La Vie de Lenteel

Peoples!!!!!

Merry Christmas!!!!!

OK, so it's not Christmas today but I'm not gonna be going onto the Internet on Christmas so I'm saying Merry Christmas now. If you can't handle the anachronism (or if you can't handle the word "anachronism") simply come back and read this on Christmas day and everything will be OK.

Now that we've got that out of the way, I'm going to paint you an elaborate painting of la vie de Lenteel. Or, to be more precise, les revelations de Lenteel, because just recently I've been going through some major breakthroughs, or epiphanies, or aha!moments, or just plain old "Oooooooooh, so that's what this was all about. . . damn, I'm stupid" realizations. By the way, this blog entry is gonna be fairly introspective, so if ye're not really into exploring the (noticeably frightening) psyche of Lentil, do not read on.

So, the revelation happened to me just this Tuesday (three days ago) and it happened mostly because I'm an absurdly competitive person and I've never learnt to say "No. That's a stupid idea. Only an absurdly competitive person who's never learnt to say "No. That's a stupid idea. Only an absurdly. . . wait. I'm confused.

Anyhoo, my whole point was that it started on a Tuesday. This Tuesday.

I was on the Internet (even though I wasn't supposed to be. I've restricted myself to Internet only on Fridays because otherwise I become a pathetically pale geek in a tropical paradise. Plus the Internet makes me homesick. But I remember having a good reason for going on the Internet on a Tuesday instead of a Friday. Somewhere along the lines of "I really, really wanted to") and I was reading my weekly email from Nibbles.

Nibbles, in her typical rambling style (that I'd like to think that I inspired, but it's probably that we're just both terribly confused and misunderstood geniuses and that that's just how terribly befused and modest geniuses write - befusingly) was telling me about the Christmas Grad Dinner Dance back home at Reynolds. She was telling me about all of her social gaffs which I would lurf to tell ya about, because they're brain-spewingly hilarious, but I won't, because then Nibbles'd probably come after me, and even though she's shorter than an elf (god, I'd lurve to see her dressed up in green leotards and pointy shoes. . . *snirks* I'd pay her to do that.) and she has a cutetsy-wutesy name (courtesy of Lentil), she's got a black belt (mini-ninja!) and can do an evil face (not just an evil eye. An evil face) like no other.

If you had to read over that paragraph a few times to understand it, doncha worry. It's just because I'm a terribly befused genius, and if I'm confused writing it, you don't even stand a chance.

Moving on, she was telling me about the Dinner Dance and how she had a great time and then she uttered the words that changed my life forever. Or they've at least changed my life for the past three days.

Since these words aren't terribly embarrassing (and even if they are, all the better), I'm gonna show you them (lurve ya, Nibbles! Don't hurt me!)

"Anywhooooo, just thought I'd tell you all the this to show you how much fun we will have clubbing in Wolfville (the town of the university we're going to. Population 6 000) on weekends. Actually, I'm lying. I'm pretty sure Wolfville is so small that they don't have any clubs, and nerdy Lentil probably won't want to go out without her books (by they way, that last sentence was a challenge. Hopefully, it motivated you to yell out at your computer "Oh ya! We'll see who ends up partying the hardest at university", thus entering us into a binding international agreement to compete this coming fall for "Biggest Party-Animal".

OK, so imagine moi reading this. At the beginning, I'm all nodding my head and "Yeeeeaaah. We are going to have fun at Acadia university. But I'm not sure about the clubbing. I'm just not the clubbing sort of girl. . ."

Then, when she said the thing about Lentil not going without her books, I was all "Yeeeeeaaah. That totally sounds like me. . ."

And then Lentil reads the word "challenge".

"Oh yeah? I can whip your butt at partying any day, baby!" At the computer screen.

Lentil reads on.

Lentil realizes that she's pathetically predictable and she should avoid Truth or Dare games more than the plague, McDonald's and Colgate toothpaste combined. Otherwise she might die (however, if she avoids all of these things (Truth or Dare, plague, toothpaste, etc) she'll never die. Of course. . .) She should also avoid rambling too much, because even she's starting to get confused.

Anyhoo, after coming to terms with the fact that I'm far too easily manipulated for my own safety, I realized that despite this knowledge (and the knowledge that right after Nibbles's Party-Animal Challenge she said she had to go and do Calculus homework, which I think rather nullifies the whole thing) I was still all "Oh yeah?" and ready to take on said challenge.

After I wrote a fabsolutely fizarre response, I went straight back to my hostel, and even though I wasn't hungry because I'd eaten early, I went downstairs to the eating are JUST TO SOCIALIZE.

Now I know she challenged me to be a party-animal (and I know that I can't pull of saying that word, but I considered adding 'f's to it to Lentify it, but then it would be "farty-animal" and that just doesn't have the right ring to it. . . ), but I figured I was so far gone that I'd have to start slowly. First I'd become social, then I'd actually go to parties, then I'd become a party-animal. Build up to it, ye know?

So instead of being my usually anti-social self and only talking to my dorm-mates when I had to, only kinda nodding and avoiding the gaze of everyone else in the building, and just reading, writing, and eating all day, I went downstairs, where everyone eats, then socializes for a few hours, JUST TO TALK. I wasn't even gonna eat!

This was a big step for me.

Normally I avoid and dread socializing and sort of writhe mentally in agony when I have to do it. I usually have to consciously force myself to make conversation, and I'm usually pretty bad at it (this is mostly with people who I'm not close to already, by the bye. But sometimes it even happens with my closest of friends.) So you can imagine my trepidation, going down there without even a plate of food that I could resort to if I ran out of things to say or became disinterested in the conversation.

But every time I thought about turning tail, I remembered Nibbles's challenge and I was all "Oh yeah?" Then I'd remind myself of how I used to be able to make friends effortlessly when I was a kid and how being insecure is such a silly stupid teenagery thing and I'm above all of that. I also reminded myself of the "How To Be Funny" webpage I'd read before coming there (shut up. You know I'm cool).

I sat down at the table at 1900. My heart fluttered.

I said "hi". I gripped my chair, waiting for the whole group to tell me that I was unwelcome there, then tear out my kidney to eat with their curries.

"Hey," said the group at the table.

So far still alive.

Then, instead of just listening in on the conversation, only butting in to make a clever, academic, and rather dry remark, usually only having to do with my well of knowledge, I actually participated in the conversation. And instead of being my clever but rather reserved academic self that I usually am with people I didn't meet three years ago or longer, I was like I am with my close friends and family: ie. bubbly, silly, and a laughing far too loudly and often.

I didn't come back to my rooms until 11:30.

I didn't fall asleep for hours, firstly because I couldn't stop chatting with my friends in my dorm (there are certain disadvantages to dorms. If you're friends with the people inside, it's like having a sleepover EVERY NIGHT. This means that turning off the light seems to just invite more talking. . . actually, nevermind. That's not a disadvantage at all) and secondly, because I'd stumbled upon a revelation of mind-boggling proportions:

I'm a social person

I actually like being with people.

I'm not sure when it started, but I'm fairly certain it began in eighth grade, where I somehow managed to convince myself that

a) most people don't like me

and

b) I'm an anti-social person and don't like most people. In fact, I don't like being with people in general.

And I kept up this lie, believing it so wholeheartedly myself that I actually dreaded talking to people. Of course, if someone dreads people and actively, and sometimes passively, tries to keep conversations and interactions to a minimum, then it's hard to make friends, and then it just reinforces your idea that nobody likes you and you don't really like them.

Throughout high school it stuck with me, and I only stayed friends with the people I'd made in elementary school and (the one) friend I made in middle school. These people I was my (I think) natural bubbly self with ,but with the rest of the world at large, I was reticent, reserved, and really bookish and kept myself at a distance. In most classes where I didn't have any of my already-made (heh heh. My "ready made" friends) I would either make some really really superficial friends, who I'd never talk to outside of the classroom, or I'd just not even attempt to make friends and just studiously pay attention to the teacher and nothing else.

I was insecure but happy most of the time, because I did still have my good friends and family.

But there were sometimes when I fell into a "funk" and I just didn't know why. I wouldn't be "unhappy" per se, but I just wasn't. . . bubbly. I'd only ever notice these funks once I'd recovered from them and the contrast would strike me. I've gotten them in the past few summers, one this spring, and I've just recovered from one just this week. On Tuesday actually.

And it's only on this funk that I've finally discovered the cause: I go into a funk when I've got nobody to be social with.

Essentially, I'm a social person and I get lonely if I don't satiate that urge.

That's why it happened during the summers (lots of times during my summers I don't see my friends that regularly), this spring (I had friends at school, but back at my home, I didn't have my family), and in India (I had no friends and no family. All of my "friends" I've mentioned I kept myself at a distance from. I never allowed myself to be actually hyper or bubbly around them).

Eureka!

Lentil has a future as a psychologist.

But anyhoo, the result of this revelation is that I've completely changed my attitude about my life.

Before I was all: I like to read, eat, and think. I avoid people because they're boring. I secretly (except not so secretly, because I'm pretty open about all of my thoughts and feelings) think that I'm boring as well. I think that if anyone ever looks like they're having a fun time talking to me, they're actually secretly wishing they were with somebody else because I'm no fun.

Now I actively start of conversations with people. I actually got out with the intentions of making friends (actual friends) and opening up to them. I'm bubbly with everyone I meet. I go into conversations and go out of them, knowing they're the reason that I feel happy.

Just in the past three nights, I haven't come back to my rooms until 11:30 at the earliest, 12:30 at the latest. One night I played poker (not as fun as regular card games. You can't be that silly while playing poker, and what's the point of playing cards if you can't be silly?). The other two I just stayed out talking and laughing so hard (the others were laughing too. Don't worry; it wasn't just me)

At work I strike up conversations with the customers and we sometimes accidentally hold up the line. At lunch I sit down with people who are eating alone, and we chat my whole lunch hour away.

And this has done wonders to my confidence.

I never realized just how insecure I was until I stopped denying a fundamental part of who I am. Once I released that I've flourished and it's like a wilting flower all of a sudden regained life and said "I feel so alive!" (man, that sounded hippieish. Auroville's starting to get to me. . . )

Of course, old habits die hard, and lots of the times I find myself slipping into them against my conscious will. Like this morning I didn't go eat breakfast with everybody downstairs, but went to go get some food at a store. I knew that I'd have fun if I went down, but that stupid dread that I've taught myself to feel just came to fore and I couldn't help myself. Even right now, as I'm writing this, I'm dreading eating lunch, because it means I might have to sit with somebody else and socialize. I have to consciously remind myself that I like people, and that that's just my lying habit talking.

So yeah, that was my revelation. That I'm a social person. I hope ya enjoyed reading about it (I know that lots of adults like this introspective teenager junk because they're all like "Ah. I remember going through something like that" and I think that lots of teenagers like reading it themselves, because they're like "Good. I'm not the only one" and I know that most kids don't like it because they're like "What's insecure?"),

I'm gonna go eat lunch and talk to some stranger and have a good time,

Lurve y'all,

Bisous,

Namaste,

Lentil,

The Girl Who's Super Excited About Christmas. Probably More Excited Than Even A 3 Year Old. . .

Random Update

Hiya peoples!!!!

Just updating because I haven't for awhile and all that. But really, nothing much has been happening. . . in fact, for the past few weeks, I’ve just been being completely and utterly lazy and done nothing, aside from go to work, eat, read, and sleep.

*sighs happily* Life is goooood..

Anyhoo, since I have fabsolutely nothing new to tell you guys, I’m just gonna tell you random little bits about my life in the hopes that while they seem completely and futterly mundane to moi, they will seem fexotic and fizarre to vous.

OK, #1 thing

for some fompletely fizarre reason, I’ve randomly started putting ‘f’s in front of words. . . I fonder why. . . I fink I’ll fop now. Except for “fabsolutely” and “fizarre”. I rather like those two words.

#2 thing

I’ve “discovered” science books and they’re fabsolutely brilliant!!! My favourite author is Dawkins, who’s a zoologist and writes mostly about evolution.

He’s my hero. I’ve already given him a nickname: Boing. It’s from the fact that in all of the four books I’ve read by him, he’s always mentioned the Boeing 747. Now I know Boing is not the same as Boeing, but Boing sounds funnier. So there.

Anyhoo, Boing is my hero.

#3 thing

Here are a couple of the little things in my life right now that just make me sure that my life is the best life in the world, and everyone should be terribly, terribly jealous:

a) peeling carrots. I just never knew that peeling carrots could be so bloody satisfying. Every day, while I’m “working” in the kitchen, making pineapple juice, deseeding chikoos, chopping guavas, etc, the thing I look forward to the whole morning is peeling the carrots. There’s just something so very. . . I dunno. . . drug-like about peeling carrots. It’s just like when I’m biking back home and the sheer pleasure I get from riding over the brown leaves and hearing them crunch and crackle underneath. Or vacuuming up a really dusty patch and carpet and seeing the difference wherever the vacuum goes. My mind just goes *bliss!* and *sighs happily* afterwards. . .

. . .

Damn I’m weird.

b) the bananas. Did you know that there are like a fajillion different sorts of bananas out there and that, of all the ones that we decided to get in Canada, we chose the WORST KIND EVER!!!!??? Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking: Our bananas aren’t that bad.

But that’s just because you haven’t had the other bananas. If you had, you would realize that you’re being totally ripped off and that Canadian bananas should be used for mock gun fights and nothing else.

Over here the main type of banana is the small type, that you sometimes see in the “exotic fruits” part of the grocery store. They may be small, but they’re sweet and beautiful, and I think I may start up a religion around them. Actually, I didn’t really realize how good they were (even though I’ve been eating approximately 4-7 a day) until I had one of the bananas that we have back home just recently.

BLECK!!!! Gross! It was all not sweet, and not beautiful, and bleck! all over. I can’t imagine the reason that we eat them back home instead of the kinds sold over here. The only reason I can think of is that the ones back home are bigger, although why you’d want more of them I cannot say.

Anyhoo, the bananas over here are bliss.

. . .

Hmmmm . . . yep. That’s all that I can think to say right now.

Hope yr’all having the times of your lives,

Bisous,

Namaste,

Lentil,

The Girl Who’s In Heaven On Earth. . . Except For That She Could Do With A Little Less Hippies

Lentil Goes Haywire Writing. You Have Been Warned

Do you remember when I told y’all (sorry, but “y’all” has become a part of my vocabulary. . . I have no idea how. It just spontaneously took over.) that Auroville was like the Garden of Eden because it smelled so heavenly? Well, let me rephrase that: Auroville is the Garden of Eden. Except without the naked people.

It is, pure and simple, the BEST PLACE ON EARTH. It’s also the happiest place on earth, but due to copyright issues with a certain big evil (but still happy) corporation, I’m not going to state that.

I’ll give you a little sum-up of why this place is befuzzlingly fanpendous, just to show you how jealous you should be.

I’m staying at a youth hostel, just behind the town hall, which has a head-on view of the “Matrimandir”. See that giant gold golf ball on the left? That’s the Matrimandir. That thing is the “physical and spiritual centre” of Auroville, as deigned by “The Mother”. If you couldn’t already tell, Auroville is one whacked out place (because it’s run and populated by hippies). But that’s probably why I love it so much.

Anyhoo, the hostel I’m staying at costs Rs 100 ($2.50) a night, has the most awesome of roofs ever. That is to say, it has stairs going up to it and it offers you a vast panorama of the top of a tropical rainforest and unobstructed view of the sky. Whenever I have spare time (*laughs* I mean nearly all the time) I spend on the roof, reading and writing. I also come up just before I go to bed to stare at the stars for ten minutes or so. This is very peaceful, and, with my new-found desensitizedness to mosquitoes, it’s a great way for me to slow down my brain. Lots of times (since this a youth hostel and this is Auroville. The combination = hippie artists) there’s a guy up there singing folksy/eerie French tunes to his guitar. Very peaceful.

Every morning I wake up and go for a 25 minute bike ride to the pool. Along the way I dodge cows (they’re everywhere!), dodge motor bikes, autorickshaws, cars, trucks, carts being pulled by cows, and everything else on the road that’s trying their best to hit me. Of course, since I’m a bike, I’m at the bottom of the road hierarchy, so if a truck is coming and the road (as it often is) is too narrow, I actually have to get off the road.

The reason I brave the chaos of Indian roads is because there is a pool here (and actual pool. Since advertising laws in India are lenient if not non-existent, when they said there was a pool, I was expecting a pond. So it being an actual pool is rather surprising.) and I go swimming for half an hour every morning.

It’s nice to do so, because I don’t swim in the Indian ocean here because it’s so polluted, and don’t swim in the ponds and rivers because they’re polluted and brimming with parasites and icky things. Also, at the beaches the men eye-rape you in your bathing suits. I haven’t done it before, but judging from the looks I get from just wearing my tank-top, wearing my bikini would be liking walking around with a sign that said “I will sleep with and marry the first person who tells me I’m beautiful.”.

After braving the road once more, and crashing into a coconut tree because a lady walking her cow cut me off, I’ll go to work at 9:30 at the restaurant I volunteer at. In the mornings I make fruit juices and prepare veggies for salads, all the while feasting on as many fruits and veggies as I can eat. This is great because I’ve recently started up my eating healthy plan again, and this makes it really easy. Add to that that all of the staff seem to think I’m starving and if I ever mention in passing “You know, I really like pineapple” there will suddenly be half a pineapple cut up all fancy sitting on a little plate in front of me.

This is all great.

Until I finish lunch and start working behind the till of the sweets counter.

Then it’s a problem.

For you see, then I’m working with brownies, and apple crumble, and French cheesecake, and pain au chocolat. Then if I mention in passing

“You know, French cheesecake makes my tongue orgasm”

they’ll say

“What’s ‘orgasm’”

And I’ll say

“I really like French cheesecake.”

Then there’ll be a huge slab of French cheesecake in front of me. For free!

O Temptation, thy name is French cheesecake!

Then I say “No, no. I don’t want any. I’ve started a New Plan which involves me establishing the habit of eating healthy while I’m young, because those are the ones that stick with you for life. I’m going to eat healthy every day of the year except for special occasions (ie. Christmas, B-day parties, Welcome Back parties [*hints* *nudges* *writes list of all the different types of chips that she’ll accept when she returns to Canada*]).”

To which they tilt their head to one side and push the French cheesecake closer to my face, as if I can’t see its delicious being properly. Thinking it’s a language barrier, I say,

“No, I’m on a diet.”

They tilt their head some more, then reach down to switch the slab with a different one, perhaps one more to my liking. Realizing then that it’s a cultural difference (more on those later), that in India it’s inconceivable to like a food, have the food available for free, and to not eat it, I say,

“I don’t. . . like French cheesecake.”

My face spasms because of the enormity of my lie.

I don’t think they buy my story either. I think the drool gives me away. Nonetheless, they have eventually learned that I’m not going to eat anything with sugar in it, or anything that’s been deep-fried. But that doesn’t stop them from periodically offering me the latest sweet or trying to trick me into believing that cinnamon rolls don’t have sugar in them because eating healthy isn’t hard enough unless you have hoardes of Indians trying to fatten you up.

Aside from the temptation, though, working in the kitchens is one of the best things in the world. In the morning I’m surrounded by as many fruits and veggies as I can eat (and a wide variety of ‘em too) and at lunch I can help myself to all of the gourmet food that they sell. All for free! And all-you-can-eat!

Of course, for the first few weeks I was utterly retarded when it came to preparing veggies. EVERY SINGLE DAY I cut myself in some way (especially with the peelers. I didn’t even know you could cut yourself with a peeler!). Fortunately for my fingers (and for you guys. Last time I was on the Internet I couldn’t update my blog because my fingers were throbbing too much), after taking five days off from cooking because of a horrible cold (in 27C weather!) I’ve now gone for THREE WHOLE DAYS without cutting myself. I think I’m getting a hold of these peeler things. . .

At lunch I either read a book while I eat my incredibly healthy vegan meal (I’m currently reading Unweaving the Rainbow by Richard Dawkins) or chat with Nicole, the French owner of the restaurant, Devia (an Indian girl staying at the same hostel as me. She did an internship in France so she understands my Western insanity.), or Zeb (a Canadian/American staying at my hostel).

After lunch I work behind the till with Hema, a short little woman who’s always laughing and who find me deranged (what else is new?) and Kirupa, a musician guy who works here to make ends meet. The latter is not at all subtle (like the rest of Indian men) in that he thinks I’m attractive. He’s not the only one, of course (there are a good four other guys at work who are obvious about it) but lately he’s been crossing my already stretched comfort zone.

For example, the first day I came to work wearing a tank top he was like

“Oh my god! You’re so beautiful I’ve got to take a picture!”

And then he did. Lots of them.

For those of you who have terrible memories, I’ll remind you that I hate having my picture taken. And he just kept on taking them.

Then there was the other time that I was just standing there at the till, minding my own business, singing (because Indians never seem to mind that other people can hear you, so I don’t either. In fact, since there are so often so little people demanding sweets, I spend half of my day singing behind a sweets counter. I’ve even written some of my own little ditties, including one called From Kashmir to Auroville and the other’s called I Think I’m A Cow Aphrodisiac) and then all of a sudden there is somebody touching my hair.

I repeat: there was somebody touching my hair. Fondling you might say.

I spin around, ready to scream “Sexual predator on the loose!” and see that’s it’s Kirupa, my coworker. I swallow the rather insulting exclamation with difficulty.

“No touchy,” I say instead.

“But it’s so beautiful,” he protests, showing once again that the one English word Indian men always know is “beautiful”.

“No touchy,” I insist.

He shakes his head knowingly, then serves somebody a brownie and a chai.

. . . Gah! The men here are just so. . . and I can’t get mad at them or anything, because then I’d just have to be permanently mad at all of them. And there’s 500 000 000 of them in India. I’d just never be able to keep up.

Plus, that’s just how they treat women. They don’t mean any harm or anything. They honestly thinking they’re being gentlemanly. Damn, the cultural differences are just so big it’s just unbelievable.

I get off at 2:30 and have the rest of the day to do whatever I want. This includes reading and writing on the roof, reading and writing in my room, chatting with my dorm-mates (currently a Norwegian hippie, an American hippies, and a North Indian intern/cinephile) who I get along with really well.

I used to go to the dinners downstairs, where I’d sit on the outskirts of the conversations (I’ve discovered that I’m no good at group discussions. I’m more of a one-on-one or 4 people max sort of girl) involving people from all over the world. It is all-you-can-eat and pretty decent food. However, I just recently found out that the dinners weren’t actually free, but cost Rs 30 ($0.75) so I was all

“Hell no, I’m not paying that much for dinner! What are they serving? Caviar?!”

Which just goes to show how much I’ve acclimatized to the pricings in India. I mean, when I step back and think about it, I’m like

“I’m paying 75 cents for an all-you-can-eat buffet. Really, that’s pretty good.”

But for here that’s fairly pricey and for the quality of the food (decent, but no great) I’m not going for it.

So I’ve just started going shopping for my own food (they have an actual grocery store! None of the crazy markets that they usually have. You can actually go inside. There’s actually a till. Do you know how mind-boggling that is? Do you know how mind-boggling it is to me to realize that a grocery store is mind-boggling to me?) and cooking it.

Yesterday I made my FIRST EVER Indian meal ALL BY MYSELF. I experimented (of course) and made a sweet potato masala. I didn’t add enough spices (I was worried I’d put too much) so all it tasted like was spicy sweet potato.

But still!

I didn’t poison myself! *hugs herself proudly* *dances* *tells all her dorm-mates about her incredible feat* *dorm-mates, who consider her to be a crazy mixture of maturity (traveling alone in India at 17) and immaturity (recounting what she did that day to them like a child telling her mom what she learned at school that day) laugh and tell her that her writing goes off on far to many parentheses and tangents to be legible*

It was afterwards that I poisoned myself. On purpose.

Allow me to explain.

Coconut oil is ubiquitous in India. Not just for cooking, but for skin issues, for your hair, and everything else conceivable. So when I went to the grocery store looking for it, I expected to be able to find it in big tubs for dirt cheap.

All I could find were ridiculously priced bottles of olive and canola oil. I asked a member of the staff and she pointed to some shampoo bottles. I said “No, I want coconut oil.”

It was only when a helpful Australian guy (who, by the bye, told me that Australians like Canadian because they have a similar sense of humour. Good news for me ;P) told me that the stuff in the shampoo bottle was coconut oil, they just put it in a shampoo bottle (that’s the bottle on the right). Figures. They sell milk in square bags at room temperature, they have marijuana growing on the sidewalks, and they keep their coconut oil in shampoo bottles.

India confuses me.

Badly.

Moving on to the poisoning part, I took home two shampoo bottles worth, then started cooking. I eyed the stuff, then decided I taste some of it, because I’d never tasted coconut oil before.

Imagine a combination of smoke, nuts, and silk and you’ll have a smidgen of an idea of the euphoria that is coconut oil.

As can be imagined, I kept on taking little sips of it throughout my whole cooking process. Then more little sips while reading. Then I’d just sit there and sip away. I couldn’t drink that much at a time, because it’s oil and if you drink too much at once you feel sick.

Soon I realized that this was going to become a full-fledged addiction if I didn’t act soon. So what did I do? I swigged half the bottle.

After that I was sick for the entire night, just staring up at the ceiling and thinking: I’m dying. I’m dying. I’m dead.

Now I can’t even think of drinking it without having my stomach doing a pretzel-twist. In any case, I’m applying it to my legs and chest every morning, because apparently it’s great for your skin, and the smell is simply dee-lish.

Hmmm . . . OK, so still have SO MUCH to tell you guys, but I’ve already written SO MUCH and I still have to answer all of your guys’ emails and comments, so

Lurve y’all tons,

Bisous,

Namaste,

Lentil,

The Girl Who's Having A Blast in Paradise. And How Are You?

I'm Alive!!!!!

For those of you who didn't know that I was once again on the move (the majority) I left Kerala a little over a week ago, and arrived in Auroville around 40 hours later. Hence the title. And hence the harrowing tale that follows.

I had originally planned to go to Cochin, a big city close to my art school, and stay there for a night, then go to Chennai, stay there for a night, then go to Pondicherry, stay there for a night then go to Auroville. However, I rediscovered something vital on the trip over there:

I LOATHE Traveling.

Then what are you doing in India? you say? What are you doing spending an entire year traveling?

The answer: I'm not actually traveling most of the time. If you haven't already seen, I've actually spent the majority of my time staying still. I stayed still in Delhi, I stayed still in Kerala, and now I'm going to stay still in Auroville.

Because traveling is hell (Delhi is hell, too. There are just so many hells, it's insaner than a pretzel (and pretzels are pretty darn insane)). To illustrate, here's how my trip went:

Got off at the wrong stop right away (of course) had to walk to the right stop, then got on the train, but couldn't get to the second class carriages in time, so had to stay standing the whole time in the sleeper class while kashmiri soldiers cornered me and hit on me and mocked my "Oooooh, OK" (*grumbles*).

After two hours of this I arrived in Cochin/Ernakulam, took one sniff, nearly died, decided I didn't really like Ernakulam anyway, and hopped on the next train to Chennai.

However, since I'd booked it only an hour in advance, I had to go in the II Class.

The train ride was 12 hours long.

It was 12 hours of hell.

For one, II class is not the same as second class in Western countries. Here the classes go: First class AC, Second class AC, Third class AC, the same without AC, then Sleeper Class, then II Class. II Class is as far down as you can go. Which is OK if you're going during the day and if you're in a Ladies only compartment. It's about a twentieth of the price of First Class AC, and usually it's bearable. However, if it goes during the night and you're squished between 10 smelly, ugly men, it's a whole other story.

The seats are basically wooden benches, the men have no idea what the words "personal bubble" mean, every five minutes a man comes around yelling "Chay-uh! Chay-uh! Chay-uh!" (Chai), they don't turn the lights off the entire time and there's NO PLACE TO SLEEP!!!!

My train ride was from 5PM to 5Am.

Eventually the men pointed out that I could sleep on the luggage wrack, which I did. If you could call it sleep. It really was just a luggage wrack, so it was filled with all of these projecting metal pole things and I had to keep my ginormous luggage under my head as The Most Uncomfortable Pillow in the World. It actually bruised my spine! I can't get a look at it because I don't have a mirror, but my Korean dorm-mates in Auroville had one look at my neck, pointed, and looked at me worriedly.

And it's not over yet! After only getting 4 hours of sleep, I wake up to find a man touching me!

You know, I think that me sleeping is a dangerous thing, because when he woke me up, all I did was give him The Look (meaning the I'm Sleeping, Leave Me Alone Look) and tried to go back to sleep. It's just like when that drunk guy was peeking through my window at my art school and I just turned around and went back to sleep (don't worry, Mum. Everything was O. K. ) I think me sleeping is a dangerous thing because people can do anything to me, and I don't really get worried, because I'm so sleepy.

Well anyhoo, the worst thing that came out of that episode was that I couldn't get back to sleep and it was 3AM. I'd only gotten 4 hours of sleep, and the night before, I'd only gotten 5. And I'd walked a lot the other day (I also walked the hour-bloody-long walk from the bus station to the train station in Kottayam) so I was SO TIRED.

After those twelve hours (which were actually 14 because it's India, and everything is always late) I got off the train in Chennai, took one whiff, nearly died, saw a rat, nearly screamed, decided I really didn't like Chennai anyway, and hopped on the next bus to Pondicherry.

The bus ride was 3 hours long and all the while I had to keep my ginormous pack on my lap because there wasn't enough space for it anywhere else. My butt had shooting pains up it the entire way. That and I hadn't gone to the washroom for the past 24 hours because the pathetic excuses for public squatholes here smell like death.

I got to Pondicherry, took one sniff, decided I didn't really like it anyway, and hopped on the next bus to Auroville.

On the way there I had to stand the whole way, and there was this little girl that kept on kicking her foot between my legs and every time I kept on thinking it was somebody's hand and I was all whipping around to stop the man, but it was only a little girl and. . . god, I was so tired.

Finally I got to Auroville.

I took one whiff and. . .

Nearly died from pleasure.

It smells SOOOOOOOOOOO GOOOOOOOOOOD!!! It's like what I always imagined the Garden of Eden would have smelled like. It smells like a mixture between Gramma's during the summer, a garden of flowers, and a spice shop. Basically, heaven.

The place is more than half covered by flowering trees and bushes, and is simply fanpendous. I've already started my job at the kitchen, where they feed me really healthy lunch for free (or for my 5 hours of work, whatever) . I'm mostly in charge of making juices and salads, because I'm still pretty afraid of boiling liquids and I like to handle meat as little as possible.

I'm staying at a youth hostel where I only have to pay Rs. 80 a day ($2) and that includes free washing machines (a luxury that I never truly appreciated till now) and free breakfast and dinner. I'm in a dorm room with two Korean girls whose eyes positively fell out when I told them I was 17. Everybody here gets around by motorbike and I've been offered to rent one (free as well) and ride around. I think I'll take them up on the offer eventually, if only to try it out, but I prefer getting around by bike. Much healthier and better for the environment. Also, there's no such thing as helmets here and muzzah, for once you've had success in that I'm paranoid enough to think they're all bonkers for doing so.

I'm having the best of times here.

Remember that I expect a respectably-lengthed handwritten letter for Xmas (I'll give you my address next time)

Don't worry,

Lurve y'all bunches,

Bisous,

Namaste,

Lentil,

The Girl Who's Happy To See That The Name Lentil Is Catching On and Nobody Here Knows That It's Not My Actual Name *cackles*

Happy Belated Hallowe'en!!!!!!!

Over here Hallowe'en is considered to be a children's holiday for Americans, so when me and Rosalynn (my 23 year old, Music Major, friend from Alabama) decided to carve jack o' lanterns and hand out candy to everybody (almost all of whom are 25 and over) smiled indulgently and said,

"It's OK, because they're young and American"

To which I said through gritted teeth, "I'm Canadian"

"Same diff."

"Pshtmgr!!!!!" I war-cried (aka - spluttered) and threw my (full) Nalgene bottle with the Canadian flag on it at them. Unfortunatelyy a sentence that turned my indignation into despair was written under our noble maple leaf:

Made in USA

*cries*

Anyhoo on Hallowe'en I dressed up (as usual) as an Indian woman. I simply lurve Indian dress, because don't have the silly notion that bright and sparkly things are tacky. Thus my churidar was bright blue, purple, and gold, with sparkles, little plastic mirrors, and pinstriped clown pants, and it was all considered terribly becoming of me and tasteful.

*squees delightedly*

I lurve India!!!!

For the whole dayI bounced around handing out candy to any who saw with a jack o' lantern sticker on my cheek and a red holiday-dot thing on my forehead. I'm not sure if it was the obvious sugar-high or the sticker that got me the weirdest looks. . .

Or maybe it was trying to explain why I had gone temporarily madder that got me the weirdest (or were they frightened?) looks. Trying to explain to them that Hallowe'en is a holiday where children dress up in "scary" costumes, (ie. a princess, a peanut, etc.) and go door to door threatening pranks and vandalism if they don't get candy took me half the day. Trying to get them to understand that I wasn't crazy and would they leave me alone if I just took their silly pills took the rest of the day.

So while the Westerners watched adultishly, the Indian staff watched with utter bewilderment, and Margosha (the 18 year old from Indiana) watched with abject terror (Lentil + sharp pointy objects + matches = abject terror) me and Rosalynn whipped out our pumpkins. We had invited everyone to join in, but since nearly everyone here is over the age of 25, they believe the myth that adults are forbidden to have any silly fun unless vicariously. Thus me and Rosalynn each had a pumpkin ALL TO OURSELVES!!!!

*claps hands*

*cackles*

*grins at knife speculatively*

*Margosha backs away slowly*

Or we had a pumpkin each until Louis and Leon, the two Belgium kids of 7 and 9 who are staying here with their family, saw. They promptly rushed over and dug their hands into the (marvelously, beautifully, fanpendously gushy) guts of the pumpkins and me and Rosalynn had to surrender our goods.

Of course I was fine, letting the children have their fun. I mean I wasn't all excited about getting my hands all gucky and messy. I'm mature enough to see that they'd enjoy and appreciate it more than I could. . . *sulks*

But it actually turned out OK, because while the boys did hijack my slimy fun, they weren't allowed to play with the sharp pointy objects and matches

*eyes gleam*

*Belgium mother looks worried*

Therefore the kids drew the pumpkins and we carved them. I've never carved a jack o' lantern before (my muzzah never seemed to trust me with any knives except butter ones. . .) so I was really worried I'd mess up Leon's face. His pumpkin's face, not his actual face. But once I plunged my knife into the pumpkin's eye and felt the satisfying resistance then give of its previously smooth surface, everything clicked and I proceeded to skewer and stab peacefully.

*sighs happily/psychotically*

Afterwards I was looking forward to playing with matches but unfortunately one of the Frenchies showed up and, of course (and Ali-the-Fair you can attest to this) like nearly all Frenchies, she had a lighter handy.

*sulks again*

*lights a match anyways*

*cackles pyromaniacally*

Now, you're probably thinking to yourself "Boooooooooring. Lentil's in India, the most foreign of all foreign countries, and all she has to talk about is Hallowe'en?!? C'mon! I want to hear something weird and crazy please!"

Well never fear, for when you hold weird and crazy dear, Lentil is here!

*cackles poetically*

Unwilling to have our jack o' lanterns suffer the indignity of being thrown into the compost, we threw them at an elephant instead.

OK, so maybe we threw them to the elephant rather than at it. . . And maybe we didn't throw them, but an Indian guy did. .. But my story remains!

On November 1rst, me, Rosalynn, and Aji (a staff member of the school) walked the 100 m to the nearest elephant. He was chained to two cement bricks so that he couldn't move a single step and was forced to stand in his own filth. I had only ever seen elephants when they were being taken on their "walks" on the paddy fields, so at first I was horrified to see the elephant swaying back and forth, like a prisoner pacing in his cell, then I was enraged and wanted to free the elephant, then I realized I'd get arrested if I did, then I felt sad, because I don't feel strongly enough to really do anything about this cruelty and my usual course of action in situations like this was unavailable. I mean, I can hardly boycott elephants, can I?

*sighs*. . .

*spots gecko*

*giggles and claps happily*

Anyhoo, despite the elephant's poor treatment, we treated him to our jack o' lanterns. . . and he ate them!! He just looped 'em up with his trunk, plopped 'em in his mouth, and crunched contentedly. (Oh yeah, Rosalynn brought her camera for all of this, which is why you're getting pictures this time)

As the elephant rolled Rosalynn's jack o' lantern around with its trunk, I turned to the elephant keeper and asked him if it was true that elephants killed people. Rosalynn had told me they did, and I had said that it was probably an extremely rare occurrence and just a story to frighten stupid Western tourists. The man looked at me as if I was crazy and said,

"Of course."

Then he pointed at the elephant and said, "Two."

It took a moment for Ajit to explain that by "Two", the keeper meant the elephant had killed two people.

. . .

. . . !!!

I think I"m going to pass up the elephant-washing offer now. . .

That was not all that happened on November 1rst, however. For you see, while India may not celebrate Hallowe'en, Kerala ( a Christian state) celebrates All Saints Day.

In a most typically Indian way.

There are three things I've noticed about Indian spirituality since I arrived: they're big on temples; no religion is complete without a pilgrimage or two (I can't count how many pilgrims I've seen walk by); and they're LOUD.

The Christians of Kerala are no exception, so I was not surprised to see thousands of pilgrims walking down our street behind highly decorated cars with LOUDspeakers strapped to their roofs, blaring Indian-Christian music and heading to the nearest biggest church. What did surprise me (although I should have known better) was that they started this march + LOUD music at

3bloodyAM!!!!!

Why? Why couldn't they just start at dawn, like most Indians? Why. 3. A. M. ???!!! Why, God, why?

*sobs*

Having a brilliant time in India,
Love y'all tons and tons,
Bisous,
Namaste,

Lentil,

The Girl Who Thinks 3AM Should Be Outlawed

PS - for those of you still so naive as to attempt the hopeless task of keeping up to date on my plans, I'm going to volunteer at a restaurant in Auroville starting two weeks from now until at least Christmas.

You Know, I'd Update More Often If People Would Comment More Often. . . Aside From My Mom, That Is

Hiya! OK, so since I've been writing up emails like crazy because I've made a vow to answer everybody who emails me to encourage their good bahaviour (*winks* *nudges* *hands out pamphlets explaining the concept in point form and small words*) I haven't spent much time on this blog. This is because the only person who ever comments on them is my mom, and much as I love you, mom, it does feel rather pathetic and sad.

Thus I'm not going to put too much effort into this blog update, but rather just give you an excerpt from an email I sent to uncle Dale, because I think it sums up a lot of things you might want to know about India and also might drain some of the hot air that is making Canada's ego swell. To give you the context, uncle Dale is a really curious, inquiring-minded sort of guy and he was asking me all of these (much appreciated) questions about India, and I was answering his questions about:

a) how do they treat women here?
#2 - what do they think of the US here?
iii - what do they think of Canada here?

These are my answers:

If You Ask, I Will Answer

(excert begins here)

Anyhoo, as you already guessed, I am definitely not suntanning in a bikini. They don't have bikinis here. They rarely even have swimsuits . Women go swimming in what they're wearing. They look like drowned rats when they come out, and I can see why they don't do it that often. :S

If this doesn't already give you an idea about the inequality between the sexes I'll give you some more examples.

Inequality #1 - women usually only go to university because it's a good selling point for when they're trying to get married. I don't see why, though, because after they get married they almost inevitably stop going to work so that they can cook, clean, and have babies. You don't need a degree to do that.

Inequality #2 - when at home, women have to wait before their husband's finished before they can start eating the food they cooked. If the husband, after his long day's work at the office or whatever, wants to visit with his friends before he comes home, the wife has to wait until he returns.

Inequality #3 - When I ask men what they do in their spare time, they tell me they go out and have fun with their buddies, maybe play a game of cricket (they really love cricket) or something. When I ask a woman what she does in her spare time, they say
"'Spare time'?".
I say "You know. What do you do with your friends?".
They say "'Friends'?"
I say worriedly "You don't have any friends?"
They say, "My husband is my friend."
I splutter something about their husband having friends, and that they should be allowed to have friends too, and they laugh and bobble their head and say "You're really good at grating coconuts (which I am). You'll be a great housewife someday. (which I won't)"
I splutter, choke on my indignation about how stoic they are about their treatment, cough, demand water, and they give me "ayurvedic" water, which is basically water, pepper, and ginger, and it burns a hole through my throat and I die slowly and painfully.

As for Americans, they don't seem to much care about them really. I have to say, it's practically like India is even more wrapped up in itself than the US (or Canada for that matter). Except they do have a good reason. They do have over a billion people in their country, they're their own subcontinent, and they have enough different cultures in their country to be treated as diverse as Europe, if not more so. Canada they haven't even heard of. In fact, I remember (quite painfully) how much they don't really know anything about Canada, when, after about two weeks of being at this school, my paint teacher comes up to me and says in an excited voice,

"Hey Zeo? Is Canada where Eskimos come from?"

I think I laughed so hard some of my brain came out my nose.

I then had to try and explain that I'd never actually seen an Eskimo before, that they preferred to be called Inuits, and that I had seen Indians before. He looked at me, confused, and I said,

"Oh yeah. You're an Indian. . . er. . . I mean First Nation. . . oh yeah, you don't know politically correct English. . . er. . . you know, Indian, raindances, totem poles. . ." It took me awhile, but he eventually understood when I did my depiction of a raindance for him. Damn. . . if they didn't already think I was crazy. . .

So yeah, they don't really think much about Canada, or even know it existed. I can see why, though. I've been here for awhile, and while they're are a lot of British and French here, and a few Americans, I have yet to have even heard of another Canadian having been in the area before. I guess India's not a popular tourist destination for Canadians. . . it's too hot for us and there's not enough beaches that don't have evil parasites out to get you.

Well, I suppose I've written enough,
Hope you're having a blast in Canada,
Bisous,
Namaste,

Lentil,

The Girl Who's Randomly Taken To Referring To Herself As Lentil. She Doesn't Know Why. It Just seemed To Be The Right Thing To Do At The Time. . .

The Promised Bubbly (Aka - Happily Stupid) Entry

At my art school I live in a rainforest and it makes you know it's a rainforest. Every night (because it becomes night once the clouds roll in) at exactly 3:30 it starts thundering and lightninging, and, what do you know, raining. Everybody either proceeds to take shelter or whips out their black umbrella (they're always black. Always.)

I however, have always loved getting soaked by the rain. For some mysterious reason it makes me sing aloud (showering and biking also do this to me). It also reminds me of home, which is nice in this exotic place which I find hard to believe is on the same planet as Victoria.

So when it starts to rain, I just walk blithely back to my room, singing Disney songs and happily reinforcing the locals' notions that Westerners are insane.

And then the monsoon started.

It started pouring. It started raining not cats and dogs, but tigers and elephants. It was raining not measly buckets, but swimming pools.

I laughed and clapped my hands in delight, which earned me a befuzzled, awed, and concerned look from Nisha, my cooking teacher.

"I've always wanted to walk in a monsoon!" I explained brightly. Which was true. Ever since Meggy had told me about walking in a monsoon just for the fun of it in the Caribbean (or was it South America? Someplace tropical, anyhow) I've wanted to as well. Seemed like the sort of fun-but-in-the-end-stupid thing I usually like to do.

Nisha's eyes widened.

"No umbrella?" she said in the same worried/awed/amused, but mostly worried voice that adults seem to use on me puzzlingly often.

I waved away her proffered black (see??? Black!!!) umbrella.

"Naaaaaaaaaaaaaaw," I said as I stepped out the door. "I'll be fi-"

I never did finish that sentence because it was just then that I stepped out from under cover.

Imagine jumping into a pool with your clothes on.

Except wetter.

And except that instead of you jumping into the pool, the pool is jumping onto your head.

This is what it's like walking in alotofrain à la monsoon.

When I say I was instantly drenched, it is not hyperbole; in fact, it's kind of an understatement. My kameez (Indian women's shirt) was plastered to my tummy instantly, thus parading my bellybutton around to all those skin-starved men who never even get to see ankles. I quickly realized there might be an evolutionary advantage to having down-facing nostrils. To avoid drowning.

As I walked, the gaggle of schoolchildren waiting for their bus and all clustered under identical (black!) umbrellas, all stared at me in curiosity, confusion, and amusement, which only made me laugh all the harder.

It took me only the time it takes to sing Hakuna Matata for me to reach my rooms.

The staff, who now all know me as "Uncle Maria" (curse who ever told them that name!) all laughed when they saw me flopsh into the shelter of the foyer.

I laughed too, because I think the pounding of swimming pools on my fragile head addled it up the creek and I said,

"I. Have. Officially. Walked in a monsoon."

And I have. And it was great. And I'll probably do it again.

Love/miss y'all tons and tons,
Bisous,
Namaste,

Zio,

The Girl Who's Going To Wash An Elephant Next

Poodles and Hammocks

The art school I’m staying at is called Vijnana Kala Vedi and it’s near Thiruvananthapuram.

But I just call it “my art school”.

It was founded in the 70’s by a French woman called Louba Schiel and it caters to foreigners who want to “learn the culture” of India without actually having to meet the distinctly grubby majority of Indians. That means that, despite that it insists on the “authenticity” of its simulation of Indian life, it still gives you four meals a day, including high tea, a wat load of staff enquiring as to whether you want your room cleaned, want fresh towels, etc. , and your rooms are easily twice the size of an Indian household of seven people. And that’s not including your balcony.

Alas, the majority of Indians don’t have the luxury of experiencing this “Indian culture”, which I think is more accurately called “rich-western-tourist” culture.

Not that I’m complaining.

Far from it, actually.

In fact, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in India, it’s this: if I were a dog, I would be a poodle.

A miniature poodle to be exact.

Confused? Good. But I’m sorry to break that fragile state and make it all very clear to you.

Some of the many reasons that a poodle would be my totem animal, is that they’re hyper, energetic, rather clumsy and awkward, and they’re allegedly smart.

The main reason, however, is that they like their creature comforts..

Now, I used to think that in that aspect I wasn’t very poodly. I fancied myself a non-materialist (or, at least less materialistic than the other people I knew) and that I would one day grow up to help the helpless in countries of need and despair. That I would become a doctor in Africa, helping the sick for free and living off others’ hospitality.

Not. Gonna. Happen.

Don’t get me wrong, I feel for these people. I walk down the street and I see half of the men, stick thin with caves under their ribs and my chest hitches just a little. I see a family of seven packed into a shack smaller than my room, and I quickly look away so that I don’t cry. Then a little child walks up to me with helpless eyes and his hand going to and from his mouth, miming “Food?” and I run to my hotel, lock the door behind me and say,

“I want to go home. I want malls and libraries. I want chips and pizzas. I wan normal toilets that don’t smell and plug up if you use toilet paper. I want hobos who I can say no to because I know there is help out there for them and they’re just gonna use the money for drugs and booze. I want to be in a place where if I ask somebody “So what do you do in your spare time?”, they understand what “spare time” means.”

And I feel horribly guilty for it, for this selfish reaction to other people’s plights. But I can’t do anything for them .There’s too many of them. It would be like trying to dig out the sand from the under the water with one shovel, your back aching, your neck burning, and your throat parches, and putting it to dry on the beach behind you, only to find it being washed away by the tide.

(By the by, if you’re struggling with the metaphor, the ocean is the crushing weight of poverty, the grains of sand are people, and the edge of the ocean is the poverty line. . . OK, so it's a terrible metaphor, but you get the point.)

So, because I see the hopelessness of the situation and I’m aching all over, I’m going back to my hammock, swinging in the shade of the palm trees and I’m going to pull out a paperback novel, enjoy myself, and occasionally glance over at the few people struggling with the sand and admire them for their tenacity and idealism. I may even call out a few words of encouragement, and, once I’ve finished smarting and am starting to feel a little restless, go out and join them again for an hour or two.

But only for an hour or two.

Because it’s scorching out there, and the dead fish smell, and the novelty of it all is quickly overwhelmed by sore muscles and burnt skin.

And can any of you really blame me for it? Because aren’t we all just sitting in our hammocks, shouting out words of encouragement to those scarce few, battling the vast ocean with a shovel?

. . .

. . .

. . .

Whoa. That was far too deep for a blog. . . Anyhoo, the gist of the story is:

I still want to become a doctor, but only because it’s challenging for my mind, I can go anywhere in the world with it, I like the respect that comes with the title, it’s a romantic job in my eyes, and it pays well, so I won’t ever have to see poverty and dirt again if I don’t want to. Every five years or so I might (might) go with Medicins Sans Frontieres somewhere for half a year or something, but I’m not gonna live in a poor country. I need my creature comforts and that’s that.

Miss y’all tons and tons,

But miss malls and bookstores more,

Zee-O,

The Girl Who Pines After a Good Wasteful Feast of Consumerism

PS – I swear I’ll make the next blog a little less angsty and a lot more bubbly. ;)