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Published: July 24th 2012
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Bonjour mes amis,
I'm going to attempt to fit about a week's worth of adventure into one entry (Wednesday 7/11-Thursday 7/19). Since work has started I've been a bit burnt out... My schedule has been irregular because of a long Friday night and several early work mornings. Here's my attempt at relaying nine days worth of events:
Let me start with some advice I received from my boss before I left: to state the obvious, being gay in India is not like being gay in NYC (duh). I was told, essentially, to leave out some key details of my personal life so as not to let the proverbial cat out of the bag. This advice was given from the heart; my boss wanted to ensure that my work would be judged on its merits and not by what my teammates perceived my character to be because of my sexual orientation. I took this advice very seriously; I want this exercise to be as smooth as possible.
Now, as you may or may not know, for the first eighteen years of my life, it was regular practice for me to leave out key details of my personal life to keep that rambunctious cat in that tiny, shrinking and ever-less efficacious bag. But after being out for six years, and building a life based on being out, this advice was more easily received than executed. My first night out with my team (which kept me at a house party until 4:30 am) was filled with a ton of awkward advice from my colleagues... Apparently, my hair, glasses, and socks all point to homo in the eyes of twenty-something Indians (and probably
most twenty-somethings around the world). So, after a few drinks, a few were comfortable enough to spill the beans: for sure, American style is different than Indian style; but for God's sake, I'd better be more careful, else folks might think I'm actually
gay! But, not to worry, they can tell me how to avoid that. The key to success in this endeavor, I was told, was to never, under any circumstances, wear pink socks (really?). That, mes amis, is the
dead giveaway (insert traumatized emoticon here). So... what did I do in response you ask? I evaded their questions on girls, graciously acknowledged their advice, and wore pink socks on Monday. Yee-haw!
Ok, so that was Friday. I'm going to skip over Saturday and Sunday for the most part. Highlights: I slept until 6pm Saturday evening (which ruined my schedule) did a very NY lounge with other folks in my program, Amy, Hannah, and Jennifer (these are not their real names; they asked for pseudonyms in the blog), and did brunch with the same group on Sunday.
Do you feel rested after the weekend recap? I hope so, for more, yes
more
, drama is on its way.
Let me continue with my journey for passport photos, and my SP rickshaw driver who went rogue on my ass. At the suggestion of a friend, I went to a shop a few blocks away for photos I would need for FRRO registration (see: Papers Please). Getting a rickshaw there was relatively easy, and the driver was a very pleasant man. An old lady even helped him with directions, unsolicited! I tried to pay him to wait for me outside the shop, but he was too busy (doing what, not sure). So I tipped him for his troubles and we went out separate ways. Feeling confident from that interaction I pressed on to get my photos. I accomplished as much without a hitch (other than looking awkward in my photo). Ay, but the hitch was yet to come. On my return trip, feeling that the universe was on my side from the tip I gave my last driver, I was confident that getting home would be as easy. Silly me.
After fighting with my first two rickshaw drivers because they were trying to fleece me, I settled on the third, who was charging just as ridiculous a rate (30 rps ); if they were going to steal from me, at least they were all stealing at the market rate. Most rickshaw drivers don't speak English, have probably never passed a driving test, and certainly don't know where they are going. This poses a bit of a logistical issue for someone not familiar with the city. Long story short, the motherfucker dropped me off about three blocks away from my hotel and did it with attitude. If I were in any Western city, navigating those three blocks may not have been a challenge... But getting around in a 12th Century city with 18th Century infrastructure and 20th Century automobiles and 10 people per square foot is a bit of a task. Thank God I had emailed myself a map cut out of a 10 block radius around my hotel. By the time I found a road sign and mapped myself a route, what should have been a three minute walk turned into a twenty minute adventure. I wasn't so much scared while I was walking around, half aimlessly, half intentionally; I was more so frustrated. It's tough when you lose at a game that you still don't know the rules of.
To wrap up: that same day my
expat security briefing was scheduled with the head of security for Asia. His main points: taking rickshaws is dangerous and dumb (everyone ignores this advice; if only I had gotten it before Sarah Palin dropped me off on the wrong block), tens of thousands of people die every year on Bangalore's roads due to automobile related accidents, and if I am not careful, I will wind up getting hit by a car, laughed at by locals, washed into a storm drain by a monsoon, and left to die. Apparently this man has even more of a flare for dramatics than yours truly, but that is his job.
If that last paragraph made you anxious, rest easy; I practice all the safety precautions, and the firm has a strong presence in the city. If anything goes wrong, they'll have my airlifted, or whatever. I'll be fine!
Until next time,
TR
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