Coming-of-Age

I did an entire independent study on this topic. I wrote about The Perks of Being a Wallflower, The Mysterious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time, and The Catcher in the Rye and how all three main characters - Charlie, Christopher, and Holden - all came of age because of certain circumstances in their lives. This led me to think about more of these topics upon which novels are often based. I wanted to apply these themes to my life, kind of as a comparison.

So there’s the classic ‘loss of innocence’ topic. I’d have to say that for me it was seeing Meryl Streep’s left breast in the 1983 film Silkwood.

Next we have ‘love is eternal.’ Like a Jack-and-Rose type of thing. Mine is probably with my childhood (and I’m talking young young young out-of-the-womb childhood) relationship with two stuffed animals: Blankie (about a 2’ x 2’ blanket) and Turtle (a Franklin stuffed animal that conveniently doubles as a puppet). When I was about twelve, my mother suggested that we remove Blankie and Turtle from their home on my bed to somewhere else. I was abhorred at the notion of such a thing, and they are still in their home to this day.

Oh, the always-excellent ‘family will always be there when you need them.’ I can be in the worst mood in the world and my dad can always make me laugh. And it gives him such joy when he sees me cracking a smile to something he is doing... Of course, I always follow up with “JUST BECAUSE I’M SMILING DOESN’T MEAN IT’S FUNNY.” I’ve always been a terrible liar.

And for my mom, she’s always there when I’m stressed and somehow solves it. Like when I have to start writing a paper and have absolutely no idea what I am doing and I can just talk to her and she patiently listens and gives helpful suggestions to my cries of “I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT THIS COURSE IS ABOUT.” Or, when I have to pack for a two-and-a-half month job abroad and I have no idea what I’m doing (evident by my deer-in-the-headlights look while staring at my empty suitcase), my mom either eases me into it or does it for me. And usually she’s against doing things for me, like when I ask her to slice a bagel because I can never get the two sides even or to polish my dress shoes because I know I’ll end up looking like the children from Mary Poppins when they go chimney sweeping. But in the cases when I’m about to spontaneously combust, she steps in.

Finally, my sister. She’s always there when I need a hug. And by this I mean I sneak attack hug her and tell her that I’ll only stop hugging after 12 seconds... and then I’ll count really slowly and when I’m at 11.8 seconds (which is really 39 seconds), she’ll push me off but then I HAVE to sneak attack hug her again because we didn’t complete the 12 seconds. Once I sneak attack hugged her 24 times in a day - one for every hour. She loves them though (she doesn’t actually).

So yeah, the whole ‘coming-of-age’ theme. I don’t know if I’ve had that. I really don’t. Has there been a watershed moment in my life that defines my coming-of-age? Was it when I cross-dressed to save my father from going to war? Was it when I saved a gypsy from the clutches of an evil judge? Was it when my betrothed was shot by white man?

Sorry, I’m mistaking my own life for those of Disney characters.

But really, I guess those topics that we read about in coming-of-age novels are ones that are fairly candid... ones that humans are hesitant to talk about, which is why they are created in fictional books (though I suspect that there are certain auto/biographical elements to them).

Maybe my coming-of-age was this blog. Maybe it will be in this experience I’m having. Maybe it’ll be when my first kid is born. Maybe it will be when I finally learn to salsa. Maybe it will be right before I die. Maybe it won’t happen. Maybe it already has.

Maybe maybe maybe.

The Child-Man Dichotomy

Since arriving, my age has often been a subject of question. Upon hearing the answer, there’s a lot of “oh my, you’re still a child!” etc. etc.

I hate this so much. I feel like I compose myself with a considerable amount of class and maturity that does not warrant me being called a child. And by the time a human male is eighteen, he’s usually considered a man! In some cultures, even younger. This all relates back to the whole “don’t judge a book by its cover” cliché (ugh I hate using clichés and its even worse when you point out that you are using a cliché). A lot of adults, in that case, have a lot of growing up to do themselves if they automatically come to the assumption that a young person is a child. I have goals, complex (sometimes) thoughts, and I’m not uneducated and unintelligent. I think I am opposed to the negative connotations that come with the world “child.” I am by no means denying that I have “growing up” to do, but I just despise these quick assumptions that file me into juvenility. There’s a certain amount of respect that is due to everyone, and in this case I don’t think that I’m receiving my fair share. I hope I don’t sound totally stuck up, but I strongly feel that I’ve worked towards this point of professionalism and poise that doesn’t deserve to be trashed because of how I look or my age. And I know that other people my age probably feel this way as well.

Anyway, rant over...

We’ve completed every scene in the play now and we just have to work on cleaning it up and adding music in the next fifteen or so days. The musicians have arrived and apparently they’re the best in Afghanistan. They add a lot to the play and are incredibly talented - they’ve never worked in theatre before, but their ability to mesh with the actors is awe-inspiring. I’ll maybe try to record their music one day and share it with you.

Also, total mosquito bites: one. Seriously, on the first day I got bitten within the first fifteen minutes, and I haven’t had one since. I’ve also not been using my bug spray... I feel so powerful. The Indian mosquitos must not like my Canadian blood. Yucky.

I’m off to shower, which can only be described as one of the most awkward body positioning moments of my life, mostly because it’s not really a shower. It’s more of a tap that shoots out cold water... and it’s nudged oddly into a corner only a couple feet from the ground.

I’ll leave the rest up to your imagination.

A Day In the Life

A description of what a typical day for me looks like:

5:00am - crow caws on top of my hut for ten minutes then moves on to its next victim
6:30am - wake up, fish out whatever reptile fell into my toilet, have a cup of tea and bananas (they are much smaller here)
7:00am - yoga (I am such a cynic)
8:30am - breakfast (my craving for sugar has resulted in about a pound of jam on my toast in the morning)
9:30am - rehearsal starts; I sit there and take notes on direction to learn, try to guess what is being said in Dari, and occasionally give my opinion on what needs to change to make a clearer/more effective
1:30pm - lunch (chapati, Indian bread, is too good)
2:00pm - break because it is the hottest part of the day (I usually go to my room and write and drink tea)
3:00pm - rehearsal again, usually perfecting the scene we worked on that day
5:00pm - the director’s son comes home from school so I hang out with him for an hour while rehearsal finishes, which is basically babysitting but I’m ok with it after sitting on my arse all day and hey, I’m the assistant director. It’s what we do.
6:00pm - rehearsal finishes, I muck around on the interwebz trying to reconnect with Canadian news and work on subtitling for the performances
7:30pm - dinner (more chapati)
8:30pm - LOL K BEDTIME (I retire to my hut and awkwardly position myself under the stream of cold water to have what I think I used to call a “shower”)
9:00pm - write some more, read a bit, practice my river dancing
10:00pm - sprawl out on my bed, positioning myself so that I get maximum coolage from the ceiling fan
10:01pm - dream of chapati

I’ve also definitely lost weight while I’m here. At school this year I gained I think 5 or 6 pounds, which was mostly just muscle mass to add to my already bulging physique (eh ladies?) and it’s gone. I think it’s a combination of the sweat, the vegetarian diet, and the complete lack of anything sweet. I’ve doubled the sugar intake in my tea to a quarter of a teaspoon to curb my cravings. My mom also packed me Skittles for the plane ride which I didn’t start eating until yesterday... and I’ve figured out that if I ration them to 5 per day, it will last until the Indian tour starts. It’s good. It’s discipline.

LaShonda has started working again. I don’t know what was wrong with her, but she just didn’t want to find the internet. So that’s why last post was all one paragraph - my iPod didn’t recognize the returns apparently.

Speaking of the aforementioned Indian tour, I calculated that I am going to take nine plane rides during this trip. My past total number of plane rides was thirteen I think. I might be missing a layover in there but I don’t think I am. SO YEAH. So much plane.

Pictures will arrive shortly. I still don’t feel as if I’ve taken enough good ones to show everyone. They will come though. I promise. I’ll put a few on the blog and then rest on Facebook, so if we aren’t friends yet just add me so that you’ll be able to see them all.

A Jackson Story

The Internet on my laptop seems to have ceased to work. It won't find the wireless connection. So I am forced to write my blogs on my iPod touch and then I will post them from here. You probably didn't need to know that, but it is very relevant to me blogging. Let's put it this way: if I was a superhero (I know, surprising that I'm not), my weakness would be listed as "cannot type on an Apple touchscreen to save his life." Seriously, all that you just read took me three hours to type. A couple of days ago, I had a health scare. I had a headache. Immediately I thought that some kind of bug had climbed up my nose while I was sleeping, but then I convinced myself that my mosquito net-tucking skills were superior. And then I thought that it might be caffeine withdrawal, but then I realized that I've been drinking tea like it's my day job. Seriously, right now I'm drinking one cup of tea with two bags in it. Double-bagging it. That sounds dirty. So once I had eliminated that possibility, I realized that I was probably dehydrated so I drank some water and felt better. That was a Jackson story if I have ever heard one. Let me explain: Jacksons are notoriously bad at telling stories. All of my immediate family lacks the storytelling skill. But when you come to appreciate Jackson stories, they are absolutely wondrous. On an unrelated note, there is a red wasp in my toilet. I tried to flush it but the hydraulics (right?) are seriously lacking here. After trying to drown it with my hose and failing, I just willed it to die or fly away, neither of which worked. The musicians for the play are coming in from Afghanistan tonight. Apparently they are the best in the country and will be playing nonstop. Did I mention that my cottage is right next to their cottage? Oh well, I'm not going to complain about culture. Speaking of culture, here at Nrityagram, all of the food is vegetarian. You don't really realize though because it is all so different and delicious. My mom gave me multivitamins to bring with me because we thought I would shy away from vegetables, but I don't really have a choice, do I? I'm sure the vitamins are still good for me though. I've thought of some great play ideas during my stay, most of which will likely stay unproduced and tucked away in a file on my computer. I wonder how many of those Shakespeare had. Not on his computer, of course, but in his... chest? I don't know. Some of the titles are "The House of Juniper," "Sincerely, A.," and "Leonarda Makes Cookies and Soap." Ugh I love playwriting. If this truly is my calling, I am looking forward to a life of penny pinching. Who's with me?!

Emotions

Sometimes my emotions are really obvious, sometimes not. And they either show or don’t show at the worst of times.

When something perplexes me, I can feel my brow furrowing which makes me feel like such a poser. “Oh look at me, I’m being quizzical.” At other times, when people rub me the wrong way, my eyes will quite obviously roll or my lips will purse. I’m a lot like Miranda Priestly in that way - one nod is good, two nods is very good, purse lips means disaster... and then we come to smiles.

I am a VERY smily person. But sometimes when I find something funny, I laugh in my head and my face remains stone-blank. I can feel it, too. I know that my lips aren’t moving into a half moon, but I find something really funny in my head. It’s so extremely frustrating because then people look at me and I’m SURE they think “What a prude.” So I sometimes try to force a smile but I just end up looking like a freshly-botoxed Joan Rivers.

And my face is naturally sad. OR I’m laughing and smiling a lot normally so when I’m not doing that I immediately get the question “What’s wrong?” or “Are you alright?” And this is perfectly fine because humans are just being kind by asking, but it’s disconcerting knowing that my face looks depressed when it’s relaxed. AIN’T LIFE HARD?

How this relates back to my experiences here... during rehearsals when something funny happens I don’t laugh out loud, which could be perceived by the director that it isn’t funny/I’m stupid and I don’t understand which is not the impression I’m trying to make. And regarding the sad face, I just get a lot of concerned Afghans. Especially one who comes up to me and speaks in Dari - I think he is mentioning something about how we both have black t-shirts. Oh Daoud.

Yesterday I gave my first official piece of theatrical advice. One of the actresses plays two characters: Rodhaba, a “lady,” and Chabnam, a courtesan (read: prostitute). She’s very good at playing Chabman, but is a bit plank-like when it comes to the noblewoman. So I kind of mentioned that she’s found the defining characteristics of the prostitute very well, and needs to do the same when reading the part of the courtesan. And she is able to show that character through her reactions to other characters. I think you would understand a bit more if you knew the play, and I have to run so I don’t think this was very well explained. Anyway, that was my first sort of assistant director directorship so yay me.

Yay me.

Home

Two posts in one day, I know. The reason is because the internet was down and so therefore a lot has passed the warrants two posts. Also, I type these bad boys on LaShonda, my MacBook Pro, and then post them when the internet comes on.

So, after a nice curry and vodka with the Afghans, I bid them goodnight. Actually, I bid them all “good morning” until one of them decided that it was best that I knew that I was making a fool of myself. OH WELL.

We saw an excellent production of a refugee story, Boy With a Suitcase, in Bangalore yesterday. It was an Indo-German production, but was in English and it was so amazing. It inspired the Afghan actors of our production so much, both with its relevancy to their lives and the quality of the performance in general. Only a few are actually trained in acting, and there are a few who haven’t even seen theatre. I think the play we saw showed them the potential for theatre to tell a story, which eventually led them to understanding their specific purpose here.

One of the actresses in our play said, “We are doing theatre from a country where theatre is used for execution.” This is a phrase that struck me so strongly, and I haven’t quite digested it yet. Expect more thoughts on it later - right now all I know is that it is a strong and true sentence. The enormity of this project hasn’t reached my brain yet. I wish for a second I could be put into an Afghan’s shoes to see and feel how much of a watershed this is in Afghanistan’s social, political, and artistic history. Gah. I just... I don’t even know. I’m so lucky right now to be experiencing this, that’s all I know.

Sometimes I don’t like the word “luck” because there’s obviously a lot of work that goes into getting somewhere. But birth is a lottery where I, along with many other people, drew winning numbers. There are so many more people though in which this is not the case. By no means am I trying to play the role of humble white man, but I’m just trying to put into perspective for myself how the mechanics of all this - whatever “this” is - work.

On a happier sad note, I would like to share with you six points to stave off homesickness. They are mostly for me to follow right now.

Draw a picture of home and put it next to your travel alarm clock so that you see it every night before you sleep and every morning when you wake up.
Hum lullabies from your childhood in the middle of the day.
Smell the not-yet-washed clothes in your suitcase because they still smell like home.
Think about stupid jokes your family members make that you always laugh at.
Look at your mom’s handwriting in the travel book she made for you, even if it is just listing how much rupees are worth in Canadian dollars.
Say goodnight to the moon and stars because in twelve hours they’ll have reach the other side of the world.

Ok, those might make you more homesick, but they help me. And I’ve only been gone for seven days. My oh my.

Well, this wasn’t a very funny blog. I pride myself in funniness. Although I usually find myself funnier than other people do (i.e. my sister). HATERS GONNA HATE THO RITE? This sort of stuff is what I have my journal for.

By the way, it’s been raining on and off lately. PROBABLY BECAUSE I’VE BEEN KILLING GIANT SPIDERS IN MY HUT HOLY CRAP WHAT IS THIS SURVIVOR I BETTER BE GETTING A MILLION DOLLARS AFTER THIS OR AT LEAST MEET JEFF PROBST PLEASE AND THANK YOU.

-Jane.
-Alexander.
-Do you remember that day you fell outta my window?
-I sure do, you came jumpin' out after me.
-Well, you fell on the concrete and nearly broke your ass and you were bleedin' all over the place and I rushed you off to the hospital, do you remember that?
-Yes I do.
-Well, there's something I didn't tell you about that night?
-What didn't you tell me?
-While you were sittin' in the backseat smokin' the cigarette that you thought was gonna be your last, I was fallin' deep, DEEPLY in love with you, and I never told you until just now?
- Oooohh (nonsense!)

www.creedthoughts.gov.www

I just avoided a HUGE salamander problem. Opened the window of my hut and one fell in. Long story short, I got it back outside. You see, a speak the salamander version of Parseltongue. It involves a lot of saliva to say the least. Anyway, I wanted it out so badly because all I was picturing was that scene from the 1997 film The Parent Trap where the salamander crawls into Meredith’s mouth. HA. What a great movie. And a prompt to the following thought: “Lindsay Lohan: What Went Wrong?” I think it was after she got rid of the red hair. It gave her spunk.

I don’t know about you guys, but The Comedy of Errors is a hilarious play. Isn’t it absolutely amazing how four hundred-year-old humour can still be relevant today? It’s even more amazing once you consider that it has been filtered through into Dari Persian and set in modern-day Kabul. And that an Anglophone can understand the humour! Sure, the plot might not make complete sense, but you still laugh when a man in drag comes onstage singing and groping himself.

For those who want nothing to do with theatre, skip to the next paragraph. On the same note of how this play is delightful despite the fact that it is in Dari, I much rather prefer this to other stylized (I’m going to use stylized to indicate a departure from its original, intended form) version of Shakespeare’s plays. For example, I once saw a two-and-a-half hour adaptation of Hamlet done by one actor with only stage blacks and no set or props. It was, in my opinion, horrible. Why take such a brilliant script and rush through all the lines with little to no coherency? Why eliminate all potential for a gorgeous set with a visually unappetizing mise en scène? Why forego character development with a very two-dimensional delivery? It wasn’t necessarily the actor’s fault, but the entire concept was flawed. It was more of a show of memorization than a production, and one that insulted the original script. This could be enjoyed by some people, but to me it didn’t work. I suppose I’m just finding the streams of theatrical language that I understand and enjoy listening to and speaking. That’s another thing that makes this experience so worthwhile. Sure I’m not learning a typical language like Arabic or Russian or even Dari, but it’s a whole other kind of communication that comes with theatre, and I think people are unaware of that. The same could be said for learning the language of cooking (“I’m Julia Child, bon appétit!” [if you know me, you pictured me saying that instead of Meryl Streep saying it instead of Julia Child saying it]), architecture, or juggling. I’m planning on writing my thesis on this topic... the different tongues of theatre... now I’m just picturing a car-sized tongue on a stage. What a gross image.

Puppies! There we go. Cuteness restored. If you could speak any language, what language would you speak? This is something that’s been going through my head a lot as Dari phrases whiz past me. My hesitancy to speak French comes with a sort of hipster vibe... so many people (yet, paradoxically, not enough) speak French in Canada. I WANNA BE UNIQUE. I WANNA BE A STAR. (“You got spunk, kid! - I just used the word “spunk” twice in one vlog.)

Then comes something like Latin, which is super hipster. “I speak Latin, but you wouldn’t understand.” That’s because virtually no one in the seven billion people on Earth speaks Latin anymore. But still. I could be über scholarly.

How about Russian? Arabic? Greek? All different alphabets. Too difficult.

East Asian languages intimidate me and I feel like I would need intensive calligraphy classes to do them justice.

SWAHILI. Everyone hears the word “Swahili” but no one really knows what it is. There goes that one.

The conclusion I usually come to is that I’m just going to adopt an Australian accent because I’m pretty sure Australian accents are universally sexy. Must use start learning the language of sexy. Whew, is it just me or is this blog getting hot?

No, it’s the fact that the electricity is out here and therefore the fan does not spin and therefore I am hot, being a synonym for sexy. Actually, not really. Attractiveness adjectives are so subjective. Like that episode of The Office when they debate whether Hilary Swank is beautiful or hot (I think those were the two).

Also, it’s one degree Celsius in Canada. Me so jelly. On the other hand, it rained today yesterday for the first time since December 29. Ok. I’m rambling now. But if you didn’t read the theatre paragraph then this is normal-length.

Potato.

Etiquette Lesson

I once attended a table etiquette lesson (context omitted). I believed the session was titled “Etiquette Lesson.” I think that this was misleadingly named because in no way does it apply to Afghan table etiquette norms. There is a clear dichotomy between that which I was taught and what is accepted as polite amongst actors from Kabul.

There: Avoid a buffet at all costs.
Here: Dishes are always served on the table, at which point everyone takes their own portion.

There: Stick to your own food.
Here: Before you start eating, you offer food from your plate to your friends.

There: You touch the bread, you eat it.
Here: You throw pieces of Indian bread across the table to each other upon notice of lack of Indian bread on your plate.

There: Tea and coffee is always the last thing served.
Here: Tea and coffee before the meal, during, at the end, and after.

There: Cutlery.
Here: Fingers. Even thumbs sometimes.

There: It is better to be hungry than to embarrass yourself at the table.
Here: It’s food. Eat. Yes, even if you have to reach across someone’s plate. No one will care.

Yes, maybe the “theres” are appropriate for a formal Canadian dinner, and I think therein lies the problem. This lesson was completely negligent of other cultures, and therefore should have been titled “An Etiquette Lesson for a Formal Canadian Dinner.” Otherwise, opposite the aforementioned example, it’s a little rude in my opinion. Something to be aware of the next time you are planning your next etiquette lesson. “Be specific, Bob!” (The Incredibles? Anyone?)

Also, here at the native dance retreat village (named Nrityagram), it is advised to “use a [flashlight] at night and use footwear outside your living space” because “you may come across snakes and scorpions.” However, “they will not harm you unless you go near or provoke them.” Torchless one night, I stepped on cockroaches, sparking the thought of their exclusion from the safety tips.

Thirty seconds later on that same torchless evening, I would also come to question the exclusion of tennis-ball sized toads.

Nemo

What do you get when you have eight Afghans and me in a van together? Not a lot of conversation. But there are a lot of smiles, thumbs-up, and “goods” to go around. Today I got my first look at the rehearsal process, and it is so interesting. Our director speaks German, English, French, and a bit of Dari (the language the play is in), but a lot of the translation goes through another actor who speaks both English and Dari. And then there’s another actor who speaks German and Dari, and then one that speaks only Dari. And then there’s me. Who can only speak English. And can understand the bits of French spoken. Oh, did I mention that I am now going to stage manage this play?

I’m not complaining at all though. This is something that I should be expected to do, something that I can do, and something that I want to do (although I’m exceedingly nervous). Sure I can’t read any sort of Persian, but that’s the miraculous thing about this entire production. It’s going to be so interesting. I just really need to

ISN’T THE MUSIC RIGHT AFTER CORAL DIES IN FINDING NEMO THE SADDEST THING EVER? I WANT TO CRY RIGHT NOW SO BADLY. GAH. NEMO, YOU ARE THE BRAVEST FISH EVER AND YOUR DAD IS SO AWESOME TOO. TEARS LIKE THE OCEAN HE TRAVERSED.

learn this play like I know Meryl Streep’s (hereafter known as “Meryl,” “Ms. Streep,” or “Her Excellency”) œuvre. Pages is telling me that I spelled that wrong. Probably the ‘o’ and ‘e’ together. Oh well. But in all seriousness, my emotions in emoticons right now is a mix between

:|   :S   :O   }:-}

That last one is the Grinch when he gets his nasty idea. I don’t want to spoil it for anyone who hasn’t read or seen the story. I’m not feeling nasty either, I just wanted to make that emoticon. I think my sister has a variation of it that is even gnarlier. I forget how to do it though.

Went into the city of Bangalore today as well (it’s about an hour away). The ride there consists of this:

BEEP BEEP speed bump BEEP BEEP oh look a cow BEEP speed bump speed bump BEEP ow my tailbone BEEP is that a banyan tr- BEEP oh good we’re driving on the opposite side of the road BEEP BEEP did we just hit a goat BEEP

It’s quite special. Anyway, we saw some classical Indian dance. Beautiful. Also, I’m very envious. Never before have I wanted so badly to wear jangly ankle bracelets, bright orange costume, and a egregiously long fake braid. But seriously, the woman dancing was great. I really wish I understood Hindi so that I would get the story being told in between the dance numbers, but that’s not high on my list right now.

I shall now go and sleep. And write in my travel journal. What do I write in my travel journal that I don’t include in these blog entries, you ask? My deepest, darkest thoughts. And by that, I mean my Broadway play in progress. And by that I mean a series of short stories based on my experiences in India. And by that I mean short summaries of what I did in the day.

And by that I mean badly-drawn pictures of dinosaurs.

Mainly stegosauruses.

The Hunger Games

While I was trying to sleep off some of my jet lag in little spurts today, I think the birds, bugs, and monkeys (?) were having their own Hunger Games above my cottage. Whatever, I fell asleep. I think there was an owl there as well. If I was in a “Creatures of India” Hunger Games, I’d want to be the owl.

So I arrived in India and I don’t know how to describe it. I’m just sort of taking it all in right now. I’m in a little village/dance retreat where we are holding rehearsals. So I’m glad I’m kind of being eased in to India this way before taking on Bangalore, Pune, Mumbai, and Delhi in the days to come. Oh small town Ontario boy, you’re in for a shock.

But it is quite nice here. Just saw my first Indian sunset... had my first Indian Indian food... got my first mosquito bite... Hopefully it didn’t carry malaria. But I have pills to counter that. But on the topic of food, it is all so immensely rich and I am sure my body is going to take a while to adjust. Delicious, but my stomach starts to yell at me after one too many scoops into the dal or biryani. WHATEVER, STOMACH.

Now it’s time for BATHROOM CONDITIONS. No toilet paper = hose. Enough said. Also, the shower head in my bathroom is quite erratic (picture one of those Silly Sprinklers... come to think of it, those frightened me immensely), so it’s bucket time! I know I’m not giving you great insight into all Indian bathroom conditions, but there are mine. Aren’t you glad you read them?

Last night I was awake for 3 hours in between 2:30am and 5:30am in which I reviewed my purpose, future, and goals of India. I ended up counting backwards from 300 in a desperate attempt to avoid self-reflection. I’m the worst.

Classical Indian dancing tonight (we’re celebrating Bashir’s [one of the actors] birthday). I’m going to come back with some killa moves.

Ellen DeGeneres

For some reason, blogger.com has translated itself into Arabic so I am going to try to fumble my way through posting this. I will be fumbling because I do not know how to read Arabic.

Guess who I sat next to on the plane ride over? Ellen DeGeneres. I never got around to asking why she was flying to Dubai, or what she was doing in economy, but whatever. We just chatted and she offered me a writer’s position on her show once I graduate university. So I’m pretty stoked for that.

Yeah I didn’t actually sit next to Ellen. She wasn’t even on the plane. In fact, I had an empty seat next to me so I could stretch and sprawl to my content in my Gravol-assisted sleep. I vaguely recall waking up for pizza. Did that happen? And did I order pineapple juice? I never order pineapple juice.

I am taking a break from doing laps around the Dubai Airport to write this. I slept most of the 13 hours over here, and now it feels like 1:40pm whereas it really is 9:40pm. So yeah, trying to tire myself out so I can sleep some more on the five hour plane ride to India. But I keep gravitating toward the moving sidewalks so I feel like I’m going faster than I am. Side note: so tempted to try to run against the grain of the moving sidewalk. Don’t you just love the feeling of moving but not going anywhere? OK, maybe I am tired.

I LOVE EIGHT HOUR LAYOVERS DON’T YOU?!

P.S. all of the punctuation is messed up now because of said Arabic format.

Posterior Prayers

“Integrate what you believe in every single area of your life. Take your heart to work and ask the most and best of everybody else, too.”

For those of you who know me, you probably know who I’m quoting above. For those of you who don’t know me, it’s Meryl Streep. Wow, did it really take a whole two sentences for her name to be mentioned in this blog? I was expecting it to come out sooner.

Anyway, welcome to Perks of Being Devon, a series of blog posts centred around yours truly. Blech. What a horrible, horrible concept - blogs are such self-centred things, aren’t they? Luckily for you, I’m an endless well of entertainment, self-embarrassment, and humour so I assume you’ll be sticking around for a while. Also, I’m notorious for being misunderstood over the internet, so please don’t read into anything I say. Or maybe do, I’m a drama student and we’re really into reading into things that might not even be there.

So I’ve tried writing a blog before and it just ended up being on Russian phrases that I thought sounded nice (no jokes), so hopefully this one goes a little better. I’m headed to India in about nine hours to work with an Afghan theatre company to produce William Shakespeare's The Comedy of Errors for the Globe Theatre in London, England. The Globe is doing a pre-Olympics cultural celebration, producing all thirty-seven of Shakespeare’s plays in thirty-seven different languages. So I’m the “assistant director” or “director’s assistant” or “assistant to the director” (though the first sounds much more artistic). After rehearsing in and touring India for forty days, we head to England to perform at the Globe, the Sheldonian in Oxford, and at Hatfield House (Elizabeth I’s childhood home). And then we go to the Globe Theatre in Germany (who knew there was more than one?), ending at the beginning of summer.

The feelings I’m experiencing now, as the soon-to-be contents of my suitcase remain strewn over my living room floor, are a mix between excitement, nervousness, and oh-my-what-am-I-getting-myself-into-ness. There’s also the thought in the back of my mind that April is India’s hottest month and I am likely to melt. However, I did recently by some 110SPF sunscreen to help my whiteness.

I will post again in about a day after I have spent a lovely 13 hours flying to Dubai. This is what Emirates Airlines says about economy: “We designed our cabins in our Economy Class to create more space and comfort.” That’s all. Great. Vagueness is a great sign.

Anyway, looping back to Meryl Streep’s quote, what she says is basically what I’m going to try to embody during this adventure.

Please pray for the comfort of my buttocks as it traverses the Atlantic and onwards.