A lovely cafe is allowing me to put up some photography for sale. Whoo! I’d love your input on which photos to display. Please choose your top 10 photographs that you would actually buy (or, if you are broke, the ones you think will sell the best) and I will put them up. Comments, critiques and all that jazz are welcome.

 

Edit: Hello again everyone!

The website that I directed you to earlier has been giving me issues (not actually allowing me to see how many likes each photo has…gah! How frustrating). So I have no idea which photos are actually any good!

I apologize for making you do this again, but if you can…please just put the number in the comments. (Ex: 2, 15, 36, etc) You do not need to sign up for a blog account, you can do it as “guest” – I will keep the comments private, so don’t worry about anyone else seeing them.

Again, thank you so much!

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

11.

12.

13.

14.

15.

16.

17.

18.

19.

20.

21.

22.

23.

24.

25.

26.

27.

28.

29.

30.

31.

32.

33.

34.

35.

36.

37.

I prefer to travel slowly, live with locals, and see few places but in greater detail. It’s only after time that the madness of any new location turns into a method. Turns into a lifestyle. Turns into individual cities and people. It’s not enough to say I’ve traveled to India, but what city? Countries lose their generalization and gain character and detail. As do people.

This is my response to an article about coming down from 12-months of travel. It resonated with me because this is what I’m going through as well. Although unlike him, I don’t have a nice job yet.

I’ve spent a month in similar moping. I was eating fiendishly. I refused to leave the house. I kept trying to pay with Thai baht in stores. It took me a month to stop converting from Rupees, and just understand dollars, although I still cringe and think about what and how much I could have bought in India for that $5. Plenty, is the answer that comes back.
A month ago I returned from about 10 months of travel. 5 in the states, and then 5 in Asia.
It’s been a month and I still haven’t unpacked. I became comfortable living out of a suitcase. Closets unnerved me.

After a conversation with a friend which wasn’t as succinct as yours (although another friend did say something similar) I realized that I was bored in America. Even NYC.

I missed being abroad, and I missed who I was abroad.

I replied to this article that discussed Americans pretending to be Canadian during their travels.

Here was my comment:

I have never lied about being American during all my travels. Even though I majored in Politics in college, I still avoid some discussions. I usually can tell when the conversations will not be productive. When people just want to fight.
When I’ll be sitting at a bar with friends and a guy will tap me on the shoulder and without so much as a “hello” launch into a tirade of why America is like Hitler… Of course, the entire bar sort of stopped to listen. I told him politely that I didn’t want to engage in his talk, turned around, and went back to my friends. I didn’t need to fight, or get upset.
In a lot of ways, I enjoy beating the stereotypes that people have of Americans. That we are not all loud or uninformed.
Actually one man I met vehemently denied that I was American. I looked at him oddly and asked if he wanted to see my passport? He was adamant about the belief that since I am thin, that I cannot be American. He has never been to America. He’s met only a few, if that Americans. Yet he so firmly believed that we are all obese. (Also he asked me about my gun since I come from Brooklyn, NY, and I had to explain that I have never owned one).
I was taking a certification course to become an English teacher in Thailand, and in one of my classes I befriended some religious women from Iran and Sudan. They were happy that I knew some words, greetings, and that I brought candy for Eid. The women were pleased that not all Americans hate Muslims, but some Thai students who watched this friendship later on admitted to me that they didn’t think Americans were like that.
Sure, some folks have rudely turned away or insulted me upon hearing where I’m from (despite having already been in a conversation with me). That’s fine. That is their business. I have never felt in danger though. Most people dislike the American government and their policies (that’s fine, many Americans do as well)…but as for Americans, we’re okay.
Little changes matter. Even one mind, matters.

I don’t think I ever explained how my laptop was stolen. It was stupid and totally ridiculous. I finally wrote it down (as an email to the insurance company) so here it is! This even happened around Nov, 9, 2009.

The Full Story:

I was flying from NYC-Bangkok on China Airlines. I had a layover in Alaska, and then one more in Taiwan Airport (where the theft occurred). It was a short layover, that included going through more security checks. Although I bought a laptop bookbag that was especially designed to open up flat, thus eliminating the need to remove the laptop, security gave me a series of gestures requiring me to take out the laptop and put it into a plastic tub. Having done this at two other airports on this trip, I thought nothing of it.

So I’m back in NYC now.

I guess I’m not traveling.

Although I’m trying to do everything I can to turn this into an adventure.

I landed in Bangkok today. It sort of felt like coming back home. I was surprised at how much Thai I was able to recall.

I’m crashing at a friend’s place today. Tomorrow, or the day after I am setting out to go up North.

I want to see Chiang Mai, but I don’t really want to go alone. I’m hoping I can convince some fun CSer to come travel with me. I’d like a partner in crime.

Most of me just wants to go back to the States and start on the multiple projects that I have going on and on in my head. I am super excited for them and I have a lovely website design idea in my brain.

The other small parts war with each other. One wants to travel. The other just wants to lounge around in Bangkok, read and eat.

For some reason my post on buying my Diva Cup has always had a lot of views. I don’t know why.

I also know that I haven’t written about it yet.

It pretty much rocks my socks off!

Seriously.

It’s the best travel companion ever. I only need this tiny baggy and it’s great. I don’t have to “run out of supplies” or have to ask at awkward kiosks, or anything! Plus my body loves me better when I’m using it. I also save craploads of money. I guess my vagina is also being environmentally-friendly. My vagina is typically friendly to all except cold environments.

Anyway, I think it’s totally handy-dandy when it comes to travel. Thailand and India often don’t have a lot of rubbish bins. If any at all. So disposal of bloody tampons and pads (yeah I said bloody, I could have said “used feminine products” but I hate annoying euphemisms. Yes, it’s blood, get over it) can be very very difficult. Also, if you are a tampon user (like I was) good luck. A lot of countries do not have them. They also do not have pads and tampons in the variety that we do back at home. Wings, frills, parking lights (whatever the hell they have on these things nowadays) may not be available. So I have no idea how comfortable the pads are, but when my friend bought some they looked as if she was going to shove a hulking wad of poorly-sticking-to-your-underwear cotton down her pants.

I can dispose of the blood way easier, just take out the cup and spill the blood down the drain. Tah dah! If I have a private bathroom I can wash the cup in the sink and put it back in, if I don’t I just wipe the cup down with tissue and put it back into the line of active duty.

This thing also alleviates any worry of leakage. Which is great. I do not want to be the CSer that bled on the bed.

I totally recommend the Diva Cup (or the variety of simialr devices) to anyone, traveler or homebody.

I get stared at in India a lot.

I know a lot of white girls must’ve already discussed this. I know a lot of us get eye-fucked every which way from Sunday every single moment we are outside. I know staring in India is normal occurrence. French people stare too, but man oh man, no one stares at you like an Indian does. That’s a neutral statement, not a negative one. Even though I’ve gotten used to most of the stares, at the end of the day I still get a bit tired. Sometimes one just wants to walk outside and be anonymous. I surprisingly miss that about living in NYC (even though I used to bash the anonymity when I was younger).

Holly at Pervocracy wrote a great article on ogling. She’s pretty faboo. I totally recommend you read the rest of her blog. Regardless, I thought this was some insightful stuff. I know there is a difference between an ogle and a stare, but it sort of blends here in India.

Some ogles are a little more uncomfortable. Like the Titanium Ogle, which cannot be broken by disapproving looks or the passage of time; those eyes stay locked on until you either start a fight with him or hide behind something…

But few ogles are straight-up frightening like the Unfriendly Ogle. This is where the guy ogles with a really stone-serious face like he’s reading the obituaries, and when he realizes you noticed him, he scowls at you. What the fuck is that?…

I get the Titanium Ogle a lot. It’s pretty unnerving. If I am in a bus (that’s pulling away) and someone from the ground is just MISSILE LOCKDOWN STARE I’ll make a funny face at them. Again, only if the bus is already moving. They have yet to stop staring.

More than that look, I usually get the unfriendly disdainful ogle. The how dare you gave the gall to make me look at you look, even though I’m going down the street minding my own business. As if it’s my fault for making them look. No, no, not look, DEATHSTARE with LASERBEAMS.

Mind you, I’m wearing a polite kurta, nothing too colorful, just plain and simple. I know I will always stand out, but I know it’s not because I’m wearing tight or revealing clothing. They all sort of come in one size (36) which is quite large on me, so I always look like I’m swimming in it. Still, it’s nothing that deserves the stares I get. Holy moley. Even the women.

Living with the family I often feel like a little kid again. Everyone talks around me, and I know it’s serious important stuff, but I can’t understand a word of it. I’ll be sitting there either eating or writing, but I am generally ignored. Part of the scenery. Since everyone knows I don’t understand a word, everyone is discussing pretty delicate matters. I can hear the tone and inflection changing, but I can’t respond, or really do anything except keep plugging on what I’m doing. It’s a bit ridiculous at times as someone will scold someone else, and the mood of the room gets tense, and all I can do is either sit there and keep chewing, or go into the other room and go online. Seriously, what else am I supposed to do? Since I understand nothing they really do have all the privacy they want, so they’ve never asked me to leave the room.

No one ever fights this seriously. The image is from an article on how kids comfort-eat from being in a stressful house. I just connected with the image since I feel like that kid here. Except, you know, eating with my hand and no utensils.

Stuffing my face with something delicious gets hard to do when someone, an auntie or mom, suddenly looks like she’s going to cry. I can’t just go “Someone translate?” and interrupt the serious conversation, and there is an invisible no-touchie rule so I can’t just stand up and comfort someone. In my family my mom would ruffle my hair, or walk by and give me a kiss on the check, I’d nudge my grandma’s arm with my head (because I am some sort of beast thing). My brother and I would hug. I guess we have a good deal of touch, although my entire life I’ve thought we were cold and frigid, at least in comparison to a lot of American families.