope to be doing when I reach their age, and yet they had seen such an incredibly different existence than I ever would. They’d spent their lives almost totally removed from globalization, pop culture, social networks… and thought regularly about things like Hindu festivals and castes and dal bhaat (dal and rice) and who knows what else? I wanted so badly to pick their brains, but we had no language in common and I doubt they would have cared to explain their worldviews to a random passer-by even if we did.

We arrived at Dhampus in the afternoon and found a sweet little guesthouse to stay in ($2.50 a night!) with a gorgeous view of the mountains. I spent the evening wandering around the little village, stopping every once in a while to meditate before the beautiful landscape. The Annapurnas were still hazed over but I could see the rolling green hills and valleys that surrounded Dhampus. I was followed most of the time by a gaggle of children who seemed to have just learned the construction “what is your name?” and used it over and over again with every possible filler they could think of. “What is your mother name? What is your brother name? What is your girlfriend name? Grandfather? Cousin? Teacher? Dog?…” This went on for at least a half hour. I’m sure their English teacher would have been proud, but when they asked me my mother’s name for the 4^th time I told them I’d just seen some backpackers who might have sweets and they all went running off squealing and hollering. I’m cruel, I know.

After a heavy meal of dal and rice, I conked out around 9 PM and awoke in the darkness to a gentle rapping on my door. It was Santosh who told me that the sky had cleared and the sun was just beginning to rise over the Annapurnas. The morning was chilly and I regretted my lack of gear as I sat shivering on a rock, getting my first glimpse of the jagged skyline I had come all this way to see. As the sun rose it projected warm pink light over the snowy peaks and the color was so bright it looked like someone had poured highlighter ink down one side of each mountain. I’ll put up some pictures, but I promise you they don’t do it justice.

After breakfast we began our descent and took a bus back to Pokhara in the afternoon. When I left Santosh I felt a little sad and almost wanted to give him a hug, but I’m 100% sure that would have freaked him out so I restrained myself.

After that I made my way back to India by bus (another story), stayed the night in a shabby hotel in Gorakhpur and met a very sweet argentinian hippy family who were a riot, (2 more stories) then took the train back to Delhi (could reach story status if conversation gets really dull) and so ends the most abbreviated version of the past 2 weeks that I could possibly give. I hope I didn’t go on too long. Next time I’ll try my best to have less to say.