Instead, I’ll make this Sunday Update all about the job with ProjectExplorer, on location in Mexico City.

Update on Nomadderwhere

The job is stellar. After landing on Tuesday, we’ve been hitting up the awe-inspiring sites of Mexico City. Day one of filming involved some awesome team work next to the Diego Rivera murals at El Palacio Nacional. I settled into my role of photographer happily, because for some reason, seeing things for the first time involves my eyes, my walking legs, my inquisitive hands, and the necessary appendage of my camera. Is that weird that I just called my hands inquisitive?

Day two was our most hectic production day, with a schedule packed with everything archaeological (thanks to the lovely INAH for that one). I banked on getting a mad Stairmaster-style workout on the Pyramid of the Sun, but then I heard some rumblies in the tumblies. Uh oh.

Photo by Jazmine Da Costa

Yeah, coincidentally enough this child with incredibly distant Spanish ancestry felt the strike of Montezuma’s Revenge upon reaching his once-powerful kingdom. I felt, well, not so good. And as the day progressed, my stomach pains became more extreme. Eventually I zonked out in the van while the crew captured the amazing Museum of Anthropology – our driver, Hector, watching over me like a suave and silent man of might.

Let’s just say things passed. I recovered quickly, thanks be to Tums, Gravol, and the power of sleep (and showers). And how lucky was it that my bout of food poisoning only lasted a day, when the next evening involved a five-star dining experience under the very eye and hand of celebrity chef Enrique Olvera. Enjoying a life-changing meal at Pujol, paired with the colorful descriptions of Vijaya and the brilliant additions by Ruth Alegria, my stomach was able to forgive me for the poorly stored cheese from the previous dinner.

I think the following three days spent at Xochimilco and Coyoacan deserve their own time in the limelight.

Note to Regular Nomadderwhere Readers: My posting schedule will be changing while on location as to reflect the content of the trip, the reflections I have of the experience, and the time I can commit to my own site. If you’d like to stay on top of the ProjectExplorer on-site experience, check out the videos I’m cranking out, along with the crazy crew, at ProjectExplorer’s Youtube channel. Also, keep an eye on my Flickr account for the most recent photos of production.

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www.youtube.com/watch?v=1Wveyvv6WRY

If you’d like to read my blog on this day in Santorini, by all means, enjoy.

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Here’s what one can expect from Santorini…
-All civilization lies at a high elevation on the island. It takes a while to get places.
-Buildings really do cling to the cliffs and present those beautiful cityscapes.
-The beaches are both calm and crazy and all are clothing optional.
-Scooter and ATV rentals abound, making it very easy to get around and love where you are

Climbing elevations caused my head to throb. I could barely open my eyes to the gorgeous sunset falling over the rooftops. And without the ability to open my eyes, I couldn’t rent a scooter and therefore discovered no beaches. Sadly, I did not see Santorini the way it was meant to be seen. But I did spend a lot of time in an air-conditioned room watch samurai movies and Major Payne.

My weary body did, however, muster up enough energy (after 18 hours of rest) to go on the optional tour with the group: to walk over the Santorini volcano, swim in hot springs, and ride a donkey from the water to town. Views were blue, rocky, and gorgeous at every glance, and luckily, the heavy smell of sulfur in the hot springs had no affect on me. I could barely breathe, let alone smell! We covered our faces in hot mud from the floor of the hot springs, and my struggling complexion caught a break with its healing effects. And finally, we boarded stubborn donkeys at the base of the cliff, only to laugh and scream all the way up. They would run, stop, bite each other, squeeze our legs against walls and other donkeys, and I couldn’t help but make as many “ass” puns and donkey references as humanly possible. I laughed and was momentarily cured of my ailment. But I expended my days worth of energy and returned to shower, sleep, and watch amazing movies once more.

Santorini has the parties and the peace. I wish I could have experienced and loved both, but instead I dealt with the realities of travel: the occasional disease caused by exhaustion. It happens, and you can either ignore it (and suffer later) or take your vacation in sips, saving up energy for the moments that really make the trip. Now I know Santorini should be done…for next time…when I’m fit and ready.

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It took a solid day, and a border crossing on foot, to make the overland jaunt to the Southeast Asian hub of economy, excitement, shopping, etcetera. I planned on finding a place to throw my bag for a couple hours and enjoying the backpacker alley known as Khao San Road to the best of my sickly ability.

Photo credit: smac.pic

The street was a pedestrian strip akin to a lively Spring Break destination or a modest Hong Kong/Las Vegas stretch. Overstimulation, indeed.

Thanks to some quick guide book perusal the night before, I knew where to eat if I wanted something authentic, albeit established. Sitting on the floor of Mama Something-or-Other’s, I blew my nasal brains out while waiting for a hot bowl of broth and a cold lassi. The comfortable ambiance of sitting on floor cushions made me feel welcome enough to camp out here all night, updating blogs on the once-again functioning Blackberry and developing Christmas lists for family and friends, the items on which to be purchased on the streets below. I resisted the temptation to hang for a little adventure.

I had four or five hours to wander and roam, and so I committed massive chunks of time pushing through racks of locally made punk t-shirts, finding the perfect patch vendor and picking his brain for advice on taxi-to-airport scams, and indulging in a Thai massage.

For roughly $12, I received a wow-inducing foot rub and Thai body massage that nearly knocked me into a state of sub-consciousness. My head rolled to the side and jerked back up into reality while my feet received powerful knuckles of pressure release. Upon going upstairs to a communal quiet room for body cracking and loosening, my nose became a gushing falls during wet season. It was all I could do to avoid making a mess on the cushions or create a nasty nasal symphony in this place of meditation. I got by with a monster handful of napkins from my dinner joint.

I continued to wander well into the wee hours and kept my wits about me, often looking back to make sure no one was following me or going to peek out from a nook in the alley. However, I felt incredibly safe in this atmosphere, regardless of the lingering teens around hotels and bars, the constant police sweeps, and certain extra attention given to me by a healer on the street.

A man with a flashy belt buckle, a Robin Hood hat, a cut off slim t-shirt, and the tightest denim shorts I’d ever seen sat gawking at the passersby from his perch on a self-brought folding chair in the road. He was roughly 60, and his comments often involved the “F” word, some mentioning of an individual’s energy or chi, and a loud cry guessing what embarrassing thing that person was off to do. I’d quote him now to give you an idea, but I think I was in shock of this crazy man.

He called to me as I passed by, telling me I should smile more and to come sit down by him for a while. He wants to talk to me, help me out…F this F that I don’t want to take your money. Who do you think I am?

He seemed fun. I sat down.

As he continued to watch the people going about their nightly business, he discussed with me why he thought I was upset and full of acid (not acid the drug, mind you). Two liters of acid I had in me; that’s what he said. He was a tantric healer, and since he had already made his day’s pay, he would give me a cleansing for free. Only 45 minute.

Naturally, I was skeptical and shook my head “no” every time he offered.

Another woman walked by, a Croatian, who remembered this man from nights previous, heard his calls to her and came over. He began telling her all the things he remembered of her since she had come to Khao San Road. He’d seen her walking with friends, boys and girls, and asked about all things personal and shameful. After concluding that she had even more liters of acid than I had, the much more courageous woman allowed him to heal her there on the street. It was 2:45am.

I won’t give you a play-by-play of his techniques, but the one that made me want to cry, scream, and vomit simultaneously needs to be mentioned. The tantric healer sealed his mouth over her nostrils and blew as hard as he could into her sinuses. Her face turned a purple beyond red. Her mouth open, she immediately began coughing up a storm and spitting beside her chair. I believe she even let him do it one more time.

For one brief moment, I sniffed up the build-up still in my nose and considered getting a quick purge from Mr. Chi here, but before that idea became a thought bubble he could possibly detect, I shivered at the thought and held tight to my “no” head shake.

His explanations of what was wrong with me went on, and I guess I like to think there’s some mystical Eastern power that presides in the gifted few that make this their profession because I found myself almost believing him. I was not about to let him make out with my runny nose, though, or perform any number of the tricks that happen off the main thoroughfare in his “studio”; I left him to his work and went for noodles.

Bangkok was a quick excursion and one that instilled in me an intense longing to return to Thailand for at least months. There were beaches and mountains and jungles and alleyways to soak in. This country would be a quick escape I would plot in the back of my mind while working in a gray cubicle on the 10th floor of an art deco building in Somewhereville, USA.

That is…if I could survive the ride to the airport.

I used my recently obtained knowledge to get the right price on a cab to the airport, a newly-built facility that measures almost a kilometer in length. The driver asked if I wanted to take the city streets or the highway. I said, honestly, “Whatever’s cheaper. I only have this much.” I had the perfect amount that would account for a fair fare and a decent tip. He proceeded to book it on not just the highway but the roads leading to the on-ramp.

Photo credit: Braden Gunem

I kid you not, we were approaching stop lights going 80 mph.

Our top speed was around 100 mph on the highway. The speed limit was around 60, to accommodate the scattered waves in the pavement that sent my stomach into my bowels.

He traversed the straight, multi-lane highway like it was a winding road, making sure he wouldn’t get behind a car crawling at speeds of 50 and 60 mph. This would have been the moment where you and your travel buddy exchange looks that say, “We may die tonight.” Instead, I sat alone in the back middle seat, grasping my seat belt with white knuckles, and staring into the rear view mirror with saucer-like eyes.

This was the last night of my solo journey before boarding the flight that eventually took me to all sorts of home. Home with a layover to see familiar faces, home with a layover to reconnect with my bloodline, and home to my actual geographic region of birth. I was jones-ing for morsels of the familiar, but with such a homecoming comes the complete termination of my fantasy world no one from home knows about: my travels.

I accepted this sad reality, reluctantly, with heavy eyelids and a massive sigh into slumber, stretched across four seats on my flight to Tokyo.

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I barely slept on the night train and eventually took a seat at the window, once the sleeper car had become alive again. The atmosphere outside infiltrated my senses with green, cool, and an absence of the decay of Delhi and Agra. In those few early moments, I had a breakfast of rural fulfillment. I sat bearing witness to the dawn activity of farmers, their wives, and their vivacious offspring. The women never ceased carrying some heavy load of sloshing mud, fire wood, or some other awkwardly carried weight around.

Had the train been going slow enough, I would have considered the tuck and roll, careful to guard my packet of crackers. I was, somewhat regrettably, rolling into Varanasi.

Even though I had heard accomplished photographers exclaim, “Varanasi is a photographer’s paradise,” I winced in anticipation of the dilapidated buildings, the sounds of blaring mufflers and bike chains reverberating in the narrow alleys, and the septic river known in the Hindi community as “sacred.” To be honest, I was going for the photos, with a pinch of experience. A little spiritual enlightenment would be nice, but these living conditions were giving me déjà vu of the grime I had probably only just extracted from my soles and pores from India trip #1.

I wanted to wander a bit in the maze-like streets reminiscent of Venice’s rat trap, but after knowing 100°F intimately for months, I knew that with these sorts of exploratory expeditions comes steaming piles of street doo-doo, cramped quarters, plenty of heart-wrenching sights, and urine streams that would ruin such experiences of pure wonder. However, the whole reason for planning such a long trip was to force the onset of mental and physical fatigue. Though I often struggled to smile across the Subcontinent, it was all a part of the plan. From these draining situations and near-tears moments, I was to read between the lines of my own mind’s description.

The supple, green air of the country cleared and made way for the stink unmistakably indicating an Indian city train station. Wandering purposely with a backpack mountain hovering behind, I found an auto rickshaw to motor its way towards Ashanti Guesthouse.

“Yes, I want to stay there…please stop telling me to go somewhere else. I just talked to them this morning. I know what you’re doing, fellas!”

I was barely conscious for the sunrise bustle, but with half-opened eyes, I could see the feet and wheels that flew by in a blur. The relative coolness and airborne grit brought on a feeling of pleasure in being, once again, in a place that would whittle me down to nothing if I allowed it.

As my mother told me, my passion for travel is most obvious through my lack of hesitation in diving into some of the most uncomfortable positions to be in, not because I have something to prove to others but that I have a morsel of something to gain for myself. Not that I am a work-out junkie by any stretch of Dr. Seuss’ far-stretching imagination, but this mindset involves the same idea. Pursuing grit and pain for an end result of invigoration and strength; that is the name of the game.

I felt Varanasi; I didn’t necessarily see her. I sensed she was around me, but I lingered on the thought that if my eyes were closed, I could think I was anywhere. I imagined being home at that time instead of in a tiny, motorized vehicle in South Asia, and a small jolt came to the stomach in the form of a chuckle. Life was playing games with me again.

My driver parked as close to our destination as the broomstick-wide streets would allow and then walked me towards its hidden, locked-up entrance. The man at the front desk and the watchman were both completely unconscious on the cushy couches in the lobby, but the rattling of gates sure can wake up a person. Once I got a room, I dropped my bags onto a stained “mattress” covered in ants and climbed to the rooftop eatery. Baked beans on toast (real local eats, I know). An entire pot of chai (actual real local drinks). I was set for the morning.

I brought my new book, freshly snagged from a houseboat in Kashmir, my well-worn journal, and a loaded pen for a purge session. By this point, I had the thoughts of two traveling months knocking around in my scorched skull, and I figured, with no plans and $2 bucks a night, I could camp out here forever, until I had caught up with my life as an introspective nomad. And that’s exactly what I did. I saw the same people come and go, watched them creepily from the same post I grabbed at 7am, and let me pen scribble every moment that came to me. The big thoughts. The big pictures. Oh, the big hand cramps! The sun rose at my left, and by the time I had finished tapping my Blackberry filled with blogs to post, the sun had been eaten behind the building in the haze that constantly cloaked the city.

From this height, I could feel somewhat of a cool breeze and smell something more than fecal matter and spices. Yes, from this outlook, I could see the scampering of monkeys from the rooftop jungle gym. At times, they tap-danced on the corrugated steel above me, causing the resident cooks and wait staff to whack sticks around like senile neighbors. Every time the little buggers poked their heads around the edge of the wall or ceiling, I grabbed my pen like a dagger and waited to blink until their crazy eyes drifted from my makeshift office.

I had my three meals above the city, paid three different times for oncoming chais and lassis, rice and dishes, club sodas and chapatis, because the working boys couldn’t fathom that a visitor would stay in their restaurant for the entire day. I did, and it was ever-so fulfilling.

A Ganges Sunrise

4:45am is a romantic time of day. My body refuses to sync with my mind on this point, but if I could, I would love to watch the sun rise from my own rooftop every morning. If I had an easily climbable tree leading to the gutters and a slightly inclined roof line (along with the physical motivation to move so early in the morn’), that’s where I would be to start my day regularly.

Dawn is a time of day that feels rather apocalyptic. It’s one of the only times when a person drives around town, sees another car on the road, and honestly wonders what on Earth compelled that person to rise as well. The morning light and ambiance is transformative. If it’s a cold climate, the air’s deadly crisp feels as warmly welcome as a chilled glass of water in a desert. If the weather outside is humid, hot, and muggy, it doesn’t matter, because the air is new, relaxed, and pure of the previous day’s anxiety. 4:45am in Varanasi is lavender and dirty pink.

I boarded a small boat for a free ride with 12 other Ashanti Guesthouse patrons, loading up downstream from the sight of 24 hour cremations, and claimed the aft as my domain to sit Indian style with camera in hand. Though I’m normally drawn to make conversation or witty quips with the strangers around me, the setting merited a moment of silence. If any place calls for serenity, in order to take in the slowly increasing activity of lives so foreign to our own, this would be it.

While I refused to let a drop of Ganges touch my skin, expecting the Fight Club movie scenario of burning flesh, those practicing “puja” or worship around me were swishing mouthfuls and letting “Mother Ganga” drip down their faces with a cool cleanse. Each man or woman became completely drenched and scrubbed clean, clothes and all, without ever getting completely nude. As I learned later from my new book at the time, Shantaram, Indians are skilled at many things, among which is the ability to never actually be naked, regardless of their activity. To me, odd. To them, necessary.

Candles flickered by on cupcake liners and flowers, representing souls hoping to reach nirvana via the famed waterway. I clicked the shutter at all things colorful or foreign to me only to realize the scope of those photographs’ content two months later at home. I caught beautiful things, embarrassing things, things that make you exclaim, “That looks like Borat’s bathing suit!” Considering the morning boat ride was completely free, it seemed I had found one of the most charming and cost-efficient ways to witness this city I was afraid to witness.

And then a dead body. A bloated human carcass appeared beside some docked boats, already stained with dark streaks of feted flesh and dried debris. It was a slow, internal realization that I was viewing a long-dead man in a river where thousands were bathing. I clicked a shot, somewhat shamefully, and hoped that man got to where he wanted to go. But when the man next to me gasped in shock at the sight, I thought to myself, “Was it weird that I wasn’t too fazed by the floating corpse?” I certainly wasn’t scanning the surface looking for one, or even expecting it before we went out, but I think I accepted it before even landing in India.

The world of India is upside-down to me, and though so many of their traditions are understandable, I walk the streets and navigate the waters assuming I will see things I cannot fathom. Part of me has always imagined that one day, when I am much older, I will wake up in the middle of the night with a gasp. It will only be at that moment that I fully come to grasp the sights and situations I have experienced in this world. I hope that day comes, but until it does, man, that was weird seeing a dead body floating next to me.

Strolling the Flowing Petri Dish

After docking and wandering behind the cremation ghat to purchase Vick’s Vap-o-Rub for my newly acquired nail fungus, I roamed for grub, for conversation, for knick-knacks and paddy-whacks, and sights to behold. I followed the painted signs on the buildings that served as my only directions through the labyrinth and made it to an organic bakery, a small shop with henna to practice my haggling, and the remaining ghats, where I could witness buffaloes bathing and power hoses thrusting the sitting muck off the steps from the monsoon.

Little boys approached me to convince my skeptical mind, with their batting eyes and adorable English, towards visiting their father’s silk shop. I tried to encourage conversation and play rather than acknowledge the sales pitch, but they didn’t like my tactic. I wandered alone back to another chow spot for lunch.

Squat if you love Indian Food!

Up until this moment, I followed the books when it came to eating out in India. Since I was steering clear of the high class establishments, I had to search carefully for places that catered to the Western belly. Do you boil all unpasteurized and unfiltered food products? I’m there. Nay? I always say no, but thank you, to Delhi belly. However, some times the desire to try local favorites inhibits your cautious nature to scream its warnings, and too much dairy goes down the old tube.

I got the Delhi belly, in Varanasi, from Aloo Palak and a banana lassi, and the most ridiculous part of the result was that I knew it would happen before the ink of my order was even dry.

Lying on my side, iPod buds in the ears, my eyes showcased a look of resignation as I grabbed a nearby plastic bag. I’ll spare the details of the next roughly ten hours but will note the most amusing part of the story: the squat toilet. That’s the cue for your imagination to run amuck.

I sprawled on my sleep sheet with a high powered fan aimed at my war-trodden body. No matter how crappy I felt (no pun intended), I still thought something was funny. It’s as if I wanted to get some sort of disease while abroad. I think my mind’s billboard read something like this…

“You haven’t been to India until it gets the best of you!”

I attempted to get plain rice and club soda upstairs for a few minutes and then flopped to the streets for a ride to the train station. Everything under my skin was aching, aggravated, or fatigued, and the cycle rickshaw ride to and fro didn’t exactly nurse my malady. My eyes were open but not engaged, and my hand unclenched an old book, which tumbled to the dusty ground and received a killer tire mark…just the kind of travel wear-and-tear so many of us try to recreate for aesthetics sake (Yeah, I took that around the world…here are the bite marks where that tiger tried to rip through my backpack for beef jerky).

I’m still not sure, but in the middle of a busy round-a-bout, I believe I saw a naked man powdered with dust, just taking a stroll. I struck a confused look, took a double-take, and shrugged my shoulders back into the rickshaw seat. Since I was a nincompoop and waited until it was too late to purchase my ticket out of V-town, Ashanti had to take me in for another night in the same room, in the same bed, where all my disease-filled dreams came true. After such an excursion, nothing said comfort and delight more than eighteen hours in bed. I hibernated in the depths of a withered building in Varanasi until life came back to my eyes, life pumped in by the auditory musings of my iPod friends.

The Joy above the Haze

I had one more day in Varanasi. I took a backseat to tourism and tried to mosey for sport. I wanted to mosey as if I couldn’t hear reality and daily life throbbing around me, like I was in a music video, walking in slow motion and just making eyes with those who never move from their posts in shops, tea stands, or smoking corners. With any offering of toilet paper, chai, or drugs extended unto me, I declined with a smile and a right hand politely protesting. All I wanted was to blend in. The dark hair didn’t fully do its job that day, but I can’t say my board shorts and soccer jersey helped.

I took my book, and followed the lanes toward the riverbank, only to be followed by yet another fully decorated and prepared dead body on a bright orange gurney. In Africa, I had stare downs with wild buffalo on the way to the toilet. In India, I saw dead bodies on the way to a reading spot. A local hustler, insisting I have a chai and silk pashmina browsing session with him, helped me find the perfect spot to read and be undisturbed. This spot was a fenced-off shrine next to billowing clouds of human ashes.

A compelling little sales boy leaned over the fence to make me a seafarer yet again, so I sailed the Ganges and observed a massive puja session on the main ghat. This ten year old sailor rowed his heart out to move the ample frames of myself and the boat, and after investigating his life story and future ambitions, I agreed to tipping him nicely and lying to his employer, if he asked, about the higher price and his $1.00 gratuity.

Above the seedy business and all the crap, at rooftop level, there occurs an endearing pastime I felt refreshed to witness. I wished at that moment I had already read “Kite Runner,” but I had to assume it had something to do with children ignoring the hardships of their daily lives and tenderly lifting a kite into the twilight. Instead of birds, dusk was peppered with flying wooden sticks, string, and bright colors now faded from overuse. I leaned over the ledge at the rooftop restaurant, keeping an eye out for a “clepto” monkey’s approach, and followed each boy’s string to his respective kite. They held huge yellow spools and yelled at their neighboring friends in between moments of pure concentration and love. They had captured a peace I hadn’t been able to find yet in the city; they figured out the secret to childhood enlightenment in a place I couldn’t fathom growing up. No grassy knolls. Little time in the day allowed for leisure. But the wind provided an escape for little boy dreams and desires to compete, prove themselves, and feel lifted when so much presses them into the dirty ground.

I used this reflective standstill in time as an escape from the company I had unknowingly joined. There are some locations where travelers become instant friends, Europe, perhaps, or South America. But in India, there can be a sense that everyone is looking with a shifty eye at the crazy next to them in the hostel restaurant or dirt cheap sleeper dorm. Chances are they are equally, if not more, haphazardous than you are, to have stepped onto this subcontinent and willed the experience of sensory-overstimulation and exhaustion.

Everyone was reading the same two books and virtually all were busy smoking, chewing, and caffeinating their soon to be weary bodies. Sore point was I was reading one of the two books. This group toting Lonely Planets, cigarette papers, and Bohemian baggy pants, some chomping their Western favorites unembarrassed while others tried in every way to mimic the local customs, seemed like they were following the lure of drug tourism. Actually, I could hear it…and smell it. And to imagine these people had the ability to travel across the world and used it to quench a dirty pleasure disheartened me massively. Mostly, I was worried I blended in with them. The 1% of the 1% of people in the world able to traverse this orb was not represented well.

Grasshopper Moshing and Train Hopping

Packed up like a trekking pony and weaving in between rolling vehicles in the street, I haggled a mean bargain with every auto rickshaw driver for a trip 20 kilometers out of the city. I started off indifferent, escalated to amused, stomped off stubbornly, hailed someone else, pulled the same tricks, and then gave the first guy the job after he returned screaming a reasonable price in my wake. We sped through an unwavering fog of dust in the black of night, a ride I could only see through the slits of my guarded eyes, and shook hands when our destination appeared.

The walk up to the station was as I envision it would be to walk through a crowd of people who hated you. But they weren’t people. They were grasshoppers; thousands of grasshoppers flickering and flopping around in the strongest street light. It was as if this light post was the insect-equivalent of a pilgrimage sight, and I walked through the crowd that was working on their spiritual exercises. Every step was a crunch, and I had them flying past my ears, neck, nose, and arms. I swatted and shivered and made it out grasshopper-less. The same sort of crazed crowd engulfed each hanging bulb in the station, so I sat, waiting in fear, inside the only café around. I was petrified of those little winged kamikazes.

The time on my ticket lapsed, and no train to Darjeeling showed. Even its expected time of delay was fast approaching and passing as I walked up and down the assigned track. I memorized the name of my train’s route name and inquired about it to every station hand with a shrug. One man finally pointed behind him to a different track. The train was slowly pulling away. Not only was my locomotive late, but it had switched lanes and hidden from my watchful eyes.

What a visual. Here I was at my salvation station waiting for a train to take me to the mountains, away from whatever hardships I endured on that damned riverbank. The occasional man was hanging out of the doorways that were beginning to pick up speed with the train. I booked it alongside the moving cars and screamed my memorized express route to a man who then shook his head, “Yup.” The London tube drilled it into me, “Mind the Gap,” and I reached for the man’s outstretched hand with a leap over the grinding wheels below.

Once I comprehended my success, all I wanted was a good old fashioned high five, but four staring, ticket-less women gave me nothing but scowls as they crouched on the floor. No problem. I high-fived myself, got directions to the right car in another language, and proceeded to wobble over sleeping old ladies, children, and spooning men, some of which appeared under my feet and cursed me. It being 10:00pm and the lowest class sleeper car, a compartment that should have slept eight comfortably now held double that. My teetering presence caught enough gazes to make me feel like a spectacle, especially when they all realized I had to wake the two men in my bed in order to claim my rightful ground.

A standard day in this life, a random cross-section, if you will, will normally include a moment like this, when you might as well be on stage doing something uncomfortable or awkward in front of people that don’t know or have to like you. That’s when the smile comes in handy. It catches people off guard and bounces the vulnerability back to the staring eyes. This is what I did as I shook the men awake, clean-and-pressed my backpack onto the top bunk, and gave back the change that had fallen on the mat from the men’s pockets.

The smiles, the change, the comfort exhibited in the expectedly uncomfortable situation; these are the ways in which I nestled into my place among people who hopefully respected me a little more than they had or wanted to. We were all just trying to sleep, and there is something really tender and endearing about the human condition that enables us to become engrossed in one giant sleep hug when the moon is high.

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When the Colts go to the Super Bowl, I lose my voice but keep going.

But when I babysit for two kids that have me pulling my hair out, my body finally takes a beating. And now I am drinking my food through a straw while watching a Rocky marathon in my basement. Super.

The amount of time I’m spending on my packing list is astronomical. I should put these research skills on my resume. I have eight more days of this wonderful sitting and preparing before we head off on a family vacation…makes me want to soak up all the depressing Indiana atmosphere I can. Hopefully this is the last time I’m sick like this until at least late May because that would be my definition of a tragedy…bed ridden in Rio. I’m already missing my 90 roommates and that beautiful B-town landscape.

Here’s to T minus 8 days.

By the way, Rocky just knocked out Clubber Lang.

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