Just Do It!

I hope Nike doesn't send their legal minions to sue me for using their motto, but it has become a personal motivation for me to initiate my daily workouts. Something that I read in an issue of the Parade magazine long ago also helps make me roll out of bed in the morning to go for a run no matter how much I don't want to at the time. It was an interview with an elderly but super fit lady whom Parade asked about her fitness routine. The line in the interview that stuck with me was so simple: "There's no excuse to be lazy." Every time the morning light blares in through my window and I just want to pull my covers over my face and hibernate like a comatose bear, that little line nags at my mind incessantly until I finally get up and hesitantly don my running clothes.

One thing I fail to understand is how my mind can never seem to wrap its head around the fact that post-workout, I feel amazing in every way. You'd think that the sheer amount of endorphin highs I have experienced at the end of workouts would train my mind to realize that, although it's tough to get going, the end result is extremely worth it. That's where the Nike motto comes in: when my mind protests incessantly to a run like a child throwing a tantrum and saying over and over "no, I don't wanna!" I tell my whiny inner-child to "just do it." Wow, that definitely sounded like I have multiple personality disorder...

Such inspiring words...

Challenging myself to run 30 days in a row has motivated me an unbelievable amount. I mean, if I don't complete the challenge, the only person I will have to report to is myself, and that wouldn't be nearly as humiliating as admitting it to a friend who imposed a similar challenge. Yet though it is self-imposed, it is working like a charm. If under any other circumstance I happened to wake up and notice the extreme gusts that seem like they could easily lift me up and fling me across the street, I would have thought "hell no am I going out in that" and plopped back in bed. Yet, today, despite the wind gusts of death, I knew how disappointed I would be in me if I didn't go out for a bit anyways. Yes, it sucked. Am I happy I forced myself to do it? Absolutely.

So here we are, about 10 days into a running streak and 20 days in a row of working out. Let's see how long I can keep it up!

I wish I looked this awesome during my runs...

A bit more accurate...

Akshardham

Okay, the story chronicling my visit to the most georgeous temple of my life somehow managed to earn a mistakenly-long stay on the back burner to the point it almost fell through the cracks entirely. Normally I try not to backtrack so far in my blog world, but such an indescribable experience, which I am, ironically, about to attempt to describe.

The fact that Akshardham temple was built only 13 years ago made me a bit unsure if it was worth a visit, as it did not lay beneath the shroud of history that surrounds other sites. However, just one Google image search accompanied with constant insistence from other volunteers that we "MUST go there" convinced my group and I to make an afternoon trip. I am so glad we did.

It was a bit pathetic how horribly upset we all were that cameras and phones were banned on the temple grounds. Of course, as we are young people in a technology-addicted generation, the thought of a few hours without our devices horrified us, so we decided to sneak two phones in. One friend took my phone and tried to hide it in his large pockets, and my other friend stuck her phone down her bra. How intense of a pat down could it possibly be? Pretty intense, as it turns out- I felt rather violated but at least at security checks in India they let women receive their pat downs behind a curtain. The lady not only squeezed both boobs but also firmly cupped my butt. When I told this to the girl behind me, the one who stuck her phone in her bra, she immediately turned around and made the long trek to the parking lot to leave it in our cab driver's car to avoid its confiscation.

Here's a little side note- the cab drivers who take people to Akshardam always wait for their passengers while they visit the temple and then take them home. Most people don't realize until arrival that any electronics are not allowed inside, meaning they leave their precious belongings in the cab. How easy would it be for those cab drivers to hustle their passengers?? They could easily screw them over by driving away with all of their expensive, electronic belongings and make a year's worth of money by selling them on the black market. I am truly amazed that has not happened yet.

No photo can capture the beauty of this place

So after my two friends returned their phones to the cab, we were permitted entry. There was a description right as you pass through the gates with information on what there is to do and see on the temple grounds. The sign indicated that there was a boat ride, which made me giddy like a kid at Disneyland for the first time. It was a bit of a let down, however; a more boring version of the Small World ride but, thankfully, without the obnoxious song that sears itself permanently into your mind. A more appropriate name for the boat ride would be the "Boastful Boat Ride" as there were entire stretches of "land" that the boat passed by (think of the Pirates of the Caribbean ride, for visualization's sake) where the narrator would inform us how the Indian people discovered gravity LONG before Newton, they were making airplanes thousands of years ago, had advanced medicine and surgeries prior to anyone else, and knew the world was round right from the start of their civilization. The list of their extensive bragging during the boat ride goes on and on; those alone were enough to irritate me and likely all other foreign visitors to the temple. The narrator could have saved a lot of time by just saying Indians and their ancestors are better and smarter than everyone else.

In addition to the boat ride, there was a somewhat creepy animatronic exhibit portraying scenes from the life of Lord Swaminarayan, the central figure in a modern branch of Hinduism called Swaminarayan Hinduism. For the sake of not having to type that horribly long name over and over, I will just call him "the Swami." So before we entered the first room telling about his life, we were told to be seated for a short presentation. Basically, the recorded dialogue explained how long it took to make the temple and how many people worked on it. Then it asked us a philosophical question that it clearly did not actually want an answer to since it gave us zero response time. The question was, "how many craftsmen does it take to create a life?" and the answer that came seconds later was "just one. You craft your own life." So, I guess the big takeaway there is that our lives are what we make them.

The exhibit involved moving from room to room throughout a building to learn of the life of the Swami. Each room was filled with the kind of creepy, far-too-realistic animatronics which I could easily imagine killing me in my sleep. Their movements were way too authentic with blinking and head nodding and some even stood up and sat down. That's the stuff of horror movies right there. Okay, quick summary of his life (look him up if you want more detail). The Swami was born in 1781 and died in 1830. He first proved his powers when he saw fishermen with dead fish in their nets. He brought the fish back to life and demanded that the fishermen never harm another living creature. When he was fairly young he ran away to study yoga, mastered it, settled down in some village, and gained a bunch of followers with whom he did philanthropic deeds the rest of his life.

At least we have proof that we were there... 

I don't care that Akshardham is not old- actually, it is certainly a modern marvel. It was built by about 10,000 architects and artists in five years and I don't even want to know how much it cost. The architecture is easily some of the most beautiful my eyes have beheld- detailed animals adorning every wall, golden statues inside the main temple (which also smells a bit like feet, since you have to remove your shoes prior to entry), paintings of the Swami... everything was immaculate. Of course, as I mentioned early, none of us had our cameras which truly pained us the whole time. Every single time we turned our heads we saw another beautiful, photo-worthy image. There was one area where they took a picture of you in front of the temple, but that just wasn't quite the same.

When we returned to the cab, the driver was still there along with our valuables. What a relief!

Inside the temple

Bubbles

Some of the things that kids find entertaining truly astonish me. When the three-year-old girl went mental at the suggestion that we bring bubbles to the park, I admit I found it a bit of a head-scratcher. What is so exciting about soapy orbs floating along the air unless they contain Glinda the Good Witch from The Wizard of Oz? However, the bubble-blowing session that lasted easily an hour ended up not only provoking giggle fit upon giggle fit from the little girl, but I actually found myself entertained as well. The simplicity with which children find amusement and happiness is such an enviable trait. I wish I could be a carefree little kid chasing bubbles barefoot in the grass trying to pop them.

She also insisted on sharing "facts" about bubbles with me. For example, according to her, a group of bubbles can either be referred to as a "crop of bubbles" or a "flutter of bubbles." So, every time bubble after bubble streamed from my bubble wand, she would jump up and down and squeal shouting "a flutter! A flutter!" Fine, I admit, it was quite precious. Maybe in depth bubble studies are in her future.

Then of course came the most comical moment of the bubble-blowing at the park. After I had pretty much mastered my bubble-blowing skills, the little girl turns to me and said "you know, you're really good at blowing." Wow. Even if I were a professional porn star I would have been offended by that comment. Then, of course, all of the teasing and innuendos cascaded forth from the mouth of the other babysitter at the park who fell into a crippling fit of laughter after the little girl's remark. For instance, "yeah Marisa, your mouth must get tired from all that blowing," or "try blowing a bit more gentle." Blah blah, we are all so mature.

Burpees

Whoever invented the burpee is evil, and whoever decided to incorporate them into a yoga class is more evil still. If you don't know what a burpee is, I am truly happy for you. You should never give them a fleeting thought except while reading this blog. Just for the sake of understanding this blog, I will explain: a burpee is a horrid exercise move involving squatting down, kicking back into a high plank, kicking forward between your hands, jumping up off of the ground, and then doing it over and over again until your heart is pounding and you hate your drill sergeant of a fitness instructor. Every time a yoga instructor makes us practitioners do burpees in "yoga with weights" class, I vow never to return to their class. Well, I certainly won't return to yesterday's class after not only doing burpees and around 60 pushups (yes, I did the vast majority on my knees), but doing a slightly altered version of a burpee called a "man-maker" (how sexist... just kidding- this move would have made a man out of Mulan after doing just one and eliminated the best song in the movie). Actually, the man-maker was slightly worse. Please see the video below. (I find it ironic that every image of "man-makers" on Google images was of a woman- the videos featured men, however...)

In what universe is this fun?

I bet if I took that class even once a week I would be ripped to the point people would label me a steroid abuser. I'm not sure I want to be that ripped, especially if it means doing the kind of exercises that make me extremely thrilled not to be in a branch of the military. I am ready to go make and send thousands of care packages for everyone who is, just to thank them for all the burpees they must have done during boot camp, and probably still do as part of their daily fitness routines. During this self-imposed 30-day-in-a-row workout challenge which I am about 16 days into, I am going to stick to what I know and love. Hot yoga balanced with running so I can get ready for me 10k. Burpees, I simply don't need or want you in my life. Sorry. 

Yoga Discrepancies

All the instructors worldwide of every type of yoga need to have a conference to get on the same page and save us poor practitioners from endless hassle. I began my yoga journey as a Bikram yoga addict thinking there was no better yoga workout on the face of the earth. The instructors gave me personal adjustments for a year to the point I felt I had mastered some of the postures. Then, when I realized how expensive Bikram memberships are, a fact I had not realized as I was working at a studio thus receiving free classes, I switched over to doing hot yoga, which is essentially the same thing without paying Bikram to use his name. Also, the classes are generally 15 to 30 minutes shorter which is nice considering the 1 hour 30-minute length of Bikram sessions.

So, here I was, thinking I had mastered the stance-distance of my triangle pose, only to be told by some pretentious, self-righteous hot yoga instructor that my legs were too close together in "extended side-angle." First of all, can we all agree that the postures that are the EXACT same should at least have the exact same name? Confused is not the best mind state in yoga, and telling me to do "extended side-angle" when I have had the posture name of "triangle" ingrained into my mind puts me in exactly that state. So Bikram's "triangle" is also known as "hot-style triangle" which is also known as "extended side-angle" which is also known as "trikonasana." "Dancer's pose" is also known as "standing bow-pulling pose" or just "standing bow." "Fixed firm pose" is also known as "supta virasana" which is also known as "reclining hero pose" and a slight variation of the pose is "sleeping diamond." That is just a few of the many examples. I want to meet the person/people in charge of creating all of these confusing names and slug them in the face.

This posture and the one below have the same name. WHY??

I just want all yoga instructors to sit at the world's largest conference table and decide once and for all the proper placement of one's hands on their feet during camel pose, or, ustrasana. For the entire time during which I had practiced yoga up until taking a course in India, I was told to bend back and grab a hold of my heels with my hands. The instructor in India thought this was absurd and told me to lie my palms flat on my feet. Now I am just confused. I don't know who to believe anymore! I guess it makes sense how all of this craziness came about- yoga postures have been taught and retaught so many times that it has become like a big game of telephone. Still, it drives me nuts!

The flat-hand method

The heel-grab method

An Afternoon in Japan

I will no longer blame any acquired food poisoning on my Delhi fast food outing, but rather on the mystery sushi I just shoveled down here in Japan. I figured hey, when is the next time I will be in Japan and able to sample their famous sushi? Since I cannot give a definite answer to that question, I decided to seize the opportunity. I wanted to go with the salmon roll after perusing the menu, since it seemed like one of the safer choices, but they were out of that one so I selected the "mix roll," which is probably the least safe option. i could not tell if the main component of the roll was tofu, a block of artificially colored cheese, or some sort of fish I could not identify. The other three parts making up the mixture in the middle looked like cucumber, caramelized onion (but potentially another sort of mystery fish), and either legitimate or imitation crab. Heck, for all I know I could have just downed some sort of endangered bottom-feeder. I hope not, because I don't need or want PETA hassling me. 

I did not think you could fall in love with a country just based on its toilets. Boy, was I wrong. Just one time plopping my bare bum onto those luxurious, heated seats with a built in bidet, deodorizer, flushing music made me never want to use another toilet again. It was especially fantastic after experiencing toilets in India, where I was thrilled if it wasn't a squatter.

Also, the Japanese airport has Hello Kitty planes and an oragami museum. Need I say more to intrigue my readers? I mean, the Hello Kitty plane alone is enough to demonstrate the magic of Japan. I guess I didn't expect any less from the land that created the Zelda video games and the Miyazaki films.

English Variations

Spending a good chunk of time with Australians, an Irishman, a Scotsman, two New Zealanders, a Canadian and two British girls certainly had an impact on my vocabulary. It amazes me how many different terms make their way into variations of English around the world. Here is a sample of how my dialogue has changed after my time with volunteers from other English-speaking countries:

Around half three this arvo, I awoke from a wee nap to discover it was chilly out. I wanted to go for a walk so I threw on a jumper, my gumboots and a tuk. I did not realize there were heaps of bugs outside until I found mossy bites all over my hands and feet. The sun came out the next day so I had to buy some new sunnies. After shopping, I walked about 5 kilometers to the school to teach maths and English. The kids are good at writing, but they have trouble remembering to put full stops at the ends of their sentences. Some proper notebooks and supplies would be helpful, too. Since the kids have been behaving well for over a fortnight consistently, I asked if they would be keen to have me bring in biscuits or sweets tomorrow. They went mental! I reckon it is a good idea to reward them.

Ok, my American readers are probably a bit confused by those, so here is a little American English to Other Types of English Dictionary:

Half three: three thirty (Irish, Scottish, British)
Arvo: afternoon (Australians and New Zealanders)
Wee: little (mainly heard it from the New Zealanders)
Jumper: sweater (basically every English-speaking country aside from the US)
Gumboots: rain boots or Wellies (Australians and New Zealanders)
Tuk: beanie (Canadians)
Heaps: lots of, used commonly by Australians
Mossy bites: mosquito bites (Australians)
Sunnies: sun glasses (Australians and New Zealanders)
Kilometer: a measure of distance used by everyone but the USA
Maths: math, every other English-speaking country likes to add the S on the end
Full stops: periods (every other English-speaking country) As Maree from New Zealand pointed out, a period is a menstrual cycle. Lovely.
Proper: legit
Fortnight: two weeks
Keen: interested
Biscuits: cookies
Sweets: candy
Mental: crazy
Reckon: suppose

Okay, now we can translate my narration back to American English as I would have before adapting to my surroundings and picking up the various terms:

Around 3:30 this afternoon, I awoke from a little nap to discover it was chilly out. I wanted to go for a walk so I threw on a sweater, rain boots and a beanie. I did not realize there were lots of bugs outside until I found mosquito bites all over my hands and feet. The sun came out the next day so I had to buy some new sunglasses. After shopping, I walked about 3 miles to the school to teach math and English. The kids are good at writing, but they have trouble remembering to put periods at the ends of their sentences. Some legitimate notebooks and supplies would be helpful, too. Since the kids have been behaving for two weeks consistently, I asked if they would be interested in me bringing in cookies and candy tomorrow. They went crazy! I suppose it is a good idea to reward them.

How I Love Airports

I am currently in the middle of eating my feelings in the form of a delicious veg curry from an airport restaurant. I am shoveling down this food alone under artificial blue lighting in a desperate attempt to bury my anger that sprouted from such an awful airport experience. To all of my readers who will be entering the Delhi airport in the near future, please do everything in your power to check in prior to your arrival so you have a boarding pass. If you don't because your airline specifically noted that you needed to be at the airport to do so (like mine did) they will not let you through the doors. Basically, make sure you have a print out of some sort of proof that you have a flight with your name matching my passport. I had my itinerary but it did not have my name on it, so I was out of luck.

Thank the Lord that Chris was with me- if he hadnt been there to talk to someone inside the airport about getting me a boarding pass, I would most likely still be sitting out there, glaring angrily at the guard intent on keeping me out. Finally, after poor Chris got me a pass, I was allowed inside by the evil man. If I had seen the machine  gun at his side from the get-go, I may not have been so mean to him.

I seriously felt like I was dealing with the doorman at Oz. I guess my boarding pass was the horse of a different color. So I finally stepped through the doors to part two of my horrendous airport experience. At the check-in counter, the woman assisting me told me it was fine to bring my carry-on bag onto the plane since it was not overweight. However, almost immediately after saying so, she informed me that my bag was too long to fit in the overhead compartment. I threw a fit that would rival a three year old's, rooting myself to the spot and refusing to backdown. Eventually, despite my bellowing in an inappropriately loud voice my concerns about the airline losing my precious luggage, I conceded with the white flag of surrender held high. I got down on my hands and knees and dug out the items I could simply not bear to part with. This included, of course, my saree, gifts for friends and family, and my plane reading material. The little airline witch then informed me that I could go buy a handcrafted Indian bag to put my things in. In an act of defiance, I rejected this suggestion and, looking ridiculous, tried to juggle all of my items in my arms as I waddled over to the passport check and security. 

I quickly pegged the surly customs agent hell-bent on making things difficult for anyone who dare hand over his or her passport. Thankfully, my airport nightmare began to improve when I got to the somewhat attractive customs agent who flashed me a suggestive grin which I was all too eager to return if it meant quick passage to security. I have seen airports worldwide with over-the-top security measures but this one in India takes the cake. So, at your check-in gate, the agent assisting you was supposed to provide you with a tag for all of your carry on luggage. Many of them neglected to do so, making the security agents very surly and getting angry at the tagless passengers who had no idea what was going on. My bags somehow do not incur their wrath despite their lack of tags, but when I got to the gate to board the plane, the tag issue reared its ugly head again and the agent almost didn't let me on the plane. Man, some mysterious force truly wanted to keep me in India. I wish it had succeeded.

Final Moments in Bir

Every second I spend in India, my love for the country grows. I continuously think there is no way my love can augment any further, and then I realize just how erroneous a thought that is. The culture is richer than a three-layer red velvet cake with thick, cream cheese frosting. Kindness and genuine warmth radiate from the people here making it impossible to feel even a twinge of sadness or loneliness. The music and sounds drift along the air and entangle you in a warm embrace of sensory stimulation. India cast out its shiny bait and like a naive little fish, I eagerly gobbled it up. Now I am trapped in India's trance, enveloped in an inextinguishable love for this magical place. Anyone who never steps foot in this country will never realize what the are missing

When I left Bir, I cried more than I did at the end of The Notebook and the beginning of Up combined. J.R.R. Tolkein once said that friends are the family you choose for youself. This was certainly the case with my family of friends in Bir. I came to love everyone I lived with during my home stay here. I thought it was going to take a crowbar to pry me away from them. After some of the toughest goodbyes of my life, I stepped into the cab and headed off on the beginning of my journey home.

After the bus trip from Hell that got me to Dharamsala, I completely swore it off as a way to return to Delhi. However, my fear of my flight becoming one of the many that are cancelled out of the Dharamsala airport trumped my dread of a long bus trip down windy, pothole-ridden roads. The bus ride started off on the wrong foot (or wrong wheel? Since it is a vehicle?) when we were picked up late and dropped off at some sketchy, middle of nowhere makeshift bus stop. We were given barf bags at the start of the trip which I initially found comical but quickly realized I may actually need. The big, clunky bus puttered up and down the mountain, weaving precariously and far too fast around tight narrow curves. My stomach instantly felt as though it had jolted up into my throat. All I could do was put on headphones, close my eyes, and try to ignore the wave of nausea washing over me.

Thankfully, it was not long before we made our first pit stop. From the experience on my previous bus trip, I assumed we would be stopping for food and bladder relief at a dodgy truck stop where you would expect to be chainsaw-murdered by a psychopath or at least expect to pick up some rare STD from the toilet seat. Not the case for this stop, the Sidhartha resort in a little wooded area on the side of the highway. It had the cleanest bathroom I have seen in India hands down. Actually, to put it in better perspective, it was cleaner than a good deal of restrooms in the US. Though I was not particularly hungry, once my nose detects even the slightest hint of the aroma of curry, I am unable to pass it up. It is my own personal kryptonite, for any of my would-be arch-nemeses if I ever become a superhero- now you can easily defeat me limiting the comic books released to one or two. Anyways, Chris and I payed the "whopping" 150 rupees for the buffet (about 3 USD, whereas in the states something like that would be about 10 USD) and chowed down on vegetable manchurian, raita, daal, naan, mutter paneer and salad.

After we were refreshed from our wee rest, we reluctantly returned to our seats for the remainder of the trip. There was a delay for literally no reason and we ended up staying at the rest stop about an hour and a half in total. Thankfully, the remainder of the journey was uneventful and comprised of my unsuccessful attempts at uninterrupted sleep as the driver constantly blared the bus horn, which sounded like something you would hear at the carnival, at other vehicles. We would have had no idea we had arrived in Delhi if one of the other passengers hadn't told us to get off, especially considering the entire journey took only about 10 hours and it should have been around 12 or 13. The final stop was alongside a sketchy road in, once again, the middle of nowhere. We probably got majorly ripped off by the cab driver who took us to the hotel where we are staying until our departing flights, but thankfully everything is so cheap here that even when we are hustled in the worst way it seems dirt cheap comparatively. The cab was a mass breeding ground for mosquitoes- I felt a tickle on my hand and went to brush it away but smashed the most blood-bloated mosquito I have ever seen. I wanted to ask the driver if he offered a Malaria or Dengue discount. Or, maybe a free ride altogether if you contract both.

Anyways, after a long ride where it felt like a 50/50 chance we were being taken into a dark alley to be mugged and killed (I was so glad Chris, another volunteer was with me) we arrived at the hotel at the ass crack of dawn- around 5:30 AM. We were told our room will be ready at 7:30, so now we play the waiting game...

Saving the World, One Fungal Infection at a Time

Since we arrived over a week ago, the younger boys at the different monasteries have all had strange, white, powdery-looking spots with no hair on their scalps. Maree, the wife in the New Zealand couple, and I had piqued curiosities which, of course, led us right to Google to see if it was some sort of infectious, contagious disease. Maree guessed from the start that it was ringworm, but I felt unsure about this diagnosis as I thought ringworm appeared as raised, red, bullseye-like marks on the arm.

"White spots on scalp" yielded photos closely resembling the heads of the mini monks, and the descriptions generally referred to the ailment as "scalp psoriasis." Maree and I were satisfied with this diagnosis for a few days, but the fact that there was no improvement in their condition along with the fact that psoriasis is not contagious and all the little boys had it led me to question our conclusion. After I searched "ringworm of the scalp," I knew that Maree's gut sense was correct. According to the website, scalp ringworm is common among children in unclean conditions (I would not be surprised if the kids shower once a month maximum, and wear the same clothes daily) and closely resembles psoriasis. Ding ding, we have a winner!

Of course, the fact that our students have ringworm coupled with the information that another class of kids has scabies did not bode well for a someone like me who is overly paranoid about contracting a crazy illness. Thankfully, it turns out that scalp ringworm can only be contracted by children whose immune systems have not developed enough to fight off the fungus. Specifically, according to patient.co.uk, "scalp ringworm mainly affects young children. It is uncommon in adults. This is thought to be because the normal skin oil (sebum) that increases on the scalp after puberty (in the teenage years) has properties that make it resistant to fungi." Yay for puberty!

Had Maree and I not pointed out to one of the school administrators that the young boys' heads were covered in chalky-looking spots, they may never have noticed. After we told him, he immediately arranged for them to go to the doctor to obtain the necessary medication. The chances of seven boys under age 12 remembering to take anti-fungal meds? Considering they never bathe, I'd say not good. At least, thanks to our persuasiveness, they have the cure in their possession and hopefully someone harasses them to take it.

Music Tastes of Monks

During conversation class, we pair up one volunteer to one monk and practice English for an hour in the evening. On my first day, a little monk around age 10 named Sonam scampered over and plopped beside me. I had no idea what I was in for. He looked cute at first glance, but quickly revealed his inner Don Juan. He is a smooth talker always trying to get a little action. I would not be surprised if he does not last too long in the monastery. I'm not even sure if he is aware that being a monk means he can't ever be with a lady. Apparently, the only unforgivable sin in Buddhism is a monk having sex.

Anyway, the first day I played along and told him I would marry him and be is girlfriend. Then, he started to get really cheeky the next session. His behavior during the second session scared me off from conversation for awhile. Right from the get go, he started going on and on about how he wanted to kiss me and how much he loves me. No matter how desperately I attempted to change the subject, he would not quit. The last straw was when he got fresh and tricked me to plant a kiss right on my lips! He pointed to the corner of the room and said "what's that?" Not realizing I was being fooled, I looked where he pointed and the minute I turned back around there were was his face waiting to plant a smack on my lips. That cheeky little rat!

My absence from the next session seemed to have scared him into submission, at least to a certain extent. The other volunteers informed me that he went on incessantly about how much he missed me and loved me and said that they told him I was not feeling well. The next time I attended conversation, I hoped to be paired with someone else, which I initially was. However, the moment little Sonam spotted me he rushed to my side like a puppy with a bad case of separation anxiety. I decided not to play along with his little love game anymore, and he spent the whole time making me fancy origami animals. He does have some redeeming qualities- he has presented me with a hand-made gift almost every session for the past few days. Two times he arrived bearing origami, one day a beautiful bracelet, and one day a white shawl for good luck. He has not tried anymore kisses, thankfully; the last day he simply asked me on a date which I adamantly refused. Where does this kid learn this stuff? Probably from all of the Justin Bieber he listens to.

On that note, I am baffled by the pop music that is popular here in India. It seems like every restaurant, public place or taxi we enter has Avril Lavigne, Enrique Iglesias, or Michael Jackson blaring through the speakers. All of the young monks seem to idolize Justin Bieber (probably not the best role model), Bruno Mars, Taylor Swift and One Direction. Seriously? I mean, I don't have anything against Taylor, and One Direction is okay, but I feel obligated to introduce them to some quality classic rock like The Beatles. Or, if they are going to go the boy band route they could at least go with a quality one like The Backstreet Boys. I just can't comprehend how, out of all the pop music out there, Avril Lavigne made it big here. How did that happen? Did she go on a tour of India at some point? It just seems very random.

Apparently, they also love John Denver. While Jim, my temporary New Zealand dad, was teaching his students, he offered them a selection of three songs of which they could choose one to learn: Welcome to My Wold by Jim Reeves, Top of The World by The Carpenters and Take Me Home, Country Roads by John Denver. They eagerly opted to learn the John Denver tune. Now that demonstrates good taste!

New Student

Yesterday while teaching our afternoon class we had a visitor. Generally, the English lesson begins outside, weather permitting, where the boys read quietly from books about animals donated by my Australian friend Fiona. Just a quick side note before I relieve you from the accumulated suspense regarding the identity of our visitor- Australian books are about animals I have never heard of in my entire life. It seems odd teaching kids about creatures whose names I cannot even pronounce. Echidna? Sugar Glider? Kookaburra? Bowerbird? Seriously? I think the author was making those up. Well, at least the kids will be well-versed in zoological terms from Down Under.

Anyhow, we were reading about the Sugar Glider's latest shenanigans and noticed a shy girl standing beside a tree at a distance eagerly listening to the story. We invited her to come join the class, and the look of pure joy that washed over her young face made me feel warm and gooey inside, like the center of a jalapeño popper fresh out of the oven. Okay, not the best imagery there, but you get the point. This Indian girl, Sunita, quickly became the most eager of the students. She loves learning and soaks information up like an overly-absorbent sponge. Not one of those pathetic little kitchen sponges, but one of those gigantic ones you use to wash your car (for those of you who still do so yourselves). Her enthusiasm for seemingly mundane English exercises is refreshing, and the fact that she is so happy to listen and take in everything I say makes me feel like I am actually making an impact.

We found out that she has already taken a decent amount of classes and that she should move up to a higher level, but she seemed hesitant as she truly enjoys spending time with us. Every time I smile at her or call her name she sits there and beams; it is truly rewarding. Her positive behavior almost makes up for the atrocious behavior of the little boys. The bribe technique seems to be losing its novelty and they are back to their obnoxious selves. The Monster's Inc. stickers don't motivate them like they once did, so perhaps the new reward should be candy or some other sugary treat. I'm not sure I want to see them on a sugar high, however; they bounce off the walls without fructose flowing through their energetic bodies.